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.

Dear Azealia: You’re a hypocritical bitch, BUT YOUR MUSIC THO.

There is no other feeling quite like the euphoria of blocking out the noise of world. Car horns, a work call on my day off, a burning slur spewed by a passerby on the street — these things are inevitable (the latter more-so for flamboyant folks.) No matter where I am located, what I am doing, or how I feel emotionally, hearing a favorite song — regardless of its tone or mood — entices me with a memory…a particular moment in time.

My first introduction to Azealia Banks was in September of 2012. My good friend in college, whose R&B fever I embraced and to which I related (my white mother blared Prince, Aaliyah, Janet, Whitney, Brandy, Luther, and more throughout my adolescence), one day asked me, “Have you seen the 1991 video yet??” I hadn’t, nor did I know who Azealia was. After watching the video the first time, my initial thought was, “…so unique…so talented and unapologetic.” Later, I thought, “That gay backup dancer should have had more time on camera…” Later that night as I lie in bed, I watched the video well over a dozen or two times, learning all the words to the song. “Who are you, nigga? Ha ha ha!” I was hooked.

A few months later, tragedy struck. Azealia remixed Baauer’s smash (but only tolerable for thirty seconds) hit, “Harlem Shake”, adding her own flare that (now) makes the entire song worth listening to over and over again. Soon after the remix’s release, Baauer removed the song from SoundCloud, telling the Harlem rapper on Twitter, “…it’s not ur song lol”.

A few days later, Diplo (who signed Baauer to his Mad Decent label in 2012) emailed Azealia explaining why she couldn’t use the track…

The drama continued at an upward trajectory as time passed. At the end of 2014, Azealia renamed Iggy Azalea, “Igloo Australia…”, calling her out for thinking “Black Culture is cool” but not speaking up on “black issues”. Azealia also called T.I. a “coon” for associating with Iggy, whom she thinks is appropriating black culture. (For the sake of time and relevancy, I’ll save my thoughts on little Igloo for another time.) Banks has since called out Kendrick Lamar, Eminem, the BET Awards, black media and more for their own individual “wrongdoings”.

For the first time in my life, I am torn between an artist and her music. Azealia’s music is unique and innovative — her accent and quick tongue, combined with her lyrics and the production, make her music a contender for the best, ever. Then you have Azealia herself. The artist. The “angry bitch”. The drama queen. The woman — no, the whiny little girl — who would rather call someone out publicly (for publicity) than confront them directly.

For the record, I don’t think Azealia is actually a “bitch”. She is angry. She is passionate. She thinks black culture is being taken away and exploited and capitalized by white people who couldn’t care less about black people or black issues. Babe, I FEEL YOU. Cops kill innocent black children without even blinking. Money-hungry lawyers trick mentally-ill, dying black women into selling them her lawsuit winnings for 11% of their value. Racism is alive and well in this country, and it’s fucked up.

The thing is, Azealia, using discrimination to fight discrimination doesn’t help progress the human race. It merely makes your anger hypocritical and your passion a lie. I’m referring to her recent scene on an airplane, when she got angry at a couple for (allegedly) compiling their bags and not allowing her to pass. When a flight attendant got involved, she called him a “fucking faggot”. Azealia also called Perez Hilton a “faggot” in 2014, justifying the slur by positioning her definition of the word as a “…coward, liar, backstabber…….” NO, DEAR. THE DEFINITION OF THOSE WORDS — coward, liar, backstabber — ARE THOSE WORDS.

I recently wrote a piece about gay, white men being inherently racist. Confusingly, they certainly wouldn’t want Azealia or anyone calling them a faggot (despite their Grindr profiles basically reading “whites only”.) Similarly, Ms. Banks, you expect reparations for the mistreatment of blacks as slaves, yet you continue to use words with demeaning connotations – “faggot” or “pussy” or “coon” – in a hateful manner to promote your own confused agenda. I use the word “faggot” — hell, my handle on Instagram is “callmefag”. But I don’t use this or any other word to promote anger or hatred against another person.

Racism, misogyny, homophobia…all are a result of bigotry and confusion — a hatred that typically isn’t actually understood by the offender. I don’t know if Azealia understands her bigotry or anger, or if all of this is an act for attention. Whatever it is, I’ve ignored it up to this point to focus on the way her music makes me feel. When Broke with Expensive Taste came out last year, I watched the Chasing Time video dozens of times. At one point, I became super emotional watching it, pondering why such a talented person did not receive the type of media attention or praise as other, less talented artists. But now, in a turn of events I never expected, her shitty attitude is finally beginning to overshadow her musical talent. As much as I hate it, The Ice Princess may soon lose the Luxury of my Heavy Metal and Reflective coins. She Fuck(ed) Up the Fun, y’all!

In a 2012 interview with Hypetrak, Azealia stated, “I would eventually like to stop rapping. That’s just the honest truth. Like one day I don’t wanna rap anymore just because it’s easy you know what I mean, but it’s kind of tacky and I think it’s very unladylike. I like it, but I think I’m going to get tired of it. I would like to get two albums out. Like get all of the urban stuff like rap music out. Whatever ideas I have in me out and into fruition the maybe go back to school. Take voice lessons again and do like contemporary jazz. I definitely don’t see myself being a rapper forever.” Is clambering out of the rap industry by flying an airplane of controversy into Twin Toppers the right venture? Does she want the low-hanging shade of “that bitch” for the rest of her career? Whether me or you or Igloo ever support this Bitch With Questionable Taste, I’m sure we’ll continue hearing about her in the press. For the sake of great music – her music – I hope she keeps rapping, and breaks news headlines titled, “Azealia Banks Volunteers at Local School, Proves How Easy It Is to Help Move the World Forward.” instead of, “Azealia Banks Calls Someone Else a Faggot”, or, “Coons! Azealia Banks Finds Another One”.

Courtesy of Vevo

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.

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.

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.

josh@joshjenks.com

Honest. Tenacious. Fabulous.

Tag Archives: homosexuality