Politics – Page 4 – Yellow Brick Missives

March 15, 2013

Schooling Your Doctor On Gay Sex

Talking about sex isn’t a topic we normally broach with people we don’t really know.

Because, well, it’s sort of personal.

Unless you’re at work or church, there’s really no reason to bring it up.

Kidding!

***

For whatever reason, we’ve been conditioned to think that talking about sex in very basic, blunt terms is crass or *cringe* uncivilized. (I hate that word.)

Sure, other than Dan Savage (whom I love in a completely role modelish way) who of us is completely and utterly comfortable discussing every bit of our sexual history?

Show of hands?

I thought so.

(Whores.)

***

Like I was saying, I’m by no means a prude, but I also don’t go around blathering on my cell phone about intensely private matters, or about things that I hope will clear up in three to four weeks.

(I’ve actually overheard such conversations in line at Harris Teeter. Let me tell you, it made me rethink buying that Chobani for lunch.)

It’s always about balance.

(Even if the fucking GOP is more concerned with our sex lives, rather than admitting they’re being hypocritical dicks or vages.)

Because, sometimes, it’s actually prudent to be straightforward and honest in terms of sex.

Even if it’s not easy.

I mean, who had an incredibly comfortable talk about the birds and the bees?

I didn’t.

I actually shut it down after my dad said “vagina.” And then we had an incredibly awkward car ride to confirmation class. (Where we all had to read about the sin of “self love.” I couldn’t catch a break that day.)

Because, like I told him, “Gah, Dad! We already went over this in Sexth Ed. Gahhhhhh!”

Bless his heart. (And my lisp.)

***

Now, though, I’m an adult.

I’m past caring about the number of notches in others’ bedposts, and really didn’t care in the first place. And my friends and I don’t want to hear about each other’s sexual exploits, because, again, who cares? Each of us doesn’t really feel like wasting precious catch-up time hearing the details about how many times so-and-so “did it” a particular weekend (and I hope for your sake you don’t actually use that lingo).

Still, the subject of sex does come up.

Like when you go to the doctor.

Now, you might remember that I had to go to the doctor earlier this week.

And, as with almost every doctor’s visit, the questions follow a set rubric, and gradually venture into the whole sexual category.

This is where it can interesting.

That is, unless you have a practitioner who’s completely comfortable talking about sex–regardless of one’s gender identity or sexual orientation.

Then it’s just boring. (Albeit wonderfully so.)

So when I went in for my scheduled follow up, I got to speak with Dr. WebMD. Who, of course, wrongly assumed right off the bat that this was the second time I came to see him about being sick with this particular malady.

Me: “Actually, no. I’ve never had this before.”

Dr.WMD: “Oh, er, well. For some reason, I thought you had.”

Me: “I just wanted to follow up as suggested and make sure everything checked out and that this isn’t meningitis.”

Dr.WMD: “Sure, sure. So, you’re symptoms aren’t as bad?”

Me: “Nope, everything is much better. Pain is gone, fever is gone, and I only have some residual joint pain, which may be symptomatic of me approaching thirty.”

*Silence. Joke falls flat. I sigh.*

Then we start talking about general health, vitamins to take–the usual spiel.

But then. The sex talk starts.

And I know what’s coming.

Because I can already tell he’s getting nervous.

DrWMD: “So now, uh, you and your partner have, uh, been together for, uh, a good amount of time, correct?”

Me: “Yes.”

And then his uh-er-uh usage becomes more prevalent, and his questions about the “receptive partner” or “giving partner” or “both,” are whispered and stilted.

He never makes eye contact, choosing instead to talk to the flyer requesting patients to please “Refrain from wearing perfume, cologne, or spray-on deodorants” hanging above my head. (Which perplexes me. I guess he prefers B.O. Or, maybe he has an allergy.)

So, to save us both time, I give him a run-down of sexually sensitive information as it relates to me–explaining top, bottom, versatile categories–to better assist him in providing medical comment in the future, should he ever have the need.

He exhales a bit, focuses on typing away on his laptop, interjecting an “Oh, okay” or “Interesting” every now and then during my succinct stream of gay-sex-discussion.

Me: “Does that cover it? Anything else?”

DrWMD: “Uh, yes. I, um, think that covers it.”

When I get up to leave, I feel like giving him a pat on the back, telling him, “Son, you’re a man now.”

Instead, I thank him, take my prescription for nasal spray (the real reason I went for the check up–because I knew the first diagnosis was correct), and go on my merry way.

And even if he didn’t really learn anything from what I told him, at least maybe he’ll see it doesn’t have to be so overwhelming to talk about gay sex.

We’re all animals.

We all have needs.

And sometimes it’s best to just cast aside formalities, let our inner Dr. Ruth take over, and be confident.

Because, even if your doctor can’t talk about it easily, you can.

And you have the woman or man stones to prove it.

March 13, 2013

A Postmarked Message to Myself

Even before my glittery departure from the ranks of the gainfully employed, I read a lot of blogs. Now, I do it even more. Mostly because I love to read and write and look at pictures, and blogs engage all of that, making it less likely that my ADD-wired self won’t tear off and do something else. Especially if a particular blog satiates my love of design (and double plus bonus if it features our apartment).

So, I was reading a recent post on a blog I really like (and you should too), and it got me to thinking about my younger, more impressionable high school self. I’ve written plenty about my coming out process, have made an It Gets Better video, and have enjoyed becoming an LGBT advocate.

Still, I love writing letters. So, in the spirit of the Hommemaker, I decided to write one to my high school self.

***

Dear Matt,

I know why you’re paying close attention to everyone’s reactions to the first out gay student requesting to bring his date–another guy!–to the senior prom at your conservative, small town Alabama high school.

And it’s not because you think he’s cool.

It’s because a part of you identifies with him. But you can’t quite put your finger on that yet. You have an idea, but nothing fully formed.

All you can do is watch the fallout when the newspaper lines of the local paper read something about a “Gay student” and “Prom.”

Hear what other students call him.

Feel the palpable tension that falls over a crowd when he walks down the hall, the students parting like the Red Sea. And you part with them. Because you’re unknowingly in survival mode.

Because you know that, if you do put a name to what you’re feeling now, you’re not popular enough for it to be “cool” or even “okay.” After all, you’re that amorphous blob of an adolescent who has barely gone through puberty. Who always smiles, is friendly, and acts goofy. Who gets bullied by freshmen several years younger than you. Who has to stay in band because it’s your “only social outlet,” even if you hate it. Who has to like girls.

Because, well, you don’t want to be called “faggot.” Even if plenty of people already do, including those who’ve just learned the word and need a target to test it on, but who will probably never realize the repercussions of shouting it.

Here’s the thing: High school sucks.

So don’t believe the few people in your graduating class who’re saying that high school is the best four years of your life.

They’re clearly delusional.

Or they’ve gotten laid.

The point is, they’ve probably peaked tragically early, and will have little in the way of good times in the future. (In a few years, this new thing called Facebook will make it easier for you to realize this.)

But you know what? The fact that you’re processing such crazy-intense feelings at your age, in this context, is a feat in and of itself. A lot of people you’ll meet still won’t have found some of the base elements of who they are. And while being gay won’t define you as a person, being comfortable with your identity will help you build upon the strengths you already possess, but which need a bit of nurturing.

Identifying as gay will take a lot of mental and physical strength. You’re going to put your body and mind through an emotional wringer, trying to shoehorn yourself into an idealized notion of what it is to be gay.

But you won’t reach that point. Because, in the process, you’re going to hit rock bottom, only to come out bruised, but stronger nonetheless.

This process won’t happen over just a few years.

You’ll hit a handful of rough patches, each of which will test your resolve.

And you’ll gain clarity in the most unexpected ways.

You’ll come out to your family, and will be thankful for their support.

And you’ll write to that guy from high school who had the stones to come out when he did, who dealt with the crap people threw his way, to tell him that he was probably more inspirational to questioning students than he’ll ever know.

And you’ll get a response back. And you’ll have some sort of odd closure.

You’ll push yourself out of your comfort zone, and it’ll pay off.

You’ll become more invested in fighting for LGBT rights.

You’ll find your voice time after time.

Your family will find theirs, and will help people in your hometown.

You’ll become part of a chosen family at a local community center.

And you’ll walk alongside others marching for equal rights.

You’ll gripe about failed dates, and you’ll vow to never go on any again.

You’ll meet an amazing guy when you least expect it, and you’ll be happy.

You’ll be happy.

Love,

An Older, Wiser You

March 13, 2013March 13, 2013

The Prince and the Pee

Going to the doctor when you were a kid wasn’t fun at all.

Even if you got out of school early.

Because you can only play with communal toys for so long before your senses tell you that, ew, that’s gross. Especially because that snotty kid is hogging the ball and, oh look, he just sneezed on it.

Maybe my perception is skewed because I was an anxiety-fueled, slightly paranoid germophobe from the get go.

Still.

Going to the doctor as an adult is just annoying. Because you have to take a sick day (if you have them), sit in a waiting room with more sickly people emitting their grossness, remember to get a sick note since your boss sucks, and come to the realization that your healthcare plan blows when you have to pay an exorbitant amount for your prescriptions.

But LGBT’s have to deal with a lot more–and often have to make advanced plans–when dragging themselves into that teeming petri dish.

***

Now, I’m not about to blather on about health issues I know very little about, especially those specific to identity groups within The Community. But these are just a few questions I’ve developed from personal experiences.

Is you doctor LGBT-friendly?

I can’t count the number of LGBT friends who’ve gotten very savvy at navigating medical networks to locate doctors who don’t give a rat’s ass what hole you put it in, or what your medical history happens to be. I don’t know about y’all, but I certainly don’t want to hear “Repent! Repent!” as I go under for a colonoscopy. Sure, I’d like to think that a highly educated doctor wouldn’t proselytize in a waiting room, tout the healing power of prayer. But from what a few doctor friends have told me, I should never assume that. Because, really, doctors are just people cloaking their biases with white coats.

Having a nonjudgmental doctor isn’t just for comfort’s sake. It’s the best for your long-term health. Because a happier, relaxed patient is always more willing to divulge sensitive information during an evaluation. Especially if they don’t feel the weight of judgey eyes upon them.

Are you more comfortable with a female or male doctor?

Don’t get me wrong. I like men. Love them, actually. Hence, Andy. But I don’t really want a male doctor. There’s just something a little weird about it for me. And I’m sure it’s just a carry-over from the past, because I always had more female friends than male friends. I just got along better with women. And, to a certain extent, still do. But I digress.

This just plays into the whole being comfortable bit. I mean, sure, I’m open with my doctor. (Mostly because I inherited a bit of my paternal grandmother’s hypochondria, and want to make sure everything is out in the open.) But there’re certain things that I can more easily talk about with women. Even if it has to do with man parts.

Will your doctor (and their office staff) honor your wishes to put your partner as your primary emergency contact?

This is a tricky one. Because, regardless of what’s on paper, any “professional” staffer can veil their bigotry by saying, “Oh, yeah, we called your partner first. They didn’t answer. So we called your parents instead.” Meanwhile, your partner is flipping their shit in the waiting room because they’re not being informed about what’s happening, but your parents–several states and a timezone away–have been. This is why it’s so terribly important to have a mini “medical phone tree” –any accepting family, close friends–who can immediately connect with other “tree huggers” to ensure everyone knows what’s going on.

Does your partner know where your appointment is, what it’s about, and what time it’s supposed to be?

You’d think this would be a no-brainer. But each of us always assumes that everyone–partners included–have mind-reading capabilities. So, of course they’d know about that 12:00 appointment in the middle of the week at that tiny office near that bistro where y’all celebrated your anniversary a few years back. And of course they know your entire medical history, like what medications give you horrible cramps or explosive diarrhea.

Now, we never think that that standard appointment for a migraine will reveal some horrible medical condition that requires immediate care. But you never know. Bodies are scary things, and can revolt on you in a minute. Even if you’re taken to a hospital that won’t honor same-sex visitation privileges, your partner can at least have a breadcrumb trail to follow and piece things together that way. (Which, again, is where that phone tree comes in handy.)

***

Before I found myself peeing in a cup yesterday, I thought about all of these things yet again. Because, with the way I was feeling, we didn’t know what to expect.

But before Andy left for work, we confirmed where I was going, and that I’d be in contact immediately after the diagnosis. One great thing about my shallow semi-sleep chocked-full of hallucinatory dreams is that I was up early, and first in line at my PCP’s urgent care clinic branch.

Now, this is just me. But ever since I moved to North Carolina, I’ve seen a PA-C for almost everything I’ve had to have diagnosed. And I prefer it. The lack of pretension is refreshing, and I feel more comfortable with them. Plus, each one has been incredibly thorough and a clear communicator.

And this time, it was no different.

Sure, I could’ve waited for an opening upstairs with my PCP. But, quite honestly, I don’t trust a guy who spends more time washing his hands and consulting WebMD than talking about what he thinks the problem might be. And who, every single time, has misdiagnosed me–put me on the wrong pills for the wrong thing, which subsequently leads me to the urgent care branch to get everything properly assessed. He’s really just for show–mostly for when I have to provide PCP contact information for medical paperwork.

And as this particular PA-C (one of three working there that’re awesome) rattled off her diagnosis, and was amazingly, yet thoughtfully blunt in her delivery, I was glad I chose to go downstairs rather than upstairs. Yes, I still bristled a bit when she asked about STI status, protection use, and whatnot after I told her I was gay. (And yes, I know that certain STI’s are more prevalent in certain demographics. But I still cringe every time, because there still seems to be an equation of gay=promiscuous=STI vector.) But at least she did it in a way that didn’t seem as charged as such statements have been in the past by different practitioners.

And even though I had to turn around and pee in a cup for a second time–because the assisting nurse mistook my original sample for one that was to be discarded–I was fine with it. Because I knew they’d figure out what was going on.

So after I got home and dosed up on my medication, put in 50/50 for just plain tortuous reasons, I was able to sleep a little easier knowing that, while it may be a bit convoluted, my system for dealing with medical stuff has worked out thus far.

Even if this particular visit evoked the same feelings I had when I stopped being carded for booze. The whole realization of I’m-old-enough-for-this-shit? Gah!

Still, it reminded me that we all age, and we all have to take care of the challenges our bodies throw at us along the way. We have to treat ourselves to a bit of TLC every now and then to ensure each of us, as a human machine, operates properly.

Because, while my cogs may rust ever so slightly and my wiring may fray a bit, I’ll still run as smoothly as I can.

Especially since I’m fortunate enough to have someone who’ll lend an oil can or a bottle of WD-40 exactly when I need it.

March 7, 2013

A New Target? Because Gay Sexiness is so Passé.

Have y’all read the headlines lately?

Or have you had your Facebook news feeds inundated by gay marriage ads, the first lesbian couple to marry with Mickey and Goofy as witnesses, and young LGBT’s bringing class action lawsuits against their bigot-run schools?

Good. That means you’re supposed to be my Facebook friend.

Because those stories may mean that, sooner than many of us think, the large-scale disenfranchisement of LGBT’s nationwide will become a smarting blemish on our country’s history of civil rights violations.

(And yes, let’s go ahead and make that clear: LGBT inequality is a civil rights issue.

Don’t get me started about what skin color someone has to have to qualify as experiencing civil rights violations. LGBT’s experiencing inequality aren’t trying to uproot and appropriate the 60’s. Meaningful, long overdue strides were made then by incredibly talented, headstrong, and historically revered leaders; and they, and their cohorts, should be honored accordingly and their work appreciated.

LGBT’s have long endured inhuman equations to the lowest form of humanity. Whether starved and worked to death inside barbed-wire fences, dragged behind cars and lit ablaze, or tied to fence posts and left to die, LGBT’s have a history of having hate-centered violence directed at them.

So, let’s all stop the minority in-fighting and agree that hatred directed at anyone is wrong.

And anyone who stands against it is a pioneer in their own right.

Tangential rant over.)

***

With every new ad campaign, every high-profile celebrity that comes out or speaks out as an ally, every corporation that backs all of their employees, we all come a few steps closer to equality.

It won’t happen overnight, but it’s happening little by little.

But with so much happening so quickly, I’m left to wonder why.

Why now?

Is it because people are starting to see the light?

Is it because it’s trendy to back LGBT rights?

Is it because LGBT’s are pretty people?

Is it because it’s sexy to feature LGBT’s in ads?

In some ways, I think it’s a little bit of everything blended together.

Still, I think it’s odd that the sex-bent (ba dah bah!) ads are geared more to gay men than the rest of the LGBT community.

I know, I know.

Every advertising executive would respond with the whole “Not every ad can cater to every identity group.”

But I think corporations should try to diversify their LGBT ads.

Because, even now, much of mainstream society is getting many stereotypes reified with every hot, muscly gay couple happily traipsing down some exotic beach to a chuppah.

Not all gays are like that.

We don’t all shave our chests, have tons of money, work out non-stop, or eat 300 calories a day. I’m not trying to sound bitter–really, this time–because I know many gays who juggle crazy lives and have chiseled physiques; I’m just not one of them.

So, again, why the gay men?

In some ways, I think it comes down to some advertising-centric, decided on sexiness factor.

Because what sells ads?

Teddy bears and roses?

Nah.

But two muscle bears holding bouquets over their junk, the tagline reading, “Two bouquets for the price of one! He’ll be beary happy you did!”?

Perhaps.

For whatever reason, two men together ooze bizarre degrees of sexiness to some heterosexual demographics. Meaning: tweens staring at ripped abs (wishing their boyfriends had those, while said boyfriends are secretly wishing they had those, because then–then!–they might get to second base, whatever that is these days); and closeted men staring at those bouquets.

But, again, the proverbial WHY? of it all. Why would two guys be the most marketable of LGBT’s?

I think it’s because more heteros understand the mechanics of gay male sex.

Even if they think it’s ewwww, gross!

Even if they have problematic, subversively misogynistic thoughts like, “So, who’s the woman in all that?” (Clue: It’s two men. It’s nothing like heterosexual sex.) Or, secretly, “I bet they get less teeth.” (We do.)

So, while the Culture Industry is making a buck off your gay boyfriend’s abs, and letting those questioning kids know that they’re not alone, I’m still standing there watching it all unfold, wondering, “Who’s the next target?”

Cynical?

A little.

But let’s be realistic.

Because when the whole taboo against discussing LGBT issues–sex, love, civil rights protections, adoption–falls by the wayside and becomes less edgy, some other minority has to get thrown under the Not-So-Magic American Disenfranchisement School Bus. (Which I imagine being driven by an amalgamation of DuhW and Pat Robertson with Ms. Frizzle’s hair.)

***

My hope is that once LGBT rights are more commonplace than not, not only will there be a little less hatred and misinformation floating around out there, but nationwide LGBT equality will be one of the last civil rights hurdles our country has to clear before getting with the program, catching up with progressive nations, and realizing how ass-backwards we’ve been for far too long.

Because, personally, I’d love to live in a nation where a billboard featuring a gay male couple is looked at as just that–a piece of wood sporting those sporting wood, rather than another attempt by the wicked gays to lead The Children into fiery damnation.

I guess I’m just waiting for gay male sexiness to have less of a charged air about it than it does now. (Maybe then Andy and I can be in a gay-centric toothpaste ad, like a friend suggested after I posted this photo from last year’s NC Pride.)

That, and for more representative LGBT imagery in the media.

Whenever that happens, I’ll welcome the chance to pass the goth hipsters of the future–wearing those oh-so-alternative 2000’s fashions and ruminating about Life and Death.

Especially when they pass a few old gays at a bistro table, roll their eyes, and mutter in their misunderstood way, “That whole being gay thing is so passé.”

January 22, 2013January 22, 2013

Why Seconds Matter

Did you ever see the movie 8 Seconds?

Neither did I.

But I really wanted to. Not just because it starred Luke Perry, and had so much talk of riding and bucking.

(Clearly, I was trying to figure something out in 1994.)

Mostly, though, it was because I was fascinated by time.

How quickly it changes, and how so much history and experience can be compressed into mere seconds and still pack a punch.

Like how much of a wallop President Obama packed into 13 seconds.

***

Even though I’d read a few quotes from his inauguration speech on Facebook, my heart still jumped when I listened to his speech tonight. When he mentioned Stonewall, and Dr. King and so many great leaders in the same breath.

And, yes, there were tears too.

(I’m an emotional Italian. Yes, I know that’s redundant.)

But then he just kept going.

And that’s what struck me. The fact that he didn’t stop with Stonewall.

The fact that his tone has evolved from its more subdued debate volume into a booming declaration.

The fact that, during the next four years, LGBTs stand the greatest chance of having our rights realized than ever before.

The fact that he appealed to everyone.

Not just white people.

Not just rich people.

Not just straight people.

His thematic thread was spun directly from the Constitution–that revered piece of paper that governs so many, and holds within it so much potential.

And I can only hope that, through the efforts of us all, We the People will weave a more perfect and colorful union.

Where the air that we breathe is a little cleaner, the forests a bit thicker.

Where healthcare isn’t a luxury, a preexisting condition a denial of service.

Where the bodies of all aren’t the purview of a phallic few.

Where we are all, first and foremost, people with certain inalienable rights.

And that those rights are conferred upon us all.

January 17, 2013January 17, 2013

Shooting Off At the Mouth: My Two Cents On Gun Control

Andy and I hadn’t even crossed the North Carolina state line en route to California when Andy read about the horrors unfolding at Sandy Hook. A pall fell over the car.

My mind ping-ponged from thought to thought.

A lot of kids will never be able to do anything like what we’re doing.

A lot of them will be so scarred from this ordeal that they’ll be in therapy for the rest of their lives.

A lot of friendships and relationships will never be formed.

So many families will be completely and irreparably fractured.

***

Still, there’s jabber from Duh Right regarding President Obama’s measures to regulate gun control.

Pandemonium because loons who should never have been granted licenses are stocking up on ammunition.

Because: A stockpile of ammunition + Being generally disgruntled with the government and life = Peace and puppies.

***

It seems that a lot of people think being a gun owner translates to being an NRA supporter with a “Charlton Heston Is My Copilot” bumper sticker. (Which is most likely situated beneath a ball sack trailer hitch, or a Confederate flag windshield tattoo.)

Now, my family owns guns. Lots of them. But not because we love to blast them off or kill animals for sport. In fact, only my dad uses them. And does so for deer, turkey, and squirrel hunting—for food. Hell, my flaming self has even shot a deer. But not before I was taught the responsibilities that come with firing a weapon.

And that respect isn’t garnered from the gun itself, but from the moral compass one uses when handling it.

So it should come as no surprise that our family isn’t hemming and hawing and griping about the government taking our guns away. Because (1) That’s not going to happen anyway (people, read the reforms, or at least Google them); and (2) We have never, and will never, own automatic weapons. Why? Because we’re not in the military and civilians don’t need automatic weapons for hunting or defense. Automatic weapons were created for trained military personnel in combat theaters–to incur maximum damage in minimal space.

A single shot to a burglar’s chest is just as effective as fifty.

Which brings me to my main point: Automatic weapons should not be in the hands of civilians. Because, as we’ve seen time and time again, even if owners are responsible—have their guns locked up, hidden, or buried in a hole in the middle of nowhere—a nutbag will find them and we’ll have another massacre splashed across the headlines.

***

What I find most disturbing about all of this uninformed gun control talk are the rates at which gun sales and licenses are rising. Because, as we all know, if everyone is armed, then we can all prevent another tragedy. I mean, if one of those teachers had a handgun next to their apple, they could’ve taken down that disturbed man, right?

Wrong.

Militarization of the public won’t solve anything. It’ll only facilitate more “standing my ground” defenses for bigots to get off, and innocent people walking their dogs, selling lemonade, or riding a bike to be gunned down because someone didn’t like the color of their skin or the way they carried themselves.

Am I a proponent of constitutional rights? Of course I am. Even though they’re not all extended to me.

And will I ever own a gun? Probably not anytime soon, but I may at some point. Will I default to that as a means of defense before words or nonviolent means or a baseball bat should the situation afford it? Of course not.

Here’s the only reason I’d ever purchase a gun: Because more ignorant, trigger-happy people are arming themselves because of their heightened conspiracy theory-informed paranoia. You see how this works? The vicious, endless cycle? Paranoia informs armament informs paranoia informs violence informs plea bargains informs armament.

***

Perhaps the thing that upset me the most about the Sandy Hook massacre—other than the loss of such early life—was that it took such a startlingly horrific event to instigate change.

Not the shootings in the theaters.

Not the murders at the colleges.

It took the lives of those learning about colors and shapes and not eating glue.

Reforms should be driven by a desire to create a safer, more secure society for us all.

Not by smaller body bags.

January 14, 2013January 14, 2013

A Break in Your Regularly Scheduled Programming

So, I know you’re just dying to read about another leg of our gay, man-infested destiny road trip–you, the one trying to research a bail bond business whilst nursing a weekend hangover. But a more pressing matter deserves the dim limelight this lil blog affords.

Now, y’all know me. Or, at the very least, have read a post or two. So you know LGBT rights are important to me. For obvious reasons.

And you might also know that Andy and I have had our share of unpleasant encounters of the bigoted bubba kind.

But when I hear about friends who’ve experienced not just bigotry, but assault, I tend to lose my shit.

Especially when I haven’t had coffee.

So when I perused my Sunday Facebook feed and read about an incident involving two friends, not even the impending knowledge of coffee and French toast could keep me calm.

After being responsible adults and opting to have a cab service bring their evening to a close, my friends were called “faggots” by the driver. More disturbingly, after they’d exited, and as one of them snapped an iPhone photo of the bigoted driver, the driver attempted to hit the photographer with his cab.

Now. To write that that’s unacceptable, unprofessional, unbelievable, and dangerous would be ridiculous. Because it’s so much beyond that.

When a person’s hatred for complete strangers—clients, even—is so severe that it propels them to channel and exercise violence against those people, it’s time for legal action.

But then “crime” and, more specifically, “hate crime” definitions come into play, and bigots often skate through the massive loopholes specific to LGBT rights protections. And they feel their behavior is justified. And they feel it more so when their local government supports alienating and “othering” a segment of the population that’s a little different from them.

Because nothing brings bigots together more than the smell of disenfranchisement in the morning, afternoon, or night.

Still, knowing that their behavior hasn’t gone unnoticed does give some bigots pause. Because, as I’ve written before, when bigots believe their victims are two-dimensional, harmless, defenseless bodies and are suddenly faced with strong-willed, outspoken individuals well-equipped to defend themselves, they shut down. They don’t get it. They can’t quite comprehend that there’s some sort of recourse, even if it’s simply expletives exchanged between counter-positioned parties.

Words do resonate. Especially when received in concert by friends, family members, and allies of LGBT people. So as Andy and I fired off strongly-worded emails to the taxi service, as did many other friends, we felt that, if nothing else, the cab service knows that our eyes are on them.

That LGBTs have friends everywhere.

That we’re not alone.

That we’re not silent.

That we’re not victims.

That the national tides are changing with the ebbing of more conservative generations’ old guards, and the inflow of their younger, more enlightened replacements.

***

Later that day, Andy and I bumped into our friends at the grocery store, and heard a little bit more about their ordeal. And after they left and we got our groceries, we went next door to grab some coffee.

And there, in a long line, a woman met my gaze, held it, gave Andy and I the proverbial once-over, and grimaced.

I grimaced back.

Mostly because: (1) Bigots disgust me; and (2) Her faded jean short camel toe complemented both her oversized, stained tee shirt advertising her dog walking business and the pilled, circa 1993 scrunchie binding her badly highlighted, frizzed hair.

So after she and her muffin top collected a venti frappucino—with whip, of course—and flubbered along, I went out to our car, didn’t have to squeeze myself between the closely parked cars, and smiled to myself.

***

Love is like a battlefield.

But not quite in the way Jordin Sparks makes it out to be.

To love is to fight—to battle, even. Because when your life is up for public debate, when your rights can be stripped away by the majority, you’re always on alert. You’re always ready to wage war to defend those whom you love.

So you give it your best—do what you can to prove to yourself that your voice matters. That, no matter what, you don’t stand by and watch as things crumble, backsliding into the dregs of a problematic past.

That living your life is the best weapon against discrimination.

That just being out–being yourself–may help a kid who sees you, but whom you never meet, realize, Wow, I’m not the only one.

But fighting can leave you tired and weary. And resentful.

It’s then that you realize that it’s time to transfer the mantle to willing shoulders. Because, deep down, you know it’s time for you to leave.

Because there’s a time to fight.

And a time to live.

December 4, 2012December 12, 2012

And All That [Gay] Jazz

Something happened to me between the self-revelatory statements “I’m gay” and “WHY DON’T I HAVE A BOYFRIEND?!”

And not just jar after jar of Nutella. (But who’s counting?!)

It was more of a self-realization about the dating scene. A realization that a lot of people are having in this iPhone-driven, text-heavy age.

Let me preface this by writing that a few of these problems aren’t necessarily LGBT-centric. But since I’m a flaming mo, my perspective’s a bit skewed.

***

From best friends and family members, to colleagues and angsty passersby, I’ve developed more than a peripheral knowledge of the most effective dating [avoidance] strategies.

Avoidance strategies, you ask?

Well, yes.

Because (1) It’s damn difficult to click with people in person. Like the time I tried to flirt with this one guy, pivot on a dime, and walk away confidently. Instead, I stuttered a goodbye and whipped around so quickly that I slipped, overcompensated, and knocked over a lube display. Classy lady.

And (2) It just gets exhausting writing profile after profile after profile on the most cutting-edge, most widely used dating sites “Proven to get you a date is less than a month!” or “At least get you laid.” Because then you turn into that person whose profile reads, “I HATE EVERYONE. THERE ARE NO REAL PEOPLE LEFT!” with an accompanying profile picture of a pixilated torso.

***

It just became easier to throw my hands up after a few bombed dates, blame it on the economy draining the last of an increasingly shallow dating pool, and sidle up to my computer for a Golden Girls marathon.

Alright, so I hadn’t quite spiraled to the point of a Goldie Hawn Death Becomes Her cat mo—mostly because I’m allergic, and can’t stomach that much frosting. But I did break out the hole-ridden jeans and stained hoodie to venture to Harris Teeter for a sweet treat.

Or treats.

At least self-checkout stations make eye contact avoidable.

Most of the time.

***

Maybe I’d just become so far resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to find someone that I finally did. When I least expected it.

I know, I know. I hate that saccharine “It happens when you least expect it!” bullshit. Because I’d recited that to myself time after time (whenever I took my head out of my chocolate-covered pretzel feedbag).

But I ignored the fact that entertaining that very thought meant that I was still seeking out that ever-elusive complement to myself, even if I told myself I wasn’t.

Then, boom.

Andy happened.

So I figured, “Finally! I’m set. Relationship maintenance can’t be too demanding. The hard stuff is over!”

Oh, naivety.

Now, before I have to sleep in the guest bedroom, I’m not saying the effort involved in maintaining a relationship is bang-my-head-against-the-wall bad. Quite the contrary–it’s made me more mature, more patient, and (hopefully) more empathetic.

Still, there’ve been unexpected issues that’ve challenged us. Issues that I think other LGBTs encounter and, sometimes, can’t quite reconcile.

***

Andy and I hadn’t been together two months before I got horribly sick and had to go to an urgent care clinic, then to the hospital. I could barely keep both eyes open, and had to deal with filling out mountains of paperwork.

Then I got to a page I’d seen plenty of times before when I was single–one I’d never panicked over or had to think intensely about. It was the “right to medical information” page–where you list out who’s able to receive your medical information or request it, and their relationship to you.

The ink blot started to grow larger as I wondered, hesitating about broaching the topic for fear of freaking out Andy and making him think I was moving too fast.

Did I list him?

Should I tell him that I’m listing him?

What if I don’t list him and they run me to the E.R. and he’s not “privileged” with the information regarding my whereabouts?

Would they acknowledge a gay relationship?

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t danced through my sleep-deprived mind.

But one good side-effect of feeling crappy is that you give less of a damn about dating etiquette than usual. And while potential hospitalization isn’t a desired litmus test to see if you have a keeper by your side, it does the job.

We cleared the hurdle.

Even if the “A” was more of an inkblot than a letter.

***

Albeit thankfully short, that situation made me think about my LGBT friends, and the whole topic of “gay relationship time” versus “straight relationship time.” Sure, the latter are good topics for poking fun, but I think there’s a little something to it.

For a lot of LGBT couples, it’s hard to avoid heavy-hitting topics like healthcare, end-of-life decisions, housing issues, and property rights. In fact, like Andy and I learned, you have to broach them much, much earlier than some straight friends. That’s not to disparage our allies, or presume that heterosexual couples don’t have to engage in such intense dialogue. (The latter is clearly not true.)

By and large, though, most LGBT Americans don’t have the luxury of a temporal cushion to lighten the blow of such charged topics; we can’t assume that we’ll be afforded particular rights just because we have a partner of the opposite sex. So, a few months in, Andy and I were well-versed in familial histories, medical issues, end-of-life decisions, health and life insurance providers, and general contingency plans.

But for every story like ours, plenty of others don’t go so well–and not necessarily because of ill-suited matches. Heavy conversations have a way of exhausting a relationship speedily, smothering the initial flames of exuberance with overwhelming, sudden responsibilities and stressors. Pressures specific to LGBT relationships aren’t often understood by the general public. To everyone else, on the surface, it’s yet another failed LGBT relationship; it’s easier to default to that stance rather than think about the heteronormative, theocratically-legislated context in which LGBT relationships are established. Instead of attempting to change that context, though, ignorant people are more content to buy into the crazed, Santorum-ish perception of the “inherent instability” of LGBT relationships—and use that fallacious argument to continue LGBT-based discrimination.

Traversing bumpy relationship terrain early on does have a bonding effect, too. Even if conversations along the way don’t exactly come easily, and may shave off a few weeks from the honeymoon period. Because very few want “More peas?” followed by “Cremation or burial? Organ donation?”

Still, in the span of a few weeks, Andy and I jumped from hesitant-to-fart to peeing-with-the-door-open. Because with other, more pressing matters at hand, who really cares?

(Other than visitors.)

So, while Andy and I aren’t Olympians, we’ve cleared a number of hurdles.

Not without a few stumbles or scuffs.

But we’re still going strong.

And if we can do it, plenty of y’all can, too.

November 28, 2012November 29, 2012

Together, We Remember and Fight

Andy watches Gwyneth Paltrow drive by in a Land Rover; I scratch my head and try to figure out how far off Christopher Street Two Boots actually is, and how long it’ll take us to order pizza once we finally get there.

Clearly, my stomach isn’t affected by star power. (Especially since Gwyneth probably hasn’t eaten a carb since Hush. Bless her heart.)

***

Soon enough, we’re powering through massive sauce-slathered slices and watching as hipster after hipster pours in for their daily carb fix. And as we look out at passersby puttering along sidewalks, I imagine how much this street has seen, especially with our next stop just a few blocks away.

We finish up, and join the hive buzzing outside. As we remark at a particular mo’s great cowl neck sweater, the air chills and the remaining sunlight filters behind 1 World Trade Center.

We turn a corner, dodge some taxis, then walk up to Stonewall Inn. Surprisingly unimposing, Stonewall’s façade is bathed in light, its slightly tattered rainbow flags fluttering in the breeze.

It still has the Bam–Pow! effect it did when I first saw it earlier this year. And I almost recite exactly what I did back then: So, this is where it happened.

***

To most people, this building isn’t anything special—just another bar with poster ads featuring scantily-clad, ripped models. The same can be said for Christopher Street Park across the way, minus the poster models (on most days, I mean).

After the requisite pictures, we venture inside. And that’s when I feel the “something else” about this place. No, it’s not the booze. It’s the ambience, the tacit understanding that these boards, these walls, are hallowed ground to many LGBT Americans.

We sidle up to the same bar where generations of LGBTs and prominent civil rights figureheads initiated romantic conversations or decided to take a stand.

With two cosmos in tow, we leave the tab open and seat ourselves in a dimly lit corner.

A trio of men carouse at the bar, and two women on a date navigate the awkwardness of ice-breaking conversations. The older bartender surveys the bar with a measured, seasoned eye, and strikes up conversations with a few nervous single guys sitting at the opposite end of the bar.

There’s no pretense. No expectations. Just unencumbered joy.

And I imagine this to be the atmosphere in 1969 when the police attempted to quash this haven and imprison those who railed against them. But thanks to those brave figures, Andy and I, along with all the others, are able to enjoy a drink or two, and absorb the history through osmosis.

***

Framed photographs along the wall depict various scenes before and after the Stonewall riots—the tension and catharsis are palpable.

“I wonder where these people are now,” Andy muses. “Especially that one.”

He points to a young guy seated on the steps of the neighboring business front. With his gaze fixed on something far away—perhaps processing the moment—he pushes his blonde hair behind one ear. Above him, two women share a celebratory kiss, and three men wrap their arms around one another, each smiling directly into the camera. In the foreground, a brunette with glasses smiles wryly, his eyes betraying a mischievous air.

Looking from the photograph to the present scenes unfolding before us, I think how little has changed. But how everything did.

How one event can propel others forward, out of societal shackles, into action. How ardently and passionately our forbearers have fought for our rights, and how far we still must go. How indescribable it is to have Andy by my side, in a place like this.

Knowing that, in a different time, we could’ve been sitting there, reflecting on our respective days, when the door crashed open and batons started flying. Knowing that there’re still heinous crimes committed against people just for dallying in front of such an establishment.

Knowing that we have the ability to craft a better future for a gay couple who, years into the future, will sit exactly where we are and ruminate about the people who’ve been seated at this table.

And, with hope, will thank us, too.

November 13, 2012November 29, 2012

Bonded, James Bonded

Okay, so I already wrote this post once. Then accidentally deleted it in a flurry of excitement surrounding the latest episode of The Walking Dead.

Worse yet, the episode sucked.

The Post Lost Forever was much better, mostly because it was infused with the enthusiasm borne out of a day off work. So forgive this iteration’s jagged edges.

But first, let’s start off with the good news: Daniel Craig isn’t a bigot. Or at least I don’t think so. The bad news? Plenty of his fans definitely are. Well, at least some bubbas.

***

This past Saturday, I wasn’t focused on the movies or James Bond, and I certainly wasn’t contemplating the politics of cinema. With my parents leaving town, and Andy receiving the Parental Seal of Approval with flying colors, we figured a little downtime was in order. And seeing as how movies provide much needed escapist fodder in our post-work day routine, we thought something splashed across the big-screen was appropriate.

Double-plus bonus: it was late. That meant the crotchety seniors were well into bed, and the hormone-high tweens had been picked up in minivans hours ago, taking their overinflated senses of misunderstood selves with them, along with their manic texting, LOLs, and like-cluttered drivel. The theatre closest to our place was a magnet for drunken undergraduates, so we’d be free of them, too.

After driving to the far-flung theatre and paying an exorbitant amount for Sour Jacks and Mike and Ikes, we settled into the unexpectedly crowded theatre.

But I really didn’t think about anything other than the movie, and sharing it with Andy.

And Sour Jacks. Always Sour Jacks.

***

By the time Skyfall started, I’d eaten almost all of our candy, and knew I’d have to sit through a painfully long introduction full of Bond poses, shooting, blood splatter, scantily-clad women, and random explosions.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Before I knew it, Bond had gotten blasted right off the train (Spoiler alert! Or was I supposed to write that before I gave it away? Oh well.), and I halfway expected the 28 Days Later actress responsible for his big fall to be attacked by rage-fueled sacks of flesh as she sat contemplating her unfortunate gunnery.

Meanwhile, Judi Dench made some caustic remarks, because she’s friggin Judi Dench and can do that. And Bond fed a sex-slave’s bodyguard to a komodo dragon, had shower sex, and ventured onto a deserted island resort city—which, coincidentally, Andy had told me about the day before.

A bad dye job later, we were vis-à-vis with Silva. Everyone in the theatre seemed to like his eccentricities.

But the minute it became clear his hands were getting pretty homey with Bond’s inner thighs (a.k.a., the Holy Lands), the audience erupted with expletives, gasps, and slightly muffled epithets.

That’s the moment when Andy and I were ripped off the island and brought crashing back into the overstuffed movie seats—to reality. In such an unexpected way that I thought I was dreaming. But when I shot a glance to Andy, I could tell it wasn’t a dream.

More of a nightmare than anything.

It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark. Just what lurks under its convenient veil. And, in that moment, I thought of the rash of very public shootings and violence earlier this year, and how easily nighttime and a generalized mob mentality can become quick bedfellows.

That’s where I hate to be: the edge—on it, wondering when I’m going to be reminded of my slight difference, and by whom. And I hate the feelings of helplessness associated with that liminal position. Knowing that, if I say anything—go right over the precipice—I’ll be putting more than myself in jeopardy.

So we took it.

In darkness.

In silent solidarity—bonded.

And sat as our movie experience was derailed, unbeknownst to those surrounding us.

***

And then we watched as a victim of the sex trade—having been bound and tortured—was shot in the head.

The response: nothing.

Not even a gasp.

Clearly, the majority of our lovely audience preferred rape, imprisonment, and misogyny over the slightest hints of homoeroticism. (Which reminded me why Romney/Ryan won NC. But I digress.)

And while I’m sure the loudest objecting bubbas pitched tents with every rub of Silva’s hands, I couldn’t help but become more embittered about the double standard LGBTs still face—how any sign of affection is perceived as an explicit display; how every exchange is suspect; how everything we do is thrown before voyeurs, who are afforded the ability to pass legislated judgment on our lives. Who take our lives in their hands and play with them.

Or end them.

Do I care about straight people showing affection? No. Would I have been equally as distressed to see the Bond-Silva exchange transpire with two opposite-sex actors? Yes. The principal elements are Bond’s captivity, and Silva’s insinuations of Bond’s imminent death.

Is there a sexual overtone to the whole scene? Sure. When isn’t there with captivity, regardless of the players’ biological sex?

***

So, as the rest of the movie blurred by, and Skyfall fell into a fiery heap, I focused on the little things.

Like how Bond joked about Silva’s hands, and didn’t care about the villain’s sexual wiring.

Like how he focused on life and living over everything else.

Like how we all get shaken and stirred.

But it’s what’s left that counts.

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