I have a problem. Insert joke, right? Because, as we all know (those who stay up to date with my blog and column, anyway), I have more than just a problem. However, the problem I have today, the problem I’m facing this Sunday morning, is—go figure—the gay community. Last fall, I wrote an article on how disappointed I am in the gay community. Well, plot twist, the gay community is still disappointing and disheartening. Or, to be blunt, the gay community is STILL fucked. Let's have an open chat because I'm genuinely curious about something: What is the appeal of posting pictures of . . .
I can’t believe I’m writing this blog article. I can’t believe it’s necessary for me to write this blog article. Yet, here we are: sipping on hard seltzers and gossiping about sex, love, relationships, and the gay community. Fascinating stuff, really. Cue the eye roll. I partly blame myself. If you’re new to my work, shame on you. I wrote an article last year: “Be Careful What You Wish For.” Apparently, though, I didn’t read it. Too many times I’ve wished for a life similar to Carrie Bradshaw’s. Hell, I even refer to myself as “the male Carrie Bradshaw.” So, here we are: drinking hard . . .
It's interesting—to me, at least—that I've been writing for about one hundred years now, and still have not discussed topics that are common in the gay community. Or aged . . . I haven't seemed to age in one hundred years, either. Thank you very much. That's not completely true. I've been writing since I was twelve. Back then, my content focused on murder and mayhem. Still does. Recently, I finished Bury What Remains, my latest psychological suspense manuscript, and lots of murder and mayhem ensue. Side note: If you're an agent looking for a new author to represent, allow me to take a . . .
I'm not entirely sure if it's a preconceived notion tossed upon us once we hit our twenties or just simply the gay factor, but for me, the idea of getting older has always been met with abhorrence. Specifically, the day, hell—the minute—after my twenty-first birthday, there was this feeling that I'd hit my expiration date. That's right: The milk had turned sour, the bread stale, the red lacquer worn off the bottom of a Christian Louboutin boot. I'm not exactly sure why, though. While it's been stated more times than Jennifer Lopez (who wasn't snubbed for an Oscar nomination for her role . . .
As an adult, and I use that term loosely, I fully—kind of—understand that shit happens. By “shit,” I mean accidents. Off the top of my head, I'm thinking of accidents like forgetting to pick up your kid from school or drinking one too many Belvedere martinis at happy hour. You know, accidents no one can really predict or prevent. Then there are the accidents that can and should be prevented . . . like taking a big piss on my bedroom floor. Wait! I've gotten ahead of myself. Let me backtrack a tad. Do you ever get that feeling? You know the one: It's a Saturday night, you haven't been . . .