I didn't come out until I was twenty-seven years old. Sure, everyone knew I was gay, including people on Mars. Yet, I didn’t actually say the words out loud to my family until later in life. To add insult to the story—or perhaps comic relief—I came out to my family drunker than shit at a female strip club. What can I say? I’ve always had a flair for the dramatics. I don’t know what had come over me. Actually, I do. I was miserable at the time. Miserable with the guy I was dating (though, he likely would have called it stalking), miserable with my job, miserable with not being able to talk . . .
It should come as no big surprise that my favorite “F” word is fuck. I especially like this word when it’s dressed up with motherfucker or go fuck yourself. My fascination with the “F” word began at a pretty young age. I have a distinct memory of me running around the house, four or five years old, telling anyone in my line of vision: “Don’t fuck with the babysitter.” I guess I also had a fascination with Elizabeth Shue’s character in Adventures in Babysitting. Yes, I was a handful as a child. And, as most people in my life can attest, still am a handful. However, today, we’re going . . .
Recently, a friend told me that I was the gay, male version of Taylor Swift. I agreed, we laughed, and then both promptly ordered another round of mimosas. Okay, that’s not entirely true. This bitch is currently off the sauce—six months and counting. We’ll see how long sobriety lasts, because in these dark and trying times (yes, I’m referring to all of the excess holiday weight I’ve gained), nothing quite comforts me like eighteen dirty martinis. Anyway, I’m not exactly sure what my friend and I ordered another round of, but it’s a safe bet that it was something deep-fried. Me likes my . . .
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 . . .
When Stephen Stills famously sang “Love the One Your With,” I don't think he meant for this long. Depending on who you're currently quarantined (i.e. stuck) with, you might feel as if you're now part of that Rent song. You know the one I'm about talking about: 525,600 minutes . . . and counting! All joking aside, for me, self-isolation hasn't been that big of an issue. I've recently decided that I'm an introvert dressed up as an extrovert (thanks, RuPaul.) What does this mean, exactly? It means that I have absolutely no problem—even enjoy—going out with friends, drinking my face off, . . .