8 reasons to risk living like a peasant to relocate to San Francisco

When you’re a suppressed child raised in small town, the most powerful and overbearing desire is to escape. “Surely, not everyone in the world believes sodomy is a sin,” I told myself as early as 5 years old. This mentality – that I belonged elsewhere – is the reason I went to Indiana University, a college known for LGBTQ advocacy, transgender teachers, and for being one of the only universities in the country who offers Gender Studies as a major. In fact, I first came out of the closet on Xanga my freshman year (read here: plenty of lulz).

Despite hiding who I was as a child, I found solace in manipulating one of Christianity’s many hypocrisies: nothing is worse than being gay. My parents were divorced. Everyone around me had sex out of wedlock. The couples who lived next door, across the street, and all over our apartment complex beat and killed each other. Huh…As long as I suppress and deny feelings of homosexuality, I could get away with murder. In this case, “murder” for a child/teenager is smoking cigarettes, cursing, and watching inappropriate movies — Pretty Woman, The Birdcage, Set it Off, and more — which confirmed to me that queer people and outcasts can be happy and successful in places other than Indiana.

As a gay mecca at the forefront of progressive attitudes towards healthcare and (homo)sexuality, San Francisco has become my haven, conjuring me and depleting my vacation days four times in the last two years. The friends I visit insist I relocate there, to which I always respond, “I don’t know how anyone affords to live here!” Lately, though, the temptation to say goodbye to the Windy City – undoubtedly spending thousands of dollars moving and doubling or tripling my living expenses – to move West is stronger than ever. Here’s why:

Men in bars caress and make out with each other
WITHOUT A SINGLE FUCK GIVEN. And not just in gay bars. In Chicago, people are programmed to stare at their phone and worry about what the standoffish couple in front of them thinks. It’s as if they’ve forgotten their human right to show affection to whomever they want. Seeing two dudes holding hands and kissing at a Burger King that wasn’t located in the Castro (yes, this bitch went to Burger King) put me over the moon.

Calves and booties are voluptuous.
Climbing up all those hills does wonders for the legs and thighs. I tend to look at bulges and bumps no matter what, but in SF, the only remedy to looking is looking until someone tells me to stop.

True Burger – Oakland, CA

People aren’t hung up on my race or appearance.
Walking around any habitable part of Chicago outside Boystown (which, I don’t frequent unless there’s a special event) prompts side eye from Lululemon-wearing whites or thuggish POC (people-of-color) who undoubtedly think I stole or fucked a daddy for the $2,500 worth of outfit I’m wearing. SF folks smile. The baristas smile as they give you your latte. Passersby howl instead of scowl. And, “whites only” is nowhere to be found on Grindr.

Lyft-Line introduces you to new people.
During my vacation last week, I took my first Lyft Line — a service that allows you to hop in a Lyft with a passenger whose route aligns with yours. When we got in the car, the passenger and driver were deep in conversation. When asked if they knew each other, the two women explained they had never met, but realized their families grew up and worked together years ago. I love meeting strangers, and this service — only available in five cities (for now) — is a unique way to find out where someone is headed (and where they’ve been.)

Twin Peaks – San Francisco, CA

You don’t have to travel dozens of miles to see the elevation change
Chicago is flat as FUCK. The only rolling-hills combination here are half-baked queens doing poppers while watching King-of-the-Hill. In San Francisco, your destination is always up or down-hill. The city is like a sound wave, bobbing up and down to the beats and hums and moans of the city. Chicago is flatlined, allowing you to only go up if you can afford a reason to be in one of downtown’s skyscrapers.

Wildcat Canyon – Richmond, CA

The Weather is chill. But not too chill
January, San Francisco and Chicago’s coldest month of the year, varies greatly in terms of average temperature and sunlight. Chicago’s average low in Fahrenheit is 18 degrees, compared to SF’s 46 degrees. Additionally, SF sees about 340 more hours of sunlight annually than Chicago. Lack of the sunshine’s vitamin D is linked to prostate cancer, dementia, erectile disfunction, schizophrenia, and heart disease. Lord, keep my heart beating and dick ERECT. Amen.

Drugs are easy to acquire because everyone does them
Admitting you take drugs for fun is still SO taboo in this nation. Despite celebrities like Rihanna, Miley, and Azealia making drugs more mainstream by openly smoking weed (and perhaps doing cocaine), normal people risk missing opportunities and losing credibility by admitting they do drugs. Clearly, there’s something people love about being high, and California makes it easy for citizens to taste the sunshine, smoke the kush, or snort the yay. And, don’t forget – Steve Jobs loved LSD! His legacy (Apple) currently has the highest market capitalization of any company in the world. Take that, haters.

Architecture is incomparable
As a fan of contemporary design, I won’t deny loving every bit of the gray, sterile, phallic skyscrapers that make up downtown Chicago. However, each and every time I visit San Francisco, I park my car anywhere, drop a pin so I remember where I am, and walk around alone to admire and photograph the colorful, bulbous homes and businesses that line the winding and ass-toning roads. It’s truly stunning.

Editor’s Note: I have lived in Chicago for four years. I am consistently grateful for my time here. The people I’ve met…the food culture…the career I’ve established…my life wouldn’t have been possible without the pulse of this city that pushes me to create beautiful things and share stories that inspire others to excel above what is normal. This piece is not throwing shade on Chicago. This is my reality of a 26-year old, bi-racial queer living in the Midwest.

9 Tips for Millennial Car-Buyers

Buying a car is fucking terrifying. Especially if you’re a twenty-something retail employee who, instead of building a savings account, spent $500 this month on beer, cigarettes, brunch, and some molly (hey, it was your birthday!) There are countless stress-inducing factors that require your attention before (and, usually during) car ownership — including, but not limited to: down-payment, enduring the stereotypical pushy salesman, vehicular body-repair (because let’s face it…living in a big city like ice-princess Chicago or hilly-ass San Francisco entitles you to dings and dents no matter how careful you are), and so on.

While we cannot control outside elements, we can control ourselves by racing ahead of and popping the zits of car ownership before they produce a nasty bubble…of anxiety! Here are nine tips to get you ghost-riding the whip in no time:

1• Get loan approval from a bank before going to the dealership

Salesman know how to fuck you. They know you’re “just looking”. They know they can coerce you into buying if they try hard enough. If you don’t say “I’m pre-approved for a loan”, they will try even harder to win you over so you finance within the dealership — which typically yields a much higher interest rate than your bank. My current interest rate is 4.64% — which isn’t horrible, but it sure isn’t flawless. For perspective, if I had done some research and applied for a loan through Capital One and taken that offer to the dealership, I would be saving about $500 a year on interest (a month’s worth of molly and alcohol!)

2• Consider hybrid, diesel, or conventional gas powertrains based on your lifestyle

I’ve always been intrigued by diesel engines. They offer more torque (from-a-stop power) than similar-sized conventional gas engines, and tend to beat the EPA fuel-economy ratings. For example, my car is rated at 31-city/43-highway miles per gallon (which is fucking amaze-balls). If I’m in a suburb or non-urban area, I can easily reach or surpass the city rating. On the highway, even at speeds of 80mph with the windows and sunroof open, I can still average 45mpg — even higher when I slow down and keep steady at 65mph. In Chicago, however, with so much traffic and stop and go, my city number lives anywhere from 22-26mpg.

If you live in a highly-populated city with a lot of stop-and-go traffic, hybrids tend to be a lot more efficient because their engines cease at low speeds, letting the battery-pack take over and power the vehicle for sporadic moments. For example, the average mileage of a 2015 Toyota Prius, per crowd-sourced website fueleconomy.gov, is 47mpg. To be fair, Priis and Golfs are very different automobiles — one is the poster child for economic-minded folks, while one is a German sports hatchback. As tough as it is to go against Ms. Vida Boheme’s wishes of style vs. substance, try to mix the two (and add in some “value”).

3• Test drive vehicles at more than one dealership

Before arriving to the dealership, I was 90% set on the vehicle I wanted (a 2015 Volkswagen TDI SEL). There were, however, other vehicles by other manufacturers which caught my eye, as well. A Nissan Altima, Acura TLX, and Kia Optima-Hybrid were other contenders. However, after giving control to the salesman by arriving to the dealership unprepared, he knew just what he needed to lower the price enough to get me to sign on the spot. I love (almost) everything about my car, but I surely could have given others a look-over before signing a 72 month contract. Additionally, other dealers could have lower interest rates.

Finance aside, test the cars’ functions. Open/close doors and windows. Lean on the armrests. Test how easily your phone connects via Bluetooth. Check for a power outlet or USB port (After buying my car, I learned Volkswagens typically don’t have USB ports, but instead these unnecessary “MDI” inputs that require a special cable.) A vehicle brand or model that initially catches your eye may not always rub you the right way.

4• A large down payment is not required.

The years prior to buying my first (new) car, I went online to build and configure ones I wanted. A part of this process included calculating how much it would cost over the course of 60 months. The vehicles were nothing fancy — usually priced anywhere from $27,000 to $35,000 (the cost of the average school loan). It seemed that reasonable monthly payments based on my income — around $300/month — were only attainable if I put down $4 to $7-thousand. My monthly payment is significantly higher than that now (about $470 a month), but I only put down $1,500. If you have extra money each month, you can pay that against your premium and lower the amount you pay on interest, saving hundreds of dollars over the coarse of the loan.

5• Tease the salesman for awhile, then offer to leave

Milk that test drive. Take the car all over the city. Get to know your salesman. Then, after at least an hour of chit-chat, driving, and offering how much you’re willing to spend, say you’re going to test drive other vehicles at other dealerships that day. The salesman knows that if you leave the dealership, the likelihood of you coming back drops significantly. Once he or she thinks they have you in their grasp, say, “bitch, biyeeeeee.” Me doing this was by no means a strategic move in some game I was playing. I legitimately wanted to explore other options. However, the salesman did everything in his power to keep me there. This included bringing a “Manager” into the conversation, who lowered the total price of the car over $3,000.

6• Buy near the end of the year

Or the end of the month. Dealerships will do anything to beat their sales forecast or, more commonly, move a certain number of units by a certain date. Because of this, they are willing to give you a great price just to get the car the fuck out of their sight.

7• Plan for dings, dents, and fluctuating insurance costs

Sure, new vehicles come with a number of warranties — paint/rust, powertrain, etc. However, most cosmetic issues, such as a flat tire or dented rim as a result of the poorly attended-to Chicago streets, typically require an additional warranty through the dealer (or paying out of pocket after something bad happens). In the 7 months I’ve owned my car, my OCD-ass visited a body shop numerous times, including once when the repair-facility fucked up the paint after removing a $600 dent. If you can, put money aside for wear-and-tear expenses — driving for Lyft helps a lot (my referral code is right chere).

8• Read blogs to determine if the next model year will sport sexier features

My model-year Golf underwent a major redesign from the previous version. It looks sleeker, more modern, and has more interior room than its predecessor. Despite this, I recently learned the next model, coming out in 2016, has upgraded safety features like blind-spot detection, and CarPlay for iOS devices (STILL CRYING ABOUT THIS). Again, I love my car, but I can’t help but feel a little duped. Cars.com, Car and Driver and Autoblog are great resources for acquiring information before (or immediately following) the dealer announcing it publicly.

9• Fucking wash it

The time and money required to wash your car — especially if you live in a rainy or tree-laden city — is worth it in the long run. Tree sap, bird droppings and other liquid devils can eat through the protective-coating on the paint, causing discoloration and/or rust. As I’ve learned, paint and body damage is not cheap. Splurge on a Groupon or LivingSocial car wash package and keep momma clean.

Processed with Rookie

A Club Kid’s Guide to Saving.

Besides my work managers and HR representatives, not a single person knows how much money I make at my job. You know why? Because I fucking hate money. I hate talking about money. I hate obsessing over it. I hate how much of an impact is has on establishing a human connection. In our current Tom Ford, $1,000 Beyoncé concert ticket, and Tesla-obsessed culture, it is almost impossible to forget about money and live a humble life of frugality. Anyone with nothing wants something, and everyone (myself included) with something wants more ― a lot more. Americans continue to spend more money than they save or, even worse, spend money they don’t even have. What do we do?

When I moved to Chicago in November of 2011, I had just finished a four-year Bachelor’s program at Indiana University. My only major assets were a four-year old MacBook and a 1995 Ford Taurus. That’s it – my life “savings”. My physically-disabled mother, whose primary source of income was a meager monthly stipend from the government, supported me financially throughout my childhood and provided all of life’s essentials (food, clothing, a place to live, and love.) As soon as it was legal for me to acquire a job at the age of 16, I started working at Taco Bell after school and during weekends. It was tough to sacrifice my free time and neglect friends and loved ones in order to buy and pay for auxiliary items and non-essentials like my first car and insurance, a cell phone and its resulting monthly bill, clothes, and other items my friends’ parents bought for them (some of them still do!) Saving money was nowhere on my to-do list. With whatever money I had leftover, I became more of a social butterfly ― going out to eat and to the movies more often, buying gifts, taking road trips, and experiencing a life I was finally able to afford.

When I got to college, the concept of saving money became even more difficult. My admirable academic standing alongside my family’s financial situation (or lack thereof) prompted a nice surprise from my school councilors: a connection to a non-profit organization that would pay my entire tuition at any four-year university in Indiana. “Holy shit, thank the stars.” I did, however, still have to pay for other essentials like textbooks, rent, and utilities, as well as my cell phone bill, car insurance, and gas, whose costs seemed to rise and rise as time went on. This was also the time I received my first, second, third, fourth, and fifth credit cards, which quickly racked up a considerable amount of debt those first three years. As a full time student who also worked at least 30 hours a week to make ends meet, I started realizing how scary and stressful debt can be ― I also started thinking about my family’s finances and how a lack of a financial cushion really put stress and worry on my mother all those years. We rarely went out to eat as a family. We had never taken a family vacation. Hell, I didn’t fly on a plane until I was 23 ― we just couldn’t afford it. One day, while sitting at a computer configuring new cars and pricing out tentative trips on the web I knew I could never afford to take, I decided to make a change. I told myself, “You will NEVER wonder where your money is coming from or worry about buying things you want or need. Pay off your debt and save, NOW. It’s time to start building your future.”

So, I did. Since I always paid my credit card bills on time, my credit worthiness began to rise ― quickly. It was rather intriguing to build financial savvy as I opened-up new credit accounts while transferring my existing, interest-accruing debt to new accounts which enticed me with their “zero-interest for a year” promotions. As I moved my debt around and maintained my credit worthiness by paying the monthly-minimums (doing this does not negatively impact your credit score), I simultaneously opened and supplemented a savings account. Despite knowing my net worth (ASSETS minus DEBT) would have remained the same if I had simply paid off my credit cards first, seeing a tangible and growing amount of cash I could touch and spend only encouraged me to pay off my debts faster. By the time I graduated and moved to Chicago a year-and-a-half later, I had considerably less credit card debt and my first ever savings account, which contained $3,200.

Exactly one year later near the end of 2012, two months of which were spent without a job, my savings account had surpassed $5,000 and my remaining $3,500 of credit card debt had dropped to $0. I know I know ― as we read through magazines advertising seven-figure homes or discussing multi-billion dollar company acquisitions, those numbers may not seem like a lot. For some perspective, I lived on no more than $150 a month for almost a year in order to pay off my debts and build my savings. Although Chicago is not the most expensive city by any means, it’s mind boggling to think about it today, as it is sometimes difficult now to get through a week without spending $150. But, it was what I needed. I needed to be debt free. With three years of spending and saving in the Windy City under my thrifted belt, I am still an avid saver ― but I found a much healthier and more satisfying balance between what I now consider hoarding my money and thoughtlessly buying things I do not need. In addition to my high-yield savings account (which, due to a recent vacation to San Francisco, is quite thirsty), I also have health and dental insurance, a 401K, and I recently invested five-figures in the stock market.

As I mentioned previously, I hate speaking of money. Frankly, it is no one’s business, and people who openly discuss their finances are typically arrogant, rich assholes who use money to supplement a lack of feelings, emotions, and relationships. But, I truly care about your financial independence, and the aforementioned data from my past helps build a picture about what is truly possible. Even if your employer doesn’t provide financial benefits or incentives, don’t fret! You work hard for your money, and only you can decide and control how to grow or deplete your funds. Here are seven additional ideologies that will minimize your debt, maximize your savings, and make you feel fucking fabulous:

Eating out is eating your money. Fast.
I’ll admit it: I am guilty of being a slave to Starbucks’ sugary crack-drinks, made and handled with love by their friendly Baristas. Additionally, After a solid two years of bringing my lunch to work every single day, I have since stopped, as the convenience of ordering pad-see-ewe from the Thai restaurant next door has rendered the grocery store useless. Totaling around $14/day, five days a week, that equates to $280 a month spent on food and coffee. This, of course, doesn’t account for my days off, which could easily be another $15/day (at least) spent going out to eat. This brings my monthly total to roughly $415 a month.

Now, consider the alternative: Spending $50 on groceries can easily last more than a week, sometimes two, as long as your portions are under control and you are buying the right items at the right time (for example, try not to buy a ton of parishable items that will spoil before having a chance to eat them). Getting into this routine saves $130 a month, or over $1,500 a year.

Brick-and-mortar banks are so 20th century.
Going to the bank is and always has been annoying as all fuck. I usually have to stand in line for what feels like hours, the hidden fees pop-up unexpectedly (I believe banks charge you each time you take a Dum Dum from the bowl at the counter), and the Representatives try to “upsell” you, offering credit card and other promotions which, despite not needing, you signed up (and are now paying) for. In 2012, I registered for Simple™, an online-only bank with no branch locations whatsoever. Their app, which I access on my iPhone, has built-in money management tools that are easy to use. Additional features include quick feedback to and from customer support via messaging in the app, thousands of conveniently-located ATMs throughout the United States, and the ability to transfer money to/from external accounts in a timely manner. Because they have no brick-and-mortar stores to maintain, they offer their services free of charge.

I am in the process of transfering my Chase™ savings account to an online savings account with Discover™. Since Discover also does not have any branches, they are able to offer this account free of charge while offering a significantly higher interest rate than Chase (.85% vs .01%). Although this option eliminates the idea of accessing quick cash in the moment, you are able to transfer money out of the account six times a month without incurring a charge. Paired with Simple’s in-app budgeting tools, it’s easy to setup a makeshift “rainy-day fund” within your Simple account if you’re ever in a pickle.

Being chauffeured is glamorous ― and cheap.
I love cars. I have loved them since I was a teenager. Coming from humble beginnings and always driving around ten-year-old shit-beaters, my goal throughout high school and college was to one day buy a brand new car that no one else has used. However, the cost of ownership, especially in a city like Chicago (time wasted in gridlock traffic, parking tickets, more maintenance caused my dings and dents, the pay-to-park requirement almost everywhere — in addition to gas and insurance), can easily account for thousands of dollars spent per year. The alternative, taking public transportation and taxi services such as Lyft, eliminates the hidden-costs associated with having a car, as well as reduces the stress and anxiety of owning and maintaining a vehicle. I still hope to one day own a car that is mine, but I will buy one pre-owned that came off someone else’s lease, as they are typically better maintained, have lower-mileage, and are significantly more affordable than a brand new one.

College is a career path, NOT a post-high-school path.
America’s education system is built upon a foundation which requires scholarship recipients and expects all other students to to immediately attend a university upon high school graduation. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted to do when I finished high school. And I’m not alone. It’s no surprise that in 2012, job-placement firm Adecco found that over sixty percent of U.S. college graduates were working in a job outside their “chosen” profession. Some people argue that the jobs just weren’t there, but that’s hogwash. It is impractical to expect an eighteen year old high school senior with no true experience in the real world to know exactly what he or she really enjoys doing, or how to utilize those passions in order to be successful. Instead of our leaders and mentors encouraging teenagers to gain real-world experience through internships or real work, society pushes them into tens-of-thousands of dollars of college loans and debt, offering empty promises of “unparalleled experiences” or a “successful life” after college. Those sixty percent of graduates working outside their field are doing so because they were pushed on a path, realized it wasn’t right, then settled into whatever job was available so they could reestablish what they want and defer their loans as long as possible. I am not working in my “field” ― however, my two-and-a-half years at my current job has offered more insight, business acumen, and deep human connections than the four years I spent in college. If you or someone you know didn’t attend college or dropped-out, don’t be discouraged. Spend time out of your comfort zone and determine what you love ― your passions will bring you more happiness and success than a $50,000 college bill will.

Frappa-latte-cinno? How about a simple coffee.
To reference my first point, eating out is costly. Every time I order a Grande-Mocha from Starbucks and see my total ($4,59), a part of me wants to beat the shit out of myself for falling victim to the cult of high-priced coffee beverages. for those of us who drink coffee daily, we can save $90 a month by purchasing a standard coffee instead of a froo-froo-frap or specialty drink. Additionally, so many coffee-houses offer loyalty reward programs that offer free drinks on certain days, or after you spend a certain amount of money. Do yourself and your wallet a favor and save the fancy drinks for those “free” days.

It’s okay to say “no” to your friends.
Being a social butterfly is great and all, but it is important to know when your body and budget need a break. I was recently out at a cocktail lounge with a few friends for my birthday. One of them, who tends to get drunk, forgetful, and way too generous too quickly, spent about $100 on drinks that night, then went home around 4AM and spent her night over the toilet. We’ve all been there, yes, but the idea of spending that much on something that not only do we forget, but ends up making us feel like shit is a little ridiculous. Nightlife is expensive. Of course, you don’t want to be a recluse ― alone in your apartment on a Friday night (unless you’re a Cancer =D) ― but spending $100 a week on alcohol will soon put you in a shared living space at the YMCA or, more realistically, in an awkward relationship with your housemates, because you can’t afford your rent. Your friends will still love you if you take a night off from partying, your liver will leave a chocolate on your pillow the next morning, and you’ll smile when you look at your bank statement and realize no money was spent between Saturday and Monday.

Put the Michael Kors back on the hook, breathe, and think.
As a Jew, I thank the lord regularly for making me a cheap bastard. As a fashionista, it is difficult for me to “window-shop”, as there is always some deal flashing in my face. Inversely, buying a $250 purse certainly turns my shitty day into a fantastic one (until the jew-guilt kicks in). When I’m in a store and find something I like, I’ll walk around with it for awhile to seek out something similar that is more affordable, both in the store, and using my phone to browse Amazon, Zappos, etc. During my walk of guilt, I also think backward and forward in time, asking myself, “When was the last time you bought an item like this?” and, “If you buy this now, will you be able to afford groceries or that trip to Six Flags in two weeks?” 95% of the time, the purse or the pair of shoes I’m holding ends up back on the shelf. There are, of course, occasions for which I have saved and planned ahead; still, I almost never pay full-price. People’s jaws drop to the floor when they see my outfit and learn I only paid $40 for the entire ensemble. Thrift stores can seem overwhelming, I know, but spending an hour rummaging through all the unique pieces versus ten minutes in a department store can easily save you hundreds of dollars per visit. It’s okay to treat yourself once in awhile, but spend five extra minutes researching prices, and hell, use the money your thrifty ass just saved to buy a matching accessory.

IML? TTYL!

When a Prude Celebrates International Mister Leather.

“The line to get in is down the block…Is it worth it?”

This was my third excuse within a matter of minutes to get out of this sleazy, smelly endeavor. Once a year, thousands of sexually-active, bear-daddies come to Chicago for “International Mister Leather” – a gay celebration of the appreciation of new toys, apparel, and furniture men use in the art of sexual pleasure.

Each year when the festivities begin, you see an increased number of middle-aged, pec-throbbed pairs roaming the streets of downtown Chicago; their child-size “large” shirts bursting at the seams. As a skinny, bi-racial “twink” (I do not classify myself as anything, but my rail-thin stature places and keeps me in this category), everything about IML — the bondage, the musk of stale poppers emanating from alleyways — makes me nervous and uncomfortable. I am not very sexually active (perhaps two or three short-term partners a year), and people who frequent IML certainly are not seeking salvation or forgiveness from God for their sins — they are attending these events to fuck, get fucked, and/or find new, pleasurable ways to do both.

Despite my fear, there I was, signing a waiver in front of Bijou Theatre and Sex Club, taking off my shirt to adhere to their admission requirements — “pantless or shirtless” (I stick with the purist one). Waiver signed, my three friends and I cut in front of the long line as one of them kisses the bouncer in a “thanks for hooking us up” fashion. Once inside, dozens of almost-naked men cramp the tiny waiting room as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting for the two inebriated coat-checkers to figure out how to efficiently inventory the hundreds of grocery bags full of our belongings. I slide past them to the ticket window, their beefy, sweaty bodies rubbing against mine, their eyes, widened by the prescription drugs they snorted in their cars before entering, undress the bottom half of my body still covered by pants. I reach the ticket-window and offer my American Express, only to be directed to a sign by the vendor, which reads, “CASH ONLY, $35.” THIRTY-FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS? REALLY?! I squeeze my way back through the steer, wait ten more minutes for the drunk attendants to find my shirt, and head across the street to the too-conveniently located bank. “Guys, go without me”, I say to my friends. “It’s too much money, and I’m not even going to do anything but be a fly on the wall.” One of my friends is on the fence about paying the money as well, so we all decide to get back into the car where bottles of beer and bubbly are waiting for us beneath the seats.

POP! The four of us take a swig of champagne each. Our ages do not differ much — 22, 26, 27, and me, 24 — but I am the only one who never attended an event such as this before. “Josh”, one pleas, “you’re going to have so much fun! I will protect you, I promise!” I give him the side-eye — “Oh, please! You’re going to be face-deep in sphincter after five minutes and I won’t see you again for the rest of the evening.” My other two friends also insist, passing me booze and speculating how each of our nights will go. My mind begins to give in — Maybe (probably) it was the booze…maybe it was the amount of comfort I felt in that very moment with my friends…or, perhaps, the “start living outside your comfort zone” pep-talks I had recently been offering my peers and work colleagues had, at this moment, finally resonated within me. “Fuck it. Let’s go.” One more chug of champagne. $40 out of the ATM. Shirt back off. $35 to the ticket-vendor. I’m inside. I am a shirtless, vulnerable human inside my first sex club.

Penis. From the early 1990s. The first room on my journey contains the movie theatre. Only a handful of the forty seats are occupied, and everyone seems to be just getting comfortable in the space. No one is naked except for the two-decade-old men blowing each other on the 15ft x 10ft screen in front of us. “This isn’t what I expected” I think to myself. “The night is young — this ain’t shit, yet,” my friend says, reading my mind. We exit through a door in the back of the theatre and enter a narrow hallway. To the left, a narrow, metal staircase entices us to the second floor. We instead notice a sign that says, “BOOZE”, directing us outside to the back patio. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in nine-months, but as men in leather straps and chains peek around the fence to see if the corner in which we’re occupying is “open-for-business”, I feel a level of anxiety only a cigarette can cure. It is chilly outside, my nipples stabbing the air like knives. I throw the half-smoked, nasty cigarette on the ground. “I’m going exploring.” My friends finish their cigarettes and follow me through the maze of men, back into the abyss.

Once upstairs, we find numerous corridors that lead to dead-ends, square rooms with benches drilled into the walls around the perimeter, sheer curtains, and oh, the smell — the smell of scrotum, sweat, ass, and balls. The staunch aroma instills a new level of excitement in me. Somewhere, perhaps everywhere, behind the walls, above and beneath me, strangers are fucking one another in an unknown place, with unknown voyeurs watching, stroking their own penises while they pinch their nipples. I hadn’t yet seen any “action”, but the night was still young.

I decide I need to find the dance floor first, as music always calms my soul. My friends had disappeared. Typical. I later found out, two of them, ex-lovers still in love, went off together to lick each others assholes and cocks, inviting others to join them. Meanwhile, I was swaying back and forth alone in front of the stage as house music boomed from the loudspeakers. In front of me on stage, provoking the male gaze of all these horned men, one man was turned away, rump exposed, his arms bound to pipes coming from the ceiling, being spanked with a wooden paddle by another man. His red ass made me cringe, a pain I attribute to being spanked by my mother as a child when I was being an asshole. I ignore the spectacle in front of me, continuing to dance on my own (blatant Robyn reference) for another thirty minutes, telling approachers, “I’m new! My friends made me come! I don’t normally do this type of thing, but this is amazing!” Of course, in my head I’m saying, “Keep your dirty fucking hands away from me!!” The crowd begins to shift. I look over and see four men: one facing me, the others in a line — one blowing the man facing me, one licking his ass, and so on. What a sight! I stare, obviously, and look around at the other gentleman to make sure they’re all staring, as well. Others, strangers, climb on the train, their eagerness yet calmness blending together perfectly, like an experienced runner waiting to fly off the starting blocks at the beginning of a race. Other parties continue to dance, others are sucking and fucking. These acts, once meant strictly for private procreation, are now a means for study — for understanding; for exploration; for pleasure. Despite my continence, I admired the art form…admired the confidence and self-awareness it takes to stabilize your mental amplitude enough to get naked, get it up, and get off in a room full of eager eyes.

I left the dance floor to unhide my phone, as they do not allow picture-taking in the venue and I did not want to be tempted. Prior to coming here, we had drinks at Taverna 750, a cocktail lounge in the heart of Boystown a few miles away. One of the bartenders, a friend of a friend I’ve been unsuccessfully courting for a year now, looked considerably handsome tonight, so I told him so. He thanked me, his eyes showing a vulnerability I had never seen. I told him we were going to “Men’s Room” (the name of tonight’s event at the theatre), followed by, “I hope to see you there.” Now, in this theatre, drunk from copious amounts of champagne and PBR, buzzing on adderall, I found his name in my iPhone, opened messages, and hit “Compose”:

“I was going to ask you if you have a boyfriend.”
“Nope. No boyfriend. You guys still at mens room?”
“Yeah. It’s scary”
“Lol”
“You off work?”
“Yeah. We standin in this awful line.”
“You’re here?”
“Ha. Yeah. In line.”
“Let me know when your inside.”
“You’re**”

(Twenty-three minutes later)…
“If you’re not coming, I’m going to cab it.”
“We’re in the front. Just took off our clothes.”

The “We(‘re)” referred to him and his colleague — whom I had seen before, but never met. I greet them both with a hug, then take them outside to the bar where his friend takes a joint out of his clutch. Knowing full-well that smoking after drinking spins my brain directly to pukey-hell, I take a hit anyway, letting the smoke engulf my lungs and bloodstream like a wave of ocean water penetrating every crack and crevice of a cliff at high tide. In an attempt to spend at least a little coherent time with my friend, I invite him to come dance with me. He takes my hand, smiling, as I lead him upstairs to the steamy dance floor where even more gentlemen are inside one another. I pull him close to me, forcing his evenly-leveled crotch into mine, syncing my hip-movements with his. Feeling his warm erection in my torso, I slowly, intimately, kiss his neck…his cheek…his lips. Thank God: a great kisser! My mind raced. “I’ve wanted you for so long…how funny it is that our first time hanging out is here…come with me.” The latter thought actually comes out of my mouth. I grab his hand again, leading him through the chains of men connected by phalluses and bottoms, off the dance floor and into a dark room, closing the door behind us. Passion and fire ensues. We don’t have sex. Well, we don’t have my definition of sex. At one point, someone opened the door and saw us, but we carried on, our silence prompting them to leave us alone. A few minutes in, I say, “Let’s go. I’ll hail a cab.” We would finish later.

My two friends, the ex-lovebirds, are still missing in action, while the other, who had some tame fun himself, is ready to leave as well. I order an UBER for my date and I and take us back to his place to sleep. Laying in bed, it occurs to me that despite being acquainted with this man next to me, he is not more or less of a stranger to me than any other man at the club. Then it hits me: I am no different than any of these men — these men that disgusted and frightened me five hours prior — who seek a sense of community and sexual liberation. Although straps, fisting, and hooking up with complete strangers is nowhere on my Kinsey Scale, I long to open myself emotionally and sexually, putting to bed previous feelings and acts of fear, anger, and abstinence brought on by men of my past.

I am turning 25 this year, in July. I sense another trip to a bathhouse, and the beginning of my sexual revolution.

If God Were Gay, He Was Scared Shitless to Come Out.

How did you first come out of the closet? Were you always out — prancing around in heels, screaming “wooooooork” since you were a tyke? Were you caught in a non-heterosexual act? Perhaps you didn’t have to “come-out”…maybe your family and closest friends always knew, and were always accepting, preventing a “we need to talk” moment with them. For me, telling anyone in my family face-to-face would have been a nightmare. My entire family identified as “Christians” who believed homosexuality was the fastest way to hell. My mother, the more militant of the bunch, was a holy-spirit inducing, tongues-speaking, bible warrior. Despite us always being really close, she was the person I feared telling the most, as I knew it would hurt and confuse her.

So, I did what any technologically savvy, god-fearing teenager would do — I came out on my Xanga. For those of you too young to know or too old to remember, Xanga was an online journal; much like WordPress is now, but back then it was associated with whiny little tweens who needed an outlet to talk about their difficult fourteen-year-old lives. About a year ago, I tried logging-into my old account to retrieve my old entries, but the site had since been bought out and shut down. Retrieving the data was possible, but seemed time-consuming, so I decided to let the past go. Little did I know, my mother, who “has better things to do than lurk my online social life”, had saved a copy of my “coming-out” entry. She gave it to me about a week ago.

The following is an exact copy of what I wrote six-and-a-half years ago, on October 23, 2007 — two months after moving two-hundred miles away from home as a freshman at Indiana University. I was eighteen years old. (Grab a trash can — the grammatical errors are sickening.) Following most paragraphs, I will add my current opinion (italicized) on my past justification on certain topics.

Alright.

I’m tired of living my life like this. Some of you may “know”, some of you may have suspected, but here it is…

I’ve been attracted to, and have been doing stuff with guys since middle school. When things first started happening I thought it was just a phase, so I dated and hooked up with random girls to see if my attraction to guys would diminish over time. Most of the girls I did stuff with were worthless sluts that I could give two shits less about now. After a while I knew that my attraction to guys wasn’t going to go away. I still am, however, attracted to girls, and if the right one came along I would have no problem dating one. It’s just..like I said, a lot of the girls I did stuff with or who liked were more or less pathetic, overdramatic high school girls that were seriously worthless to life. My mind was set on the thought, “Well, if the only girls that go for me suck, maybe I should be with a guy.”
(It did not take long for me to realize how much I tried blaming my homosexuality on women. I wasn’t yet ready to say, “Hey, world, I’m 110% gay.” Instead, it was more like, “Hey, I’m only 30% gay, and I’m sure it will drop to 0% when a woman worthy of my love comes along. Currently, they’re all worthless, so, I guess I’ll be gay forever! Blame the women, Jesus!” To be honest, all of the women I dated or messed around with to suppress my real feelings were sweet, caring girls, who truly cared about me. And I cared about them.)

As anyone can imagine (but probably not), coming out and saying this is literally the hardest, scariest thing I’ve ever done. I’m still unsure whether or not there is a God, but if he does exist then, based on the religion that has been presented to me my entire life, I’m going to burn in hell for all eternity. If you’re my good friend you know how afraid I am of dying, and the fact that I like guys is why.
(From ages 4-14, I cried any time I thought about death. It scared the shit out of me. “Joshua, you’re so young, you have so many years ahead of you!” my mom would say. Little did she know, the fear of going to hell for my feelings was always in my conscious mind. It’s not surprising that so many religious men are virgins, or are thought to be “in the closet”, as they’ve had to suppress most of their sexual feelings. I don’t know whether sexuality is a result of nature, nurture, or a mix of both, but telling someone they have to be straight their entire lives will definitely lead to experimentation. We all end up doing what our parents don’t want us to do, right? =D )

For those of you who heard the supposed “rumor”, Alex and I did date for a few months in my junior year of high school. I’d like to apologize on behalf of Christie and Alex for trying to cover it up for me every time someone asked them about it.
(Christie was, and still is my best friend since sixth grade. Alex, my first boyfriend and I, were once caught making out at a party. I tried covering it up as best I could.)

If you’re my friend and you have a problem with this, I totally understand. But, to make you feel guilty, I’ll say this: you were friends with me before you knew I liked guys and just because everyone now knows doesn’t change who I am. I’m well aware that people look at “gay” people differently, and I hope that, if you care about me, you won’t give a shit what my sexuality is (sort of similar to you not caring what my ethnicity is).
(Hahahahahah, “sort of similar”….HATRED IS HATRED, Y’ALL. I WAS SO SCARED AND CONFUSED.)

When I come back to South Bend, if you even think of making any jokes, or think that calling me a fag, queer, or the apparent new popular phrase “faggy boy”, I don’t want to be associated with you whatsoever. The same thing goes for anyone who is going to be cool to my face just because you know me, but then talk shit when I’m not there. Being biracial, I’ve had to deal with enough racism and bigotry growing up, so I’d appreciate you keeping your negative, closed minded comments to yourself.
(All of my guy friends in high school were straight. And not “fake” straight (well, for the most part.) They started calling each other “faggy boy” as a joke. I went along with it, as any opposition would “out” me for sure. Once I came out, however, I figured there was no need for me to hide my frustration with and opposition to the word “fag”. Look at me now, parading around and promoting the word “fag”. I’m taking it back. Fagtastic.)

I appreciate everyone who has been supportive of me through this. Justin, Michael Jordan, and obviously Alex have known for awhile, and I just told Christie about it a few weeks after we came to IU. I can’t stress enough how scared i am to be posting it just because I know people will look at me differently…but these aforementioned people have treated me exactly the same, and I love them so much for it. In addition, this is my formal apology to anyone who feels lied to. People have asked me if I was gay and I’e always said no (even though I don’t label myself as gay, but that’s another explanation all in itself). For people I simply haven’t told, I’m sure you can understand why.
(I have always been over-apologetic, but after reading this now, I cannot believe I apologized for being gay. Granted, I’m not exactly apologizing for my feelings — rather, for not telling the people I care about who I truly am. I’m gay, and I probably made out with your boyfriend, ladies. NOT sorry.)

Whoever is able to make comments, I’d appreciate your support if you have it. If not, a phone call or text would be nice. Imagine yourself in my shoes. We all know how society looks at “gay” people which is part of why I’ve been so afraid to tell anyone. But here it is. I’ve felt flustered and sick the entire time I’ve written this, haha. Thanks to everyone in advance who will still treat me like the same Josh. If you want to ask me more about it don’t hesitate (in private, obviously). I have no problems talking to you about it just as long as you actually care, and if you know I trust you. Those of you who look at me differently can, frankly, take their simple-minded bigotry attitude and shove it up their ass.
(I received a lot of phone calls, texts, and emails immediately. I literally sat in my dorm room for an hour and a half before going outside and facing the world. My mother, who has better things to do than lurk, was the first person to call me. She was crying, ensuring me people had been healed of homosexuality in the past, asking why I didn’t tell her, letting me know people are praying for me, etc. etc. It took a few years for us to be okay, and we are still quite close. Every one of my friends, despite currently being separated by distance, was and still is happy to be associated with Ms. Joshua Jenkins.)

The longer you withhold the truth, the more your entire existence feels like a lie. Be who you are. Walk with pride. Ignore people who try to bring you pain. You’re #flawless, and I love you xoxoxoxoxoxo. Whatever your “coming-out” experience is, please share it in the comments.

Purses, Pussies, and Progress.

Do you remember the last time someone around you said something so degrading — so dehumanizing, that the only reasonable reaction was to spit in their face? Okay, I realize the utter hypocrisy of that reaction…but, anyone born into a family that promotes hate and bigotry and continuing to actively pursue these practices typically doesn’t listen to reason, respond to debate, or seek to understand someone else’s struggle. As a gay, half-black, Jewish man who walks the streets carrying a purse and wearing “women’s” clothes and jewelry, it is impossible for me to avoid stares, shouts, and denial of rights from my human counterparts. In fact, these oppressors take pleasure in the rising volume of the oppressed victim’s voice as he or she attempts to defend their human rights. He grins, evilly, as he calls you a “fatass”. A “nigger”. A “faggot”. He has no reason to align with or understand your feelings because he doesn’t have to. His 150-pound frame is never judged. His ability to walk into a department store and purchase every outfit he tries on is certainly not condemned or judged. Kissing his girlfriend in public, while perhaps making hopeless-romantics jealous, does not inspire disgust or riots by bible thumpers.

A few nights ago, my friends and I celebrated a colleague and friend’s twenty-third birthday, as well as her new job at prominent publication in Chicago. We started our night at Blue Frog’s Local 22 (www.local22chicago.com), indulging in spicy wings and a few of their numerous local brews. I tried Ale Syndicate’s Municipal India Pale Ale — a floral, hoppy, yet light-tasting IPA which, after one, had me feeling quite hoppy myself. After paying our tabs separately (thank Buddha/Allah/Jesus, a fucking restaurant that doesn’t bitch and moan about splitting the tab), we decided to stop by “El Hefe Chicago”, a nearby nightclub, to dance and enjoy some margaritas. Unfortunately, my six friends and I never made it past the front door.

As we approached, still airy and lighthearted from the drinks prior, we noticed a line forming outside the door— the bouncer wasn’t letting anyone inside. Some guy, wearing sunglasses at 9pm (I will refer to him from hereon out as “douchebag”), was in an argument with the bouncer. The bouncer, clearly fuming, looks at douchebag and says, “I don’t care where you come from or how much fucking money you have. I could get the manager and see if an exception can be made, but frankly, I don’t think I’m going to do that because of how you came at me.” Douchebag, looking at his posse and laughing, unfazed by the denial of entry, demanded the manager anyway, holding up the line as we all wait patiently to continue our fabulous evening. After a few moments, a big burly man appears from inside. He looks at douchebag’s friend, whose sweatpants were in violation of their dress code. “Is this your entire party? Just you guys?” His “party” consists of two men and two women who, clearly embarrassed by the progression of events, were standing arm-in-arm far enough behind the douchebag to avoid association if a passerby were to look-in on the situation. They had clearly only been friends with douchebag for a few hours. I imagined what they were thinking…“What the hell, why not? He’s rich!” After a few back and forth comments, the burly decision-maker approves their attire and lets them inside.

Our turn. I approach the bouncer and hand him my driver’s license. I considered making a joke about douchebag, to lift his spirits, but the words were stripped by my conscious by the bouncer’s abrupt statement: “You can’t bring that bag in here.” He was referring to my humble 14×3 inch Michael Kors purse. Astonished, I point to the two women he just let inside, both carrying purses much larger and more obtrusive than my own. “But, the two women you just let inside have purses,” I plead, blood pressure rising. The bouncer didn’t look me in the eyes as he spoke. “Yeah, they’re women,” he says. I paused, ears steaming. “Here we go,’ I thought. I’ve experienced a similar act of ignorance in Bloomington, IN at a bar called “Sports”. (Surprising, right?) Luckily, in that instance, there was an advocate working alongside that person, who eventually let me in. In this instance, at El Hefe, I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky. I kept my glare upon this inhospitable man and said, “Yes, they’re women, and I’m a man. What’s the difference? It’s just a bag.” At this statement, he locked eyes with me and said coldly, authoritatively, “What’s the difference between a man and a woman?? A fucking dick and a vagina, that’s the difference.” Before I had a chance to respond, my friends grabbed me and pulled me away before I could debate any further. It was probably for the best.

His justification didn’t offer any sensible insight as to why someone with a “dick” cannot bring a purse into their club. His statement suggests that only widely-accepted social norms (from the fucking South, in the nineteen-forties) and people who agree with these ideals are allowed inside this club. His blatant disregard for my feelings hurt in the moment — especially after I witnessed the events that just occurred with douchebag. That smug asshole, throwing his wealth around as justification for breaking the club’s rules, was still able to pass right through. My friends and I, all honest, generous, and humble people, were denied entry because of my sex, and a purse.

Luckily, my friends presence and support turned my discouragement into happiness; my deep-sighs into laughter. The next day, I received a text message from the birthday girl stating she called the establishment to let them know their bigotry lost them six customers. This support, this advocacy, is absolutely heartwarming. The rarity of such a proactive response against hatred on behalf of another human was nipped in the ass today, and for this, Ms. Ashley Jackson (instagram: ashleeholla), I thank you.

In Spanish, “el jefe” translates to “the boss”. Changing the spelling of “Jefe” to “Hefe” so that ignorant clients pronounce the name correctly, it’s clear that “el jefe” of this establishment, Jon Wright, does not respect cultures or ideas outside his own. As the “hottest Mexican restaurant in Chicago Illinois” (www.elhefechicago.com), it is unfortunate that Mexican roots and heritage are lost so yuppie, Asshole-Americans can tell their friends about their slutty evening at the hottest nightclub in town without pronouncing “jefe” incorrectly and therefore being corrected, negatively impacting their view of the club. Disgusting. It is unfortunate for nearby authentic restaurants and museums owned and explored by accepting, educated individuals to have share a block (or a nation) with this hub of hate. El Hefe Chicago actually lives up to the German definition of “hefe”: “yeast: a microscopic fungus” (Source: New Oxford American Dictionary), which is ironic, as the only way for men and women to get into this place is to show their pussy.

I come from a place of despair, poverty, and uncertainty. My mother was all alone, confused, hurt…and my sister, two years my senior, was shipped away to a juvenile facility. I had the privilege of raising a 41 year old woman; I was her rock. At the age of 13, I had more common sense in one brainwave than most adults have by age 40. Despite my rough upbringing (and the first cigarette that graced my respiratory system at the age of 4 and stuck with me through the hard times), I was able to graduate from college, move to a beautiful (and expensive) city, and live a life I’ve always wanted: the ability to do what I want, where I want, with a tremendous amount of people and opportunity everywhere I turn. I’m not rich, obviously, working in retail…I mean, I wouldn’t be using a free web-hosting site to share my life with the world if I were. However, I live comfortably, with effort to succeed driven by a fear of growing up poor and helpless. The 7-year-old me would be extremely jealous of the $450 Michael Kors bag I just bought. Well, perhaps not. I wasn’t gay back then…but that’s another story…

This blog contains insight on music, fashion, and how I view the world through these cynic balls that are apparently called “eyes”. No book reviews here, though. I haven’t finished a book in ages. While I would never sneer at a “bookworm” (even though they carry on and on like finishing a book is more satisfying than an orgasm…I beg to differ), they live in a world of fiction, whereas I’m constantly living in reality. So go ‘head on with that attitude and your nose, higher than Oprah’s private jet… because I can read you like a book. Enjoy.

Michael Kors Large Hamilton Pyramid-Stud Tote – $448
Manicure – $22

josh@joshjenks.com

Honest. Tenacious. Fabulous.

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