Dear Gay Shamed,

About a week ago the SCOTUS legalized gay marriage! Its been all over the news and everything ever since and I can say that I am actually really happy. Its about time they got their act together right?

And if you don’t like that the act was passed just remember that your ass wasn’t invited to the wedding anyway nor were you even on the guest list. BYE.

So we celebrating, partying, having fun, being gay, fabulous and everything when, Saturday night, late Saturday night, I got a text from Hollister. Hollister, PA, Patron Saint of Sex and I are in a group message and have been since the start of our college careers.

We use the group message as a sort of group therapy, a Dear Abby sort of, to talk about our lives, relationships and our semi nonexistent sex life. A mobile Sex and the City if you will.

“Joe what’s the difference between a bear and an otter?” Hollister asks.

“One is a very mean animal and the other is a very cute animal?”

“No like the terms. Like the gay terms?”

“A bear is a chubby, gay man with hair. An otter is a skinny man with hair. A twink all grown up per say.”

“And what do you think I am?”

“Do you have hair?”

“Yes”

“Chest hair? Hair all around?”

“No.”

“Then you’re a twink. Sorry hunny someone’s gotta do it. Why?”

“There’s this new guy at work who’s gay and he keeps calling me an otter and I’m scared, Joe, I’m scared cause I’m not a fudge packer!” Hollister says and for the first time in a long time I can feel the pain he’s in.

“I know gays are terrfying. And with marriage now legal who knows what can happen. Ok did you tell him you were as straight as can be?”

“Twice.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Fuck and dump. That’s what I do. One fuck and dump both parties are happy.” Patron Saint put in her two cents.

“But I’m not gay…”

“Ask for money first. Who wouldn’t do it for money.” PA says.

“That’s true a lot of straight men do gay porn for money. Not that I would know…” I say.

"Am I being GAY SHAMED. I'm being gay shamed and I'm not even gay." 

And this is where the topic ends and we begin a new chapter. A chapter about Chinese babies and how freaking cute they are.

Oh!

And three days ago I quit my job.

A.M Conspiracy Part 1

I’ve been living in Texas for three months now. I got to work. I come home. I work on schoolwork. I eat. I end up in my bed at around ten thirty, which led me to wonder just how does Cinderella manage to stay up past twelve? I do the same thing all over again the next day. And the day after that. And so on and so on until the day I die…

I was not having it.

So about two weeks I booked a trip to…

An here was the problem. Where should I go? Back to Florida to see family and old friends down for summer break? Or should I completely get out of the south and head to the one place where I can really clear my mind.

That’s right folks. I headed to New York. Well mainly New York City but I’ll take New York just as well. Where else could I get the sights and sounds of culture that Texas hasn’t offered me yet. Where else can I get over priced food and drink while getting pushed around by hoards of people who barely speak any English?

Where else can I go through a spiritual awakening of my soul? Trust me it sounds way better than it actually is.

You see I’m still not here in texas. Still not a hundred percent here at least. And with each passing day, each passing six hour work day, and with each early night to bed and early rise to work I couldn’t help but wonder, “What can I do to change it?”

I’m going to talk about my job- candidly- because there is some Media Law Disclosure bullshit that I signed when I started.

Its not that I hated my job. I hated the people. The people of Texas are, to me, a little more stupider than those we left behind in Florida (minus those of you who are reading this.) They complain a lot. They complain that ticket prices are too much as they dig through their Calvin Klein wallet for a hundred dollar bill that hides with the others. They complain that the lines are too long when I was the only one willing to help them.

One guy even asked me, "Where are the theaters?" and, I mean, its not hard to find the theaters because they're in a GIANT SPACE RIGHT BEHIND ME. Like literally you can't miss it. We have signs that say THEATERS 1-10 and THEATERS 11-20 plastered all around us! 

One asshole complained that his movie previews ran for too long – about twenty-five minutes. He demanded a refund but stayed through the whole movie. I told him that couldn’t be done and that if he left before the actual movie started he would’ve gotten his money back. He yelled and cried and his fat little daughter was like, “Its eight thirty-three past my bedtime.” Like I gave a crap.

If you haven’t guessed by now that I work in a movie theater good job claps for you, you smarty pants. If you haven’t though, read through this again. If you still haven’t please email me with questions… there is a strange looking man looking at me from across the way.

I believe it’s a spy from my job waiting for me to talk shit.

Check back for updates.

The One Where I Get a Job

Last Thursday was a day of firsts for my mother and me. The first time we got lost on an express way, the first time we drove, by ourselves, here in Texas, alone and the first time being in an editor’s office who held, in her hands, a piece of my writing.

“Joe this writing is really good,” she said, “Just what we’re looking for.”

“Thank you.”

“And its great that your have a mother so supportive.”

“Yep that’s my Ma, my momager in other words,” I say.

Let me back track a few days. Sunday morning I found myself looking up jobs. I vowed to not work for a few days (the three days a week at Macy’s back in Florida just killed me) but my mother was basically saying, “Too bad” though she added more words to it.

I already worked at a fast food place – Burger King, which was as disgusting as it looked. I had three different managers that never seemed to shower and one just farted the whole three hours she was there. It was a place for ex-convicts as well. Now I wanna see you eat there.

I did a grocery store, which was just as horrible as BK, but I worked more hours and cleaned the bathrooms.  And finally I worked at Macy’s. Don’t get me wrong I loved Macy’s, I loved the people, the managers and the work, in all actuality. It was just… the customers were so damn pissy. It didn’t help that most of them were pushing eighty.

I vowed that once we got here, in Texas, I wanted to do something different. No fast food. No grocery store. No retail. I wanted something in writing which, actually, wasn’t hard to find.

The job description screamed, WRITERS AND REPORTERS NEEDED ASAP. So I thought to myself, I thought, “Self you’re one of these things. Go head. Apply. What’s the worst that can happen?” And with that self-mantra rolling around in my head I applied.

And waited.

Waited.

Waited just a few days more.

Wednesday morning my email didn’t work. I believe, in my whole tiny heart, that I got a virus or some shit, some applying to this job. It was real sketchy and everything… three writing samples, a resume and a photo sent to the email provided. I wasn’t sure if I was applying for a job or a dating website.

Side Story- they have a Single Gay Man Anonymous group that meets every month. Can someone tell me the point of that?

“Hey I really like your… cloth. Is that taffeta?”

“Silk actually.”

So I had to change my password BUT I forgot the answers to the security questions and then I got locked out of trying and then I had to call them and it was a complete goddamn mess.

I eventually got it after waiting on the phone with Mr. AOL for twenty-five minutes.

Turns out it wasn’t the paper I was applying to but a problem with hackers.

So anyway, I’m hitting the word limit, I got the job at WeFamus magazine as a Creative Reporter! I head to events, interview some people and write up an article that gets edited by my editor who then sends it over to the publisher who just so happens to be her husband.

I guess Texas is looking just a little bit better.  

The Snap of a Stick

In order to establish some sort of normalcy around here I’m going to talk about one of our favorite subjects – SEX.

Last night GBF texted me and said that he had a problem. He said that he was “flustered.” When gays say that it could mean a butt load of shit. Like some guy winked at you or some guy accidently brushed into you on your way in the bathroom or the new Coach wallet is on sale- 20% off or some shit.

Here for you, dear reader, is the entire text message conversation between GBF and I- 

“You’ll never believe what happened to me” -GBF.

“You accepted Jesus into your heart? You broke a Jimmy Choo shoe? You moved down to Texas so I don’t have to be the only gay here?” – ME.

“No. No. No. Def not that last one.”

“Then what… I have to say I’m perplexed.”

“I walked into the restroom at Olive Garden and there was some man taking a picture of his…”

“His? Breadtsicks?”

“BreadSTICK.”

“NO! WHAT AN EVIL BASTARD! To deface Olive Garden like that!”

“I’m not sure what he was doing or who he was sending it to but he started laughing.”

“At you or his stick?”

“At the message I think?”

“Was it small?”

“I only say the side of it.” -GBF

“Was it long?” - ME

“Not bad. Long enough where it would hurt for a few days.”

“OOH”

“But then he asked me to take a picture WITH HIM. JOE I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO?”

“Was the stick out or in?”

“In”

“Did you take a picture with him?” - ME

“Did Kim K dye her hair?” - GBF

“Good point.”

“He was really cute too.”

“Then what happened? Did you share what you were having?  Try the Chicken Alfredo its mad good.”

“No…”

 Pause. I kinda forgot to answer him back. OOPS.

“But then he kissed me.” - GBF

“WHAT. You slut.” - ME

“Yeah. On the lips.”

“Talk about going to third base back to first.”

“Then he said I'm getting back at my ex-boyfriend… the bastard cheated on me. What should I do?”

“Okay listen to me. Did you finish your food?”

“Not yet”

“Go back and finish.”

“Then what?”

“Then nothing you selfish bastard you just ate. Go home.”

This says something about me, if I can be narcissistic for just a moment, I’ll be there when a friend is in need in a SNAP OF A STICK.

FIN.

The Swinging Nail: Part 1

Three days ago I found myself at the corner of “You’re no longer in civilization” and “Howdy ya’ll.” I was having dinner with my mother, sister, my brother-in-law, a cowboy, two republicans and a waitress who tried so hard to be Daisy Duke.

We sat around, on small folding chairs, at a picnic like table with plastic silverware and for the first time I felt truly afraid. I couldn’t help but wonder, “Is there a Macy’s near here or are we lost forever?”

We were at a barbeque place, one that I’ve been to before the first time I came and visited my sister, and in the year since hasn’t changed. I, if I can be truthful, expected bibles to be thrown at me and my Ralph Lauren baby blue sweater and black Lauren shoes.

But first I’ll start with that morning.

My mother and sister left the apartment early to get nails done and their hair did. I had no earthly interest in going with them so I decided to stay at home and work on my new project.

My new project is a stage play called “(Color) Rose” and it’s about a woman who falls in love with a man who isn’t everything she wanted him to be. It plays on the idea of innocence and being a virgin and also plays around with the idea of love and how it’s not always “Happily ever after.”

I wrote some quick scenes down, a few lines of good dialogue and crafted my main characters when I got a phone call from my sister.

“Wanna go out?”

“Aren’t you getting your nails done?”

“They fucked them up so I have to go to the place by me and figured you would want some sort of food.”

I was hungry so I decided to go with them. They picked me up about ten minutes later my sister in the front seat with her sunglasses on staring at her nails.

“Look at they did,” she said as soon as I stepped into the car.

I, personally, didn’t see anything wrong with them nor did I see much of a change from her last set. “Oh yeah I see it. They really fucked up.” I decided to go with the safe route.

We drove to the nearest Walmart, her first mistake, and as we walked inside she said, “I love these bitches here. They’re funny, smart and real. I go to Tina all the time.”

And sure enough, as soon as we walked in, Tina saw my sister and exclaimed, “Well lookie lookie who showed up. Yes.” She led my sister to the back, chatting the whole way like old friends.

My mother and I sat outside on a bench.

“Why does she go to a Walmart for her nails?” I asked.

“Cheaper.”

“Its like that time I got my hair cut at Walmart. It was lopsided and cost five dollars remember,” I say.

“I don’t think she’ll go back to that place anymore though,” my mother said.

“Why?”

“They called her hairy.” 

And I laughed. A really good belly laugh. 

Deep in the Heart of Texas: Part Trois

Friday morning found us awake and ready to shop for a dining room table, a couch and a new bed frame for me. Unbeknownst to me it resulted in none of those said items beings bought. I instead bought a new Marilyn Monroe painting and hung it up outside my bathroom on the wall before people walked in. You’re welcome.

Friday night I found myself wanting… this hunger that a normal fast food trip couldn’t suffice. I wanted Chinese food, mainly I just wanted an egg roll but I guess a plate of Orange chicken would just as well work, and being that I didn’t know where to go, nor did I know if there was a Chinese place close to me, I called upon my sister for help.

“Get me Chinese food.”

“No.”

“I really want it.”

“Too bad. You’re fat. Eat some salad.”

“Please,” I urge.

“Fine. What do you want?”

“The original. You know what that is and if I have to say it again I’ll be very upset,” I said.

Twenty minutes or so later she brought me my food. That night I went to bed and started planning my next play.

Saturday morning I awoke to the sound of my mother crying. It was that unnatural cry to, like the heavy cry where the shoulders go up and down, you don’t move, don’t wipe the tears away and you have that vacant look in your eyes. I knew something was wrong.

“Mom?”

“The towed us.”

“Wait what?”

“They towed the fucking cars. I woke up and the cars are gone. Dammit,” she yelled.

“Well where’d they take them?” I said but really I was thinking, “Oh this is great. Maybe we can pack up and move back.”

“I don’t know. This sucks. This really sucks. You hate it here-”

“Basically.”

“Did I fuck up?”

And for once I didn’t have an answer.

My mother called my sister and my sister called her husband and we all went to the place where our cars were stored. I was as miserable as ever. I had my stuff packed and I was an inch away from saying “See ya later Texas.”

We got the cars back, after giving this twenty year old guy three hundred dollars, and we drove back to the apartment, me in the middle because that morning my tail light went out, and I unpacked my stuff.

“You can go back if you want” my mother said.

“To what? To who? If I go back I’ll change everything. No. I’ll stay but only until graduation. Then I’m out,” I say.

I don’t think I’ll ever be 100% Texas. My mother states that she’s about 95% Texas.

I feel like I’m at a comfortable 80%.

A couple of hours later that bitch at the leasing office emailed me saying "We have your parking permits here. Pick them up so you don't get towed. Thanks!" 

Did I say how much I hate apartments. 

Deep in the Heart of Texas: Part Deux

Sometimes in order to go forward we have to go back. So, if you would, dear reader, come take a trip down memory lane with me. I swear I’ll have you bake within the hour.

About a year and a half ago I rented an apartment in Orlando. It was a two bedroom, well it was actually called a Loft apartment so it had one bedroom with another some kind of bedroom at the top of the stairs, one bathroom apartment that cost me and my roommate eight hundred and sixty three dollars every month, including water.  I was a three-minute drive away from school. A five-minute drive from Target and Starbucks and a twenty-minute drive from the nearest Walmart and Books A Million.

I was thinking about this while on the road. We had just entered Louisiana. Alabama and Georgia were, by far, the shortest parts of the drive, about an hour each, and by that time my ass was on fire. I haven’t discussed the car I was in. okay so I was in a Volkswagen Beetle, a Bug to my mother, which, if you’ve ever seen one, is tiny. I’m a 5’11, 200 pound guy sitting in the back of a tiny, cramped car, with my dog, a pug, who pants and vomited on my leg. Yeah. It wasn’t fun.

It was in Louisiana when I thought about my old apartment. When I once again realized that I would be living under the rule of the “man.” We would have to pay rent. We would have to obey to their rules. We would have to curb our dog and use a dog park. My dog isn’t even a dog she has no idea what a park is let alone what a park does. She doesn’t even know how to fetch. Pampered bitch.

We had about two hours left on the road trip. An hour in Louisiana and an hour from Houston to where we are now, Katy. Here’s a fun fact- I didn’t want to name my new blog The Homo Whisperer takes Katy cause that sounds a little too rapey. So I named it… you know.

As Katy loomed in front of me I couldn’t help but wonder, “If we’re moving to Texas” has the same emotional impact as “Can we talk?”

I wondered, “Are we doing the right thing?”

We pulled into the apartment place at ten with a crowd of my sisters friend’s waiting and cheering us on as if we were the new goddamn Kings and Queens of Texas. We moved everything off the moving truck and shoved them into the living room. And that was that.

The move was over. We moved everything in. We- my Mother and I- laid mattress’s on the floor and we slept.

And we slept until eleven the next morning.