I have many things to tell you about but no time right now to tell you.

Coming up:

The Mystery Of The Park For Whites Only

A Revelation With The Therapist

Quitting My Job

The Damn Contest I've Been Promising!!!

Coming Out, Again (Pt. 2)

What's The Deal With The Dirty Sex Dreams?

At any rate, The Ex had been planning a trip to Cali. Over the weekend he threw his back out (again) and e-mailed me that he was calling off the trip. The same trip that would have left me all alone in my castle high atop Second Avenue for almost five days. I urged him to reconsider. I pointed out that his back may not be as serious as he thinks and maybe he should wait before taking such drastic actions. I freely admit I didn't give a shit about his tweeky back. I just wanted the place to myself for a few days. I would love to get it cleaned up and have it stay that way for more than a day or two. I would love to invite a "date" over for some filthy gay sex. I would love to have a shower and not worry about covering myself between the bathroom and my bedroom. Luckily, he has since determined that his back isn't as bad as he thought. The trip is back on and as an additional bonus, I have a four day break coming up the following week. I have much to accomplish, but if I don't engineer some filthy gay sex during the course of my days off, I will feel like I let us both down.

But the free ride is over. Today I left the Dr's office with my new prescriptions for HIV meds. More later but I have to get to work. Details after if I don't get drunk.

Yes. This post is about exactly what you think. Sort of. I was wondering today when I'm gonna stop being such a horny fucker. Seriously. I thought I was supposed to be suffering from low testosterone? I thought the ravages of my impending doddering old age would quiet my raging libido. Isn't my prostate supposed to enlarge sometime soon and cause me discomfort enough to turn me off sex? Not that I'm wishing for any of that any time soon. It's just ridiculous sometimes how much of my life is still ruled by my cock!

Yesterday after a fortifying cup of coffee, I started fiddling with my




.... new laptop. Honestly people! I didn't have time before work the day before to do anything but take it out of the box. It's shiny surface tormenting me in my mind. But I was too tired to do much after back to back shows, so when I got home I turned it on to confirm it was working and that's about it. I wasn't about to go on-line until I had protected my new toy from those nasty viruses. (Tee-Hee!) Don't want my PC catchin' The AIDS..... (I had this same conversation with a Best Buy salesperson. I don't know what he was thinking I found so funny, but it was all I could do not to bust out in guffaws as he warned me about how there were nasty viruses out there. Do tell, sport. Where were you when I needed you?) So yesterday I thought I'd just put the keys in, turn it on and go.

Not so fast.

While everything booted fine, something wasn't working with my built in Wi-Fi. While it managed to "see" my system and managing some sort of connection, I was still getting a "no connectivity" error message. Something about the IP address pointed me in a direction to look. I mistakenly thought for the longest time that my IP address should be the same for both machines. That didn't work. Whatever I changed next brought me off-line systemwide. After recycling my router, Vonage router and Verizon modem, I managed to get the guts up and running. But my poor little laptop was still left alone in the cold outside the WEP protection of my system . An electronic Little Match Girl. I grew increasingly frustrated. I instinctively knew I knew how to accomplish this none too difficult task. But by now I was so frustrated I couldn't think. So of course I dialed up my current favorite internet porn site. As a supposed "straight" jock with a seriously hot cock said straight things like "you like that hot ass?" and "Oh, yeah. Fuck me harder." Straight indeed. It was still wicked hot, and with a moan and a shudder, I shot a hot load. Now I'm not making this part up. I no sooner had wiped up my now limp and sticky cock and tucked it back into my gym shorts, slipped on some sandals and headed out of the bedroom whereupon exactly what settings I needed for my laptop and where to find them popped into my head. (So you know, it needed the IP address from the router, from which all good "Internets" flow.) Ten minutes later, and my laptop was welcomed into the fold and christened "Tommysnewlittlebox".

This afternoon, a day later and I'm horny as fuck. I ran down a chance to attend an HIV+ (only) sex party that was supposed to happen but went kerflooey. I had cruised the Manhunt line, keeping a toe in the water all afternoon. I got nibbles but nothing. So I find myself at the laundromat, hoping to find satisfaction in a bag of clean clothes. That's not really a joke. I do get a weird sense of satisfaction (relief?) after I complete the laundry for the week. I feel ... settled by it. The actual wash cycle takes about 20 mins. Just enough time to head to the grocery store two blocks away and pick up what I need to complete a dinner. The drier cycle takes over 40 minutes. I like my clothes to finish completely dry. I suppose I could have purchased a magazine to pass the time. I suppose I could have purchased that computer bag I want but don't need. I instead passed my drier time at the local porno love shack. Where a hot, six foot tall bald guy with an awesome uncut cock, obligingly sucked my cock while bent over so the nice man in the adjoining booth could eat his ass and stick a finger up his hole. With porn playing on the screen beside me I was so turned on he barely had to move his head before I was ready to pop. Ever the lady, I pulled out and sprayed one in the corner. While drying my clothes. Multitask that, bitch.

Still, while I proceeded to folding my delicates, I gotta wonder how long this is going to go on. I still feel my dick twitch when a hot man with a round ass covered in denim walks by. No matter where I am or what I'm doing. If I can work an extra half hour into my gym time so I can work the steam room I do it. I'm still a fucking gland with a forty three year old fag attached. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad everything still works, and I suppose I exercise a modicum of control. But I still get led around by my cock on occasion.

musings via the New York Blade on the subject of sero-sorting. This writer wonders whether this is a form of reverse discrimination. It's not like I'm advocating not having a relationship on any level with HIV-neg men. I'm talking specifically about sex. And I can have sex (or not) with whoever I choose, can't I? Isn't that the point of the whole "gay thing"? I recently turned down a potential suitor who communicated to me on-line that he was negative but wanted to engage in a "quick pump n' dump". If you don't know that terminology, sorry, but I'm pressed for time. Needless to say, I didn't want to participate in his trip down De Nile. Besides, unfortunately if I opened myself up to sexing up everyone regardless of their HIV status, I would be running the risk of this experience. And I feel bad for my (on-line) bud. I feel bad that someone made him feel bad.

In other news ...

In a continuing effort to live beyond my means, I'm off to pick up a brand spankin' new laptop today. I fragged my old one last month in an unfortunate bodega accident. I don't really need to replace it right now. But I can so I will.

Last year. I had scheduled a trip back home to see my family in Buffalo. I believe it had been at least a year since I'd seen them. I try to make the pilgrimage at least annually, but I confess there have been times when two summers would roll by before I broke down and booked a weekend. Most people at least make it home for Christmas every year. But in my business that has been largely impossible. Lately, my brother and his wife and a couple times mom and dad resorted to making the trip in to Manhattan in the fall. The weekend consisted of visits to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and a Yankee game. But it was nice to see them, if not tiring and mind-numingly boring.

On this particular visit home, I had resolved to disclose my HIV status to my family. It was time. When I was first diagnosed one of the issues I wrestled with was when or how or what to tell my family. I got the best advice from my friend Neo I ever got. Wait. Don't tell anyone anything until you're ready. Of course, I got this advice after I told Neo almost immediately. But in keeping with the spirit of the rule, I was already ready to tell him, knowing I would get the support I needed. Disclosing to the family, however was a dicier issue. I couldn't be sure of the reaction I would get and more importantly, I couldn't control it. Control freaks no like the unknown.

The basis for my fear was rooted in my coming out. It was sometime after my 18th birthday, but before my 20th. I wish I could be clearer. I wish my memories were more intact. All I'm left with are vignettes. Scenes of things that took place in a place at a time. They are not rooted on a specific timeline, but rather take place "before this" but "after that". I have long since given up being frustrated by what is.

But I remember the catalyst. I got my ear pierced. Now mind you, I'm not so old that this was a radical act. I clearly remember many sport stars and celebrities wearing an earring. Although I am old enough to remember that two pierced ears was out of the question. But I also knew that in my family, in the household I grew up in, this would not be well received. We did not get wild haircuts. We did not get tattoos. And we most certainly did not get an earring. In other words, I picked a fight. And a fight is what I got. And so it was, that a night-time conversation ensued between me and my father at the kitchen table. I wish I could remember all that was said but most of those memories are lost to me. I remember trembling as I struggled to get the words out. I remember him asking me finally if I was gay.

I remembering responding softly "I think so, yeah."

I think he walked away.

I'm not sure how we ended up out on the front porch as our argument got progressively more heated. I was getting more angry and hurt. I said something aggressive and confrontational. And then he slapped me across the face.

"That is it!" I screamed from the lawn. Too angry (and secretly hoping) to care that the neighbors heard. "I'm leaving this shit hole and this time I'm never coming back!" I screamed and sobbed all at once. I left the house enraged and immediately began calculating where to go and who to call. I started scheming as to how I would return to sneak my clothes away and any possessions that were outright mine. I was making a list of everything I paid for that I could take. I wasn't even sure where I was walking to at this point. I felt betrayed and rejected. My father didn't love me. Again.

About 45 minutes of wandering the neighborhood in every direction I still wasn't more than three blocks from my house. My father pulled up in his car.

"Tom."

"I've got nothing to say to you. Leave me alone!"

"Fine, just stop walking and listen. I'll follow you all night if I have to."

And I knew that he would. So I stopped.

"I'm sorry that happened. I was surprised and shocked and I should have handled it differently. I lost my temper and I wasn't thinking. Come home now. If you still want to leave you can but do it right. Not like this."

" I'm not even sure where to go now."

"OK. Get in. You don't have to talk if you don't want to."

I climbed in the front seat and folded my arms. My eyes were filled with tears. We headed for home as I sat silently. After a few minutes I did have one thing to say.

"That's the last time you're ever ever going to hit me. The next time I'll hit you back."

And it was.

That night, I heard both my parents in the middle of the night. Sobbing in their bed.

A few months later I moved out.

A couple of days before one of the absolute longest, most boring hip-hop "charity" events we ever had the displeasure of hosting, a piece of mail arrived adressed to one of the headliners in c/o someone I'd never heard of. A day or two after the concert took place, the mail still undelivered, I took it upon myself to open it. What can I say, I'm curious [and larcenous] like that.

The letter enclosed was from a Manhattan woman. She identifies herself as an architect. Which I assume means she’s had some sort of formal education. The subject was infant vaccinations, HIV and AIDS. The second paragraph verbatim:

HIV came through experimental Hepatitis B vaccines given to gay men, inner city children, hemophiliacs, college students, military personnel and people traveling abroad; and also smallpox vaccine given in developing nations, beginning with Haiti, and then Africa, India and Asia.

*whew!*

and further:

These vaccines were contaminated because this country still makes vaccine by culturing it on the organs of lab animals, like the African Green Monkey. (They do?) The reason that Europe has been fighting in the WTO courts not to import American beef, is because they know of the hazards involved in using lab animals for vaccine production. (They do?) European nations and Japan have outlawed their use on humans or livestock since the mid 70's, when it became clear that many Simian (monkey) viruses had been spread into the population through vaccines. The most famous of these is SV-40, (wha?) which contaminated all of the polio vaccine in the early sixties.

She goes on to mix facts with fantasies with a soupcon of outright paranoia. She asserts that AZT is really a poison (it is) but that AIDS in Africa is actually caused by starvation. The same disease in America is explained away as a result of over medication with toxic pharmaceuticals. Or by the use of Amyl Nitrate and/or Methadone. I'm assuming the Methadone reference is a double back flip in logic to explain HIV in IV drug users. It's not the needle sharing it's the government. They're just part of the conspiracy.

And finally, I paraphrase:

African Americans are quick to take the test. When they tell us that we are positive, even though we don't feel sick, we go along with the treatment. Otherwise we are told that we are "in denial". In Africa townships get more money at the local clinic if they say their patients have AIDS instead of TB. The doctors get money and buy themselves Mercedes-Benzs (sic).....I know that people like Common think they are helping the community when they tell us to take the test. But they are setting us up to be poisoned. It's like Special Ed. in public school. They can only say you need Special Ed. if you take the test. So don't take the test. Please spread the word, if you can.

Consider the paranoid, ridiculously twisted, half-baked convoluted mess of factoids and innuendo spread, you Fruit Loop.

Love, Tom.

Coming up next week: A very special episode of From The Ashes.

The New York Times ran a piece yesterday regarding the unusually low rate of HIV infection in gay men in San Francisco . Among five major US cities with large gay populations it came in last (1.2%). In reality, citing the statistics and remarking how unusual everyone found it seemed to be a jumping off point for a discussion of sero-sorting. A process that seems to have taken hold most dramatically in that city.

For those unfamiliar with the term, sero-sorting refers to a practice of HIV+ men that only have sex with other HIV+ men. There are sometimes degrees of "sex" whereby the rules don't apply if, say, the POZ guy is giving a blow job. I certainly don't mention my HIV status if all I'm doing is giving head in a bookstore. If it's full on, both of us naked, on- the-kitchen-table sex, however, I have to say I prefer to mix it up with only HIV+ men. Of course, you can point out that I can have totally safe sex with a NEG guy and I can, and I have. But I would still feel a sense of obligation to reveal my status beforehand. You run a real risk of rejection or even worse (to me) someone who claims it's cool and then lets you know during the act that it's totally not.

Limiting myself (and I don't feel I am at all) to POZ guys makes a lot of things easier. You've got a layer of commonality built in. Now trust … just being HIV+ doesn't make an asshole less assholier. But some (a lot) of the guys are more spiritual. They take things (and themselves) less seriously. Some of them remember to make sex fun. They usually don't go running for the paper towels just cause you got a little jizz on their cheek.

You still need to negotiate what level (if any) of safe sex you're gonna practice. Some HIV+ men insist on following safe sex guidelines. Some want to avoid other STD's. Some will only swallow a load and the reverse. Some HIV+ guys that have sex with HIV+ guys just ditch the condoms altogether. And before I get any (more) SuperVirus Chicken Little e-mails, I reprint this little bit of information attributed to one Dr. Jeffery D. Klausner, who oversees sexually transmitted disease prevention at the San Francisco Department of Public Health:

Worries about acquiring a second strain were mostly unfounded. … research had shown that the risk was low, particularly after the first year or two of infection, and paled in comparison with men who are HIV+ having sex with men who are not.

So there.

I've lived with the knowledge of my HIV status for 2 1/2 years now. The first six months, I didn't have sex at all. As I slowly reclaimed my sexuality, I had to re-examine my parameters for acceptable risk to myself. To others, there was never a real question. I'm trying as hard as I can (without living alone in a cave) to avoid passing this infection on to another. Keeping my circle of sex partners to other HIV+ men seems like a good way to help insure that. Count me firmly in the sero-sorting camp. Now go on out and fuck like bunnies.

I recently flashed on a memory I had buried. I have a lot of those. I used to think the gaps in my memory were caused by forgotten sexual abuse in my past. Now I think I just don't always pay very close attention.

In any case, one bright, sunny spring afternoon I found myself in that neighborhood 'tween Chelsea and Gramercy Park,. near Park Ave. South. I happened upon the scene of a deadly traffic accident. A bicyclist, that I later found out to be a bike messenger, had a street meeting with a delivery truck, and was the decided loser. As in dead. While I was fortunate to arrive late enough to not actually witness the accident, I did come upon a very bloody street scene. The body of the victim was covered with a tarp provided by the emergency services personnel. I was informed by one of the other ghoulish onlookers that the poor man had suffered extreme head trauma. It was obvious (to me) that the bits of matter spread throughout the street was a mix of brain tissue and skull. Although the reality that he was dead wasn't a question, there was still the formality of it. In New York City, someone from the Medical Examiner's office still needs to pronounce you dead. Despite the fact that your innards are now outward. A good half hour went by. I watched onlookers linger and then leave. Just as many people walked up to the scene, slowed, and continued on their way. Such is life in New York City. Many of us are too busy to do more than pass by the scene of a traffic death.

After a time, when I presume someone official made the pronouncement of death, the appropriate people had been interviewed and the truck had been photographed and towed for evidence, emergency services placed the body on a stretcher for (again, I presume) transport to the morgue. It was then that the most remarkable thing happened. It was the part that horrified, fascinated and amazed me. Perhaps it shouldn't have. I don't know. But the part I never stopped to consider was how the scene of an extreme accident was cleaned. The answer, at least in NYC is by the Fire Department. With their hoses. And the New York City sewer system. I watched, as all the blood and skull and bits of brain matter were all unceremoniously washed down the closest street drain. It makes perfect sense. Life, and the city, must go on. Still, the coldness of the act filled me with awe and sadness. It was as if the essence of the person was being washed away. And while that's not true at all, there was a lesson to be learned. You can take life as seriously as you like. You can fail to find the joy in the things you do. You can focus on how unhappy you are in life or the person you've become. Or you can keep in mind that no matter what, there's always the possibility that your day could end with the NYFD washing what's left of your guts down the drain. And act accordingly.



I choose the latter.

I successfully escaped the stink tank of New York City for the tiny town from which I grew up. While technically, I'm still in the same state, I may as well be a million miles from my adopted home. People still leave their car doors unlocked around here, and last night I slept behind the dubious security of a locked screen door. It was all that prevented me from falling victim to a forceful gay rapist. I say, it was all that .... aw, skip it.

I couldn't resist yesterday's filth-ridden post. I trust no one's delicate sensibilities were too deeply offended.

Things have gone along as expected here in Injun' Country. Mom and dad have been sweet and very accommodating. My habit of nodding off at least once a day continues. I really think it's the quiet, and the knowledge that I don't need to do anything or be anywhere for hours at a time. The relief of that is making me lapse into the unconsciousness I deny myself as part of my daily routine. My chronically aching back seems to have disappeared. As for the liver clean-up (AISLE 6!) that's going rather well. It helps that no one in my family drinks nary a drop these days. So it's not like someone's mixing up a pitcher of martini's that I'm oh, so politely declining. Prohibition has set in 'round here. Besides, I've had a chance to test a theory. I was finding that the 5mg of Ambien I would take as a substitute for my Martini Mallet had almost no effect on me. However, double the dosage to 10mg and I'm good for at least 6 to 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep accompanied by the wildest fucking dreams. Yahoo! That's been fun!

As another side effect, I've had the chance to do some serious thinking about my life and the direction it's taken. I've made some important decisions already with more to follow. Excuse me for being cryptic, I'm just trying not to give away a good idea and trying not to brag about something before I've had the chance to bring it to fruition. Suffice it to say I believe I've solved a short-term obstacle and a long term fear as to what I was going to do in the next chapter of my life. For the first time in a long time, I'm excited about the possibilities in my future. For the first time in a long time, I'm starting to actually see a future. And to think, it took me coming all the way back to the shit-hole that spawned me, for me to actually find the answer.

Back in the city on Friday night. I have the rest of the night off from work. I suddenly realize that if I remember correctly, The Ex is probably out of town. And The Hellcat is out of town working and won't be back for days. And I finally have the apartment all to myself! Fuck yeah!

Determined to put the opportunity to good use, I took off my panties and hung them on the fire escape. Apparently, the breeze was coming from the north as my call was answered by a dirty minded East Village tattooed man. Don't even go there, I knew for a fact they weren't the same person. Mid 30's and in pretty good shape.



We retreated to my air conditioned bedroom where he immediately started stripping. I obliged as well. He had a very specific agenda that I was only too happy to indulge. To wit: he wanted to eat, finger and play with my hole. Now I know on a lot of guys, they get crazy when you play with their nipples. I know some guys that can only cum if a little titty twisting is thrown in. My hotspot is decidedly south. You play with my hole and I'll follow you anywhere. So you can imagine how much I was enjoying myself here:

We played for a good hour, me on my back, on my stomach. At one point I feared I almost suffocated him when he had me squat right over his face. Tongue was replaced by fingers, and it wasn't long before toys were brought to play. I only have a few, (for now) but I do love to experiment.





Curiously, although he was hard the whole time, he never seemed to want to actually fuck me. I was content to buck up and down on his fingers for a few minutes while he jerked off. That seemed to get the job done. We agreed to meet again. Apparently, he has a very well equipped play space at his apartment. I promise to bring the camera.

I'm off for a long weekend visiting the fam in tiny little Tonawanda, NY. I'm not looking forward to the plane ride as I'm feeling out of sorts. Fortunately, better living through chemistry ought to remedy that situation. Speaking of which, I've decided to give my liver a rest while I'm out of town. I've been overdoing the alcohol lately, and it's been interfering with some other projects I've been wanting to get started on. Not to worry, I know how to behave when I have to.

Not to repeat what I'm sure everyone else is saying, but it really is unbelievably, impossibly hot here in NYC. I'll use that as my argument to get on a plane and get the hell out of here. Right after a nice cool shower. I'll be posting from Mom's impossibly slow dial up PC. See you later.

Update: I arrived at the airport with ten minutes to spare before boarding began. I highly recommend the E train to the connecting Airtrain out to JFK as about the easiest, most comfortable trip to the airport I've ever had. The clonazapam did it's usual wonderful job, you could have lit my shoes on fire and I wouldn't have flinched. Of course, I may have overdid the dosage, I've been nodding off periodically all evening.

My neice is celebrating her 12th birthday this year. The party is tomorrow, and then a little after party for adults at my brother's house. I expect at least one trip to Niagara Falls and the new casino. I have no plans to gamble this trip. There are too many things I need to start my projects to have 500 dollars get pissed away in a slot machine. Although 200 dollars for a massage and a finger up my butt ... Speaking of which .... nah, I'll save that for Monday.

I'm kidding. I love all my tens of readers. I'm finding it difficult to keep up with my posting between work and enjoying my summer. But I soldier on. I'm going to try and put some posts "in the bank" as it were. I seem to have more time to write on the weekends, when nobody is reading. Out of synch with the world. A place I know too well. So things my seem a little disjointed and I may be telling you this week about things that happened last week. I hope it still has some interest. I'm being pulled in a lot of directions.

I went back to the beach on Thursday in an effort to escape the stifling city heat. While the trip out to Homo Island is involved (train/van/ferry), if you time it right, it really isn't as long as I always remember it to be. Maybe I've grown more patient. Still, I left the city by train at 11:30 and was at the beach house by 2. I was on the beach at 2:15. Plenty of time to soak up the late afternoon sun and increase my risk of skin cancer. Fortunately, my Sicilian skin browns up quite nicely. The Northeast sun rarely burns me. The guesthouse is really quite lovely, and I did manage to snap a couple of pix to show you:





You'd never know it unless I told you, but last summer this same house was the home base and sometimes set of this piece of cinematic magic. I experienced no such activities. At least indoors.

I had to leave on Friday. Even though I had the day off, I had to return to the city for a weekly manager meeting. Which I have tried to explain is not really a day off at all. And while the trip home was equally smooth and efficient, I say again, if I have to leave the beach and travel 2 hrs. by ferry, van and train back to the city in order to attend a 1 1/2 hr. meeting, that's not a fucking day off! Not at all.

I hate that. But it was only because I've been really dedicated to enjoying the summer. I've been spending most of my days off at the beach or in the park. Still, for those of you that don't get a weekly copy of the local fag rag, I'll re-tell the story from my perspective and with my (better) pictures.

We were invited to local drag celebutante and well-connected clown-girl Rainblo's birthday party. The why of that needs to wait for the kicker at the end. But we (The Hellcat and I) dutifully picked through our Barbie Dream Fashions, both at a bit of a loss as to the appropriate thing to wear to an East Village Drag Restaurant and a party with Cazwell and Boy George. I settled on all black. I needn't have worried. The very last person who's outfit mattered in this place was mine. As evidenced by this shot of Tobell:


A few minutes after we arrived, The Hellcat ran back out the front door. He was hoping to run into a friend from California that he knew had been employed at the restaurant. We wondered aloud what boy-parts and girl-parts his friend had left, as when they parted she was halfway to the big snip. The reunion took place out on the sidewalk, where at least half the party had spilled out of the restaurant. Apparently, even edgy drag queens bow before the NYC anti-smoking edict. Left to my own devices I stayed out of the main room in back and hung out by the bar in front. I didn't need to wade into a wildly overdressed crowd of gender non-specific individuals just yet. Suddenly, one of the "real" girls hurried out to the sidewalk to fetch who I later learned was the bouncer/doorman/manager. I heard something about a fight, and so and so hit a guy. Shortly after rushing back to the show room they rushed out a little short guy and brought him to the bathroom. His face and white shirt was covered in blood. I know, it's like a theme with me. I walked past the open bathroom door. He was attempting to close a wound to the face that looked nasty but hardly life threatening. Moving further towards the show room, I passed at least two entertainers/drag queens walking by with bloody hands and clothing. After getting as close to the room and stage as I was able, they introduced HRH Princess Diandra. Who complained loud and long that she had some white boys blood all over her pretty blue outfit. It was surreal, but like all drag veterans, it was on with the show. By now, The Hellcat had rejoined me. After a couple of mediocre performances by people I've never heard of I started overhearing rumors that the police had been called and the show would have to be stopped. After much crosstalk between restaurant employees and on-stage performers, Tobell and co. tried to push on. Suddenly, we were instructed to leave the club via a back exit that led to a completely different bar next door. I love this town. About half a dozen party people followed. Waiting for what, I don't know. But we waited and had a drink. Finally, I thought we should go back and see what was happening. Most of the party guests had left. A few were outside. But they seemed determined to finish the show. You gotta love a drag queen with moxie. In any case, the real story that I managed to peice together was that somebody (the bloody short guy) was drunk and being aggresive with one of the drag queens. I heard he either stepped on or pushed her. Either way, she pulled out a blade and cut him. You heard me. The bitch cut him. Do not fuck with an East Village drag queen.

Back to the show, after much yelling and cajoling, the birthday girl was back at her table and the show continued. A very cute, shaggy haired boy sang. Badly. I'm quite confident he's much better when you're on drugs.


We were then "treated" to the rap stylings of a New Zealand "Feminem", as he was christened, and to another male performer who sucked so bad I didn't take his picture. Then Tobell intoduced her "Drag-child". (S)he calls herself Neon Music. Again, I'm confident that makes sense if you're on drugs:


Several other performances followed. Including a pretty good rendition of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful" which I found funny and poignant given the environment.


Finally, the birthday girl(s) took the stage, (there was another birthday, but her drag name escapes me) as they thanked the performers and those in attendance:



By then, it was all over and it was all we could do to get out of there and head for a more civilized The Cock where The Hellcat strangely picked up a drunk man until he had him half-way home before changing his mind and dropping him. I guess he was still having trouble processing the facts. You see, about a week earlier he had gone out and met some tattoed East Village bottom boy. He brought him home and fucked him. Lo and behold it seems he was a "performance artist" of some renown, and he invited The Hellcat, and by extension me, to his birthday extravaganza. And this is how The Hellcat's tattooed bottom "boy" looks by night:

I got food poisoning over the weekend. From my own restaurant. It was from a shrimp ceasar salad. It was either from the shrimp or the dressing. I ate around 11:15 pm after a show. By 12:30 am my stomach was swollen and distended. I started feeling nauseous. I tried to fight it off as I was still at work. After a few minutes I broke into a sweat. I couldn't really believe I was getting sick. But sure enough, after a few minutes I got light headed and sweaty and hit with another wave of nausea. I ran from the office to the bathroom. Horrible things came out of me. Out of both orifices. Thankfully, not at the same time. I managed to recover long enough to make it home. I proceeded to throw up and have the shits back and forth for about another four hours as I curled up on the couch. I lapsed in and out of conciousness. I tried to make some coffee for the morning and had to stop and lay down twice before I got it done. Eventually, The Ex came home, drunk. He acted like nothing was wrong, which in his mind I guess it wasn't. I told him I was horribly sick and couldn't talk about the hot boy he talked to and almost had sex with but didn't.

"Oh."

Did he offer to get me some water, or maybe some ginger ale if my stomach could take it? No, he did not. He just said "Oh" and went to bed. Yet another reason why this can't work. I need someone in my life I can count on if there's trouble. The Ex is not that person. He's only good if he needs you or everything's fine. In a crisis, I would still be alone. It would be nice to have someone I could count on.

Coincidentally, I was preparing this post when I read this one. I used to think that coming out was a thing that happened in your early gay days and was over. Of course, I learned soon enough that some people don't have early gay days. They happen much later. Gay men all across the country still grow up and get married. They try to "be straight". Given the climate for gay people in this country, it's completely understandable. But so not me. I was standing outside the door to a gay club in downtown Buffalo with my ID proof of being 18 (before they raised the legal drinking age) almost on the very day I turned legal. It was only until many years later that I realized they probably would have looked the other way were I 16 or 17, lol. Still, I didn't so much "come out" as I kicked the closet door open with my boot. I was out, loud and proud from the get go. Come to think of it, I may be among the first of my generation to live his entire adult life as an out gay man.

Of course, as it's always said, coming out is a process. It usually happens in stages, starting with yourself, then other homosexuals like you, then close friends, and finally (hopefully) family. This can happen in months (like me) or it can take years and years. Some people still, in this day and age, are too fearful to be out both at work, or with family. I know this to be true. I've met them face to face. But I'm too militant to live a lie, even if it's a lie by omission. We'll never get the acceptance we seem to crave most by hiding.

For many years, I gravitated to gay bars or gay-friendly businesses for my employment. It's easier. If you're tending bar in a gay club or managing one, it's comforting to be surrounded by your own people. While you run the risk of ghettoizing your own life, I have to confess, I prefer the company of a roomful of gays to a roomful of straights. You kind of get the feeling you have to hide your light under a bushel, lest your fabulousness shine in their eyes and confuse them. It's stifling. And it's exhausting. Changing pronouns when you tell a story, omitting the drunken drag queen that makes the tale hilarious, editing the content as you go is just so much wasted energy. And for what? To keep from being fired? Is that a job you should be keeping? People say all the time that they won't come out to their family out of fear of rejection. I understand the fear. But for me that fear is quickly replaced by anger. If rejection is born out of a hatred of my sexuality, then you are not someone I want to be part of my life anyway. Regardless of whether or not we're related. No, I reject you.

So what sparked this train of thought, you asked?

The kids at work. On at least two occasions in the last month I've had to out myself. Both times in response to a question of whether I had a wife or girlfriend. I could have dodged the issue but why would I? I didn't say I ate butt that afternoon, I simply stated I was gay. I got a non-chalant reaction and a bit of a startled reaction. I guess I was blunt. It's 2005. You're under 30. There are cocksuckers among us. Deal. Then just last night one of the waitresses "accused" me of leering at some female swimsuit model in a magazine. It's weird. I know where some of it comes from. In a straight environment people, particularly lazy people, just make the assumption that you're straight. Understandable, I guess. Almost everyone they know probably is. What's strange for me is I don't think I'm particularly butch. Granted, I'm not the nelliest little thing that ever sashayed down 42nd street (by far!), but I just assume after spending even a little time with me, you know she's gay. And gay managers in nightclubs are almost (but not quite) as common as interior designers. And of course, some of the more astute among my staff let me know months ago that they knew, and I assume, it was cool.

So I find myself in the surprising position of having to out myself at work on occasion. After all these years. And that's not even telling you about the night I eavesdropped on a late night conversation regarding HIV.