Chestnuts Roasting...

This time of year usually amounts to me getting fat, losing motivation, feeling lonely, broke, and not wanting to leave my apartment. The older I get the more difficult the holidays become. I am continually reminded by family that I am single and not getting any younger, asked questions I don’t want to answer, have to hear about so-and-so’s engagement then feign interest in stories about medical conditions. Every Christmas morning my mother reminds me that when I have a boyfriend I will no longer get a stocking full of razors... I am not sure what the implication of that is but it always feels like a threat.

Today I decided that it was time to cast off the negative vibe and remember why this used to be my favorite time of year. When I was little Christmas meant listening to the Carpenters Christmas while my sister and I pranced about with tinsel draped around our necks. My mom would pull out all the campy Christmas crap she had collected over the years and every room had something special- even the toilets got Santa caps. It meant having an electric candle light in my room which illuminated everything blue or orange depending on the color my mom chose that year. I could twirl endlessly in a red velvet skirt with gold fringe on the edges (the Christmas tree skirt ) and no one would think twice- God I loved that. I have fond memories of lilac candles on evergreen advent wreaths, lighting one each Sunday evening in anticipation of Santa’s visit. It was the time when everything felt magical and wishes came true.

As you probably noticed I had no idea that according to my father and the Catholic Church Christmas was about the birth of Jesus- then again who does anymore.

My earliest and one of the best Christmas memories is from when I was four. At that age my main concerns were

1. playing Barbies with my sister
2. singing & dancing
3. organizing my stuffed animals
4. playing with blocks and matchbox cars
5. playing dress up.

I did not realize that there were games and activities that were distinct to each gender at this age. I had no idea I was different from my mother and my sister- they were my favorite people, my best friends and we were one in the same. We hung out together, laughed, played, made cookies and dinner- it all seemed normal. My sister played “boy games” with me so why couldn’t I play “girl games” with her? My parents agreed, for the most part. The first time I noticed something was different was when my mother had painted my thumb nail red and said “Don’t let your fatha’ see that”. Following that incident I was caught twice putting on my mothers make up and not thinking anything of it. Santa knew of my practices and so war was to be waged in the toys I would receive that year.

Christmas Eve my sister and I dug into our gingerbread houses and ate candy while the adults sipped sherry. I had on my blue and red flannel bathrobe and was walking around with a pink headband on because my sister had one on- everything she did I had to do as well. I am pretty sure it was the first time I knew what was actually going on (seeing as it IS my earliest Christmas memory). Once we had run around and worn ourselves out of the sugar high it was time for bed.

My weary mother tucked me in, turned on my blue candle light and said to make sure I slept all the way through the night or Santa wouldn’t come. She leaned in and gave me a good night kiss smelling of perfume and powder with a hint of tart wine- the fanciest smell in the world. I obeyed her and forced my eyes shut. That night felt like an eternity.

Finally I saw the sun and knew it would be OK to sneak downstairs and see if Santa came. I hopped out of bed and into my sister’s room. There she slept amongst her stuffed animals in full barrettes and ribbon beauty looking like a princess. I cautiously walked over and her eyes flew open. We giggled and suddenly there was rustling from my parent’s room. It was time.

My parents were worn and tired, probably hung-over, dreading the day of screaming and family that was about to ensue but they did not show it. My dad got the camera and told us we had to wait for him to go down first. My dad trotted down the stairs and made a big deal of all the presents with audible “OH MY! WOAH LOOK AT THAT!!”.

I almost peed my pants in excitement.

We were given the "OK" and we descended the steps holding hands. We reached the landing and my sister and I screamed- the place was FLOODED with gifts . I don’t mean a mild two or three big things and a bunch of crap- I mean play houses, sleds, toys and more toys. I have no idea how my parents afforded all of it but it was truly amazing. We quickly separated hands and flew towards the gifts.

The room was divided up between the two of us with gender specific toys most prominent so we would know which side to go to. Each of us had a full on toy store display to rummage through and scream “WOW” as we tore through gift after gift. My sister began to play in her new cardboard play house as I went through my stash of goods. A yellow Tonka dump truck, a fire engine, more blocks, matchbox cars, star wars action figures- so much good stuff. Then I saw the first truly awesome gift- a cowboy outfit laid out and next to it a POM POM!!! I yelped and looked over for my sister's approval. She stood proudly behind me with a pom pom in hand to! I put the cowboy hat on my head and we waved our pom pom's around and chirped with delight. I was in heaven, dress up AND a pom pom what could be better.

Then I saw it.

She was beautiful.

I stopped my cheering and my pom pom slid out of my hand as I stood dumbfounded by her beauty. I was nervous at first as she was in the middle of the divide and it could go either way- could be my sisters, could be mine- which was it? I continued to stare at her. I glanced longingly at my mom and she nodded “go ahead”.

Slowly I walked over to her. I saw her brown polyester hair shining in the Christmas tree lights, her perfect complexion, her pouted lips, her Carmen Miranda looking disco outfit. It was mine, my very own BARBIE! I ran towards her and picked up her little busty body. Something was off about her- she was kind of hollow and not as heavy as my sisters Barbies, she seemed "cheap" if that was possible, plus she had brown hair- Barbie was BLONDE. I didn’t care, I cast off all doubt about who she was and just knew she was mine and I loved her. I could not put her down. I removed my cowboy hat, walked over to the Tonka truck, placed her in it and started doing her hair. Later I changed into the full cowboy outfit for pictures and did her hair again. I must have done her hair about 20 times that morning.

When the extended family arrived I was told to put her away in my room and not let anyone see her. Throughout the day I would check on her to make sure she hadn’t walked away or run off with Ken. She was there, staring blankly at me in her tacky flammable gown amongst the rest of my stuffed animals sending me pouty love. I would tell her not to move and I would be back, run down the stairs and continue having Christmas while thinking about her brown lustrous hair, her glamorous multicolored blue, yellow,orange and red ruffled gown and what fun we would have once everyone was gone.

Last Christmas my mom and I were watching the home movies from that year. There I was, headband and all skipping about in excitement.

“You know, that’s the year I got that knock off Barbie”.

My mom nodded and smiled.

“I loved that Barbie!”

She nodded once again and supped her scotch. She sighed, looked over at me in a tipsy glow and relayed the brief story of how Carmen Miranda dollar store Barbie came to be.

My mom knew I loved to play Barbies even when I tried to hide it. She knew my secret wish was one of my own. One day while out shopping she was inspired and bought a knock off Barbie for me (in case I didn’t really like it) and did not tell my father. Christmas Eve while they were setting up the gifts my mother pulled out the toy and placed it on my side of the floor. My father asked her what it was for and she responded “oh you know he plays Barbies with his sistah, I thought he might want one”. My father apparently was not too happy. The agreement was to place the knock off Barbie in the middle ground and see if I would notice it. My mother knew I would as I was observant but she obliged and placed the doll under the tree but a touch more on my side than my sisters.

Her little son did not let her down, he found that Barbie and thanks to her the best Christmas ever.

Sorry for the delay but..

Hi, I apologize for no new exciting posts or stories where I make an ass out of myself. I am at the end of my semester and will resume very soon (really soon)!

Silver Sailor (another hot flash)

Yesterday I was walking down the street with my ear plugs in (my new thing, it helps drown out all the idiots) and I passed by a store window where I saw a silver lame' top for the holidays on a female mannequin in a disenchanted pose amongst a series of paper snow flakes. I suddenly broke out in a cold sweat and was sent spinning into a whirl of highly frothed whipped gay images from the past. The usual "STOP IT" flew out of my mouth before I knew it and I continued walking. Each step was a flash bulb going off in my head.

Flash
I am 18
Flash
A sailor hat
Flash
Bell bottoms
Flash
A silver lame' shirt
Flash
Me holding a clip board at a gay foam party

Next thing I knew I was walking into traffic, my face red with shame and my umbrella blown open.

When I was 16 there was nothing I wanted more than a silver lame' shirt to go clubbing in. I had remembered afternoons filled with Donahue and Sally where they interviewed the New York City club kids and all the flamers had on dramatic make- up, brightly colored hair and loud lame' shirts- it was my first real exposure to openly gay men. Now that I had come out to friends I had decided it was to time to fulfill my destiny as a gay, run away to New York, make it as Broadway actor by day and lead a fabulous life by night. I wanted a wardrobe filled with platform shoes, tight pants, loud shirts- but most importantly- a silver lame’ shirt. The idea haunted me- silver lame', silver lame', SILVER LAME'. It was like that damn "I want my golden arm" camp fire story.

When I turned 17 my friend LCL took me shopping in New York City. We visited Patricia Fields so she could pick up some make up and check out the shoes. When we walked in I began to sort through the racks and there it was- SILVER DESTINY. I let out a short yelp and snatched it from the rack. It wasn't lame' (I had since realized that lame' is an incredibly uncomfortable material) but it was shiny, reflective, stretchy and hot. I immediately ran to a mirror and put it up against my body.

There I stood in my cords, flannel, and converse draping the god awful shiny fabric over my emaciated torso. The music grew in my ears, the room began to swirl, and I saw it- the future I had planned. I was fantastic, I was hosting club nights, I was in magazines, I was on Maury Povich talking about my life, I was the "it" boy- I was a success! I had to try it on, I just had to! I stepped behind the glittering curtain and threw off the flannel. I put arms through the cold fabric and sapped it up carefully. My skin was quivering and light bit of sweat formed on my brow. I turned around to face myself in the dressing room mirror- It was exactly what I wanted. I was convinced I looked great in reflective clothing, LCL agreed. 80$ later I was sure this silver piece of garbage would buy my happiness and acceptance into the "community".

It sat in my closet for a year.

When I was 18 I finally was old enough to get into a club without the aid of slutty teenage girls. LCL invited me to visit her in NYC where we planned a night of debauchery at The Tunnel. I decided it was time to break out SILVER DESTINY. I was so excited to finally wear it out in public and display my glistening glory. I was here, I was definitely queer and well, everyone but me was used to it.

What goes best with a silver shirt? Why a little sailor hat, a pair of tight, tan, second hand bell bottoms and clunky 90s shoes of course! The outfit was perfection. I was perfection, sickly teenage thin, looking like I was 12 in my tight clothing.

We had a great night out- we danced our asses off and at one point there was a circle watching us, I even heard someone shout "Damn that boy can dance". I had never felt happier. LCL was a great host and showed me off like a new toy. We even relaxed and did some underage drinking in the bathroom that Chloe Sevigny had her "I have HIV and am freaked out" walk in KIDS- I was in love with my outfit, NYC and living the dream.

I should have put it away, a one time deal and a memory to be savored. However, that was just not my style at that point- I was still confused and needed more.

That same summer I was living in Providence with WAGIN and desperately in need of a job. I had found an ad for a club promoter at this new gay club "Generation X". I was sort of done with the whole club kid/Broadway actor idea and was onto the "starving artist" notion. However when I read the ad I heard it- the thumping techno pounding in my brain- I saw it - me, club kid extraordinaire, fabulous, loved by all, and living the life. I called the number and went for an interview where I met a beefy gay 32 year old pervert. I got the job.

My “job” consisted of me walking around this "club" with a clip board talking to men and getting them on the mailing list. This "club" also had male strippers who would give you a private dance in the back (blow job) for a fee. I was oblivious to this. I was so blinded by my path to the top as a club promoter all I saw was “nightlife” (as lame as it was in Providence).

The big promotion for two weeks was the "foam party". If anyone has been to one of those events you know it is a nasty dirty affair- at that time I had no idea. I promoted that event with all my heart from 9pm to 12am. I told people how much fun it was going to be and what a great chance it was to meet other single gay men (At 18 I did not know anything about dating but there I was BS'n away). The final night of promotion before the party Beefy Boss came up to me and said "hey wear something special for the party". Oh and I did…

That night I prepped like a girl on prom night. I took a long hot shower, scrubbed everything down, did my hair, and clipped my nails, walked around in my underwear, put on moisturizer- the works. Out of the clothing chest came the pants, the hat, my new John Fluevog boots and SILVER DESTINY. I slowly dressed and saved the hat for last. I slightly tilted it to the side for effect- I thought I was the BOMB.

I arrived at the club and clacked my way across the pavement in my wooden soled shoes (giving me shin splints). I had the confidence of a Miss America contestant. I walked in the door and said hello to the surly lesbian that worked the door. She looked me up and down and waved me past with a quizzical look and went back to reading her book. I sashayed over to the bar where Beefy Boss was and gave a giant confidant smile. His face was not the face I expected- it was a face of "holy shit he really did get dressed up" combined with holding in laughter. The other sporty lesbian at the bar said "what the hell are you wearing, that’s not YOU!” Beefy boss immediately jumped in and said "You look great! Absolutely great! I would put you on the stage with the strippers if I could" and handed me the clip board "Now go get em!”

My confidence was waning.

Did I look stupid? Had Silver Destiny lost its touch in those few weeks? How could that be, everyone loves reflective material in the gay community right? I mean, I love reflective material… right? I went to the bathroom on the verge of a breakdown to check myself in the mirror. I looked great. "Fuck this place- this is Providence god damn Rhode Island, New York LOVED me!" I shouted like a mad man. I washed my hands and slammed the bathroom door.

Confidence renewed I went out and talked to strangers asking them to sign up for mailings and told them to go out to the patio and enjoy the foam. After about an hour and only two signatures I realized I had not even seen this “foam party”. I headed on out to the patio for a peak of the "fun". There it was- a small group of shirtless strung out looking fags grinding up on each other squealing, bumping, and humping amidst a sea of frothy grayish colored foam. I was shocked; it was like a bubble bath with a bunch of people- dirty slimy people TOUCHING each other all over, not caring, worst of all with all that soap NO ONE gets clean! I went in for a closer look, careful not to get foam on my Fluevogs. I was spotted by one amorous older hairy man who began to beckon me over. He gathered up a bunch of foam and SPLASH - nasty human sweat filled foam got all over my beautiful shirt and some in my mouth. Suddenly I was awake for the first time in my silver haze.

This was not who I was. The sporty lesbian knew it but I obviously didn’t. I didn’t even like this shirt all that much anymore let alone the stupid hat and the terrible music blaring in my ears during my revelation. I enjoyed the Smiths, sulking, smoking pot and drawing with WAGIN not squealing in piles of foam. Why the HELL was I here listening to crap music pretending to be something I obviously was not?! I felt a fool. I had been playing a game for so long I thought it was who I was. I clacked off the patio, placed my clip board on the bar, took off my hat and headed out the front door. I never looked back.

I called WAGIN on my "car phone" and told her I was coming home. When I climbed the stairs in defeat there she was to welcome me. I changed out of my clothes and joined her in the living room. She was waiting with open arms, a bowl, my sketch pad and some old records for us to listen to. I never felt more confused in my life.

I still see myself, from the outside, standing there, smiling like a fool in that outfit, trying so hard. I just wanted to fit in with gay men. I wanted to make gay men like me. I wanted to do what I was “supposed” to do as a gay man as told to me by the media, Sally and Phil. I never thought about what I wanted to do for me and who I was as an individual. I had never realized that you don't have to be outragous to prove you are comfortable with your sexuality. I guess that’s what being 18 is all about right?