"If You Don't Like The Effects, Don't Produce The Cause"
Apparently people get mad when you write about them. Especially when what you write about them could be true.
I've spent the weekend getting some much needed rest and relaxation. Last week, i started my new job, working as the Reservationist Coordinator at FIX Salon (I'm a salon manager, in a nutshell), as well as worked out every day this week.
I've decided that i am going to work out every day until the summer. I've been talking about how i want to get into shape, and reform my lifestyle to a healthy one, for many years. I start by going to the gym a few times, then get distracted by reality television, and end up hating myself a month and a half later.
So I've decided to make necessary cuts in my life, to trim the fat from my lifestyle. So far, I've quit eating candy and empty carbs, cut down on drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes, and spent at least an hour and a half every day at the gym. I've also decided to clear my conscious. Re connect with people that i wasn't activley nice to, as well as let people know that i don't appreciate what they are saying about me. I've managed to get on the good side on a few guys that I've lightly dated over the past few months, that i didn't spend the time nurturing a new relationship with. With yin comes yang, and i also was forced to cut toxic people out of my life. So far, the body count is 16.
Just now, Nick contacted me via Instant Chat on Connexion. Our conversation was brief, but he got out what he had to say. He told em that we weren't friends anymore, that it was fucked up for me to use names, and that he was going to get me kicked out over every place he ever saw me. *sigh* the trial and tribulations of being a gay man. to the outsider, this would look out of the ordinary. some person whom I've never mentioned in my blog telling me about how he was going to "kick me out of every party and club he ever sees me at". Little does the public know, that Jeff has been fucking him on and off for over a year. So naturally, he would run to his defense. i don't blame him.
What i think is fucked up, is that Jeff sent the link to my blog out to everyone, telling them what an asshole i am. THAT is even worse than using names. Basically, Jeff is broadcasting my blog to the Boulder Gay community, letting them know who's names I've been using, and what they have. it appears that Jeff is going for the jugular.
I don't think people realize how many emails a day i get via myspace and connexion, telling me how much they hate me, what an evil tranny bitch i am. I honestly try to be kind to everyone, but one unreplied comment only snowballs into a group of gays spamming me with hate because i can't actively seek them out and comment all their pictures. It's exhausting, but i do my best. As far as their insults go, they are just as unoriginal as heterosexual men. Seriously, if i hear someone call me a tranny faggot, or slut one more time, i will laugh in their face. Maybe people these days aren't as literate as they used to be, but come on! Open Microsoft Word, type the word "slut","faggot", or "whore" then hit F7 (for the thesaurus), and find something a bit more creative.
A friend of mine CW, invited me to a party a few weeks ago. I was very excited to get out of Boulder and venture to the big city, where excitement was sure to be awaiting me. I put my face on, got all dressed, did my hurr, and was walking out the door. I called him, and asked what he was doing. He said that he just got an 8 Ball of coke, and was so excited to do it. My face fell almost as fast as my stomach dropped. I frowned, and told him that i had made other plans, and that he KNEW that i didn't party like that anymore. I was getting too old for that shit. He laughed, and said that everyone knew that i still did it, and i should come over, so we could reunite as Matty B. & Cory Williams Y/G Stylin'. I told him I'd pass, and slid my Helio closed.
Not an hour later, I received emails sending me links to bulletins, blogs, and comments which fumed about how i was a stuck up bitch, who thought i was better then everyone else. "Who is he kidding? That hoe bag parties hardr than the rest of us, im sure! What a slut! He's probs fuckin sum guy to get drugz as we speak," said one comment.
I pulled out my make up remover wipes, and took off my face. I stepped into the shower, and let the hot water stream over my body. The worst part is that i try really hard.
There's more to come. This is only part one.
Matty B.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
“I Will Follow You Into The Dark”
Everyone will always remember their first love. The all-consuming, perfect paradise dream, is too hard to forget. After the burn of the initial break up, you occasionally think about what could have been. I’ll be honest and say that I’ve thought about maybe in the future it could be possible to get back together. I’m not lying in my bed pining away the hours and minutes until then, but it’s a nice thought every so often. The last thing I said to him the night we broke up was, “Come back to me, Brady. Promise me that you’ll come back to me.” And part of me always thought that he would.
Until recently, Brady and I have managed a pseudo-friendship that consisted of random sporadic phone calls in the middle of the night, and periodic connexion emails. He invited me to a party a few months ago, and since then, I’ve felt we’ve reconnected as friends. I know that if I ever needed anything from him, I can always call. And lately, I have.
I was going through some tough stuff the other night, and sent him a text him some time after midnight. He answered; asking me what was going on. I told him how I was feeling towards some of my friends, and that I could use some advice. He of course told me I was a great friend, and that I just haven’t found people with the depth to satisfy what I’m looking for. Perfect answer, as far as I’m concerned. (I adlibbed a bit, to make him appear a bit more insightful.)
While having a conversation with him yesterday, I noticed that he was a bit down. Naturally, I asked him what was wrong. He responded with an email decribing in full detail. (If only he could have been so literate while we were dating!) His health has been on the decline lately, and I was concerned when I read as to why. Here is a small excerpt from it:
“Went to the doctor and its a mix of three things:
*A couple canker sores in there...
*Herpes type 1, so a very bad case of cold sores.
*a severe infection of Infantygus (sp?) which has gotten into the sores and started eating away at them, and around them.
I have to take 4 things for it... one pill every 4 hours, another pill three times a day, a stronger version of ibuprofin for the swelling, and a really nasty mouthwash that tastes like a mix of appletini and dental flouride. Ugh...
Just incredibly frustrating because first and foremost, I LOVE food. And my mom has had some of the BEST dinners this week. *cry*
Its spring break but there wont be any sex for another 10 days minimum, but even then Doni will be back in the Springs by then...
And today is his birthday and Im not even allowed to kiss him. And forget about the Birthday Blowjob. (lol)”
I was speechless and outraged at the same time. When I met Brady, he was this virginal boy who was a bit socially awkward in high school, totally cute, but didn’t even know it. He was my exact type: Hot Gay Nerd. One of his greatest appeals was that he wasn’t tainted by the gay world. I didn’t have to worry about STD’s, HIV, or anything that is spelled with all capitol letters.
I immediately called him. He assured me that it was Herpes Type 1, that wasn’t an STD. He also assured me, that the bacterial infection was caused by the cold sores. Though a bit freaked out, I was glad to hear that he wasn’t an incubus of sexually transmitted diseases. This relief only led me to ask more questions about his sexual practices. I wanted to reassure myself that he was always being safe. He said that 97% of the time he was. That’s when I asked him about the **** incident. ( I replaced his name with stars, because he didn't appreciate the use of his real name.)
MattyB.: there has been a leak of STD's on Campus
MattyB.: between you giving **** the clap, a close friend of ours having the clap/gono combo, and a kid we ALL know having HPV... it’s getting scary on campus. Boarderline terrifying.
MattyB.: i've never had the experience (of having an STD), because i've always been SUPER safe. I just want other people to be safe as well. It just breaks my heart to see my friends go through this.
JustB: ME and ****?... As far as Im concerned we have nothing in common
MattyB.: ooh
MattyB.: didn't you give him the clap and tell him on his birthday?
MattyB.: (not to sound accusatory)
JustB: no
JustB: Is that what he says?
MattyB.: oooh
MattyB.: tsk tsk tsk
MattyB.: DID you ever have it?
JustB: no
JustB: lol
MattyB.: don't lie to me Brady Knittle
JustB: I solemnly swear
MattyB.: oh man.
MattyB.: I’m calling you right now to get the full story.
It seems that STD’s aren’t the only thing infecting CU’s Campus. Lies and deceit are plaguing the school as well. It crushes me to hear that **** would say something like that. After Monday’s brutal brush off, I almost wasn’t surprised. I don’t want to sound accusatory or mean, I was just hurt by his actions, and also hurt that he would say something like that about a very good friend of mine.
I’m a very firm believer that when you are dating (or just fucking) a sexually inexperienced person (or any person for that matter), you need to leave them in better condition than when you met them. That means ALWAYS using protection, being COMPLETELY honest with them about your sexual history, and to NEVER emotionally lead them on. I felt so jaded and heart broken by the boy who took my virginity, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t ever put anyone else through the same emotional torment.
I was 110% honest with Brady while we dated. Although I had some doubts about his honesty towards to the end of our relationship, he tells me he was always faithful, and I choose to believe him. It’s the only time I’ve ever loved someone, and in my mind, I need it to be real. The idea of the only person I’ve ever loved cheating on me, is more to bear than I wish to.
One of the big reasons why Brady and I broke up was because he felt that he needed to get out there and get more experience. Maybe I didn’t have the opportunity to get kinky with him, or maybe he has a fetish that he was embarrassed to talk to me about (we all know it wasn’t water sports! He can’t pee with the bathroom door open, unless he knows there’s no one home). Either way, he wanted to get out there and date a little bit. He realized there was a big world of men, and at the time, I wasn’t opposed to spicing up my seemingly droll sex life. I was sixteen, and he was eighteen. He wanted to go be a crazy freshman in college, and have those crazy freshman experiences. If I loved him, I’d have to let him go. So I did.
And he definitely had some experiences. One of which still biting at his ankles.
I just think that break ups are hard enough without telling lies, and making things up. If everyone was a little more honest in life (and in bed) I think that we would all be a little bit happier. Don’t you agree?
Matty B.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
"I'm Hung Up."
I acted a damn fool, to say the least. 9 :45am. I woke up with Monday’s beautiful sunlight burning on to my face. I shut my blinds, grabbed my Helio, and checked my message status. 18 unread messages flashed across the screen. I threw it back onto the desk that was standing alongside the bed I had been sleeping in.
I slid my legs over the edge, and hopped off. The thud of my feet hitting the cold floor radiated through my body, sending stars in front of my eyes, and a burn behind my eye. I stood there naked in the silent dorm room. I padded lightly over to the bathroom door, and drew water from the faucet. I swallowed a gulp or two, and made the mental note to never drink again.
Jeff stirred in the bed across the room from mine. He was wearing all of his clothes, including his brown clunky shoes. I thought it strange, not only that he was fully dressed, but also that he was sleeping across the room. Usually when we spend the night together, we share a bed, resulting in my spooning him all night. I unsuccessfully tried to recall my evening. We started drinking earlier that afternoon. Then I cropped naked pictures of Jeff, which a mutual friend of ours took. Then we drank more. Then we walked across campus to visit a friend of ours. My last memory was that of taking a rip from his “steam roller,” and telling his friend that he wasn’t heterosexual (he’s a musical theater major).
Jeff soon awoke, and laughed when I asked him why I was naked. Apparently, I came onto him, inviting him to get him to get naked with me. I do not remember such happenings; however also do not recall getting home, or removing my clothes.
I’ll be honest and say that I was hoping something would happen. I mean, he’s not shy about be naked around me, we’ve spent many nights together, he’s always talking about how he hasn’t gotten any birthday sex, and we have this on going joke about how everyone is always asking us when we’re getting together. Today even, I was asked if we had gotten together yet.
I was a little hurt to be turned down, even if I don’t remember giving it up to begin with.
Not to mention I’ve had an ongoing infatuation with him, and was thinking the exact same thing our mutual friends were. When ARE we getting together?
At first I was angry at his behavior. Perhaps it was because of my erratic behavior the previous night. Perhaps it was that I passed out almost immediately when I got in his bed, and didn’t cuddle with him. Either way, I just find myself feeling foolish at the end of the day, for feeling the way I do about him. He has so many qualities about him that I personally find unattractive, and I know he has no attraction for me, yet I’m always putting myself out there. It’s exhausting.
I did however; start talking to someone that I lightly dated a while back. I let it fall apart because of my busy schedule, and lack of “spark.” I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t have to chase him. Maybe it’s because he didn’t chase me. I don’t have some revelation and life lesson regarding this matter. Nothing to bring it all together. I have a felling this is the first of a two part series.
I think I am going to have to spend a few nights sleeping on it.
Matty B.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
“I Don’t See What Anyone Can See In Anyone Else. …But You.”
Part One:
His expression was of pure ecstasy. He was quietly panting; his chest repeatedly swelled and relaxed. A few candles had been lit earlier that evening that gleamed off the sweat that accumulated on his face and the little beads of perspiration collected all across his body. He stared down at me, a look of mixed curiosity and intrigue flicked across his face. I came up close to him, making eye contact. His nervousness and uncertainty was over powered by his licentious interest and newfound sexual desire. I touched his cheek, and he touched my back. I touched his arm; he looked down, and then smiled. It was suddenly silent, which stopped him for a moment while he turned to switch records.
I met him for the first time earlier that evening. I was drunk and stoned, and was brought to his house, so that my friends could buy an eighth of weed. When we arrived, he was sitting in his room, mixing music, and playing with his turntables. With one side of his headphones on, he flicked and played with both records, sending them into a glitch-pop frenzy. I sat on the couch across the room from him, while Heather and I vibed and grooved to the telepop beats. We sat there smoking out of his bong, and just laughed the night away, dancing to the music, while I frequently caught him stealing glances. He blushed every time. .
As we were leaving, he told us that he was playing at a party the following night, and that we should all come. He then gave me his phone number, and told me to text him so he had it. I winked at him, and told him I would. Shortly afterwards, I recived this text:
“Yo im really into spinnin at the moment. Ur welcome to come chill if u want. I’ll show you my new mix. Then… you can let me know if you like it.”
I was surprised by how quickly he wrote back to me. On the other hand, I was wearing skintight straight-leg jeans, a green Volcom hoodie, and have long dark hair (styled and teased), with matching scene make up. Perhaps a bit androgynous in style, but apparently that seemed to strike his fancy. I hopped in my jeep, and headed back to his house.
He was a bit awkward. Perhaps that’s what initially attracted me. He was still sitting at his turntables, when I walked in the door. The only thing different about the setting was that candles had been lit, the lights were low, and there was incense burning. If I knew any better, I’d have thought that his hair was combed, and he was wearing a different t-shirt.
I sat on his bed, across from his turntables. I closed my eyes, and I listened to him spin. In complete honesty, he wasn’t half bad. You could tell how much he loved his music, by the delicacy of his touch on his records, and the deliberate timing with each edit and rip. It was an art form that you could not only hear, but you could see it as well.
He asked if I was comfortable. I told him to come sit next to me. He paused, set his headphones next to his records, and walked over. He looked down at me, half-smiled, and then sat. The record skipped, and he abruptly got up to fix it. He asked me if I wanted a drink. I asked him for a martini. He replied that he only had beer and vodka. Apparently he didn’t quite understand what went into a martini. I told him I would have vodka on the rocks. He laughed and asked if I wanted a chaser. I responded that I wasn’t in high school taking shots of McCormick’s and that I drink liquor to appreciate the quality, rather than get wasted. He looked at me for a moment, smiled, and fetched me a drink.
I love that it burned as it went down, taking the edge off. He too chose to drink a vodka on the rocks, which he clearly had never tried, by the expression on his face. I laughed and told him that it would take some getting used to. He shrugged and set down his drink, moving closer to me; the loud clink of the glass silenced the room. He looked at me for a moment. I smiled when he touched my leg.
“I’ve never done-”
“I figured.” I replied.
I however, have in fact done this before. Luckily for both of us, I knew what I was doing. I think that it put him at ease knowing that I wasn’t nervous or indecisive. I leaned in a little, leaving small room for question. His breath smelled of liquor and weed. Only a moment passed before our lips touched. It was gentle, which I had anticipated. He was tall, with sandy blond hair. He touched his hand to my face, pressing the other against the small of my back. We sank into his bed, and I ran my hand behind him, under his shirt.
The music was slow but strong, matching the thumping in his chest. He was on his back, very clearly aroused, by the bulge in his Corona boxers that was steadily growing. I was straddling him, looking down. His hands softly grazed the white piping of my pink briefs, touching the side of my thighs. I touched his chest, leaned in, and kissed him lightly on the lips. I slid my body next to his, and pressed the length of myself against him. He told me that I smelled good. I laughed. He brushed my hair from my face, and said, “You’re beautiful.”
I simply replied, “Thank you.”
His expression was of pure ecstasy. He was quietly panting; his chest repeatedly swelled and relaxed.
Part Two:
He was so peaceful, sleeping there naked with his sheets wrapped so elegantly around him. The candles had since burned out. 3:57am. I grabbed my underwear off his turntables, and put them in the pocket of my hoodie. I slid my jeans back on, pulled over my shirt, and grabbed my shoes. I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. Then I walked out of the room, and closed the door behind me.
While I was driving home, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. Tonight, I guided this boy through a sexual revolution! It seems that I have a track record of doing such things. I think it is quite possible that I have had more sex with heterosexual men, than I have with gay ones. Perhaps it’s because I don’t sleep with very many people (despite the rumors and what people may say). Or maybe perhaps it’s because I’m attracted to men that other gay man haven’t tainted. A friend of mine thinks that it’s because I’m fearful of committing myself to another person, so when I do sleep with someone, it’s in a setting where I don’t have to worry about becoming attached.
It’s completely true that I am reluctant to dive head first into a relationship. God forbid I look for someone that I enjoy spending time with, rather than a boyfriend that I’m going to realize I have nothing in common with, and end up ending when I get bored of him. The only way you can love another is by learning to love yourself first. When you stop looking for love, that’s when it will come to you.
So until then, I’ll stick to what I do best.
He sent me three text messages today. I was glad to hear that I had given him a sexual experience that was not only the most memorable, but “was fucking awesome. I didn’t kno some1 could do that! When can I C U again?” (Poor use of grammar and all). As flattered as I am, I doubt I will see him long term. He’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t see me as dateable. And frankly, I know nothing about him.
Whenever I meet someone new, I’m either immediately pegged into one of three categories: I’m either a piece of ass, a piece of mind, or a piece of work.
It’s true that I have a very dominant personality. However, I try to make it a point to be kind and warm. It’s been told to me, that that is one of my attractive qualities. I personally believe that my willingness to make decisions and be forward with people is part of my charm. Sometimes others are threatened my by my ease to confront and talk to people I don’ t know. Meeting people is actually one of my favorite things to do.
I would be lying if I said that I didn’t mind being plagued by these three positions. Desperately I have I tried to be viewed as more than a piece of ass… as more than a best friend… as more than opinionated. I feel that I am constantly at war with the world, because I’m trapped into three difference cages at once.
For a while, I had an infatuation with my friend Jeff. Not only did we have the most amazing time together, but also he was funny and made me laugh. I’ve been told by a few different people, that he has stood up to bat for me, on more than one occasion. And that is something that I lack in most other friends.
I watched him be in these relationships with these boys with six packs, and big arms. I see him lust after men with chiseled jaw bones, and ripped stomachs. While men like that are nice to look at, I’ve found from personal experience that they tend to lack depth. I understand that he wants to be with someone who is physically perfect, but there is so much more out there to experience! I’m never surprised when his relationships end in heartbreak, which is then interrupted by his lustful desire for someone new. He is always on the prowl.
Don’t misread my words about Jeff and his relationships. That is purely observation. I adore this boy (clearly) and wish nothing but happiness for him. It’s unfortunate that when he asks for advice, he never really listens. I suppose I wouldn’t either, if I was in his position. He’s a cute college freshman! I suppose I would live it up as well. However, I would know the difference between seeking someone out because of my lustful eye, and seeking something real. He still can’t tell the two apart. Which in all fairness, most men can’t, regardless of their age.
I’ve lain awake at night next to him, thinking to myself about how beautiful this boy is, and how I could treat him better than anyone else. He’s smart, driven, ambitious, funny, and cute. He doesn’t even realize what a catch he is. He also can’t even see it when someone doesn’t want anything from him, but his company. It’s a rarity when I find myself genuinely caring for someone else like that. Then I’m reminded by his blatant yearn for some random gorgeous man to come take him away. I knew it was unrealistic to crush on him. It’s not often when I my feelings for someone are mutual, which I’ve found is probably for the best. Saves you heart break in the end. I just wish he could see what a great guy he is.
The moment I start having an intelligent conversation with someone, I’m not sexually attractive, thus I’m his new best friend. Moreover, when I have an intelligent conversation and don’t agree with his views, I’m a piece of work! What I have learned from these men, was to keep my mouth shut, go to the gym, and only then will find true happiness.
Yeah. Right.
Frankly, I don’t want to be with any man that thinks that way. And if that dismisses me, then so be it. I don’t need a man like that to make me happy. I’ve spent so much time worrying about hot guys, and flashy cars… fuck I’ve been in relationships with them. I’m never happy. I’m always looking for someone hotter or better. I’m never truly happy because they’re not people I can to. I just want someone to talk to at the end of the day.
I want a part time lover and a full time friend.
Matty B.
Part One:
His expression was of pure ecstasy. He was quietly panting; his chest repeatedly swelled and relaxed. A few candles had been lit earlier that evening that gleamed off the sweat that accumulated on his face and the little beads of perspiration collected all across his body. He stared down at me, a look of mixed curiosity and intrigue flicked across his face. I came up close to him, making eye contact. His nervousness and uncertainty was over powered by his licentious interest and newfound sexual desire. I touched his cheek, and he touched my back. I touched his arm; he looked down, and then smiled. It was suddenly silent, which stopped him for a moment while he turned to switch records.
I met him for the first time earlier that evening. I was drunk and stoned, and was brought to his house, so that my friends could buy an eighth of weed. When we arrived, he was sitting in his room, mixing music, and playing with his turntables. With one side of his headphones on, he flicked and played with both records, sending them into a glitch-pop frenzy. I sat on the couch across the room from him, while Heather and I vibed and grooved to the telepop beats. We sat there smoking out of his bong, and just laughed the night away, dancing to the music, while I frequently caught him stealing glances. He blushed every time. .
As we were leaving, he told us that he was playing at a party the following night, and that we should all come. He then gave me his phone number, and told me to text him so he had it. I winked at him, and told him I would. Shortly afterwards, I recived this text:
“Yo im really into spinnin at the moment. Ur welcome to come chill if u want. I’ll show you my new mix. Then… you can let me know if you like it.”
I was surprised by how quickly he wrote back to me. On the other hand, I was wearing skintight straight-leg jeans, a green Volcom hoodie, and have long dark hair (styled and teased), with matching scene make up. Perhaps a bit androgynous in style, but apparently that seemed to strike his fancy. I hopped in my jeep, and headed back to his house.
He was a bit awkward. Perhaps that’s what initially attracted me. He was still sitting at his turntables, when I walked in the door. The only thing different about the setting was that candles had been lit, the lights were low, and there was incense burning. If I knew any better, I’d have thought that his hair was combed, and he was wearing a different t-shirt.
I sat on his bed, across from his turntables. I closed my eyes, and I listened to him spin. In complete honesty, he wasn’t half bad. You could tell how much he loved his music, by the delicacy of his touch on his records, and the deliberate timing with each edit and rip. It was an art form that you could not only hear, but you could see it as well.
He asked if I was comfortable. I told him to come sit next to me. He paused, set his headphones next to his records, and walked over. He looked down at me, half-smiled, and then sat. The record skipped, and he abruptly got up to fix it. He asked me if I wanted a drink. I asked him for a martini. He replied that he only had beer and vodka. Apparently he didn’t quite understand what went into a martini. I told him I would have vodka on the rocks. He laughed and asked if I wanted a chaser. I responded that I wasn’t in high school taking shots of McCormick’s and that I drink liquor to appreciate the quality, rather than get wasted. He looked at me for a moment, smiled, and fetched me a drink.
I love that it burned as it went down, taking the edge off. He too chose to drink a vodka on the rocks, which he clearly had never tried, by the expression on his face. I laughed and told him that it would take some getting used to. He shrugged and set down his drink, moving closer to me; the loud clink of the glass silenced the room. He looked at me for a moment. I smiled when he touched my leg.
“I’ve never done-”
“I figured.” I replied.
I however, have in fact done this before. Luckily for both of us, I knew what I was doing. I think that it put him at ease knowing that I wasn’t nervous or indecisive. I leaned in a little, leaving small room for question. His breath smelled of liquor and weed. Only a moment passed before our lips touched. It was gentle, which I had anticipated. He was tall, with sandy blond hair. He touched his hand to my face, pressing the other against the small of my back. We sank into his bed, and I ran my hand behind him, under his shirt.
The music was slow but strong, matching the thumping in his chest. He was on his back, very clearly aroused, by the bulge in his Corona boxers that was steadily growing. I was straddling him, looking down. His hands softly grazed the white piping of my pink briefs, touching the side of my thighs. I touched his chest, leaned in, and kissed him lightly on the lips. I slid my body next to his, and pressed the length of myself against him. He told me that I smelled good. I laughed. He brushed my hair from my face, and said, “You’re beautiful.”
I simply replied, “Thank you.”
His expression was of pure ecstasy. He was quietly panting; his chest repeatedly swelled and relaxed.
Part Two:
He was so peaceful, sleeping there naked with his sheets wrapped so elegantly around him. The candles had since burned out. 3:57am. I grabbed my underwear off his turntables, and put them in the pocket of my hoodie. I slid my jeans back on, pulled over my shirt, and grabbed my shoes. I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. Then I walked out of the room, and closed the door behind me.
While I was driving home, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. Tonight, I guided this boy through a sexual revolution! It seems that I have a track record of doing such things. I think it is quite possible that I have had more sex with heterosexual men, than I have with gay ones. Perhaps it’s because I don’t sleep with very many people (despite the rumors and what people may say). Or maybe perhaps it’s because I’m attracted to men that other gay man haven’t tainted. A friend of mine thinks that it’s because I’m fearful of committing myself to another person, so when I do sleep with someone, it’s in a setting where I don’t have to worry about becoming attached.
It’s completely true that I am reluctant to dive head first into a relationship. God forbid I look for someone that I enjoy spending time with, rather than a boyfriend that I’m going to realize I have nothing in common with, and end up ending when I get bored of him. The only way you can love another is by learning to love yourself first. When you stop looking for love, that’s when it will come to you.
So until then, I’ll stick to what I do best.
He sent me three text messages today. I was glad to hear that I had given him a sexual experience that was not only the most memorable, but “was fucking awesome. I didn’t kno some1 could do that! When can I C U again?” (Poor use of grammar and all). As flattered as I am, I doubt I will see him long term. He’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t see me as dateable. And frankly, I know nothing about him.
Whenever I meet someone new, I’m either immediately pegged into one of three categories: I’m either a piece of ass, a piece of mind, or a piece of work.
It’s true that I have a very dominant personality. However, I try to make it a point to be kind and warm. It’s been told to me, that that is one of my attractive qualities. I personally believe that my willingness to make decisions and be forward with people is part of my charm. Sometimes others are threatened my by my ease to confront and talk to people I don’ t know. Meeting people is actually one of my favorite things to do.
I would be lying if I said that I didn’t mind being plagued by these three positions. Desperately I have I tried to be viewed as more than a piece of ass… as more than a best friend… as more than opinionated. I feel that I am constantly at war with the world, because I’m trapped into three difference cages at once.
For a while, I had an infatuation with my friend Jeff. Not only did we have the most amazing time together, but also he was funny and made me laugh. I’ve been told by a few different people, that he has stood up to bat for me, on more than one occasion. And that is something that I lack in most other friends.
I watched him be in these relationships with these boys with six packs, and big arms. I see him lust after men with chiseled jaw bones, and ripped stomachs. While men like that are nice to look at, I’ve found from personal experience that they tend to lack depth. I understand that he wants to be with someone who is physically perfect, but there is so much more out there to experience! I’m never surprised when his relationships end in heartbreak, which is then interrupted by his lustful desire for someone new. He is always on the prowl.
Don’t misread my words about Jeff and his relationships. That is purely observation. I adore this boy (clearly) and wish nothing but happiness for him. It’s unfortunate that when he asks for advice, he never really listens. I suppose I wouldn’t either, if I was in his position. He’s a cute college freshman! I suppose I would live it up as well. However, I would know the difference between seeking someone out because of my lustful eye, and seeking something real. He still can’t tell the two apart. Which in all fairness, most men can’t, regardless of their age.
I’ve lain awake at night next to him, thinking to myself about how beautiful this boy is, and how I could treat him better than anyone else. He’s smart, driven, ambitious, funny, and cute. He doesn’t even realize what a catch he is. He also can’t even see it when someone doesn’t want anything from him, but his company. It’s a rarity when I find myself genuinely caring for someone else like that. Then I’m reminded by his blatant yearn for some random gorgeous man to come take him away. I knew it was unrealistic to crush on him. It’s not often when I my feelings for someone are mutual, which I’ve found is probably for the best. Saves you heart break in the end. I just wish he could see what a great guy he is.
The moment I start having an intelligent conversation with someone, I’m not sexually attractive, thus I’m his new best friend. Moreover, when I have an intelligent conversation and don’t agree with his views, I’m a piece of work! What I have learned from these men, was to keep my mouth shut, go to the gym, and only then will find true happiness.
Yeah. Right.
Frankly, I don’t want to be with any man that thinks that way. And if that dismisses me, then so be it. I don’t need a man like that to make me happy. I’ve spent so much time worrying about hot guys, and flashy cars… fuck I’ve been in relationships with them. I’m never happy. I’m always looking for someone hotter or better. I’m never truly happy because they’re not people I can to. I just want someone to talk to at the end of the day.
I want a part time lover and a full time friend.
Matty B.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
You Look Like Trash. I Can’t Lie. Talk Some Shit And You’ll Get Hit!
I was watching E! News today, and one of their featured stories was Ashlee Simpson’s ever-changing style. From blonde, to brunette, to black, to blonde again, to red, her hair is not the only thing that keeps changing. From a nose job and some collagen in the lips, to couture Chanel and ripped Ed Hardy t-shirts, she’s all over the board. You can even hear it in her music. While her debut album “Pieces of Me” was composed of mostly main stream pop hits, her most recent song, “Get Outta My Head” is electro-synthpop, 80’s inspired single, that really shows the development and range of her music, as well as her personality. (Can you tell I’m an Ashlee Simpson fan?)
Celebrity stylists say that’s really important to always have an evolving image that’s constantly adapting to current fashion trends and designers. I personally think that it’s imperative to always keep up with not only the use of color and pattern in designs, but also new and upcoming designers. It’s the only way to be a trendy hipster, like myself.
I was called chic this morning, and I’m certain that it is one of the best compliments I have ever received. I find that celebrity stylist and designer Christian Siriano, winner of Project Runway Season Four, best reflects my style. He’s 21, has a fierce asymmetrical hair cut, and a trendy New York style that focuses on fitted pieces, bold colors, clean lines, and a clever sense of flair and detail, that many other designers don’t dare to attempt. To put it frankly, he’s the style icon that I fashion myself after.
It’s also really important to have a large selection in your boudoir. I personally have all sorts of clothing, ranging from extensive baggy hip-hop attire, Abercrombie and Fitch Polo’s and Bermuda shorts, to sleek black vests, button ups, producer pants, even bright violets and cerulean tops from American Apparel. A lot of people out there make the mistake of not being versatile enough. I find that you need to try new things and be open- minded, in all aspects of life. Not only when referring to your wardrobe.
I was at a party last night, where I was looking fierce, if I do say so myself. Jeff said my make up was flawless; I was sporting a long sleeved army green thermal designed by Morphine, a fitted black military jacket, snug gray straight leg skinny jeans by Lacoste, and black faux fur Uggs. It was a fun outfit that I like to wear on chilly winter evenings. Unfortunately, the heterosexual swarm of men that plagued the party with baggy Jnco’s, and Etnies skater shoes, didn’t have the same appreciation for style as I did.
Just by studying the reactions that would flit across their faces as I walked by, told me a million and one things about them. I didn’t even have to look at their girlfriend’s faces to know who their style icons were. Branded with Playboy logos, crudely ripped jeans, and an expression to match, they were the epitome of people I would choose to not associate myself with. They were tragedy in all aspects. I don’t want to hate on these people or anything, but can I not when they choose to hate on me? They don’t even care that they look like a potato sack with a faded bunny logo on it.
It’s just interesting that I live in a community, where not only do people care less about how they present themselves to new people, but they reprimand and chastise someone that really takes the time and effort to make a good first impression. Unfortunately we live in a society where the first impression you make on them is when you see them for the first time. Just take a moment to yourself and think,” How do I communicate who I am, by the clothes on my back, and expression on my face?”
In fashion magazines all over the world, there are the best dressed and the worst dressed celebrities. Celebrities make a fashion faux-pas all the time. The difference between them, and the people at this party last night (other the obvious), was that they always have a brilliant welcoming smile. I just think that if you are going to judge other people, you should not only look in a mirror first, but you should hide it a little better on your face.
Matty B.
I was watching E! News today, and one of their featured stories was Ashlee Simpson’s ever-changing style. From blonde, to brunette, to black, to blonde again, to red, her hair is not the only thing that keeps changing. From a nose job and some collagen in the lips, to couture Chanel and ripped Ed Hardy t-shirts, she’s all over the board. You can even hear it in her music. While her debut album “Pieces of Me” was composed of mostly main stream pop hits, her most recent song, “Get Outta My Head” is electro-synthpop, 80’s inspired single, that really shows the development and range of her music, as well as her personality. (Can you tell I’m an Ashlee Simpson fan?)
Celebrity stylists say that’s really important to always have an evolving image that’s constantly adapting to current fashion trends and designers. I personally think that it’s imperative to always keep up with not only the use of color and pattern in designs, but also new and upcoming designers. It’s the only way to be a trendy hipster, like myself.
I was called chic this morning, and I’m certain that it is one of the best compliments I have ever received. I find that celebrity stylist and designer Christian Siriano, winner of Project Runway Season Four, best reflects my style. He’s 21, has a fierce asymmetrical hair cut, and a trendy New York style that focuses on fitted pieces, bold colors, clean lines, and a clever sense of flair and detail, that many other designers don’t dare to attempt. To put it frankly, he’s the style icon that I fashion myself after.
It’s also really important to have a large selection in your boudoir. I personally have all sorts of clothing, ranging from extensive baggy hip-hop attire, Abercrombie and Fitch Polo’s and Bermuda shorts, to sleek black vests, button ups, producer pants, even bright violets and cerulean tops from American Apparel. A lot of people out there make the mistake of not being versatile enough. I find that you need to try new things and be open- minded, in all aspects of life. Not only when referring to your wardrobe.
I was at a party last night, where I was looking fierce, if I do say so myself. Jeff said my make up was flawless; I was sporting a long sleeved army green thermal designed by Morphine, a fitted black military jacket, snug gray straight leg skinny jeans by Lacoste, and black faux fur Uggs. It was a fun outfit that I like to wear on chilly winter evenings. Unfortunately, the heterosexual swarm of men that plagued the party with baggy Jnco’s, and Etnies skater shoes, didn’t have the same appreciation for style as I did.
Just by studying the reactions that would flit across their faces as I walked by, told me a million and one things about them. I didn’t even have to look at their girlfriend’s faces to know who their style icons were. Branded with Playboy logos, crudely ripped jeans, and an expression to match, they were the epitome of people I would choose to not associate myself with. They were tragedy in all aspects. I don’t want to hate on these people or anything, but can I not when they choose to hate on me? They don’t even care that they look like a potato sack with a faded bunny logo on it.
It’s just interesting that I live in a community, where not only do people care less about how they present themselves to new people, but they reprimand and chastise someone that really takes the time and effort to make a good first impression. Unfortunately we live in a society where the first impression you make on them is when you see them for the first time. Just take a moment to yourself and think,” How do I communicate who I am, by the clothes on my back, and expression on my face?”
In fashion magazines all over the world, there are the best dressed and the worst dressed celebrities. Celebrities make a fashion faux-pas all the time. The difference between them, and the people at this party last night (other the obvious), was that they always have a brilliant welcoming smile. I just think that if you are going to judge other people, you should not only look in a mirror first, but you should hide it a little better on your face.
Matty B.
Lipstick. Compact. Blush Brush. Don’t Touch.
There was a line of girls filing out of the men’s bathroom. The buzz from the growing audience mirrored the anticipation pulsing through our bodies. With one last cat eye, and one last cloud of hairspray, we gathered together in a circle, joining hands.
“You’ve been busting our ass for months. Dancing four days a week, grueling rehearsals without breaks or water, running the same three 8-counts over and over again, the short tempers… You have been the ideal first troupe that I could ask for. I know I drive you guys really hard, and expect so much from you. All I can say is go out there, do your best, and show them how Street Side works it out!”
I squeezed Heather and Crystal’s hand encouragingly. Crystal looked up at me, flashed a white smile at me, and gave me a huge hug. We all glanced around at each other, nodded, pulled up our graffiti- covered hoodies, and as the lights dimmed to blackout, we took our positions, and waited for our show to begin.
The lights blazed yellow and white. You could feel the audience’s eyes fix on you, as the music started, and you made your entrance. Tech N9NE blasted through the speakers. I ripped off my hood, and I showed them what I did best.
The air was cool, as I threw myself into the air, twisting my body, every moment that passed, my back more parallel to the ground. Silence. Minute beads of sweat trickled down my face, and across my jaw line before delicately dripping off. My sneakers hit the ground with a neat, soft, thud. The crowd roared. In an instant the music hit me. My hand touched my face. My hips dropped down and I slid my legs under me. I whipped my hair around, and suddenly I’m not Matty dance enthusiast, who spends four hours a day at the studio. I’m Matty B. professional dance addict.
The rest of the show went off without a hitch. Smooth transitions, no lighting or music malfunctions, and thankfully no injuries. After we completed our final piece, and took a bow, there was a moment of dead silence. The crowd stood up and cheered. Screams and whistles filled the auditorium. I couldn’t help but to smile. All those long hard nights, working us to the bone at the studio, if for only those minutes, made it worth our while.
The showcase received rave reviews. I was completely overwhelmed by the amount of people that came up to me after the show, congratulating me. While I was standing outside smoking a post-show cigarette, a large group of guys walked up to me. Naturally, I thought that I was going to have the shit beaten out of me, considering I had my fierce face on, and was in the middle of suburbia. After one of them asked me for a cigarette, they came close, and told me how impressed they were. They told me I really represented out there. I politely thanked them, and invited them to our next show in June.
At risk of sounding like an after school special, what I love about dancing is that it brings people together. Whether it’s in the studio or in the club, when you step on that dance floor, it’s one language; one world. Moving to your favorite music, blood rushing, endorphins pumping… it’s a beautiful thing, and I love that I can share something I’m so passionate about, with everyone.
I just want to thank everybody again who came out last night. Tickets were sold out, everyone in the company has such a great time dancing, and we’re stoked to bring a bigger and better show, this June!
Matty B.
There was a line of girls filing out of the men’s bathroom. The buzz from the growing audience mirrored the anticipation pulsing through our bodies. With one last cat eye, and one last cloud of hairspray, we gathered together in a circle, joining hands.
“You’ve been busting our ass for months. Dancing four days a week, grueling rehearsals without breaks or water, running the same three 8-counts over and over again, the short tempers… You have been the ideal first troupe that I could ask for. I know I drive you guys really hard, and expect so much from you. All I can say is go out there, do your best, and show them how Street Side works it out!”
I squeezed Heather and Crystal’s hand encouragingly. Crystal looked up at me, flashed a white smile at me, and gave me a huge hug. We all glanced around at each other, nodded, pulled up our graffiti- covered hoodies, and as the lights dimmed to blackout, we took our positions, and waited for our show to begin.
The lights blazed yellow and white. You could feel the audience’s eyes fix on you, as the music started, and you made your entrance. Tech N9NE blasted through the speakers. I ripped off my hood, and I showed them what I did best.
The air was cool, as I threw myself into the air, twisting my body, every moment that passed, my back more parallel to the ground. Silence. Minute beads of sweat trickled down my face, and across my jaw line before delicately dripping off. My sneakers hit the ground with a neat, soft, thud. The crowd roared. In an instant the music hit me. My hand touched my face. My hips dropped down and I slid my legs under me. I whipped my hair around, and suddenly I’m not Matty dance enthusiast, who spends four hours a day at the studio. I’m Matty B. professional dance addict.
The rest of the show went off without a hitch. Smooth transitions, no lighting or music malfunctions, and thankfully no injuries. After we completed our final piece, and took a bow, there was a moment of dead silence. The crowd stood up and cheered. Screams and whistles filled the auditorium. I couldn’t help but to smile. All those long hard nights, working us to the bone at the studio, if for only those minutes, made it worth our while.
The showcase received rave reviews. I was completely overwhelmed by the amount of people that came up to me after the show, congratulating me. While I was standing outside smoking a post-show cigarette, a large group of guys walked up to me. Naturally, I thought that I was going to have the shit beaten out of me, considering I had my fierce face on, and was in the middle of suburbia. After one of them asked me for a cigarette, they came close, and told me how impressed they were. They told me I really represented out there. I politely thanked them, and invited them to our next show in June.
At risk of sounding like an after school special, what I love about dancing is that it brings people together. Whether it’s in the studio or in the club, when you step on that dance floor, it’s one language; one world. Moving to your favorite music, blood rushing, endorphins pumping… it’s a beautiful thing, and I love that I can share something I’m so passionate about, with everyone.
I just want to thank everybody again who came out last night. Tickets were sold out, everyone in the company has such a great time dancing, and we’re stoked to bring a bigger and better show, this June!
Matty B.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
”Face Down In The Dirt, He Says This Doesn’t Hurt.”
I, like the rest of the American population addicted to pop culture, love dirt on celebrities just as much as anyone else. Hell my favorite television show is “Dirt” starring Courtney Cox. However, I try to lead life with a kind heart, and try to not spread a juicy rumor when I hear one. In fact, I’m kind of a party pooper when it comes to that sort of thing. I may be hip to new club openings, and always step with my fashion forward foot first, but I’ve found that you don’t have to be a cesspool of diseased rumors, to be considered trendy or popular in the “Denver Scene.” (I use the term “scene” lightly.)
Over the past few weeks, I have receivedsome a lot of troubling news. In complete honesty, when I first heard, I wanted to whip out my laptop, write an outraged bulletin full of names of people I was furious with, and less than kind words describing them. Instead, I did what any troubled homosexual does. He shakes himself an appletini, and calls his good old trusty Grams for advice. She asked me if I heard a rumor about one of my friends, what I would do. Immediately I responded that I would turn to them and ask them, for clarification. You ALWAYS have to verify to make sure your source is correct. She then suggested that I straighten out any miss conceptions about my character, and then continue with my life.
An IC popped up on my window a few weeks ago while I was checking my connexion. It was a 28 year old blond boy, whom I had never met. As his occupation, he put “Professional”. I thought to myself,” this guy has got to be interesting.” My friends and I all believe that people that put “professional” as their occupation, they have to be in the adult film industry. Out of slight amusement, I took a few moments to talk to him.
The first thing he wrote was, “Why don’t you have sex with anyone?”
I was taken aback for a moment. No “Hi”. No “What’s up?”. No warning. I couldn’t help but to be slightly entertained by being asked that question by a complete stranger. I also couldn’t help feeling offended. So I asked him who he was, and why it was any of his business.
He then, uninhibitedly explained to me his entire situation.
I dated this boy for a quick second, last summer. Then I dated him again, over the holidays. Both times it ended because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Apparently the boy chatting with me, asked his friend (the boy I broke up with) about me, because he thought I was cute. My ex claimed I was a prude, and never put out. He also said he suspected I had AIDS, because I had disclosed to him that it was a rarity for me to sleep with someone that I had just met. Clearly, that meant I had a sexually transmitted disease. On top of that, I was accused of being a slut, because if I wasn’t having sex with him, I had to be getting it elsewhere. None of those reasons were why I wouldn’t have sex with him. The reason was because I DON’T HAVE SEX WITH PEOPLE I DON’T TRUST. But that of course makes me a diseased slut. Brilliant. Because of this boy’s brazen ignorance upon ICing me, I decided not to go out on a date with him, despite my love for dumb blonds.
A few days ago, I received a text message from a friend of mine. It was forwarded from a mutual friend of ours, and to put it lightly, it had less than pleasant things to say about me. In said text message, it accused me of being a coke-head slut, who steals people’s boyfriends, and if given the opportunity, will ruin your life if crossed.
I almost had to laugh. Everyone who knows me, knows I have been cocaine free for quite some time, now. As for ruining lives and stealing boyfriends, they really give me too much credit. I haven’t played those games since high school. I think people’s misconception of me is derived from who I used to be in high school. I’m not a kid anymore… and neither are they. If you take the time to talk to me for even a moment, you know I’m a different person. However, I try to take these things with stride. I was a pretty erratic teenager, who was known for my “silver tongue, and venomous bite” as an ex-boyfriend once said.
What perhaps irked me the most, was probably what a friend of mine showed me a few days ago. I have been called a lot of things in my life, most recently referring to my use of make up, but some people take it too far. Taking a photograph, and photo shopping the words “Tranny” in red, across my forehead, is a bit extreme. Then posting it on your myspace, thinking someone wouldn’t tell me about it, is a bit ridiculous. (update: because of the amount of emails this boy got trashing him because of the photo, he’s deleted the picture, and made his myspace private.) Honestly, I find that to be a bit hurtful. Who goes through the great lengths to try and terrorize someone? WHAT GAY MAN WOULD DO THAT TO ANOTHER GAY MAN UNPROVOKED? How can you sit at my side, drink that martini I just mixed you, smoke one of my Marlboro Menthol Smooth’s, and call me your friend?
Recently a boy named Lawrence King murdered. Not because he was gay, but because he was a gay boy that wore stiletto boots, and make up. Lets be honest here. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to work it at the age of 15. When I was 15 years old, fuck, at the age of 13, I rocked my silk polyester shirts, Bermuda shorts, and blue and gray eyeliner/ eye shadow combo. I also had the shit beaten out of me on a regular basis. At school and at home.
“He Was An Inspiration For All”, “He Was Fearless, And Has Had An Impact On All Our Lives-,” read the headliners.
“I wish I could have known him. He must have been a fascinating person-,” responds one of the members of the gay website, connexion.
Growing up living a similar lifestyle, it outrages me the kind of reaction the gay community has had to this story.
He wasn’t fearless. He was terrified of the people at school. The boy that murdered him, I have no doubt in my mind had been harassing him, on more than a few occasions. For you to say he had an impact on your life, is a lie. Wishing you could have know him, is useless and vapid. How people fake their love for this poor deceased boy make me sick.
For years straight people have harassed me, because they are scared of what I stand for. For years, gay people have harassed me, because they are scared of what I stand for.
Not two weeks ago, I was drunkenly stumbling down the Hill in Boulder, trying to find my way back to a party I had foolishly left prematurely. I was on the phone with Brady, who was telling me how to get back, when I skipped past a group of people, and walked down the street.
I almost didn’t hear what one of the young men had to say.
“What the fuck is that faggot doing here? Come back here you fucking AIDS faggot! I’ll beat the shit out of you, you fucking pussy bitch!”
Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was that my tolerance for assholes has been reached, that evening. All I know is that I slid my Helio shut, gripped it in my hand tightly, turned, and waited for them to approach me.
One of the boys emerged from the small group, calling me a faggot, opening his arms wide, to appear larger than he actually was. He couldn’t have been taller than 5’8”, had buzzed red hair, and a flannel button up shirt.
I’m a big bitch. Standing at 6’4” and closing in on 200 lbs, I may be gay, but I’m no twink. I don’t take the shit a twink does either. Not anymore.
He immediately realized his mistake, as he got closer to me, and noticed his friends weren’t as close behind him, as he thought. I had passed them quickly, and he misjudged my size, from my distance. I yelled in his direction, “How typical! Call me a fucking faggot! Come beat the shit out of me! Come try at least! Fuck you, and your ignorance!”
I was standing outside “the Sink” on the Hill, and apparently my drunken cursing grabbed the attention of a police officer eating a slice of pizza inside. The short little man finally reached me, and stood on his tip-toes, to try and get in my face. I towered over him, put my hands on his shoulders, and pushed him away, with minimal force. The officer watched as he waddled as quickly as he could.
“Boys, is there a problem here?”
“This fucking asshole is calling me a faggot, and trying to star a fight with me!” I yelled at the officer, but towards the boy, who was getting up from the ground.
The boy tried to lurch at me, but was intercepted by the officer. He then continued to struggle and hassle the officer.
“You fucking asshole faggot! Get the fuck out of here!” I yelled at the pathetic excuse of a man, as I spit at him. The officer yelled at me to get back. I felt this overwhelming wave of confidence, as I turned and walked away, loudly laughing drunkenly.
In retrospect, it wasn’t the most mature route to go: resorting to violence. However, it felt amazing to stand up to someone that had started a scene unprompted. Looking back, it really could have gotten ugly. You never know, he could have had a weapon, and killed me. I could be dead right now, because I don’t put up with intolerance.
And that could have cost me the same fate of Lawrence King: death. What would happen, then?
Suddenly, calling someone that doesn’t live his life fucking and snorting anymore, a (and I quote) “AIDS infested coke-head slut,” isn’t funny. In an instant, that photograph with the words “Tranny” stenciled across my forehead becomes the poster for living a “fearless lifestyle.” “An inspiration” is what you call me, as you tell all your friends about how we spent every moment together, and you respected me so much because I lead my life without thought of what other people said about me, when you were the very one, who started nasty rumors.
I’m not trying to throw a pity party here. I’m trying to open your eyes to the petty things that people say. Everyone that knew of Lawrence King, said they were his friend, and loved him dearly. How can they say that, when they are the very same people that trash his lifestyle, and judge people like him for wearing make up, and being fabulous and fierce?
When did the world wake up, and suddenly become a Gemini?
All I’m saying is that what people say about each other is fucked up.
Especially when you don’t even know them.
Matty B.
I, like the rest of the American population addicted to pop culture, love dirt on celebrities just as much as anyone else. Hell my favorite television show is “Dirt” starring Courtney Cox. However, I try to lead life with a kind heart, and try to not spread a juicy rumor when I hear one. In fact, I’m kind of a party pooper when it comes to that sort of thing. I may be hip to new club openings, and always step with my fashion forward foot first, but I’ve found that you don’t have to be a cesspool of diseased rumors, to be considered trendy or popular in the “Denver Scene.” (I use the term “scene” lightly.)
Over the past few weeks, I have received
An IC popped up on my window a few weeks ago while I was checking my connexion. It was a 28 year old blond boy, whom I had never met. As his occupation, he put “Professional”. I thought to myself,” this guy has got to be interesting.” My friends and I all believe that people that put “professional” as their occupation, they have to be in the adult film industry. Out of slight amusement, I took a few moments to talk to him.
The first thing he wrote was, “Why don’t you have sex with anyone?”
I was taken aback for a moment. No “Hi”. No “What’s up?”. No warning. I couldn’t help but to be slightly entertained by being asked that question by a complete stranger. I also couldn’t help feeling offended. So I asked him who he was, and why it was any of his business.
He then, uninhibitedly explained to me his entire situation.
I dated this boy for a quick second, last summer. Then I dated him again, over the holidays. Both times it ended because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Apparently the boy chatting with me, asked his friend (the boy I broke up with) about me, because he thought I was cute. My ex claimed I was a prude, and never put out. He also said he suspected I had AIDS, because I had disclosed to him that it was a rarity for me to sleep with someone that I had just met. Clearly, that meant I had a sexually transmitted disease. On top of that, I was accused of being a slut, because if I wasn’t having sex with him, I had to be getting it elsewhere. None of those reasons were why I wouldn’t have sex with him. The reason was because I DON’T HAVE SEX WITH PEOPLE I DON’T TRUST. But that of course makes me a diseased slut. Brilliant. Because of this boy’s brazen ignorance upon ICing me, I decided not to go out on a date with him, despite my love for dumb blonds.
A few days ago, I received a text message from a friend of mine. It was forwarded from a mutual friend of ours, and to put it lightly, it had less than pleasant things to say about me. In said text message, it accused me of being a coke-head slut, who steals people’s boyfriends, and if given the opportunity, will ruin your life if crossed.
I almost had to laugh. Everyone who knows me, knows I have been cocaine free for quite some time, now. As for ruining lives and stealing boyfriends, they really give me too much credit. I haven’t played those games since high school. I think people’s misconception of me is derived from who I used to be in high school. I’m not a kid anymore… and neither are they. If you take the time to talk to me for even a moment, you know I’m a different person. However, I try to take these things with stride. I was a pretty erratic teenager, who was known for my “silver tongue, and venomous bite” as an ex-boyfriend once said.
What perhaps irked me the most, was probably what a friend of mine showed me a few days ago. I have been called a lot of things in my life, most recently referring to my use of make up, but some people take it too far. Taking a photograph, and photo shopping the words “Tranny” in red, across my forehead, is a bit extreme. Then posting it on your myspace, thinking someone wouldn’t tell me about it, is a bit ridiculous. (update: because of the amount of emails this boy got trashing him because of the photo, he’s deleted the picture, and made his myspace private.) Honestly, I find that to be a bit hurtful. Who goes through the great lengths to try and terrorize someone? WHAT GAY MAN WOULD DO THAT TO ANOTHER GAY MAN UNPROVOKED? How can you sit at my side, drink that martini I just mixed you, smoke one of my Marlboro Menthol Smooth’s, and call me your friend?
Recently a boy named Lawrence King murdered. Not because he was gay, but because he was a gay boy that wore stiletto boots, and make up. Lets be honest here. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to work it at the age of 15. When I was 15 years old, fuck, at the age of 13, I rocked my silk polyester shirts, Bermuda shorts, and blue and gray eyeliner/ eye shadow combo. I also had the shit beaten out of me on a regular basis. At school and at home.
“He Was An Inspiration For All”, “He Was Fearless, And Has Had An Impact On All Our Lives-,” read the headliners.
“I wish I could have known him. He must have been a fascinating person-,” responds one of the members of the gay website, connexion.
Growing up living a similar lifestyle, it outrages me the kind of reaction the gay community has had to this story.
He wasn’t fearless. He was terrified of the people at school. The boy that murdered him, I have no doubt in my mind had been harassing him, on more than a few occasions. For you to say he had an impact on your life, is a lie. Wishing you could have know him, is useless and vapid. How people fake their love for this poor deceased boy make me sick.
For years straight people have harassed me, because they are scared of what I stand for. For years, gay people have harassed me, because they are scared of what I stand for.
Not two weeks ago, I was drunkenly stumbling down the Hill in Boulder, trying to find my way back to a party I had foolishly left prematurely. I was on the phone with Brady, who was telling me how to get back, when I skipped past a group of people, and walked down the street.
I almost didn’t hear what one of the young men had to say.
“What the fuck is that faggot doing here? Come back here you fucking AIDS faggot! I’ll beat the shit out of you, you fucking pussy bitch!”
Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was that my tolerance for assholes has been reached, that evening. All I know is that I slid my Helio shut, gripped it in my hand tightly, turned, and waited for them to approach me.
One of the boys emerged from the small group, calling me a faggot, opening his arms wide, to appear larger than he actually was. He couldn’t have been taller than 5’8”, had buzzed red hair, and a flannel button up shirt.
I’m a big bitch. Standing at 6’4” and closing in on 200 lbs, I may be gay, but I’m no twink. I don’t take the shit a twink does either. Not anymore.
He immediately realized his mistake, as he got closer to me, and noticed his friends weren’t as close behind him, as he thought. I had passed them quickly, and he misjudged my size, from my distance. I yelled in his direction, “How typical! Call me a fucking faggot! Come beat the shit out of me! Come try at least! Fuck you, and your ignorance!”
I was standing outside “the Sink” on the Hill, and apparently my drunken cursing grabbed the attention of a police officer eating a slice of pizza inside. The short little man finally reached me, and stood on his tip-toes, to try and get in my face. I towered over him, put my hands on his shoulders, and pushed him away, with minimal force. The officer watched as he waddled as quickly as he could.
“Boys, is there a problem here?”
“This fucking asshole is calling me a faggot, and trying to star a fight with me!” I yelled at the officer, but towards the boy, who was getting up from the ground.
The boy tried to lurch at me, but was intercepted by the officer. He then continued to struggle and hassle the officer.
“You fucking asshole faggot! Get the fuck out of here!” I yelled at the pathetic excuse of a man, as I spit at him. The officer yelled at me to get back. I felt this overwhelming wave of confidence, as I turned and walked away, loudly laughing drunkenly.
In retrospect, it wasn’t the most mature route to go: resorting to violence. However, it felt amazing to stand up to someone that had started a scene unprompted. Looking back, it really could have gotten ugly. You never know, he could have had a weapon, and killed me. I could be dead right now, because I don’t put up with intolerance.
And that could have cost me the same fate of Lawrence King: death. What would happen, then?
Suddenly, calling someone that doesn’t live his life fucking and snorting anymore, a (and I quote) “AIDS infested coke-head slut,” isn’t funny. In an instant, that photograph with the words “Tranny” stenciled across my forehead becomes the poster for living a “fearless lifestyle.” “An inspiration” is what you call me, as you tell all your friends about how we spent every moment together, and you respected me so much because I lead my life without thought of what other people said about me, when you were the very one, who started nasty rumors.
I’m not trying to throw a pity party here. I’m trying to open your eyes to the petty things that people say. Everyone that knew of Lawrence King, said they were his friend, and loved him dearly. How can they say that, when they are the very same people that trash his lifestyle, and judge people like him for wearing make up, and being fabulous and fierce?
When did the world wake up, and suddenly become a Gemini?
All I’m saying is that what people say about each other is fucked up.
Especially when you don’t even know them.
Matty B.
Monday, March 03, 2008
”Them Baggy Sweat Pants, and the Reebok’s With The Straps. She Turned Around and Gave That Big Booty A Slap! ((Hey!))”
Mondays are a long day for me, as far as dancing goes. From 5-9:30 pm I am confined within the hot, humid confines of Street Side Dance Studio. There are fourteen people on my Senior Hip Hop Troup, and Ten on my Promotions Team. To be frank, we are not only committed to this company, but strive to be the best dancers we can be.
I spend probably fifteen plus hours a week dancing at the studio. Usually I am taking a class, or at a rehearsal. However, I have been known to plug in my iPod, and use an empty studio to play around with some of my own choreography.
Today, we had an opportunity to break into groups, and choreograph sections for a piece we’re performing March 17th, 7pm, at Monarch High School. (I apologize for the advertisement, but I am on the promotions team.) I was separated into a group with two other girls, Alex and Chelsea. We were given a section of music to choreograph, and some time to work it out.
And we did.
Out of all the groups, ours (as she said) was the most innovative. Apparently, she’s interested in Alex and I choreographing a piece for our next showcase.
I almost died.
The moment where I was asked to choreograph a piece, is basically what I have been working for, my entire life.
All I know, is that it was an amazing way to end my evening.
Matty B.
Mondays are a long day for me, as far as dancing goes. From 5-9:30 pm I am confined within the hot, humid confines of Street Side Dance Studio. There are fourteen people on my Senior Hip Hop Troup, and Ten on my Promotions Team. To be frank, we are not only committed to this company, but strive to be the best dancers we can be.
I spend probably fifteen plus hours a week dancing at the studio. Usually I am taking a class, or at a rehearsal. However, I have been known to plug in my iPod, and use an empty studio to play around with some of my own choreography.
Today, we had an opportunity to break into groups, and choreograph sections for a piece we’re performing March 17th, 7pm, at Monarch High School. (I apologize for the advertisement, but I am on the promotions team.) I was separated into a group with two other girls, Alex and Chelsea. We were given a section of music to choreograph, and some time to work it out.
And we did.
Out of all the groups, ours (as she said) was the most innovative. Apparently, she’s interested in Alex and I choreographing a piece for our next showcase.
I almost died.
The moment where I was asked to choreograph a piece, is basically what I have been working for, my entire life.
All I know, is that it was an amazing way to end my evening.
Matty B.
b
”Black Bird Singing In The Dead Of Night. Will You Take These Broken Wings, and Learn To Fly?-”
I recently met this boy Trev, on connexion. After exchanging a mere three or four emails, I invited him over to my house to watch a movie. I know what you’re all thinking. Gay boy invites another gay boy over to his house to “hang out”. Who’s going to bring the poppers and lube?
I’ve prided myself on not being the stereotypical homosexual. I’ve also prided myself on not being the stereotypical human being… in any situation. So when I invited him over, I of course, had the purest of intentions.
I was pleasantly surprised, by the person who drove up and parked in front of my house. I was finishing a cigarette as he walked up. He had the biggest smile on his face, and was genuinely excited to meet me. I have to be completely honest, I was a bit taken aback. I was expecting… well, anything other than him.
Most of the people I meet are usually either shooting their mouth off about how much they hate some bitch they ran into at the club, or how hot the guy across the street is. Although I do love the occasional gay banter, after a few years, it gets old. Suddenly every new person you meet is just like the last. You’re surrounded by these taupe people who lead horribly vapid lives, and you find that you would rather be alone, than try and invest any sort of relationship with these people.
Trev followed me upstairs, and set his stuff down beside my bed. We never got around to watching a movie. Instead, we just sat there and talked.
He walked around my room, and picked through my used canvasses, asking questions, commenting, suggesting things I should do, where I should hang them, etcetera. He was possibly the most interesting person that I’ve talked to, in a really long time. He asked about my life, what I did, what I wanted to do. About a half an hour after his arrival, we hopped out my window, onto the roof, to smoke. He was stoked that he could see the moon, and that I “had such a great view”. We took a few pictures, talked a little more, drank some champagne, and went back inside.
I spoke to him uninhibited, which was very strange for me. I think it’s because I didn’t see him as a threat, as I do with most gay men. Let’s be honest, gay men are horrible. Never in my life have I ever been so reluctant to tell any of them anything about my personal life, because I’ve been scared they would later use it against me. That’s ultimately why I took such a long time to start writing my blog again, because people take the way I feel, and twist it around against me.
I suppose it’s unfair to target gay men specifically. However, I have met a lot of people, and consider myself a fairly popular person, when it comes to the community. Many of my “friends” are gay men, and I have yet to meet more than a handful, that aren’t at least a little guilty of some backstabbing. I’m not saying I’m completely guilt-free, but I try to mend relationships I’ve ruined, and be a better person in the future. Maybe you think that’s total bullshit. However people will think and say what they will. Thus the beauty of this entire situation, we call life.
We continued to talk until the early morning hours, about exes, boys, art, music, everything you can imagine. As I was about to fall asleep, he gathered his things, and I walked him downstairs, to the front door. He has two dogs at home that he has to take care of, so he couldn’t stay. I hugged him, closed the door, and walked back upstairs.
What I loved about him, was that I was in a pressure-free situation. I got do meet someone new, and actually have a conversation with them, without them asking me to do their hair or make up.
Gay, Straight, Bi, Men, Women… whatever happened to being human?
Matty B.
”Black Bird Singing In The Dead Of Night. Will You Take These Broken Wings, and Learn To Fly?-”
I recently met this boy Trev, on connexion. After exchanging a mere three or four emails, I invited him over to my house to watch a movie. I know what you’re all thinking. Gay boy invites another gay boy over to his house to “hang out”. Who’s going to bring the poppers and lube?
I’ve prided myself on not being the stereotypical homosexual. I’ve also prided myself on not being the stereotypical human being… in any situation. So when I invited him over, I of course, had the purest of intentions.
I was pleasantly surprised, by the person who drove up and parked in front of my house. I was finishing a cigarette as he walked up. He had the biggest smile on his face, and was genuinely excited to meet me. I have to be completely honest, I was a bit taken aback. I was expecting… well, anything other than him.
Most of the people I meet are usually either shooting their mouth off about how much they hate some bitch they ran into at the club, or how hot the guy across the street is. Although I do love the occasional gay banter, after a few years, it gets old. Suddenly every new person you meet is just like the last. You’re surrounded by these taupe people who lead horribly vapid lives, and you find that you would rather be alone, than try and invest any sort of relationship with these people.
Trev followed me upstairs, and set his stuff down beside my bed. We never got around to watching a movie. Instead, we just sat there and talked.
He walked around my room, and picked through my used canvasses, asking questions, commenting, suggesting things I should do, where I should hang them, etcetera. He was possibly the most interesting person that I’ve talked to, in a really long time. He asked about my life, what I did, what I wanted to do. About a half an hour after his arrival, we hopped out my window, onto the roof, to smoke. He was stoked that he could see the moon, and that I “had such a great view”. We took a few pictures, talked a little more, drank some champagne, and went back inside.
I spoke to him uninhibited, which was very strange for me. I think it’s because I didn’t see him as a threat, as I do with most gay men. Let’s be honest, gay men are horrible. Never in my life have I ever been so reluctant to tell any of them anything about my personal life, because I’ve been scared they would later use it against me. That’s ultimately why I took such a long time to start writing my blog again, because people take the way I feel, and twist it around against me.
I suppose it’s unfair to target gay men specifically. However, I have met a lot of people, and consider myself a fairly popular person, when it comes to the community. Many of my “friends” are gay men, and I have yet to meet more than a handful, that aren’t at least a little guilty of some backstabbing. I’m not saying I’m completely guilt-free, but I try to mend relationships I’ve ruined, and be a better person in the future. Maybe you think that’s total bullshit. However people will think and say what they will. Thus the beauty of this entire situation, we call life.
We continued to talk until the early morning hours, about exes, boys, art, music, everything you can imagine. As I was about to fall asleep, he gathered his things, and I walked him downstairs, to the front door. He has two dogs at home that he has to take care of, so he couldn’t stay. I hugged him, closed the door, and walked back upstairs.
What I loved about him, was that I was in a pressure-free situation. I got do meet someone new, and actually have a conversation with them, without them asking me to do their hair or make up.
Gay, Straight, Bi, Men, Women… whatever happened to being human?
Matty B.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)