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.

Ground to Bits

“Oh my God, so, I just deleted Grindr from my phone.”

….

“I just said that as if it is some sort of grand accomplishment…”
-laughs-

As the barrage of mobile hookup apps such as Grindr, Tinder, Scruff, etc. continue to increase, the media is focusing on the apps’ implications for and effects on society. And for good reason. As Details points out, the number of reported cases of “the big three” STDs — gonorrhea, chlamydia, and syphilis — are rising. Fast. Are you fucking anyone who frequents the Chelsea neighborhood of New York? Wrap it, twice. Chelsea has the highest syphilis infection rate in the country. In New Zealand, at least three gay men on Grindr were targeted by a criminal who promised them sex. When the man arrived to the victims’ homes, he threatened them with a machete before robbing them.

If you’re reading this and you still use these mobile applications: kudos! We’re alive! I’m grateful to say I have never been threatened or harmed on Grindr. Nor have I (yet) contracted an STD. My growing issue with online hookup-apps isn’t derived from fear…

It’s derived from an increasing number of shirtless, white men telling everyone who differs from them they aren’t good enough to fuck, or even speak to. Let us break this down a bit.

First, take the shirtless, faceless picture. The mystery man, undoubtedly ugly, or perhaps stuck in the closet, doesn’t want you to know anything about his interests, personality (though we can guess what kind of a person he is), or lifestyle. Okay, that isn’t entirely accurate. He wants you to know he’s horny, physically strong, and racist. He wants you to admire something — his body — implying it is more important than his thoughts and interests which ultimately make up what type of person he is. He wants you to know that your skinny or unfit body doesn’t deserve his attention.

Next, the “whites-only” or “no fems, blacks, asians, etc.” tagline. I completely understand having a “type”. If you look at the roster of men I’ve dated, fucked, kissed, etc., most of them are white, have a little bit of scruff, and are shorter than me. I won’t call it a coincidence, but those traits certainly are not the only ones I actively seek out. If I had to choose a “type”, the traits I find attractive include: skinny, heavy, hairy, non-hairy, black, asian, white, latino, masculine, feminine — but more importantly, intelligent, driven, a good listener, honest, but not sarcastic, and capable of dealing with my moodiness. I’m not embarrassed to admit it took me awhile to open up to such a broad group of people. Like these close-minded torsos on Grindr, I was once in a dark place where rejecting others actually felt comfortable.

Before first coming out at age 18 and even a few years after, I loathed drag queens. I didn’t understand why a man would want to portray himself as a woman. I couldn’t grasp exactly what satisfaction a man derived from putting on a dress and a wig and heels. Anyone who knew me in college can attest to me overusing the phrase,“If I wanted to date a woman, I would do so.” As I grew older, moved to the passionate and very-OUT city of Chicago, and began meeting and falling in love with other queer individuals — drag queens included — I began to understand my resistance to people I didn’t understand. Like these faceless torsos, I too was afraid to accept something — effeminate men — as I was fearful of accepting that trait within myself. Once you break that barrier and portray a certain part of yourself to the world, there’s no going back. Luckily, I had open and accepting friends, family, and a job which allowed me to grow beyond my hateful way of thinking and accept myself (and others) for who and what we are. I’m 26 now…I wear heels, paint my nails, and get annoyed with people who mistake impeccable fashion sense as “dressing like a woman.” Perhaps these shirtless, “masc”, seemingly invulnerable group of men work in a corporate world that doesn’t allow gender expression outside the norm. Maybe their religious parents would never accept an effeminate son. Whatever internal issues they’re struggling with, those are far more dangerous and damaging to the host than the rejection I feel as a result of their inexperience with unfit, effeminate, non-whites.

Whether we like it or not, this technology age in which we live forces us to crave instant results from any particular action we take. We hope that ordering a package from Amazon, a cup of coffee from Starbucks, or in this case, an online chat with a stranger, will yield instant results. When a handsome guy messages me, I feel instantly empowered. When a 62 year old messages me asking if I’m “hung”, I feel icky. When I message someone else and they do not respond, I feel rejected and ugly. Think about how this differs from the generations which arrived before us. In order for our parents (and even more-so our grandparents) to feel these same emotions, it took seeing someone, approaching them, talking to them, perhaps meeting multiple times after, then deciding whether or not to continue toward a deeper relationship, or end it. For me and other 80’s/90’s kids, all it takes is the tap of a little yellow icon and a quick scroll through some photos to feel confident and determined or outraged and self-conscious.

I didn’t erase Grindr from my phone to avoid rejection — in fact, I embrace it. When I seek a connection with someone, I want us to meet and get to know one another before deciding whether we find each other interesting or attractive. I didn’t erase Grindr to run from this epidemic of “masc4masc” requirements. It isn’t my job to message closed-minded individuals and tell them their way of thinking is dated and supremacistic. Maybe I am naive to think I will find anything except sex on Grindr. But, regardless of what anyone is looking for on one of these apps, the voices of friends and advocates for gender fluidity and racial equality who use Grindr all seem to be finding one thing: hours wasted by scrolling through a community of bigots who offer nothing beyond frustration and confusion.

Still, even after knowing and accepting all of these details, Grindr is currently back on my iPhone, hiding on the last screen, out of sight, until just the right amount of alcohol (a sip) is coursing through my bloodstream. I just asked a 33-year old if the car he’s in is an Audi. Oh, it’s a “BMW X5”…”Even better. How are you?” I ask. Hopefully we’ll meet up, go out to dinner, then he’ll run me over with his car. When I wake up in the hospital bed, I’ll finally erase this app for good. Maybe.

Hetero and Homo-normativity Are Everything But “Normal”.

There are people in the world — young boys and girls, teenagers, full grown adults — who are emotionally and physically abused and beaten for not fitting into the heteronormative standards society has placed upon them, us…the human race. For no apparent reason, a homosexual man was recently beaten and almost run over by the CEO of an oil company in Texas. Transwomen — particularly those of color — are being murdered…the narrative of their legacies being tucked away by media who would rather portray trans-lives as a commodity meant for consumption. Last week, a man with whom I had every intention of fucking became abruptly enraged (while lying naked in my bed) by the fact that I wasn’t “sexually fluid enough to bottom for him.” The fluidity with which I carry myself by painting my nails, wearing “women’s” clothes, etc, branded me a tease who shouldn’t “lead people on.”

Hetero-normativity, in a nutshell, states that every human being is born either a man (penis, macho, breadwinner, pussy penetrator) or a woman (vagina, feminine, kitchen-guru, dick storage). Additionally, it suggests that heterosexuality is the only “normal” means to establish a human connection. Similarly, in the case of my effeminate-top–shaming friend, homo-normativity suggests that masculine women are butch, scissoring dykes, and effeminate men are bottoms who are just a Drag Race episode away from turning into a queen. Hetero-normativity — this concept that cultivates centuries-old ideologies that define everything by “this or that” (black/white, gay/straight, rich/poor, etc.) — isn’t anything new. Politicians and activists such as Hillary Clinton and Jon Stewart attempt to disrupt this narrative by promoting marriage equality and denouncing racist and homophobic statements by their counterparts. What is new, or, what isn’t yet being discussed, is the frightening realization that this homo-normative dialogue being promoted within the homosexual community is more powerful and degrading than hetero-normativity AND continues to fuel that narrative.

If you’re a man, you should be straight. If you aren’t, though, it’s acceptable if and only if you play the part you’re supposed to play, based on your skin color, the tone of your voice, how you dress, and your physique.

I have fallen victim to this stereotyping on multiple occasions. Once while on a date, my counterpart asked, “So, what initially prompted you to dress like a woman?” While I am in no way uptight enough to take complete offense to such a statement, I couldn’t help but assume this man met with me for my physical appearance alone — to perhaps fulfill some sort of fantasy that only an “effeminate man” can fulfill. A prominent Chicago drag queen once shared a story on his Facebook timeline describing an encounter he had with another man he met on Grindr. After they entered said queen’s apartment, the man noticed all of the dresses and quickly asked, “Are you a drag queen?” When the man answered, “yes”, the visitor abruptly grabbed his stuff and walked out of the apartment without saying a word.

The judgement and rejection we feel from peers after acting against “normal” human behavior (which, if you’re a gay man, is just being yourself) places all of us out of touch. You really want to compliment and start a conversation with the beautiful, fit guy who’s wearing the same shoes as you on the train, for example — but you don’t. You remain silent. You’re afraid the glares and telepathic hisses from commuters make you think your kindness is outside the scope of what normal people should do. On top of that, you’re afraid that the person catching your attention will think the same thing and ignore you, or, say something hurtful. As a gay man, speaking out in public (while without the company of at least one other friend for support) doesn’t happen as much as it should, if at all, as the fear of judgement and rejection in the form of verbal or physical abuse is always, ALWAYS lingering in the forefront of my mind.

This country is notorious for waiting until a horrific or generationally damaging event for a positive change to occur. It took the highly publicized killing of multiple black men by white police officers for this country to realize and accept the notion that racism is alive and well in the United States. It took one young terrorist’s attack on a church in Charleston, resulting in the murders of nine people, to determine that it isn’t in our country’s best interest to sell or display the Confederate flag — a historical symbol of oppression and hatred. In a world where technology is becoming easier to communicate with and trust than people, where social anxiety and depression are more prevalent than ever, choosing to ignore or condemn another man before getting to know him — his soul — will ultimately lead to the degradation of the freedom and acceptance for which our (gay) allies are fighting.

Lately, I have made a conscious effort to say what I mean as I’m thinking it. To friends, to strangers –– to anyone. Just the other day, while visiting a restaurant on the north side of town, I told the server to give negative feedback to the chef about my meal. As minuscule as that output of energy seems, the reality that I had to make a conscious effort to muster up the courage to say anything at all is utterly a result of the rejection and oppression I have endured by the hetero and homo-normative actions of society. The next time you meet someone new, or see someone on the ‘L’ train you can imagine in your bed (or at the altar), consider listening to him before you listen to your brain. The worst expectations you can create for yourself (and allow to alter your presentness) are those that lack experience, understanding, or a simple introduction.

High, L.A. : How a Midwest Bae Spends Vacation

#TBT to February 11, 2015 when Chicago was a frigid bitch. Although, not nearly as frigid as he was last year, or the year before. While wrapped up snugly on the couch in a microfiber blanket, I was exhaustively scrolling through my Facebook feed in an eerie, zombie-like state. My cold, lethargic existence exploded to life when a blurb from Yelle caught my attention.

I knew if I didn’t escape Chiberia imminently I was going to jump off the Sears Tower. Luckily, I had been thinking about taking a trip to California for some time. To force the procurement of a plane ticket, I did the sensible thing and purchased a pair of tickets to see Yelle in Los Angeles for April 10th. To you 365 days/year warm-climate dwellers, yes, Chicago is still cold (and sometimes snowing!) in April. The following afternoon during my lunch break, I researched and purchased the cheapest, week long, April tenth-ish American Airlines ticket I could find (rackin’ up them miles, nigga). $326 later, the countdown to Los Angeles had begun. I booked a premium car through Hertz and, due to the copious amount of points I accrued, only paid $10 for a week.

Wednesday April 8th (Day 1): After parking the car next to a homeless man peeing in broad daylight on an electrical box, I began walking toward The California Market Center for the LA Men’s Market (@LAMENSMARKET), a bi-annual men’s trade event in downtown LA.

On the way, a cube-shaped building advertising coffee caught my attention. The Classic Coffee, located at the corner of Main Street and 9th Street, is hands-down the most inviting coffee spot I’ve ever visited. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, dozens of hanging wall plants, and a multi-tiered wooden bench smothered in pillows ask patrons to hang around for awhile and soak up the sun and a good conversation with their caffeine. By the time I finished my latte, my bearings were secured and my excitement for LA Men’s Market (partnered with the caffeine rush) was in full swing.

I headed across the street to the thirteen-story building where the event took place. Little did I know, it was on the top floor — nice. It was glorious…I’m not typically into streetwear, but if I were to be swayed, this event pushed me over the edge. Two notable brands on which to keep an eye are Native Shoes (www.nativeshoes.com) and STIKELEATHER Apparel (www.stikeleatherapparel.com).

Native Shoes’ Apollo Moc collection serves a Nike Roshe Run vibe, but with super lightweight materials and a more unique design. These airy and comfortable kicks will be available F/W 2015.

Next, STIKELEATHER has developed a fresh take on modern, well-fitting blazers, baseball tees, and asymmetrical crews with — get this — completely invisible magnetic closures embedded in the fabric. Despite their muted color pallet, these fresh designs really make a statement. Did I buy anything? No. I was saving money for (legal) California weed.

SPEAKING OF WEED, little did I know that almost everyone in California has a prescription for “medical” marijuana. After leaving the Market and stopping by Venice Beach, my friend hooked me up with three fat, pre-rolled joints from a dispensary. It only takes me two hits to get blasted — how in the hell can I finish these in 6 days?!

Thursday April 9th (Day 2): Located on the north-side of Hollywood, Runyon Canyon is a collection of 1.65, 2.65, and 3.25 mile hiking trails. It draws the attention of runners, yoga-enthusiasts, and (if you follow @lukeaustinphotosthe3rd on Instagram) the sexiest, shirtless gay men known to man. Before arriving, I didn’t know what to expect — I was wearing green-khaki shorts, a heavy, mesh, long-sleeved shirt, and a light-cotton floral blazer. As I approached the base of the shortest hill, I knew I was in for some sweat and stank. I removed the victory joint from my blazer and tied it around my waist. Time to climb.

The view from the top of the peak is absolutely incredible. Looking south showcases all of Los Angeles in its seemingly flat glory. Looking north reminds you of your five-figure salary, as every home is >4000 sq. feet and built into the side of a mountain.

Noticing a few Filipinos playing with a selfie stick a few clicks away, I approached them and joked, “I left my selfie stick at home — would you mind taking a photo of me?” The young woman was really nice, and even added a third-party camera lens to my phone to take a better picture. “I’m really fascinated by iPhone photography,” she says. After capturing dozens of pictures, I mentioned I was visiting from Chicago for the week. Her and her friends suggested restaurants, coffee shops, and other neighborhoods to explore. I was smitten by such generosity — I regret not asking for their contact information. Life of a Cancer…
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After making it back down the hill, I pulled out and smoked half of my now soggy joint on the way back to my rental car. For the rest of the day I explored the mansions in Beverly Hills and walked around a few shops in Melrose. A particularly elegant coffee house, called Alfred Coffee and Kitchen (http://www.alfredcoffee.com), was recommended by my new Runyon friends. It’s quiet, but a little on the expensive side (a salad wrap and 16oz iced chai was about $18). BUT, the clientele looks like a million bucks — I was eye-fucking everyone.

I rounded out my evening exploring the mansions along Carmelita Avenue in Beverly Hills. Nothing instills more paranoia than smoking a joint while passing Aston Martins and Rolls Royces parked casually on the street.

When night fell, I drove up to Griffith Observatory to capture a glimpse of the glowing city under a black sky.

Friday April 10th (Day 3): Today was a special day for two reasons: First, the initial reason I came to L.A. was upon me — Yelle performing @ The Roxy. Second, an iconic day for one of the most influential organizations in the world — pre-orders begin for Apple Watch. While spending hundreds of dollars on another device that will take my attention away from humans and nature and the “real world” isn’t necessarily the most economical or emotionally-present decision I could make, it’s a decision I made for two key reasons.

First, it is an iconic fashion piece. Despite what Editor-in-Chief Nilay Patel and his colleagues at The Verge say about the Watch, this is the most highly anticipated, customizable piece of wearable technology to ever exist. Infinitely customizable watch faces, six new bands in an array of colors patented and built by Apple, and the potential for an unlimited number of third-party bands make this device acquirable and appealing to all ages, body types, and genders. Despite the millions of dollars I assume the company has spent on advertising, they knew what they were doing when they built a camera viewfinder for your iPhone into the Watch. #FreeAdvertising.

Second, I’ve never purchased or owned an expensive timepiece. I know what some of you are thinking….WHY WOULD YOU SPEND HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS ON A “WATCH” THAT WILL BE OBSOLETE IN THREE YEARS? It’s simple. Every watch I’ve ever owned (I’ve owned about 10) has cost between $50 and $100. When the battery dies after 3-4 years, not once have I ever replaced it. Sure, If I did replace the battery, I would wear them for many years to come. However, fashion and taste and aesthetic tend to change and develop as I age and I experience new things. For 3 or 4 or 6 or whatever years, I can customize Apple Watch with different bands until a new watch is released. Spending $500-1000 on a revolutionary piece of technology every few years is nothing considering we “upgrade” our things – shoes, cell phones, computers, jewery, etc. – all the time. I’ll wager that most of the people criticizing people purchasing an Apple Watch versus a Rolex spend more money replacing their PCs than us “iSheep” do replacing or beloved Apple devices.
Before the Apple store opened, I stopped by Marmalade Cafe to grab some salmon and poached-egg goodness. To prevent being late for my Watch try-on appointment, I scarfed my meal in about fifteen minutes and ran over to the store. Although they didn’t have the exact color/model I wanted to try-on, I knew in my soul which one to buy. July cannot come soon enough.
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Come nightfall, I called an old college buddy and invited him to see Yelle (I always buy two concert tickets, just because). While waiting for him to arrive, I walked around West Hollywood and finished joint number one. I can’t emphasize enough how amazing it feels to publicly smoke and enjoy marijuana without anxiety of being arrested. Hey, rest of the U.S., can you catch up, please?

Yelle was amazing — funny, engaging, and full of life. Her performance was perfectly planned and curated, including selfies with the audience, bongo drum solos, choreography with the drummers, and a meet-and-greet after the show. I haven’t purchased band merchandise in a long time, but this was an easy decision. If you’ve been dying for electronic, out-of-this-world beats with french vocals, check out her SoundCloud. I had never heard her opening band, Seattle-based “HIBOU”, but their electric guitar, west-coast vibe, and hot-as-shit bandmates are definitely worth checking out.

Saturday April 11th (Day 4): People who know me personally know my wardrobe consists of three primary colors: Black, gray, and brown. As I scroll through my Instagram feed from the Winter months, most of my photos have a very clear ominous tone, even if the content or subject is positive. Today was perhaps my favorite day of the entire trip, as it popped my winter-woe cherry and allowed me to embrace color and warmth for the first time this year.

I began at Santa Monica pier, enjoying the sounds of children laughing and talented singers and musicians entertaining and gracing us. A bit crowded up-top, I escaped the boardwalk to walk along the beach, smoking joint number two and allowing the sound of the crashing waves to break away the armor I built during Chicago’s winter months. After finding the most attractive man sitting alone in the sand, I sat close enough to ogle behind sunglasses but far enough away to disguise my lurkiness. I sat for about 45 minutes, silent, eyes closed, high as a fucking kite, thinking, “Is this real?” Officers circling the beach in dune-buggies, a collection of kite-enthusiasts flying dozens of kites, rollerbladers whizzing past — I was enamored. Furthermore, the condos lining the sand were like nothing I’ve ever seen. One had a yellow-spiral staircase reminding me of slides I frequented as a child. One building was white, structured, with floor-to-ceiling windows sitting boldly like a miniature White House. One was a bold orange, flashing symmetry from all angles. I was half tempted to knock on each door and ask if I could be a live-in nanny/sex-slave — anything to see (and stay) in those condos!
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Sunday April 12th (Day 5): I woke up early today to go to church. Just kidding. Do people still do that? I woke up early to get some writing done, as well as spend some time at Amoeba Music on Sunset Boulevard — the world’s largest independent record store. Imagine two stories and about ten-thousand square feet of vinyl, posters, DVDs, CDs, and LaserDiscs (yes, LaserDiscs). I spent about 15 minutes walking around with the new album from Lapalux, Lustmore, until realizing my port-less and driverless MacBook won’t eat the damn disc. I downloaded the album later when I returned to my Airbnb (I recommend you do the same). Soon after, I went to Starbucks and awaited the arrival of my old college friend. We roamed the touristy part of Hollywood Boulevard, dodging local thugs asking if we “had a cell phone to check the time” (literally, we crossed the street to avoid them). While helping me finish joint number two, I took my friend a bit north to explore unfrequented hills. “I love this shit,” he says. “I wouldn’t normally come over here, but this is really pretty.” If anyone ever wants to walk until your legs feel like they’re going to fall off, hit me up.
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After a long day of exploring, I said goodbye to my friend, went back to my loft, started joint number three, and passed out.

Monday April 13th (Day 6 – The Finale): At some point when I first arrived to the city, I passed a charming hotel with a diner on the first floor on the corner of 6th Street and Normandie Avenue (so charming, in fact, I pulled off to the side of the road to compose a note of its location in my phone). With sore legs and a groaning belly, I decided to head over to what I learned was Normandie Hotel, and its sister restaurant Cassell’s Hamburgers. One of the baristas (whose name escapes me now, sadly) was very sweet and beautiful — so much so that I asked if I could take her portrait. She didn’t feel comfortable being in a picture alone taken by a stranger (I don’t necessarily blame her), but she agreed to be in one with me. After our quick photoshoot, I went back inside and had brunch, followed by an experimental chai blend from my new friend, on the house.

Years spent lusting over others’ pictures of towering street lights led me to The Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA). Unfortunately, my dumb ass parked in a two hour zone a sizable distance away, so I felt hurried throughout my exploration. Hell, I could have easily spent two hours outside the museum worshiping the sky-scraping rock resting upon an underground walkway, the top of the building shaped like origami, stabbing the sky, and the shower of yellow, licorice-like strings hanging from the sky.

I walked briskly as I entered the museum, quickly skimming the directory for exhibits that would appeal to me. I’m not a connoisseur of art by any means, nor do I have a particular favorite artist. However, after years of watching Where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego (in the first episode of the series, The Stolen Smile, she travels around the world to steal facial-features from different pieces — eyes from Van Gogh, a nose from Picasso, and the mouth from the Mona Lisa), seeing a Picasso in real life was a very emotional moment. So much so that I risked being thrown out (or yelled at, at the very least) capturing a photo of one of his pieces. My favorite exhibit, Islamic Art Now: Contemporary Art of the Middle East, is the first of its kind at the museum. “Technology Killed Reality, 2013”, captured by interior/fashion designer turned photographer Abdullah Al Saab, displays a beautiful woman ignoring publications and other pieces of art to instead take a selfie. This concept isn’t new, especially in the Western world, but it is captured in a much more powerful and iconic fashion.

As my final day came winding down, I couldn’t leave L.A. without getting my Pretty Woman on. Rodeo Drive was calling my name. I did a lap around some mansions to smoke 75% of my final joint, then headed over to the strip. I didn’t want to stay long, as my wallet was screaming “STAAAAAHHHHHHP”, but I did stop in Chanel to remind myself of how poor I am. A blouse for $3,000? Is this real life? As I continued to mosey, I came upon a bright, beautiful courtyard surrounded by a slew of restaurants and shops. I stopped at Sweet Beverly and ordered the most delicious banana, strawberry, and blueberry parfait I’ve ever consumed. It was $9, of course — which is probably the cheapest thing in Beverly Hills.

As the sun began to set, I found myself driving to Silver Lake for one final nature-loving moment. The roads inclined at least 45 degrees, and were no doubt the cause of many “check engine” lights on residents’ vehicles. I climbed an iconic staircase to the top, sat on the stoop of one of the mansions, and watched the sun set as I took a few more hits of the joint.

As a final hoorah, I took the train downtown to La Cita Bar for the weekly Mustache Mondays dance party. (Rather, I got on the train then waited 20 minutes for it to begin working. Some advice: Just Lyft, y’all — NEVER take the train in L.A.) It was perfect timing, as one of my favorite Instagram celebrities and Moschino brand ambassador, @Mazurbate, was DJing. I finished my final joint (R.I.P, legal weed) before approaching the bouncer, and went inside to some poppin’ ass Rasta beats, followed by #BBHMM. When I’m alone, it takes a few drinks for me to go from zero to one-hundred. In this instance, it only took two gin and tonics and I was at about one-hundred-fifty. The crowd around me was clearly surprised at my sudden urge to dance, as I had spent the first hour lurking, sipping my cocktail, and holding onto my purse. Within an instant, I corralled the people around me to follow suit. A girl approached me, saying how much she loved my moves. We instantly became friends. A dancer turned DJ, she told me that if I ever come back to L.A. and want to learn and grow from “some of the best”, she’s got my back. We exchanged Instagram handles and danced together the rest of the evening. At closing time, I took a Lyft back to the loft and prepared for my departure the following afternoon.

The warmth, as it burns the skin and inspires and puts anxiety to rest, is no substitute for the grind. It is slow — the city, it is slow. Almost too slow. Traffic moves constantly, its pace at crawl MPH. Stoned bodies smile, with sticky gums. They write, act, and talk about writing…acting. What are you working on? My audition is tomorrow. Are you in film? Advertisements loom. Homeless friends ask politely for a dollar while Six-figures worth of aluminum and pistons and leather line lavishly the perfectly-paved streets. The waves wash away worry, each breath a new hue of pleasure. Unforgettable.

Welcome to Hollywood.

Common Courtesy for Twenty-Somethings.

Whether or not your parents/caregivers planned your existence, the life-lessons they instilled within you were their way of saying, “please, don’t grow up to be douchebag, and try to make the world a better place.” I’ll always remember the things my mother taught me just before starting kindergarten in 1993:

“Always hold the door for others.”

“Say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.”

“Look people in the eyes when they’re speaking to you.”

“Don’t fuck men, because you’ll go to hell.”

I ignored the latter piece of advice at age 16 in the middle of a field with a blonde named Tommy…but, the first three remain very much ingrained in my DNA, as will they in my children (if I have any.) Despite the twenty-two years that have passed since receiving my mother’s advice, they, along with countless others (“always use your turn signal, don’t litter, rinse your dishes after a meal if you’re going to leave them in the sink”), will forever show those watching you that you’re a considerate human being.

As technology continues its rapid trajectory of dominating every aspect of our lives, it’s important for millennials to recognize that, without proper coaching, our children are going to be socially awkward, self-centered robots who think saying “bless you” after someone sneezes is an urban legend. In order to protect the notion of integrity, here are seven Standards of Courtesy (SOCs) we need to set (or reset) for ourselves and future generations:

WATCH-OUT FOR BIKERS

Yes, some over-confident bikers weave in and out of traffic while on their cell phone and cut you off, instilling hatred and rage. However, slamming into you, your vehicle, or vice versa at +/- 25mph can be fatal. If parking on a busy roadway, look in your side-mirror before opening your car door. For you small-town folk who still yell, “GET OUT OF THE ROAD! BIKES ARE MEANT FOR THE SIDEWALK!!”, please school your fucking self.

PUT YOUR PHONE AWAY WHILE EATING

Or dancing, or shitting, or driving, or working. Your company thinks you’re rude. If you want to be somewhere else, try planning your day a bit better and decide that prior to meeting for a meal. Plus, your constant need to scroll through Instagram on the shitter has smothered your phone in poop particles, which I don’t want near my utensils.

SPEAK TO SOMEONE VIA PHONE/INTERNET THE SAME WAY YOU WOULD IN REAL LIFE

With instant access to almost everything — a ride, your man-crush living in Australia, a glitter bomb — people expect everything NOW. As self-satisfaction and impatience becomes more prevalent in our society, composure and “customer service” — that is, for example, smiling at a customer who asks to “speak to a white-employee instead of a black one” — are critical traits to retain. Instead of bitching at an AT&T representative over the phone or sending a shitty text message to your roommate for not cleaning up after a party, SPEAK, out loud, in-person, to someone in order to make a change. If you don’t have the confidence to treat someone to their face, you shouldn’t be treating.

BE RESPECTFUL OF YOUR LYFT OR UBER DRIVER’S CAR

As millennials count more and more on ride-sharing to get to and from work and play, it’s easy to forget that you are riding in a complete stranger’s vehicle. Doing your makeup in the visor mirror? Wipe your glossy hands on your own clothes before touching anything else. Carting a new piece of furniture? Take it out delicately to avoiding scratching the paint. And please, please, if you feel like puking, say something sooner rather than later.

SHARE WHAT’S IMPORTANT ON FACEBOOK

As much as I like to think the constant stream of information in my News Feed is intrusive, I’m starting to realize just how much entertainment, news, communication, and education I consume through Facebook. I don’t remember the last time I sent a mass text to all of my friends and family telling them, “Hey! Let’s boycott Indiana’s Religious Freedom Restoration Act!” or “Here’s how you can help prevent more trans-people from dying.” With over one billion users, your post may just start a revolution.

USE THE LEFT-MOST LANE FOR PASSING

This oldie but goodie needs revisiting (especially for Chicago drivers.) The further to the left you are on a multi-lane highway, the faster you should be going. If you’re in the left-most lane and the car behind you is quickly approaching, get the fuck over and stay there ASAP.

ASK BEFORE TOUCHING SOMEONE’S CELL PHONE

Yes, I did just take a picture of you. Yes, I will send it to you when I’m done editing it. Do not, while you’re drunk, grab my $950 iPhone out of my hand without my god damn permission. Hey, HEY! What did I just say?! I’m cropping you out of the photo. Byeeeeee.

With a little common sense, we can help protect the future from assholes.

What new (or legacy) life lessons continue to shape who you are today? Sound off in the comments.

Ladies, He’s a Fag.

Before I came out of the closet — and even more so when I came out — nothing infuriated me more than people who discussed my sexuality with others before I had even established it myself. But I get it. I completely align with and understand the curiosity and this inherent need to know someone’s sexuality. Your friend, who has kept his sexuality a secret since infancy, is essentially lying by omission. That need to know whether someone is or isn’t gay is built into all of our DNAs whether we want to accept it or not. Since this “is he or isn’t he?” tick will forever eat into our curious souls, I am here save you. Put your stress, anxiety, and curiosity to rest; I am outing the male population. Here are eight ways to determine if your guy-friend is a flaming homosexual:

He has never had a steady girlfriend.
C’mon, man. You are 26 years old. You mean to tell me that out of the 4 billion women in the world, you have yet to find a single one that fits your lifestyle? I call “hoooomoooooo”.

He’s very touchy-feely with other guys when he’s inebriated.
Alcohol tends to bring out our true feelings. It also tends to make closeted men ask you to blow them (true story).

A lot of his friends are gay.
Being accepting of everyone’s individuality is one thing. Going to Boystown every weekend is another. Steamworks much?

He doesn’t have a personal stylist, yet his fashion sense is above above-average.
Ladies, if he has more shoes than you, he’s a bottom.

He was raised in a very suppressed or uber-religious household.
Religion is the reason I was so fearful of coming out in the first place. There is something about the idea of burning in hell for all eternity that makes a man want to suppress his homosexual feelings, ya know? While most religions condemn premarital sex, here in America, with our dick-pic-sending and twerking culture, any man who does not have sex with a woman one month into dating is only turned on by the thought of dicks.

He’s a virgin.
Again, if you’re in your twenties (or god-forbid, your fucking thirties) and you STILL have yet to put your D in a V, you gay, son.

His iTunes library is full of music by Britney Spears, Beyoncé, or other female pop sensations.
You may have already walked in on him dancing in his underwear in front of the mirror to “Anaconda”.

He constantly asserts himself as heterosexual before, during, or after complimenting another male.
“Dude, I am so straight, like I fucking love eating the vagine, and boobies are great…but damn Josh, your ass looks so good in those pants I could just fuck the shit out of you right here and now.” UHM OKAY, QUEER.

If, after sharing this list with the man in question, he still will not admit to his homosexuality, check his internet history when he’s in the bathroom. I guarantee you will either find tons of gay porn, or torrents of every Bette Midler movie. Either way, he gay.

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.

Single? It’s not them, it’s you.

How many people have you fucked in the last month? In the last year? Why is it that, despite constantly bitching about your thirst for companionship, you sacrifice a warm heartbeat pulsing against your bare cheek every night for a thick, throbbing instacock or instapussy once a week? You tell yourself these urges for instant gratification are natural —you also conclude that these people who fuck you and don’t want to date you simply want the same thing as you (which is: a relationship with someone else they can’t have). You are completely correct. However, you keep forgetting to tell yourself the other truth: you can have a relationship with them, you just fucked it up the first time.

“Josh, I cannot tell you how many dates…probably a hundred, which, after it ended, I receive a text message from the guy telling me he only wants to be friends. I started seeing a therapist — I was convinced there was something wrong with me. My therapist thought I was crazy…perhaps it’s just the people who live in this area…

…After moving to an entirely new state, the problem persists.” — a friend.

Why is it that this handsome, successful, goal-oriented man with a SEX DRIVE cannot seem to get past, “check, please”? After further probing, it was clear at that moment there was something wrong: on that first date and each first date with a new human, it is imperative for him tell the guy three key things: his profession (he is quite proud…almost pretentious, regarding the company for which he works), his fluency in Spanish, and his mastery of the trombone. When I asked why he feels it is necessary to reveal this information up front, his response was, “because he needs to know who I am…and that I am amazing.” Despite the fact that I agree — he is amazing — the way in which he tries to control these strangers’ feelings and emotions automatically set him up for heartbreak.

No one should ever be afraid to talk about their strengths, passions, and interests that make them who they are. However, the insecurities caused by countless denials from people in which we’re interested causes the utmost fear of rejection; so much so that you do a number of things to sabotage yourself, including:

Constantly wearing your headphones in public (if you can’t see or hear someone rejecting you, it isn’t happening, right?)
Standoffishness; why say hello to the handsome Barista at the cafe when he is probably judging everything about you? (He is, in fact, because he is also damaged.)
Speaking without confidence, discussing topics you think the other person wants to hear. Or,
at the other end of the spectrum, speaking so highly of yourself your date thinks you’ve made up their mind for them (we all want freedom of choice! Duh, idiot.)
Being really picky over, say, a sloppy kisser, that we ignore the strong connection…that spark we shared before the sloppy porn kiss. (You can train someone to kiss better, but hell, you’re so perfect, that they should already know what to do, right?)

“There is no world; there are only six billion understandings of it.” — Drew Dudley TEDxToronto (2010)

Do you want people to understand you..the humble ‘you’ who is afraid to die alone? Or would you rather they know the perceived you…your hard exterior…your nine to five, your material possessions, your stupid, throbbing, phallic ego? Ask the hundred people who turned you down after the first date what they wanted. You may be surprised.

josh@joshjenks.com

Honest. Tenacious. Fabulous.

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