You know your week is off to a stellar start when it has Valentine’s Day AND 2 of your ex-boyfriends’ birthdays in it.
Did I mention that both are in long-term, committed relationships?
I didn’t? Well, now I did.
Bitter: party of me.
What made this gay heart weep tears reminiscent of Lady Gaga losing all those Grammys to Adele [that’s right, “album of the decade”, mm hmm] was just making it through the snark-inducing shit I deal with.
Join me, please.
Thank you Brian B for the inspiration from our fb chat.
[Now, picture me in a cute 60s PanAm-esque Flight Attendant outfit ...]
Good Morning, passengers of Gay Hearts Weep Airlines, this is your flight attendant – Benjamin – speaking. You need to board this flight quickly and quietly. Your flight crew appreciates this.
Now, here are some simple rules which will ensure everyone has a pleasant flight and walks away from this plane alive.
There is no need to talk to anyone. It is O’Dark-Stupid in the morning; that means it is time to sleep. No one gives a shit about ANY of your problems. To all children that are under the age of 5, please pay close attention:
Shut. The. Fuck. Up. It is way past your bedtime so NO ONE should hear a single peep out of you! If you continue to make noise? I will pepper-spray you my damn self. You have been warned.
[*ahem* It may be noted here that some have theorized I have a problem with children. Those people? Are perceptive]
Needless to say, I am not a morning person. Nor can it truly be said I’m an afternoon person. Nor much of a Night Owl. Come to think of it, I think I’m set on perma-snarky.
I wonder if it’s a medical condition.
Should I treat it with wine?
Let’s examine this past Monday, as an example of why I’ve such an outlook, together:
I got up at O’Dark-Stupid in the morning to be at work [again, not a morning person – but, thank gawdd for coffee] and wade through a pack of imbeciles.
I mean pleasant people.
No, I mean completely selfish assclaps who seem to spend hours plotting how to make my mornings at work as difficult as possible.
[Some people call them customers.]
Anywhoo, after all of the loveliness of an 8-hour shift with no real break, I hopped in the car to drive my tired ass home [Please note that I refrained from nabbing McDonald’s – my de facto comfort fast food – stoopid diet. Bugger.] only to discover that my front driver’s side tire had a lovely sharp screw.
Embedded in it.
At least something’s getting screwed for Valentine’s.
Yepp, the day before Saint Valentine’s and I am single, dealing with a flattening front tire, fighting that impending-30s spare tire, and fighting the urge to punt anyone in the balls who so much as crosses me.
Okay, I totally took the coward’s way out and called Grandpa to ask what I should do (aside from replacing the tire) – he promised we could spend the next morning replacing or repairing the tire. *Whew!*
Assured of future success with the tire, I threw caution to the wind and let my hair down. Way down. In fact, I asked my lovely roommate Melanie to chop it off.
[One way to lose weight, cut 3-4 lbs of hair.]
Some people deal with things through shopping [guilty], eating unhealthy foods [also guilty], inappropriate behavior [need I say it?], but on a diet and dirt-broke I turned to the old stand-by: snarky and inappropriate commentary and re-invention.
A change-up as simple as hair cut or color can perk up even my shittiest day – of course, pairing it with an over-priced t-shirt would make it complete, but, who am I kidding? Not gonna happen.
With my short haircut – inspired by What’s-his-name-you-know-the-hot-one-on-CSI – and a bowl of low-cal devil’s food cake mix [tastier than cardboard, but not much] I had a bounce in my step.
The bonus? The fact that many 18-25 yr olds think I look 22/23 with it is totally [low-cal] icing on the [gawdd how much I wish it were real chocolate] cake.
Hrmm, perhaps it wasn’t such a shitty week after all.
Or maybe that’s just the wine speaking.
"I swear, you don't look a day over 40"
"I'm 27, bitch."
Nothing can quite make a gay heart weep tarantula-mascara track tears down the face quite like that lovely conversation where – after choking on your coffee [or chocolate-laced late lunch martini] – you admit to your impending birthday and actual age.
[True, nothing is quite as terror/fight-or-flight inducing as admitting your real weight in public – not the one you tell dates in hopes they’ll buy it, but the one your doctor reads off as you have a small heart attack standing half-nude on that scale in her office. Wait, is that just me?]
Can you picture it? My best friend Nate and I sitting at a quiet bistro table [okay, a cramped booth at O’Charley’s] discussing the impending doom of 2012. Not the whole Mayan End-of-All-Things bullshit,
No. The unavoidable.
This summer I turn 29. That’s practically 30. And, as well all know, 30 – in gay terms – is washed-up. Dead. Finito.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I personally don’t hold [much] to this way of thinking. But, the finality of that number still scares the shit out of me.
My 20s are on a hit-list and the big 3-0 is gunning them down.
In theory I really don’t have trouble with aging – as my Mum says, ‘It beats the Hell out of the alternative’, and she’s right. For other people. In theory.
Of course, I slug back the rest of this delicious chocolate martini to calm my nerves.
This sprang up and smacked me fully in the face when, offhandedly, I mentioned that my family’s vacation ends 2 days before my birthday this summer. 2 days before my 29th birthday. I may have stuttered, spluttered and felt the need to fetch the smelling salts.
When I regained my breath and double-check there are no giant teary-mascara tracks, I resume my chat with Nate.
I guess you could call this a “lush lunch”.
How did I get to feeling better?
This may sound a tad petty and … well … you wouldn’t be too far off the mark. Nate pointed out how I had hit my prime in my early 20s and was holding nicely. [Whereas he is still en route to his prime, the lucky sod.] I look better – to me – at 28, pushing 29 than I did at 21.
Well, except I had a washboard stomach at 21.Okay, so, I look better clothed at almost-29 than I did at 21. I can live with this.
To top it off, and to make ourselves feel a little more secure in our own aging, we compared how a few of our exes were faring in the same boat. [Catty and more than a little petty, I know.]
Denny hit his prime at 18 and by 22 was already thin-haired and yo-yo dieting.
Mitch was balding by 23 and, at 29, no longer sported the trim frame from his Navy days; a heavy diet of ‘the munchies’ and beer didn’t help.
Stewie? Well, he’s still a skinny-scrawny twink, but, the heavy smoking and occasional drug-use have left a Lindsay Lohan patina on him by 24. So not sexy.
And Robert, who had been the most charismatic skater/twink/sexy-gogo guy either of us had known – he oozed charisma and sexuality from his very pores as long as either of us had known him – well? Now, at almost-31 he had lost the battle of the bulge; his always-fine blond hair was becoming a thing of the past and, despite still having personality-charisma, he was far from the sex-god desirable he was even two years past.
Small wonder admitting my 29th birthday this summer scared the fuck out of me.
Nate snapped me out of my reverie, “Ben, I wouldn’t be surprised if ten years down the road you were looking at collagen and botox.”
How did he know? I mean, I’m a little vain – I shall pause to let you recover your breath from that laugh-attack, thank you – but, am I that vain?
Who does he think I am? Heidi Montag [inserted pseudo-timely celebrity riff]?
Admittedly, while Christmas shopping with friend in Victoria’s Secret I ogled the plumping lip-gloss [which was summarily pushed out of my hand]. So, maybe I am kinda that insecure about this whole aging thing. But, I promise – with all that’s in my little black heart – I shan’t resort to botox. I pinky promise.
For one thing, I like making scornful eyebrow quirks too much [and have had crow’s feet and mild forehead wrinkles since my teens] to botox them away.
And suddenly the voices of Bea Arthur and Angela Lansbury pop into my head singing that wonderful song from Mame, Bosom Buddies.
Tho’ now and again I’m aware that my candid opinion may sting,
Tho’ often my frank observation may scald; I’ve been meanin’ to tell you for years, you should keep your hair natural like mine.
If I kept my hair natural like yours, I’d be bald
I feel it’s my duty to tell you it’s time to adjust to your age: You try to be “Peg O’My Heart”, when you’re “Lady Macbeth”. Exactly how old are you, Vera? The truth!
Well, how old do you think?
I’d say somewhere in between forty – and death!
Shake it off, Benjamin.
No. Diet and exercise. And hair dye. And the occasional trip to the waxer. And flattering clothes. These shall be my allies in the war on aging.
Now, who’s buying me an early birthday present?
By Caleb Wessel
Something that makes all gay hearts weep, or even straight hearts for that matter are people who feel compelled to lead you on in such a way that is just utterly confusing, hurtful, and downright rude. You can find yourself with someone who flirts just enough to make you believe that you may have a chance with them as a boyfriend, only to find out that they have a boyfriend or "are not into the dating scene" (Worst words to hear, especially if its right after a night of alcohol-induced promiscuity with someone you have liked for a long, long time). Though the utter worst case is actually something that I can speak from experience ... the one night stand, however mine was probably one of the worst cases of this known to mankind. The one night stand stemming from about a month of flirtation, promises, and lovey dovey notes is one that will really make your gay heart weep bitter tears of remorse, hatred, and confusion.
Cue sad music ... I'm going to go with "Fooled Me Again, Honest Eyes" by Lady GaGa considering this literally word for word (aside from switching girl to boy) on how much the dating community can fool, hurt, and depress any human.
I found a guy randomly on a site that we are going to call Plenty of Liars. We hit it off almost immediately and though at first I wasn't completely convinced he used beautiful strings of gorgeous words that I wanted ... needed to hear. How stunning my personality is, how badly he wanted to be with me, all these dates he wanted to go on, everything he wanted to do with me, how beautiful, hot, and gorgeous I am (even after he asked for a picture without my makeup on). We spent every single day texting each other for hours, we spent time on the phone telling each other how much we loved each others voices, how amazing we felt speaking with each other.
Finally, we were able to plan a day to meet and oh how excited I was. I completely believed that we were going to end up dating, he was even clingy and jealous (A type that is very underrated). He was even upset when I kissed another guy when I wasn't 100% sure whether he was real or not, which had made me realize that I really did want him because of his reaction ... I started counting down the days, hours, minutes which were all spent talking to him.
When the day finally arrived I spent the whole day completely nervous and shaking, I couldn't get my mind off of him, and when I finally met him my heart soared. Not only did he look exactly like his pictures and was not some 40 year old but his personality soared even more in person.
We started making our way back to my house (He needed to take a shower because he had been modelling for a beauty school's student out here so he had traces of makeup on that he didn't want on him) and he said he was nervous, I asked why and he told me that he wasn't sure if I still liked him in person, which of course I did and I said that ...
On our way up my apartment stairs he grabbed me and started kissing me, I felt instant electricity and he almost knocked me right off my feet. Only twice in my life have I felt a kiss like that so full of passion and desire before that one. Little did I know how much he was fooling me ...
Once he showered we cuddled and kissed on my couch talking about everything life had to offer. We watched Family Guy and talked some more, made food and basically just had an amazing evening. I leaned in to kiss him again and suddenly he was on my lap, I'll leave what ended up happening to the imagination but suffice to say it was amazing.
The morning came around and things started happening again, I made breakfast and we ate and spoke some more. Once he had taken a shower and hopped out I decided to take one as well, he kissed me and said don't take too long, gorgeous.
Little did I know that was the last time I would see him because when I hopped out of the shower he was no where to be seen. Crushed, I searched my apartment wondering if he was maybe playing a joke on me, I went into the hallway, walked all the way to the front door in tears hoping that maybe, perhaps, just perhaps he was just playing a trick on me albeit a mean, cruel trick considering he knew what guys have done to me in the past.
Of course he was no where to be found, I went upstairs and just bawled my eyes out singing to GaGa's song "You fooled me again, fooled me again with your honest, honest, honest eyes. Again, fooled me again with your dirty mouth filled with honest lies."
This is not just a story, but a plea to the community in general. Stop being fucking sluts, if you want a one night stand tell the other person that is what this is, or at least don't tell them how much you want a relationship and lead them on like this.
My Gay Heart had never wept as much as I did that next day, never before have I been fooled to that point before, never have I been walked over like that before, treated like such utter filth and dirt. There is no excuse or reason to ever treat someone like that, no one deserves to be treated as such.
By Benjamin Kissell
Nothing makes a Gay Heart weep tears of embarassed frustration quite like getting into a cell-phone or Facebook war with an ex.
Instant social outlets like Myspace, Facebook, Twitter and our cell-phones have added a new dimension to the Ex-games.
For example, after deleting that asshole ex [bias] from your cell his "unidentified number" repeatedly pops up, causing you to mistakenly answer - or, G*D forbid, momentarily to act civil. Or when perusing your friends' pages on Facebook [yes, we all FacebookStalk, own up to it boys and girls] you see his photos with his "OMG sooo cute" new boyfriend [gag me]. When this happens, Gay Hearts enter what is affectionately known as the "Cell[phone] Block Tango" (where each of you tries to maneuver around and be the first to block and/or delete all knowledge of the other).
When chatting with my friend Andrew yesterday I realized that I have my own Cell[phone] Block Tango [so named from the Cell Block Tango in Chicago, gays and girls] while I was listing off a few of the people I had actually gone so far as to block and whose names are stored as "Ignore" in my cell, from the last 10 years of dating.
The loud snort as I sang "Pop/Six/Squish/UhUh/Cicero/Lipschitz" was possibly heard 'round the world.
In the promise of honesty and love [promise not to judge me too harshly and forgive the Chicago-themed phrasing], here is a version of my own Cell[phone] Block Tango ...
He had it coming. He had it coming. He only had himself to blame. If you'd have been there; If you'd have read it, I bet'cha you would have done the same.
#Bop. You know how some people have some annoying habits? Well, while dating Alvin he sat on the couch all the time. He liked to fart - no, not fart, light his farts on fire. I told him, 'Do that one more time ...' and he did. So, I took the mouse over on Myspace and I clicked 2 warning shots; onto his profile - blocked and reported it.
... I bet'cha you would've done the same.
#Slick. I met AssCole, from Richmond City about a year ago, and he told me he was single and we hit it off right away. So I helped him find an apartment and move. Things were going swimmingly, dinner and flirts. It was like Heaven in one and a half counties. Then he told me he wanted to stay single. Heh. Single my ass. Dating 4 different guys on dating sites. So, that night, when I saw him online ... you know, some profiles just can't hold off a virus.
... he had it coming, he had it coming all the time.
#Swish. I'm sitting there, at the computer minding my own business, and online storms a 20-something drama queen I barely know who starts Facebook IMing me in a jealous rage that I'm ignoring him. He's crazy and keeps IMing that I'm screwing with his head. And then he ran into my block button. He ran into my block button 3 times [Facebook and the 2 dating sites].
... if you'd have been there, if you'd have seen it?
#NuhUh. Хуяк! Хуя нахуевертили! Хули нахуй, хуилы, нахуярили дохуя хуецкой хуевины? Охуели нахуй, хуеплеты хуевы? Нехуй хуевничать, расхуяривайте нахуй хуетень! Aleksander. Ёб твою мать. But, did I block him? NuhUh. I BLEEPING blocked him.
#Sissy'ho. My roommate and I were dating a pair of friends. One night we were all hanging out, boozing and having a few laughs when we ran out of material and my roommate and I went home. The next morning I wake up to a text-message where my marine had texted me Number 2: a Dear John. Apparently he and several of his friends were doing the Spread Eagle. I completely blacked out, I mean, it wasn't until later when I was deleting every photo of us off the computer that I even realized it was over.
... I didn't do it, but if I'd done it, how could you tell me I was wrong?
#Flippant. I enjoyed talking with Shane, more than I can say. But he was a real artistic guy: sensitive, a drinker. But he was troubled, he was always trying to find ways to break down my spirit. Along the way he bruised my ego and attacked my accent. I guess you could say I blocked him because of artistic differences: He saw himself as human, and I saw him as scum.
... the dirty bum, bum, bum ...
What makes a gay heart weep more than going on another blind-date? Another first date? Why, when that first date turns awkward. Then bad. And a gay heart winds up on an awkwardly bad date.
[In honor of the fine tradition of shit-tastic dating experiences on-or-around St Patrick's Day I've been running for the last almost-decade, I'll share one from back in '04 in hopes that an ounce of gossip is worth three pounds of new experiences.]
Late September 2004 found this gay heart on a date with a very kind and engaging [read: tall with a touch of neuroses, my kinda guy] fellow - one of the dozen dates I drowned myself in while recovering from my ex [crazy with a side of cute and follow-up a double-helping of crazy]. Being a proper gentleman, he picked me up at my place and drove us out to dinner at a lovely dining establishment - what, you don't consider the lounge at TGIFriday's lovely dining? - and, of course, listened to my nervous chit-chat.
The date-proper (the point when you are sitting down and talking) was off to a stilted but good start, we had multiple things in common (including a love of all things Jennifer Saunders) and were comfortable in the secluded booth [sidenote: yes, private is good for a date, but, when the hostess seats your asses NEXT TO THE GODDAMNED KITCHEN one should say something, especially when the restaurant is far from full]. When our waiter came by to take our drinks order - Diet with a twist of lemon, thank you - I contentedly looked-past him; after all, I was on a first-date!
Apparently, my date noticed him. His eyebrow cocked. The corner of his mouth twitched.
When our waiter - the cuteness of a young Zack Morris sans the highlights - left through the (still-too-damn-close) kitchen entrance, I cocked my eyebrow right back at my date. Who, when caught, laughed.
Excuse me, we - you and me - are on this date, not you and Waiter Macslutty-pants.
Swallowing the very snarky retort [and some tasty chips that had arrived, carried by a female busboy - busgirl? - with tasty spinach dip] that was about to come tumbling off of my lips, I opened my mouth to ask what was "So damned funny?" when I heard, "Ben, he's hitting on you. Hardcore."
Que? Wha? Vas? Huh? My usual verve and wit seemed to escape me while trying to wrap my mind around this new nugget of information. I had just spent five minutes fuming and imagining various painful revenge-filled scenarios for Waiter McSkankerstein. Seriously? He was throwing his slutty-mojo at me? And I had missed it? WHATTHEHELL?
Okay, well, that explains that as he places my drink down he stares. I mean, when you hand someone their drink you look at them, right? But, he's still looking at me when he places my date's water in front of him. Hmm. He does the same maneuver when placing our dinners in front of us - boring holes into my forehead as he almost drops the linguini onto my date's lap.
So, tension eased, we laugh about the WTF-esque moment of our waiter but, the conversation still doesn't flow as well ... it's an awkward date.
We decide to become friends instead of pursuing dating.
When dinner wrapped up [of course I had dessert, cheesecake? Hells yeah!] and we asked for the check - again, he was a gentleman and was paying [what? I was a poor college student and he was a mid 20-something with a good job] - we sat contentedly talking as Waiter Whorevitz left to fetch it. Upon his return, he handed the check to me [what part of me looking young and broke says "Hey, I'm paying"?] and returned to the still-too-damn-close-'cos-I-can-smell-what's-burning-kitchen.
"Hey," I say, handing it over to my date, "What's this weird squiggle on the back-bottom?" Looking it over, he barks out a guffaw, "Ben, that's his phone number and a smiley-face."
Hmm, I wondered, is this how Tommy Tutone got started?