Love Retrospective

It is universally acknowledged that a boy toy in possession of a good fortune must be in want of true love.

And he will look in all the wrong places before he finds it…

Bridge Builder tried to get me to cross to the other side. But in matters of the heart, pushing and shoving only results in a halt. Even though we might be uncertain as to what we want exactly… it’s always helpful to pinpoint what we do not want. And I knew that this relationship was going nowhere.

“Pretty soon, his calls and e-mails turn into a form of suffocation—a commitment I’m not ready to make. Maybe because he is 28 and I’m 21 or maybe because he has built a life in Chicago and I still want to go to New York. Or maybe because I enjoy being on my own. Or maybe because I know that he isn’t the bridge that is going to get me to the other side. Not now, anyway.”

So I began casually dating. I’m sort of traditional, so getting hammered and making out with strangers on the dance floor was how I met most of my Chicago paramours at this time. That’s how I met Canadian Stallion, DJ Dreamboat and Straight Guy. And even though we all fantasize about meeting that hook-up that hangs on to our heart, one-night stands rarely commit into the morning after.

“For one minute I let myself get caught up in the moment: the good boy with the lazy smile making breakfast while watching the morning news. A moment he would never recognize, a moment I’m ready to own.”

The carefree fooling around continued when I went to study abroad in Madrid for six months. My next-door neighbor, Chico Rock, impressed me immediately with his Euro-cool and in-the-know approach. But he turned out not to be as solid as I had hoped.

“I open my hand and see that he’s given me two pills. I take one and hand it over to Chico Rock, but he shakes his hands and says, ‘They’re all yours.’”

I took a little detour to Paris for a week and found myself in trouble once again – having to sneak into my flight back after almost getting caught in a ménage á trois.

And then – back to the states. This time, New York City after landing an internship with a magazine. The city was a whirlwind. I went out almost every night and met the most fascinating, life-driven individuals: polysexual party monsters, Wall Street trophy husbands and beautiful boys I should have had the courage to gone up to introduce myself.

“But if we genuinely feel the sparks and believe that the scruffy guy to our right is right, right now, then what’s stopping us from going for it, not like a mindless missile but like on a mission? The worse that can happen is old and rusted rejection. But we’re all big boys here. We can deal.”

New York was not all frisky, no strings attached. I began hooking up with my roommate, Sunny D, and getting dangerously close in our convenient, yet comforting relationship. He could see right through me, but it took him being jealous of a certain Toy Soldier to show it.

“‘So is that really what you think of me?’ I ask as I begin to walk back towards him. ‘That I just use guys? They’re totally disposable to me? Is that what I thought of you?’ The last question is particularly poignant because I’d recently expressed my feelings for him. He’s silent, so I continue. ‘What the hell was that all about? You have a boyfriend, remember?! So just… leave me alone and let me fuck whomever I want. Let me be the giant slut you think I am!’ I drunkenly shout on Avenue A. For some reason, no one thinks it’s weird.”

After all the conflict, I let the dust settled, Sunny D went home and I moved to a new apartment on the Lower East Side. And when I least expected it, I found my superhero… ironically, right before we were both about to jet to somewhere else. He went to California, and I went back to college in Chicago.

My Summer of Love ended, and after the roller coaster ride that was Europe and New York, I started feeling displaced, belonging to nowhere and to no one. I began to crave security, no more casual affairs, but a genuine connection. But that got me in even more of a predicament, because things are rarely what they seem. Denim Boy and Mr. Danger proved that.

“And I was so certain that this real boy would be different. He would care and be kind and not play games, not lead me on and resort to me whenever he wanted, like some plaything that would be available to him whenever he wished. What happened to the good old days when a boy kissed you because he meant it, not to just show that he could?”

But my search was not all a bunch of disillusions. For even when things appeared the grayest, I met a boy that would brighten up my world in multicolor.

After graduation, I moved to San Francisco and realized that my high school crush, Peter Pan, hadn’t grown up at all while I was gone. Chico Boricuo taught me more about myself in one night in a hotel room on Valencia. And I got caught in yet another bizarre love triangle with a Potential Player and an All-American Reject.

But after everything I’ve gone through, I still refuse to give up. No matter how many terrible first dates, misunderstood text messages and heartbreak – I still full-heartedly believe there’s a superhero out there for all of us. Not to rescue us but to fly high along with us. And we shouldn’t settle for anything less that will keep us grounded.

Now that I’m done writing about toy love, I’m focusing all my creative energy to my new bi-weekly column for EDGE. HomoTech ponders the impact of technology on gay lifestyle. Here’s my piece about why I decided to stop writing this blog. I’ve also re-launched my Tumblr, with a new focus on comic book superhero worship.

Thanks for flying along with me,

Oscar

(photo taken in my college dorm, circa 2008)

Todo Acaba Como Empieza

It’s almost 3 a.m. and this late at night (this early morning) I have to take a cab if I want to go back to Chueca. I have no choice: I gave my keys to Chico Rock assuming we’d be coming home together. After all, we sleep a mere balcony hop away.

It’s pouring hard in Madrid, as if the city needs cleansing. The streets of Chueca are empty by the time I get there. The rain has scared off all the little animals that would otherwise be prowling up and down the streets. I’ve never seen Madrid this empty, this cold, this wet. Rick’s is still open of course, so I walk in looking around to see if I can find Rock, or traces that he has been here recently, but nothing.

I order a tequila Squirt and sit by the bar. I’ve come to learn that when looking for someone – friends at a bar, a boy to take home, a future husband, my absent father – it’s better to stay still rather than shoot off aimlessly into the darkness. About twenty minutes later, a man wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans slides to the seat next to me, smiles at me and asks me what I’m drinking. I let him buy me another tequila Squirt. It’s not too late to make friends, and there’s something wildly attractive about his stubble and the thin brushes of silver caressing his buzz cut hair.

We make small talk, I tell him about my time in Madrid, how I’m looking for my next door neighbor with my keys. He tells me about his job, accounting, how he lived in Germany for two years and how he wished he had met me earlier on my trip…

+++

I made my mother cry on her wedding day. It was completely unintentional, like most actions of a nine year-old tend to be. I had been crying that day too, for some reason too hard to decipher fourteen years later. I guess, I just wanted to see her one last time before the ceremony in the chapel was about to commence.

I remember one of my younger aunts escorted me, tears and all, to the room where my mom was applying last-minute make-up and taking control of her nerves. My mother saw me amidst distress, opened her arms, I ran to her, clinching to her satin gown. And I began to cry harder. I gasped for air repeatedly, wiping my tears and unable to complete my thoughts, let alone speak.

The church bells rang, and the maid of honor knocked on the door. “One second!” My mom said wiping my tears and then her own. She fixed my hair and then her own, and I finally managed to say, “They said that I don’t have a father.”

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you that!” She responded immediately and with maternal anger I had never seen before.

“But I don’t have a father,” I said not yet consoled.

“Of course you do,” she said now softly and with a smile. She was a beautiful bride. “Your father is standing right in front of you.” I stood back and smiled. I didn’t want to get any more tears on her dress.

+++

I excuse myself from the conversation I’m having with the handsome stranger at the bar and head to the restroom. I take the last urinal and unzip my pants. The small restroom smells like urine, beer and cologne.

As I start fondling my boxers trying to find the opening, I notice through the mirror the stranger walking in and taking the stall next to me. We are alone. He begins whistling, but I just brush him off. I can sense that he’s looking straight at me, and I keep staring straight in front of me at the light blue wall graffiti’ed with telephone numbers scribbled in black sharpie. I feel his hand grab the back of my neck, so I rush to finish and zip my pants back up. “Don’t be scared, daddy’s here,” he whispers, and my Spidey senses shoot off tingles down my spine. I wriggle out of his grasp, step back and turn to him – give him this angry, disapproving look. He’s pathetic.

But rejection is always hard to take face on. The stranger’s face gets flushed with aggression, and he pushes me with enough force that I stumble back into the stall behind me, my chest and my back harden with the pain. I push him to the side, trying to get him out of my way. He punches my face, and I taste blood, like liquid copper, trickling down my throat.

A flamboyant skinny blond boy storms in to the restroom, confused as to what he has just encountered. The stranger rushes out, and I go to the mirror to fix my hair. I’m bleeding out my nose, and I clench my fists because I don’t want to cry.

+++

My mother’s wedding was not a big spectacle by any means. In fact, I remember her making it clear that she wanted something intimate. Because when it comes to love, no show can ever be big enough to ever encapsulate what’s happening internally. After my tears dried up, I took my seat in the front row and looked around. All the people my mother had ever met were there, my old family and my new family, meeting and smiling, so proud of the union. They were happy. And I was happy too.

My mother and my stepfather stood together, said their vows and kissed. And they have been happily married ever since.

And I remember feeling like my heart was going to explode. As a child, I enjoyed projecting myself into the future. And that day, I sat and gazed at the beauty of it all and thought, “that’s what I want.”

+++

Outside the restroom, the party at Rick’s is still going strong. Bloody and teary, I walk out and see Chico Rock making out with some guy on the crowded dancefloor. I walk up to him, unconcerned with interrupting, and ask him for my keys.

“Oye tio, y que te paso? (Hey man, what happened to you?)” He asks. But I don’t answer, I ask for my keys again. He reaches in his pocket and hands me my keys.

“Estas bien? (Are you ok?)” He asks, and now I can tell he’s worried. I reach out and cup his smooth jaw with my hand.

“Estare bien. (I’ll be fine.)” I say and force a smile.

I leave the bar and walk to the nearest metro station. It’s still raining, not has hard, but I don’t care. I stand outside for fifteen minutes, waiting for the trains to start running. It’s a brand new day, but I still feel like last night. I lift my head and let the rain splash on my face and drain down my body; I need the cleansing.

Love at First Color Sight

“C’mon, come with me,” my roommate implores in an almost whiny voice while leaning over me. I turn over, keep my eyes shut, mumble for her to leave me alone and pull my covers over my head. Not getting the immediate reaction she was hoping for, my little Badgerista begins shaking my shoulders. She’s always such an unrelentess force when it comes to getting what she wants. “C’mon, c’mon,” she goes on. Her voice is particularly annoying to me, while I lay caught between naptime and real time. “You know it’s gonna be fun.”

Is Badgerista trying to guilt trip me now? Actually, I know it’s going to be no fun. A bunch of pretentious college kids thinking it’s appropriate to act stupid because they’re wasted? No thanks. But she has been excited about this party for days, ever since she got the Facebook invite and noticed that her crush had RSVP’d “Maybe.” This blasé response gave Badgerista enough motivation to get all dolled up on a Friday night and drag her tired, groggy best friend with her by whatever means possible.

It’s been a while since I’ve gone to a college party. The past six months have been spent in Madrid, far, far away from fraternities, keg stands and beer pong. And ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been in this funky mood. Like Madrid was maybe too much for me to process in such a short time. And it doesn’t help that all I do with my free time is sleep.

“It would be nice to go out and have a drink,” I sit up and say, rubbing my eyes and scratching my head.

“Yes! I promise it’ll be a blast,” Badgerista says all giddy as she skips out of my room and into the restroom.

“So if I had said ‘no,’ you would have just gone without me?” I ask loud enough so she can hear me. I’m surprised at how awake I am. Her giddy must be contagious.

“Oh no! I knew I would convince you,” she says walking back into my room with a blow dryer in her hand. She is wearing a pair of navy blue skinny jeans topped with an embroided maroon blouse. It’ll be fun to be her wingman tonight and help her out in the boy department.

“And shower! There might be cute guys there tonight.” After all, she always looks out for me.

As we arrive to the front door of the apartment where much revelry is to be expected, I see a thin girl with dangling earrings standing in front of a table with a money box. Cover?

“It’s a fundraiser!” Thin girl shouts over Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” blasting inside. I look back at Badgerista and give her this look to make sure she understands that she owes me. “College feminists are putting on The Vagina Monologues,” thin girl continues as if trying to convince us of the worthy cause. I hold up my index finger indicating the need for one sec, turn around, grab Badgerista and move us out the way so that we can discuss.

“Are you sure this is the party?” I ask still holding on to her shoulders. “I think it’s a lesbian party…”

“Yeah, yeah, this is it! C’mon! Where’s your sense of adventure?” Badgerista spits a little, and I reconsider having taken those shots of vodka before stepping out of our apartment. Badgerista seems super eager to mingle with the vaginas… but at least her boy crush will be easy to spot. So on we go to the feminist, theater, lesbian party. And I think, “Didn’t really need that shower.”

The small apartment has an unused chimney adorned with blue twinkle lights and the wooden floor is sticky with spilt beer. It’s crowded and hot in the living room, even though it’s February in Chicago and the windows are wide open. The body heat is stronger than the weather.

Much to my surprise, it’s not really a feminist/theater/lesbian party. From first impression, it looks like quite the assorted crowd. Later I find out that much of the social diversity that night can be attributed to the fact that one of the most popular actresses in school had just been cast in The Vagina Monologues, and she had used all of her party prowess to make the fundraiser a huge success.

Badgerista and I walk towards the kitchen after tossing down our coats. She keeps an eye out for her crush while I keep an eye out for the free alcohol. After we pour ourselves a red cup of jungle juice each, Badgerista has to use the ladies room because her bladder doesn’t know the concept of patience. I head out the back door to the alley so I can smoke a cigarette.

The smokers’ circle in the alley is being entertained by no other than “The Drunkest Girl at the Party,” whom I, of course, have the privilege of knowing personally. We lived in the same dorm, right next to each other, freshman year. She doesn’t come off as your typical feminist per se, but she is producing the show.

“Hey! You’re here!” She shouts in my general direction.

“Yup…” I say, unwilling to match her enthusiasm. “Anyone got a light?”

“Oh here you go,” she lights my parliament. “So what have you been up to? Haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Just got back from Madrid…”

“Oh yeah! So was it everything you ever imagined and so much more? Are you going to do that whole ‘coming back from study abroad’ speech about how being in that foreign country for, like, half a year totally changed your life?” She says so mockingly that I almost take her seriously.

But all I can be when it comes to Madrid is earnest, so I say, “Yeah, actually. It did.”

“I love reading all those stupid study abroad blogs,” she ignores my genuine response and goes back to the mock show. “You think you’re the only person that’s ever gone to a different country and had culture shock? And it’s culture shock about the dumbest things, like, ‘Oh, you can order beer at McDonalds?’ Fucking get over it!” She shuts up for a minute, perhaps afraid that she might come off bitter if she keeps going. I happen to know that just earlier in the school year, her plans to study abroad in Prague had been scrapped due to a dismal GPA. “Did you start a blog while in Madrid?” She asks in a more serious tone.

“No… but I did write a lot. I started a journal. I know, it sounds cheesy… but some of the things, I just had to write down,” I notice that the circle begins to lose interest in what I have to say. So I stop. I save my best stories for an attentive audience. I stomp out my cigarette and walk back inside. I make my way through the crowd of people mingling in the kitchen, refill my jungle juice and go back to the living room looking for Badgerista. She’s probably still waiting in line to use the restroom. It’s almost midnight, and the dance party has already gotten started. The tipsy underclassmen grind and groove in the dark, moving in slow and out of order patterns as if submerged in water. The blue twinkle lights shine on.

Through all the commotion, I notice a boy swimming in his own world towards the back of the room. The boy with a face like an indie singer. A face I’ve never seen before: thin pink lips, wavy brown hair and bushy eyebrows above eyes the color of dark chocolate melting under a heat lamp. He is dancing with his girl friends completely unaware of his allure. Wearing Bermuda shorts, a sky blue thrift shop tee and tan sandals, he’s not at all concerned with concept of matching. I like his spectrum. His wrists are wrapped halfway up his forearms in a disharmony of hues. A heavy metal watch on one wrist, a thick black leather wristband on the other, mingled with orange, lime green and plum rubber bracelets and thin threads and loose bands from summer camps gone by. Around his glistening forehead, a cherry-colored bandana soaks up the light sweat caused by him bobbling and bouncing to the beat. The rest of the room suddenly turns black and white, while he is sharp in Technicolor. And I vividly remember thinking in that moment, “That’s the boy I should be with.”

“Ah, isn’t he super cute?” Badgerista asks interrupting my daydream and joining in on the adoration brigade.

“I think he might be…”

“Gay! Yeah, a girl waiting behind me in line for the restroom told me. Right before she headed out the door to try to pee in the front yard.”

“Wow, you had quite the adventure…” I say handing over my cup of jungle juice offering for her to take a sip. “So what’s this guy’s story?”

“He just transferred from some school in North Carolina,” she says after drinking from my cup and handing it back to me. “According to the girl, he’s kind of shy, doesn’t but gets really silly when he drinks. And he has all the girls here swooning over him tonight. He doesn’t have many guy friends. You should go talk to him.”

“To a complete stranger? And what am I going to say to exactly?”

“Isn’t that what you do to guys in Boystown? Figure it out!” She says implying I should have more game.

“Haha, don’t pretend like you know what I do in Boystown. Besides, this is different. Completely different.”

Right at that moment, “The Drunkest Girl at the Party” stumbles in to the living room, turns off the speakers and slurs in a loud voice, “Ok guys! Party’s over! Cops are here! Everyone out through the back. Come on. It’s over.”

Badgerista and I grab our coats from the pile that’s accumulated by the chimney and make our way out.

I didn’t get to talk to the Boy in Color that night. And after weeks of not seeing him around, I gave up. But my memory of him that night never faded.

It wasn’t until the beginning of my senior year, when I was moving in to my new student house on the off-campus party block, that I saw him again. Moving in next door.