Day CXXXVIII: Pube

There are some gross things in the world, you guys. 

Poverty. War. Famine. 

Just to name a few. 

But there are a few nasty things that are gross on a very superficial level.

You know, like a dislodged pube in a public bathroom.

I had to do a double take, standing above, because I was pretty sure what I was seeing was a curly fry.

Nope.

Just the longest, most terrifying hair I've ever seen from a nether region.

And why blog about it, right? That's pretty gross.

But, honestly, I leave for ALA in 24 hours and I am mentally wiped. This icky moment seemed like just the right thing to share.

So, enjoy, and watch your step.

Day XCIV: Snapchat

We are a generation of social media. Has anyone told you this? Apparently, a giant subset of humans--generally around my age and slightly younger--live more in the confines of Facebook and Instagram and Twitter than they do in their physical environment. Texting is how conversations work, phone calls are for emergency use only.

And if you're sending an email that isn't work related...

The golden days are over, ladies and gents, and we have ushered in the era of visual communication. 

And, god, am I fine with that.

Don't you ever wonder how we communicated without Snapchat? You know, last winter? Or how did you find your way around a convoluted city without Google maps? When did you first meet Siri? Do you remember what life was like without her condescending, robotic tone?

If you're not being retweeted, liked, double-tapped, tagged, or swiped right, WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?

I digress. Social media and technology have revolutionized our lives. And I am certainly not going to be the one to defend either end of the spectrum. It's neither good nor bad. It just is.

So rather than glorify our advances in communication or rant and rave about how great things used to be, I thought I'd share a few things I would never have learned without the assistance of one of my favorite apps, Snapchat. Photographic conversations--often aided with text and voice and art!--have become several of my daily highlights. And, god, what an easy way to stay in touch with your favorite people who may not be talkers or texters. You might not have the time to respond with sentences and feelings, but, dammit(!), you've got time to snap a pictorial representation.

You didn't come here to read anyway, right? You came here for the excitement and drama of the life of America's Favorite Twenty-Four Year Old!

Me!

This is Bernard. He's smoking a joint. His dreads are very pretty. He's not happy that I'm posting this because he thinks it's going to jeopardize is job.

It wont. Because he's a cat.

This is Sigmund Freud as a finger puppet. He hangs out in my window. When I was visiting my family in Colorado, Bernard expressed his pining for my presence by knocking Freud from his post. It was a sweet gesture, don't you think?

Kyle is my roommate. I haven't told him that I am gay yet. So, mostly, he tries to lure me out of the house with the promise of sex with women. And no one is believing it.

Ehren got a new dog and SWEET BABY JESUS (great name for a dog, right?) that little fluff muffin is effing adorable. It's not helpful that I received this snap right in the middle of my own puppy fever. There are some damn cute Saint Bernards in the area...

Well, yeah, Lauren. Who doesn't?

You know when your best friend has "big, beautiful, Spanish eyes" and wants to show them off under the thinly-veiled guise of struggling with a face mask? Yeah.

When my roommate Sibley wears a hat, zooms in tight, and contorts her face and smile: she does an incredible impression of Haley Joel Osment if he'd been gay and emo at fifteen years old. Just kills it.

I seriously need to come out to more people...

Couldn't Abby's cheekbones just cut you in fucking half?

Something really odd happened to Bethany after she moved from Minneapolis to Portland. But if SNL ever needs to reshoot the infamous Mom Jeans commercial, I know just the lady.

Vaughn sends a lot of snaps of him eating at work. I can't decide if the salami is supposed to have a face, or if he just tried and failed to get his tongue through the other holes.

Jenny Katz was the lucky recipient of an incredibly blessed pamphlet. Did you know that after praying, you can just mystically receive $47,000 to get back on your feet?! Me either.

Needless to say, I've been waiting for my Jesus Cash for a few days...










There are plenty more where that came from. And I think I may have found a new favorite feature...

Day LXXXV: Touch

Chest to chest, nose to nose, palm to palm,

we were always just that close.

Scratching at the sky--branches, twigs, sticks clawing at space--a tree waves hello from just beyond the window. A waltz, maybe, or a foxtrot, partnered with a gray, gray cloud and moving to the sound of rain. Lots of rain. A torrent. A downpour. How the buds, the fingers manage to keep up is beyond me.

I see hands in the tops of oaks and maples. Lithe, toned waists and arms in the bodies of pines. Powerful legs in the trunk of an elm. And they are all twisting and melting memories of you. Of them. Of every moment in bed, waiting for the day to turn out, to brighten up, secretly praying that, perhaps, the clouds will linger for twenty minutes more and keep us entwined. 

a memory 

Wine. Too much for the afternoon. Whites and reds, my favorite from New Zealand. 

King's Road. Bustling. A marked taxi honks a warning, steers slightly rightward, curses with its driver. 

Rain. Quiet, but present. Always somewhere. Asking questions: where's your umbrella? Aren't you cold? Am I ruining your day? Did you leave your keys at the library? 

A library. What a funny place for a wine tasting. 

Inside: we nap. Or try to. It's tough in a twin. Stirring succumbs to hands, to locked fingers, to locked lips, to tangled sheets, to troublesome denim. And the very edge of touch, soft, finding a new landscape.  

Hands. The cartographers of the body.

The louder the wind, the more deliberately it drags the limbs of trees against the sky, the more closely it resembles an angry voice shushing the world. Bullets splash against the sidewalk. A draft shakes the room, a door closes. A bell rings. Footsteps. Creaking wood. Repeat.

a memory 

Thunder. 

Thunder. 

More thunder. Lightning. Stars? Or spaceships? Or visitors from beyond?  

You were curious, meant each question. 

Wine. Too much for the evening. 

Footsteps through a quiet, sprawling home. A single room. One bed for you, the same one for me.  

Our bones wrap. Your hand on mine, warmer than a smile. Warmer than your legs, painting the back of mine. Two feet tapping, retreating, playing beneath the sheet. Inhaling, exhaling: noses pressed together. Shift once. Shift twice. Embrace, nudge, relax, melt. Repeat.

I wonder--often--if the memories we share exist with you too. 

I worry--seldom--that they live only in me.

On rainy days, these cuddly, nuzzly, evenings and haunted afternoons, I think of touch. 

And I wonder if touch is doing the same.

LXXIV: Three

The thing about Wednesday: I always end up with a story from the day that I don't get to share because of my commitment to #WigWednesday. And then, because I tend to be the most scatterbrained of all people, I forget what I actually wanted to share with you all.

But not tonight! No, tonight I am on top of things. For you, I have three stories to share from my Wednesdeay. I hope you'll enjoy them.

Wet

Wasn't it fun how it snowed and rained all Sunday long? The accumulation of snow and sleet really cemented the beauty of spring.

As you may have guessed from my post on Tuesday, I had a bit of a rocky Monday. Luckily, the blood moon kept me pretty energized throughout the evening and I was able to spring back up on my feet in time for Tuesday to roll around. And while staying up until 3 am enjoying the orange orb in the sky and writing through some weirdness was probably not a great idea, I felt surprisingly ready for the morning.

Teeth brushed, body showered, feet booted: I was ready for the day. Bustling out of the apartment, I was ready to get to work, get through the day, and move on to an exciting night. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the loud children next door--who are usually unbearable in the early hours of the day--were suspiciously silent. Ah, yes, it was going to be a good day. And then I sat down in my car.

After the rain.

After the snow in the night.

After leaving my moon roof open for 12 ungodly hours.

So with a soaked ass, and not one single ounce of dignity, I drove to work, the butt of my jeans significantly darker than the rest. 

Now, yes, this was Tuesday. And this was supposed to be a story about Wednesday! Fear not: we're getting there. 

Cut to me, standing outside of Bull Run, chatting with my grandpa. We must have talked for 50 minutes! It was a nice long discussion about all sorts of things. Mostly, it was just to catch up. So we CAUGHT UP. For a while! And it was great! But I ended up walking up and down the streets of my neighborhood the entire time we had our conversation. So when it came time to go inside after our lengthy chat, I was little...well...moist.

That's right.

Moist.

Work

Being in a new space is not without its benefits. The exploration and excitement that comes with a new environment can really contribute to the creative energies of a work space. 

One of the oft overlooked benefits of a different office: new furniture! 

I am fortunate enough to work somewhere that carries an incredibly relaxed vibe. 

So when you're a little jittery throughout the day already--namely: you can't sit still--it's helpful to have a seat that moves along with you. Whether I'm sitting, standing, or kneeling, I have a chair that rolls with the punches. Hell, I can feel my back and my core getting stronger already. If you're looking for something to keep you on your toes while doing mundane tasks, this would be my go to suggestion. 

Wardrobe

I've never shied away from talking about naked-time. You know, the time to yourself when you just get to disrobe, hangout--literally--and be yourself in the most basic possible form. I'm a fan. 

The only part of the day that I consistently get to enjoy naked-time, though, is when it's time for bed. I don't care for sleeping with clothes on. I'm a big advocate for showering before bed, so I never feel like my naked self is polluting the perfection of my bed sheets and blankets. Sleeping sans clothing just feels right to someone like me; it's something I genuinely cherish throughout the weaving hours of the week.

So, knowing that I sleep in my birthday suit, can someone please explain to me how I woke up like this on Wednesday morning?

Sweatpants? A sweater (not buttoned correctly...)? Socks?

Color me confused.

I've never been one to sleep walk--have I?!--so coming to on Wednesday morning in more clothes than I wore the entire day before was a bit puzzling. 

When I asked Kyle about it, explaining the predicament I was placed in, he helpfully offered an answer.

"Oh, is this finally when I tell you I sneak into your room and dress you every evening?"

Well, I guess that's one possibility. 

Day LXXI: Versatile

A question you hear a lot as a gay man: top or bottom? 

For day 69, I was really looking forward to posting another sexy-minded blog. 

But it came too quickly.

I'll be here all night.

Any time I include something vaguely sexual in the title, in the body, or in the photographs on this blog, my viewership rockets. Maybe I should just drag unsuspecting readers here under the false pretense of nudes or erotica? Might be to my benefit, really...

Sensationalized headlines aren't really my thing. So that's out. I don't too often feel like getting naked for a camera--a present from me to you. And while I've never tried my hand at erotic writing, I don't think I'd be too deft.

Ah, hell, let's give it a shot.

Amanda tugged at her bra straps. Emory swiped his belt. They met, forged by lust, a hammer and anvil in sweltering, immolating passion. They did unspeakable things. They made sounds like animals. They had sexual intercourse and it was very hot.

Damn: now that's a scene.

Predictably, erotica's not for me.

But that doesn't mean I can't give it a shot. While I may never seize the opportunity to write a masterpiece of entwining limbs and reckless passion, the possibility is comforting. An array of options: that's what keeps us on our toes. It's the same line of thinking that propagates choice as the ultimate freedom. You can do this, you can do that; the blank is never occupied at the end of the question.

That's why I choose to be versatile.

And I mean it. The most beautiful part of existence is that every path, every road, every option is viable, is tangible, is possible. Some take more work than others--and some make no fucking sense. But that's fine. Being open to the possibility of difference and the unforeseen: it's worth it. And so are you.

I used to be on OKCupid. The worst part of a dating site is the setup. I loathe talking about myself (which I understand makes no sense since attention is my lifeblood) and I never felt like it allowed me to represent who I am. I guess the same applies to anything you develop for the world to view. It's always going to be an idealized snapshot of who you are. I like to think that sincerity and vulnerability--two of my favorite qualities--help mediate that, but it's difficult to say.

In many ways, being versatile is my identity.












I don't mind getting dirty.
















I'm perfectly at home in a hunting hat and cutoffs.

Or in a wig.

















Or looking like this.

Or stepping in a decomposed deer while hiking in flip-flops.





Okay.

Maybe not that last one. That's a story for another time.

But you get it.

I guess I'm trying to persuade you, dear reader, that being versatile is sexy. That one-note is boring. That opening yourself up to experience is a stunning and crucial part of existence. And being proud of the conglomerated mess that you are is some kind of wonderful.

As for the answer to the question posed at the beginning of the blog?

I think I'll leave it blank.

Day XXX: Condom

It's day 30. In Roman Numerals, that's triple-X! So, for this evening, I thought it would be appropriate to share my sexiest post yet. And, let's be honest, nothing about this blog has been particularly sexy--unless you count the three super hot #SundaySelfies (which we don't)--so maybe it's time for an injection of promiscuity.

And what better way to get things sexified than with a portrait of my sexiest body part.

Wow. Can you believe how damn good my ear looks?

In all seriousness, I'd like to share a sexy, sexy story with you. And it all starts with a snap from Monday morning.

Now, Mondays are traditionally my least favorite day of the week. It's the start of the work week--ick--and that means you have five long days before you get to enjoy the solace and complacency and beauty of the weekend. It's also the day before we get to watch RuPaul's Drag Race which causes an insurmountable amount of lag between Monday and Tuesday. Basically: it's an incredibly painful day that just begs to be dismissed. 

And, yes, it's true that yesterday crawled by slower than a half-speed high school production of The Ten Commandments, but it started off with a bang (AND THAT'S A VERY FUNNY JOKE THAT YOU'LL GET VERY SOON).

I was just getting my day started downtown. Daily, I park in the lot across from the Lumber Exchange Building, the massive brick structure that houses my office. It's a shady little sixty car open-air facility that is "monitored" by the police and is comfortably nestled between an adult entertainment facility--a porn dungeon--and the Gay 90s. So, really, I guess all my days start with a healthy dose of sexiness. Huh.

Anyway, I parked in space 34. It's one of those pre-pay places. You take note of your space, hustle to the machine, and punch in a few numbers to indicate where and for how long you'll be parking. I took note of the the large block numbers and scurried over to pay station. Of course, a line three people deep--each of them bundled for the cold within an in inch of their life--had formed. Just my luck. How obnoxious. 

Of course there's always that guy or girl in front of you that, for the life of them, cannot figure out how to properly insert their card into the slot. Listen, sir. I see you park here every day. If you can't figure out how to insert your card by now, even with the blatantly clear diagram right above the slit reading "insert here," you probably have bigger issues than worrying about a $22 parking ticket.

Eventually, the line fades and it's finally my turn to pay for parking. By now, I've memorized the numbers I need to punch in, so tapping the keypad is sort of an automated habit. As I zoned out, my fingers mindlessly going through the motions, I noticed a peculiar object on the ground.

A condom wrapper.

Now, I'm no prude. So my objections to the condom wrapper in the dirty, cigarette-lined snow were purely formed from confusion and concern.

1. It's Minnesota. It's winter. What the hell are you doing having sex outside? Weren't you at all worried that your genitals would freeze up, fall off, and turn into the most disturbing and anatomically correct popsicles you've ever seen? I've heard of penis pops--a bachelorette party party favor, I think--but a frozen and displaced penis next to an ancient parking meter? Seems like a recipe for disaster or the next Coen Brothers movie. Either way, I'm not interested.

2.  In a parking lot? Right, because nothing says sexy like, "Do you have enough quarters for half an hour?" What could possibly turn one on about a bunch of filthy, salty, snow-covered automobiles? Unless you're into muffler play--and, fine, that's insane, but whatever--there's nothing sexy about a parking lot.

3. You couldn't be bothered to take care of the wrapper? Did it just come out of nowhere? Were you in such a rush in the sleaziest parking lot in Minneapolis that you couldn't throw the wrapper in a pocket or in the trash that is literally four steps from where you tossed the evidence? Who are screwing from the Brass Rail or the Gay 90s that is that desperate for some tail? (Okay, sorry, that last point is totally moot. You'd be harder pressed to find someone who wasn't that desperate.)

Well, whoever it was, I hope it was worth it. 

And, I guess, at the very least:

Can you say "chilly willy?"

It was safe!