Monday, July 24, 2006

Urban Redneck

“You’re an urban redneck”, my friend points out to me as we stagger home drunk on Saturday night. He mentioned this after a few too many drinks, then taking my shirt off on the way home, and cat calling men.

I would shout “Nice ass, dude!” Maybe I should be a little more subtle about it all. I remember walking home one night with a bud and seeing this drunk hunk on the street. We kept joking out loud, “No, we aren’t going to take him home. He’s too hot. I don't think I would be able to handle it”. “No Paul, we can’t take this hot stud home, I don’t care how much you want him!” And so on. He over hears and gets upset.

I’m not afraid. And, the redneck in me would welcome a fight. After he turns to me and replies “What did you say?” I eagerly reply “Fuck off dude”.

Then there was the time with the cops. We were eating pizza early in the morning on a busy street and these three cops were doing crowd control. I couldn’t help but stare at one of them and challenge him. We made eye contact, and would look away, only to make eye contract again.

The officer didn’t know what was going on, so he asks me if I have a problem. “Is there some problem?” I immediately turn to him, walk to the three cops slowly and face him. “No, there’s no problem officer. I was just telling my friends how hot you were”.

“Oh,” as he steps back two feet, and visibly uncomfortable, “well, never mind then”. I could have sworn he blushed. I turned away smiling, and thinking, this is total freedom and abandonment.

I could recite stories for hours. They are all the same. Myself having a big mouth and being drunk, getting over my head in a situation, and using my intelligence to get out of it. I can’t help but lust after straight men when I drink. I can’t help it. The asshole in me doesn’t give a shit and it makes for a fun night.

I didn’t realize until now, I’m a urban redneck, and proud of it.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Reno

Everyday I approach the zenith of manhood with repugnance. The crisp air stings my cheeks, the cold ground frosts my boots, and there is no amount of cotton or Gore-Tex that can protect me.

Everyday I wonder if this is it. I’m in an icy prison where the sun is fleeting and the people hibernate. My boots chafe my sock, in turn my socks irate my pants, which hold a belt that hooks my shirts, layered, one by one, atop of a wreck of a man.

My breath is streaming the air, and everything smells so fresh and clean. The sky’s are vivid, filling me with the image of the sun, beyond belief, I open the back door to drift into absolute beauty.

I never realized how good I had it until I left this place. I didn’t realize how much destruction cities caused, how much pollution we are pumping into the atmospheres of urban centers. I didn’t realize that we dumped fresh sewage into some of the most pristine and inspiring waterfronts in Canada.

My dog Reno doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she doesn’t really seem to be aware of anything. I envy her at times. Even at six, I have to worry about my speech impediment, my effeminate characteristics that my father is picking up on, and my isolation, which seems to be getting worse, and my stunted growth.

I’m six and already I feel alone. Reno is too stupid to pick up on any of this. She’s content to live her life in a snow filled, dog house, wagging her dumb tail and panting nothingness. She doesn’t have the same free will that man adopted early on into our evolutionary mess.

I go out to the shed about 5 meters away from the house to check if she is still breathing.

My mother hated animals, claiming, “they are a fucking mess.” Reno would be left out in the elements at times, this rocky, unforgiving climate, and every night, when I curled up in bed, sleeping on my stomach and wishing I had a different family, I would think about her survival.

Some mornings she would be covered in show. A husk of a dog, with her coat completely engulfed with wet, hard snow. I would smile and greet her, and look into her makeshift dog home. I would start to pick off clumps of snow to free up her fur, holding back the tears and I would never shed; I’m too strong for that now. Some of the crayon colors we used the summer before are still standing out on the planks of her poorly construed home.

When she gets me in her sight, she jumps with enthusiasm, knowing full well I will release her. I could never chain up an animal like my parents. I run to her; I am grasping her chain and sliding on the leash, hoping to go for a nice walk; it's sunny out today. Today I will take her for a walk through the snow laid streets and hills. There isn’t a piece of land that isn’t covered with this mess of crystallized water.

I unhook Reno. Suddenly she bolts! I’m takin' off my feet and am being dragged for a few meters, my hands and elbows have been skinned, and I’m laying on the ground screaming “You goddamn fucking dog”, and all I see are the paw prints and a bolt of black furry, running off, hoping to gain as much freedom as possible before hunger sets in.

Being a six year old in a town full of simpletons was quite fun. And, being six in a town where there was no crime, no worries of being kidnapped and cut into pieces, was surprisingly freeing.

I would be the bait. I would follow this dog come hell or high reckon, and I would reclaim what is mine. I have nothing better to do, and I don’t even think Mom will realize I have left the house. She had a tendency to overlook us.

Being six in a town that never changed, made our lives unthreatening and predictable; it made caring for us easy, and non-existent.

I see Reno from afar. She’s nearing the hill close to the Humphries’s house. My mother always said they raised pigs and lived like them too. They ate their animals and were poor off, mind you. Not like us, my father does well, mom never has to worry. But these guys are in for some hard times.

I’m halfway up the hill calling out to Reno in the best unobtrusive voice I can muster. “Come on girl, come on. Let’s go for a walk. You like walks, don’t you?” She’s so close to me now, the leash is almost touching her. One fell swoop and I could claim her again as my own. But she bolts! I’ve never seen an animal run so fast in my life. And I scream at her, “You fucking dog, you’re gonna get it”.

I spent the remainder of the day climbing banks. Hunting Reno in all the recesses of our small village. The snow was so high, nobody ventured outside on this day. The chimneys were towering smoke from the woodstoves most families had. Occasionally, I would see a line of footprints leaving ones' door to the woodshed. Not once did I run into anyone.

Reno, by this time, was wagging her tail as she ran into me, some 4 kilometers away, near Reverend Moss’s house. This man was the strangest church official I have met in my life. Apart from having three strange kids: a hemophiliac who seemed to never have spent a day in the sun, a rock and roll dude (who I had the pleasure of seeing having sex one night as we spied through their window), and Greg, a massive lump of a man, who goofed around on old texas instrument systems programming basic code.

Reverend Moss always reminded me of Rex Murphy. His hair was curly, his voice was high and whiney, and he was skinny at that. I always got Goosebumps whenever I was around him, and would protest every time my mom made me visit his pale white child.

“It’s a sin by’, he has no friends. You should at least be courteous to your neighbors,” as I was pushed out of the house to abide to the deal my mother made on the phone to Myrtle, Mr. Moss’s wife.

I was in fear of Trevor, the pale one, seeing me on this day. I kept having this aching feeling that he was in the window watching, reading to yell out for me to come inside and watch him play with his wrestling figurines.

Rage was building as I dashed after Reno. I kept wondering if she would ever give up and let me win this battle.

I didn’t catch her that day. Instead, after being drenched in melted snow, four hours of chasing the elusive dog of my past, I head home for some baked bread and tea. Waiting at the porch of the house is of course, Reno.

I approach her, staring eye to eye, holding our gaze, only to deliver three hard smacks to the head. All the while her tail wags and she’s looking at me as if nothing ever happened.

I don’t think she was ever a smart dog. Most labs were, but this one, if I had a dollar for every time that fucking dog didn’t listen, I’d have my own fishing boat.

You know you've hit rock bottom when...


You know that you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re sitting at a bathhouse, talking to a complete stranger, explaining how faithful you are to your partner, who is sleeping in one of the rooms.

“We don’t normally go to things like this, but I was curious. Dennis and I are completely dedicated to one another. I mean, yeah sure, sex with other guys is important to him, and it hurts me, but we are more evolved, you know?” I’m saying this to some skinny, bitter, gay boy who is looking me up and down in my towel. He has no interest in this conversation and is silently planning his escape.

“Dennis recommended that we go to a sex club last night. There were all these guys around, roaming in the dark, and finally we were trapped in this small room with them.” I recalled to this fag who was incisively taking drags on his cigarette and nodding at the right times.

“We didn’t finish! I thought it was a gross experience and I made Dennis leave with me.” I had to make note of this and hang on to whatever dignity I had left.

“You went last night?” He finally spoke up and after I confirm the hard date he replies: “Dude, it was AIDS night, everyone knows that.”

My face turns an ashy gray color and I yell what? AIDS night? “Nobody told us this. Don’t you think they would warn us if that were the case?” I’m completely enraged right now and retracing the past night's events.

“It was in the paper dude,” he gets up and leaves only to say “You’re hot, man!”

“You’re disgusting,” I rally back, feeling free and liberated. I’m so sick of being objectified. He only turns to me again with a stunned look and walks off; actually, he wobbles off in his clean white towel, never to return again.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom, when you're standing by yourself, in a bathhouse, with your partner asleep in one of the rooms, thinking you may have just contracted HIV.

I run back to our room and shake him away. “Dennis, Dennis, get the hell up. We are leaving, I’ve had enough of this,” his lids flutter open and he’s obviously upset that I woke him.

“What?” he asks.

I explain the newly founded information about AIDS night and am in a panic. Laughing, he replies “We didn’t do anything unsafe, and I doubt it was ‘AIDS’ night. You’re over-reacting.”

“I don’t care I want out. I can’t take this anymore. It’s insane,” I’m picking up my things and dressing, expecting him to follow suit. “I’m done Dennis, its over.”

Why do so many gay men fall into this obscurity? Bathhouses, sex clubs, anonymous online hook-ups, these are the things that I have to deal with on a daily basis when facing men of my
proclivity .

Why are we so consumed with sex? Is it loneliness? Boredom? Is it different for everyone who partakes in the sinful side of being gay?

When I first came out I was so ignorant to it all. The only role model I had, the only man I could look up to and learn the ropes with, was Dennis. He taught me a great deal, most of it disturbing and wrong. I was taught that I needed to partake in the debauchery of our culture. He told me I needed threeways, and to experiment; I needed to get my heart broken by countless men, and then to finally collapse and become one of them: an emotionally, unadjusted gay male. It’s something we all strive for.

My role model. How I absorbed it all and questioned nothing. It was funny looking back how lost I truly was. Now I know what’s important and I am not tainted by love and utter conformity. Now I can look at these venues we went to, these acts that I can honestly say, I was forced into, and think how stupid I really was.

We don’t have to conform, nor will it make you happier. The only thing it will do is make you less human, less caring, and you will loose the most important parts of being human: emotional sensitivity, sexual intimacy, and trust. I don’t want to treat my partner like a porn star, and I don't want to be viewed as just another lay.

The weekend in Seattle ended with me punching my partner in the stomach, storming out of a bar, never to return again. That weekend was the breaking point for me, and I would never venture back into that dark side of the gay scene again.

I’m surprised I’m even writing this. I’m embarrassed that people may read it or judge me for my comments on this scene. I will not apologize. These are my thoughts and you cannot take my viewpoints away from me.

The only thing I can do is urge people to respect themselves, and respect your partners. We don’t need to have threeways and open relationships to appease our partner. We should be dedicated and respectful or each other; no bullshit. It’s an easy way out of making an actual commitment, and it certainly isn’t a healthy way to grow with someone and form intimacy. I see so many lost, lonely men who have chosen this path. The only advice I can give you all is: grow up.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Conversations

“He could be gay, you know. It’s kind of weird that a 13 year old boy is afraid of the dark,” I say playfully, waiting for the appropriate reaction.

“Why would you say that Char?” my mom is obviously uneasy about the subject and can’t even say the word gay or homosexual around me.

“I’m just saying it’s strange that he is still afraid of the dark. I’d almost say abnormal”, I am still waiting for her to keep the entertainment factor up.

“I don’t know why you would say that. This is the second time you have brought it up.” As she pauses, letting her mind churn it over. “Are there any signs I should be looking for?” as I burst out in laughter.

Are there any signs I should be looking for? What if there were signs. Would it make a difference? If my mother knew that my brother was gay, even now, there is nothing she could do about it, only accept it.

I always try to push limits with people, especially my family and friends. I tend to throw out various topics, or entertain bias notions to see how they will react. To summarize the whole concept so you can understand, I do it because people bore me, and I look for more substance.

“Mom, I was at the gym tonight and there was this really hot guy there. I’ve seen him once before, and damn, I was too shy to say hi”. I’m trying to let her into my life and take away the stigma of being gay. This should be an everyday conversation, in my opinion. “There was one point where I was sure he was going to say hi, but I walked by as he started to open his mouth. What if I never see him again?”

My mother listens contently on the line. I know deep down in my heart she still wishes for me to be one of the breeders. She listens to my conversation and I know there will be a less accepting reply.

“Why do you have to discuss this with your mother? Do you think it’s appropriate to tell your mother about these types of things?” There is discontent in her voice. I don’t care though. I want her to suck in this part of my life, and the more I share, the less obtrusive it will be.

“I don’t mind sharing at all. I want you to be apart of my life, and I should feel comfortable discussing these topics with you”.

The man at the gym was around forty. I am saddened at the fact that I have only seen him once before in the past year, but this time we both acknowledged each other. I feel a spark, which is rare and wonderful, and he is onboard. Yet, we didn’t say hi to each other. He made the attempt but while he was forming the conversation, and starting to approach me, I jet off in another direction.

My Aunt Car (Carol) and my mother are visiting Paul and I in September. By that time, I will be moved in to my new place, and I will be further practicing my interior design skills. I want the place to be wonderful, and I want Paul to feel comfortable having my crazy family over.

I plan on having cook dinners; traditional Newfoundland meals, lots of alcohol, time on the deck at night where we all sit around smoking and drinking. I miss them so much, and I can tell you I’m looking forward to this reunion. It’s the first time since coming out that I will have seen some of my family.

My aunt and mother curse and use vulgarity at ease. It's second nature to see one of them sitting at the dining table and asking someone to "pass the fucking pepper", only have downing a few glasses of wine of course; they aren't complete rednecks.

I’ve been trying to fill Paul in on what type of people he should expect, but I don’t think he takes me seriously. They are the most unconventional Canadians you could imagine.

I can see some great times ahead. I have company next weekend. It’s a young lad who currently lives in Vancouver. He is an ex tennis pro who grew up in Australia. I’m very intrigued by him. His voice is sexy, and he is a bad boy, much like myself. I love situations like this. There is no commitment, no expectations; just two guys who want to get to know each other.

Relationships are over-rated. I prefer this way of things. I prefer having this non-conventional way of thinking, and I relish in the attempts at forming subtle bonds with other gay males who have no interest in relationships.

Besides that I’m off to Montreal. I have only been to the sister city Quebec City and am looking forward to it. I will be traveling with two friends; one of which I can’t take to, and I don’t plan on having a group vacation. I play on blending into the city as quickly as possible and meeting interesting people. If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s blending in, and forming superficial relationships.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Onions sacks and kittens

My grandparents had - on average - five cats at a time throughout their lives. When my family and I would visit their house, I would see white cats, tabby cats, pregnant cats; bowls were strewn everywhere, along with various fishes and meats. On my trip to my grandparent’s kitchen, to nose through their fridge, I would be attacked by these purring beasts that knew only absolute gluttony and laziness.

My mother would sometimes get a phone call telling us that they had a new litter of kittens. Even in the late eighties and early nineties, small town out port communities would not spade or neuter their cats. Most animals would roam around freely with all their reproductive organs in tact.

She had a distain for her mother's fetish with cats. “Crazy old bitch,” as she lit up a cigarette and plunged us into our Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. “Your grandmother is nuts.”

Seeing the cats would always excite my sister. She is a great animal lover. There were times when we would be highway driving and a squirrel would pop in front of us. Normally, if it were me, I would not flinch and keep true to the lane. My sister on the other hand would suddenly jerk the wheel in any direction, grind the breaks, and scream at the top of her lungs, only to see the squirrel make it’s way to safety. My heart would skip beats and I would always be anxious with her behind the wheel.

I’m ok with the act of saving a member of the wildlife. I mean, I can’t judge her for wanting to save a squirrel; for my life, and for the lives of her passengers, I would have expected her to check the left lane for oncoming traffic first. I value my life more than a squirrel.

My gleeful sister and I would run into my grandparent’s home to see the kittens. The women together adoring the pile of sickly kittens, and my grandfather and I would prepare for the journey.

For some reason he would always wait for me. Maybe it’s a rite of passage? Maybe it's an age old tradition that made boys into men. I’m not sure, but he took great pride in letting me be apart of the population control

We would walk into the musty old basement. It was in need of a dehumidifier and smelled of dampness. The bottom part of the house was carpeted and there were many doors leading into smaller rooms. Pop would grab a large neon orange onion sack and make his way upstairs.

The kittens by this point were tired of my sister’s relentless efforts to pick them up. The mother cat, in all her glory, would hiss and display her displeasure of this festering creature. Milk would run freely from her breast as she swayed over to the last kitten touch; she would smell and then lick the scent of my sister off of the kitten.

They say cats do not possess the same emotions as we do. I disagree, I mean, I think cats are more cleaver than we think. That cat knew that was going to happen, and I’m sure it isn’t the first time her cradle has been robbed by Grandpa.

My Pop would gather all the small kittens up and throw them into the onion sack. Seven or eight, small kittens, making panicked sounds, away from their mother, and not knowing what will happen next.

It would always be a sunny day. Summers. We would track down the lane, past the dog berry and evergreen trees that will always be stunted and sickly. Passing Uncle Larry’s house we would take a right down Blackwood’s lane. The lane itself slopped downward to another small cove of houses. And in the middle of this isthmus we would stop by the shore, gazing down into the reflective water. I know there are countless graves here. This will not be the first or the last time, and this place holds meaning to all men to come by this part of the shore.

He would look at me, almost asking with his eyes, if I wanted to do it this time. I would always look back with hatred and disgust. I would want to scream at him, “Why don’t you just fix your fucking cats. This is an atrocity”. I would always have this anger inside of me, this hatred for this act, and I know I could never talk back.

He would take the sack of kittens, which didn’t cease their crying, and fling them over the bank, into the icy ocean. A great splash, a ripple, and than calm. The air bubbles from the kittens would then float up from the buried sack. We would stand there in silence watching; I would hope that the kittens could escape somehow, but I think my grandfather watched to make sure that the deed would be completed. The last thing he needed was another kitten finding its way back to Nan.

“Those Goddamn cats,” he would blurt out. It would be the only words exchanged until get got back to the house.

It’s such a savage land. People ask me all the time how it differs from the rest of Canada. Growing up in a small out port isn’t something I would wish upon any person who is accustomed to the world. It’s a hard place.