EatGayLove

Burning Questions (and Answers): The Gay Sex Edition

2012-02-24T23:48:00.000-08:00

Everything you've always wanted to know about gay love and lust but were afraid to ask!

Can you find Mr. Perfect online? Consider this: Many of the guys on Manhunt are the same ones crowding your local dance floor on any given Saturday night. Everyone has a profile somewhere. Many guys have messaged me on Manhunt after seeing me shake my groove thing live, and a weekend night at the Peel in Melbourne can feel sort of like a Grindr convention.

Sure most of the cruisers on Grindr right now aren't looking for love, but neither are the ones cruising on Grindr while ordering at the bar. Bottom line: It not where you meet him. It's what he does after you do.

Should you sleep with him on the first date? Gay relationships are not like straight ones. Holding out until you're sure he loves you -- or that he's looking for more than a hit and run -- might make him think you're not that into him, at least that was my experience during my four and a half years in the gay playground known as Buenos Aires.

As the old saying goes, men need to make love to feel love, women need to feel love to make love. So if two men are involved -- well, you know where this is heading. Going from personal experience (okay, way too many one-night stands), it's sometimes better to get sex out of the way before the first date. If there ends up being a first date, at least you already know you're more or less sexually compatible, and you won't have to spend the entire evening wondering where you'll end up, just in whose bed.

Will he be there (in the morning)? Though it's nice when he is (granted that you weren't viewing him through beer goggles the night before), just because men don't leave before the sun comes up, doesn't mean they'll be around when it goes down again, or seven sunrises and sunsets from now.

Top or bottom? If he has to ask, clearly he's the latter.

To f**k or not to f**k? Personally, I prefer kisses and cuddles only (with perhaps some sucking thrown in, if the chemistry is right). Years ago, a guy told me, in the throes of afterglow, that he could tell I'm not gay for the sex. I didn't take it as an insult, and I don't think he intended it as one. It was merely an innocent observation, and a dead-accurate one, too.

If a guy's primary motive is to get you inside of him -- and you can always tell by the way he shakes his ass during foreplay -- chances are he'll never love you for your mind. And if all he wants is to get inside of you, there's plenty more where you came from, because let's be honest: On the dance floor, on Manhunt, on Grindr, bottoms are cheaper, and more prevalent, than a dime a dozen.

What should you think of a guy who'd let you slip it in without a condom? This one is easy. If he'd let you in through his back door without protection, or without really knowing who is knocking, chances are he'd let anybody do it. Run -- from him, or too your stash of condoms!

Is it in his kiss? Let's put it this way: If the lips don't fit, the people they're attached to won't either. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he kisses you: what he eats, whether he flosses, and whether it's worth your time going 'round the bases with him.

Boxers or briefs? I've always found it much more comfortable to go commando during sex.

Was it good for you? If either of you have to ask, it probably wasn't. And if you're still doing it, what are you doing here then?

May-September Romance: The Hardest Part (Is This How Demi Moore Feels?)

2012-02-02T21:46:00.000-08:00

They said it wouldn't last. "He's too young." They said that, too. They were right, especially about the first part. After all, most relationships fail, so it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Shane and I probably would, too.

That's not to say that I'm completely oblivious to the challenges facing a guy in his 40s who falls in love with a guy half his age. But even if you aren't buying astrology and what it says about Sagittarians (like Shane) and Taureans (like me), there were certain inherent qualities in both of us that probably still would have kept us from connecting in 22 years, when I'm 64 and he's 45.

Interestingly, in regards to the age difference, the aftermath has been the hardest part. Twenty years has never seemed like as wide a gap as it did when I sat there at Burger Edge, looking at the near-stranger eating chips beside to me, the one who was hiding his emotions behind all that insouciant bravado and those cheap sunglasses.

As he told me about his internship and his plans for the immediate future, it hit me. All that I've left behind is still laid out before him. (Cue Morrissey's "The Ordinary Boys": "With their lives laid out before them, they are lucky, so lucky, so lucky, so lucky, so....")

Ironically, one of the things that first attracted Shane to me, that Thursday night/Friday morning at the Peel, October 7/8, 2010, was my life experience. He was impressed by me, by my past as a successful journalist in New York City, and by the fact that after years of hard work, I'd acquired the freedom to live the life that I wanted to live. (Don't think the parallel between my being long out of the closet and him still being stuck so far inside wasn't lost on me -- that's subtext at its most powerful.)

In regard to Shane's life, the feelings were not mutual. Nothing about it impressed me. At the time, he represented so many things that I'd left behind and didn't want to revisit -- lack of independence, professional uncertainty, internal homophobia, the general awkwardness of being inexperienced.

But yesterday, for the first time, listening to him, I was jealous, emerald-green with envy (a color which, unlike lime green, looks good on no one). Here I am, three months shy of 43, trying to figure out the next chapter of my life, with no idea what tomorrow might bring or even what I want it to bring. Meanwhile, Shane's future is beginning to fall right into place. And adding insult to emotional injury, I couldn't see any place in it for me. He may be an ordinary boy, but at least he has an idea of where he's going.

Were I 10 or 15 years younger, it would be easier. Not so much because I would be closer to his age, but because my future would be more of a blank slate, untarnished by experience, bitterness and world-weary skepticism. Though I'm no longer blinded by the idealism of youth, my expectations are so much higher -- of hotels and restaurants, of others, of myself. The older you get, the more narrow your options become, professionally and romantically. It's harder to move on.

I wondered if he saw me the way I was seeing myself at that moment: unsure, unsteady, borderline-washed up. I hoped the cheap sunglasses were contributing to a more flattering view, one that didn't look as pathetic as I felt. I was seeing the worst in myself -- in my mind and in those black circles covering his eyes -- and imagining that he must be, too.

Of course, things could be so much worse. I recently heard about a former colleague of mine who is around my age whose younger husband left her and their three kids to run off with a 25 year old. I haven't spoken to her, but I've been told that she was completely blindsided. Naturally, she's devastated. In some ways, her situation makes this thing with Shane seem as insignificant as puppy love.

I wonder if it would have been any easier if her husband were closer to her age. Would it be easier on Demi Moore, 49, if Ashton Kutcher were 53 instead of 33? Women in their 40s have it bad enough as it is without being reminded about the tick tock of life's clock when they find themselves suddenly alone, abandoned by men with most of their 30s still ahead of them. If it's harder for me to move on, I don't even know how they manage to drag themselves out of bed in the morning.

Today, for the first time since Shane and I broke up in November, I had trouble doing that. At 10.24am, I figured that if I was going to wallow I might as well do it vertically, or sitting upright, which is what I'm doing as I write this post, which I hope will be the final one about Shane but am certain it won't be.

I know this much is true: This, too, shall pass. My future will work itself out, as always. I will end up where I'm supposed to be (Melbourne, Sydney, Bangkok, Buenos Aires, New York City, or somewhere completely off my radar at the moment), and someday Shane will be someone that I used to love. And hopefully, I'll go back to looking at my 20s the way God intended me to at this age -- as something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

The Last Goodbye

2012-02-02T02:07:00.000-08:00

Today I saw Shane for the first time in seven months. It was a reunion full of mixed signals and mixed emotions -- cathartic, enlightening, painful, depressing, relaxed, tense, awkward, anything but happy. It had to happen, though, in order for me to gain closure, which is a word I've always sort of hated. But not now. For the first time, I fully understand it, and I said so when I updated my Facebook status immediately after returning home.

"Closure is a very underrated thing. Or maybe it's just that it's not overrated. At any rate, thank God for it."

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Let's back track to shortly after 1pm.

Shane asked me to a late lunch (designated time and place: 2.30pm at Burger Edge, which is only one block from where I live) so that he could give me back the things that he has been holding onto for me and, presumably, for closure (neither his word, nor mine, but things needed to end on a note that didn't sound like fingers furiously tapping a laptop keyboard). I accepted, though I had eaten shortly before his email arrived.

I decided that I'd wear what I was wearing, which meant if I looked like I had just rolled out of bed, it would be because I had actually slept in the clothes I'd be wearing. I didn't take a shower, and I didn't floss and brush my teeth, as I generally do before meeting up with any handsome guy. Who needed the possibility of sex clouding my good judgement?

Shane arrived about 30 minutes late -- though he did send several emails en route, apologizing -- and when I saw him across the street, my first thought was "Damn!"

He looked great, and as he told me within seconds of sitting down, he was doing great, "really really great." Things in his life seem to be going great, really really great (new apartment, new internship, possible new job in Sydney after he graduates in six months), which made me happy for him but sad for me because it means that life really does go on without me.

Did he look happy? No, but then he never really did. He wore his sunglasses the entire time (we were outside, and the sun was shining brightly, ironically, but I knew it was also a part of the cool, breezy, my-life-so-doesn't-suck-without-you image that he wanted to project), so I couldn't get a read on what was really going on with him. At one point, I thought about asking him to remove the shades, so that I could see his eyes, but I didn't, either because I was afraid of what I might see, or because deep down, I no longer cared.

The most interesting aspect of the entire hour was that I finally realized how little Shane and I actually have in common. Take away the sex, or the possibility of it, and there really was no connection. In short, I found him to be like Paris, attractive but quite dull. If only we had been in a cafe overlooking the Seine, or at the Louvre, standing in front of the Mona Lisa. At least then when I diverted my gaze away from him, I would have had a perfect excuse for it, not that I just couldn't bear to look into those black circles (his sunglasses) for one second longer.

Shane is one of those people who can't -- or won't -- dig deeper than everyday minutiae. That is what always made conversations with him so unsatisfying. He can only relate to things that are actually happening in his life, his life. And he went on and on about his life -- his internship, his friends, the movie he saw last night (Requiem for a Dream, but not about any of the themes it explored, only how good it was). I don't think I've ever listened to him talk so much.

He didn't have anything to say about anything I said that wasn't about him. The only thing I said about me that seemed to make any real impression on him was that beginning next month, I'll be writing two columns for a magazine in Bangkok. When I mentioned the writing I've been doing over the last seven months, which has been such a key component of my life, he was clearly uninterested. For such a talented, creative person he's always been strangely unwilling or unable to talk about the creative process -- his own, or anyone else's.

He asked me things like how my job search is going (nowhere, by the way, but it's not like I'm diligently looking, and as I've recently realized, I want a job offer more as an ego boost, for validation, than as a way to earn money, or stay in Australia), what I liked most about my time in Asia (clearly he wasn't reading my blog -- the other one, the one I don't publish anonymously -- or he wouldn't have had to ask), and what I'm going to do now.

"Do you mean now 'now,' or 'now' as in what am I going to do with the rest of my life?" He didn't really know. It's just something that people ask, so he asked it, which is so like him.

And which might be why most of what I said when I wasn't talking about him either didn't seem to interest him, or why he just didn't get it, if you can measure the degree to which someone "gets it" by whether he or she has anything to say about what you've just said. As much as I've done in the last seven months, my journey was largely an internal one, and when I tried to explain it to him, it was like I was talking to myself.

I knew he was listening to me, but as I said before, in our conversations, he's always seemed more comfortable discussing tangible events (the minutiae of everyday life -- "What's going on?" is how he begins every conversation) than ideas. Maybe behind the sunglasses there was some understanding, some interest, some depth of feeling, but all I could see were those two black circles staring back at me.

We never did get around to talking about us, trying to figure out what went wrong or offering any sort of belated post-mortem commentary. I was up for it, but either Shane no longer cared, or he figured that everything that needed to be said had already been said on Facebook.

Sometime around 4pm, Shane announced that he should leave. I hadn't eaten anything, so I'd been ready to flee the scene as soon as he'd arrived, and I'd gotten my things from him. I probably should have, but then there would have been no closure. And I figured that the least I could do was let him decide how we'd leave things this time. He started to mumble something about being glad that we could have this last conversation and held out his hand. I hugged him instead.

"Good luck with everything," he said. Finality.

"Have fun at your friend's party tonight," I said. I wanted to leave the door ajar just a little, although I knew that I'd slammed it shut when I broke up with him in November.

I walked away from the encounter feeling sad yet strangely elated. Sad because life goes on, and elated for the very same reason. I know it's over, and unlike Morrissey in the great Smiths song with that title, I'll no longer cling, even though I still love him and a part of me always will.

As Shane walked away, I didn't even glance back. I knew he was walking out of my life for good, and I couldn't bear to look.

One More Reason Why Age Is Just a Number

2012-01-15T01:32:00.000-08:00

"He's too young."

If I've heard it once, I've heard it a thousand times too many. Partly, it's my own fault, for dating younger guys, ones who are nearly half my age. I don't do it by design. The guys who approach me in bars, in clubs, on Manhunt all seem to be born in the same year, 1988.

"He's immature."

"What do you have in common?"

"You're in two different stages in life. He's not for you"

Here we go yet again. But as much as I hate to admit it, my finger-wagging friends have a point. Though I'm strongly against putting people in boxes based on color, nationality or age, My 13-month relationship with Shane was a cautionary tale of why it's dangerous to date a 22 year old if you're over 40. Proceed with caution, I now tell myself, when dealing with guys who were born in 1988.

One week ago, On Saturday night, I met a guy at the Peel who was obviously not only not born in 1988 but old enough to remember it, too. I found at that he's 40, two years younger than I am, the morning after, while I was searching his wallet, looking for i.d., as he slept in my bed. I figured he was within in decade of me, but I was really looking for his name. I'd totally forgotten it. Once I saw his date of birth on one piece of identification -- 6 June, 1971 -- I was so excited that I promptly forgot his name. Alas, by now he was stirring, about to wake up.

After several text-message conversations during the week in which he always referred to me by name, as if to let me know that he remembered it, he invited me over to his house on Friday night. As I walked over, I wondered how I was going to find out his name without letting him know that I didn't remember it. Maybe it would be on the mail box. Perhaps there'd be a piece of mail on the dining-room table. Wait a minute! He has a mail box, and a dining-room table! So this is what it feels like to go out with a guy my own age. It had been so long, I'd almost forgotten.

We ended up having a good time that fell somewhat short of great. I discovered his name by looking at the Christmas cards he had on display on the mantle while he was in the shower. It was nice to be in the home of a guy who had one. The conversation wasn't exactly scintillating, but at least he knew how to hold up his end of it.

At 1am, he invited me to spend the night. The thought of walking home on such an unseasonably cool Melbourne summer night didn't appeal to me, so I accepted. We slept side by side, bodies intertwined, him in his underwear, me in my underwear and a "Mr. Perfect" t-shirt, and he didn't try a thing. This, I knew, had nothing to do with his age, but I pretended that it did.

So this is how it feels to sleep with a guy my own age?

The next morning, I woke up in the arms of the 40 year old with Shane on my mind, a thought I haven't been able to shake for any significant length of time since. Today I found myself once again explaining my relationship with him, with younger men, in general. I told my friend about the 19 year old from Brisbane with whom I had a weekend fling in Auckland last June. He was one of the most intelligent people I've met since I left New York City, offering not only scintillating conversation but original programming as well (no cliches there!), and he was born in the '90s.

Almost as if on cue, I was approached by John, a guy in his mid 40s whom I met in Melbourne a few weeks after my weekend with the teenager. Nothing had happened between John and me, strictly small talk and a few flirtatious exchanges. In fact, I didn't even remember meeting him, until he reminded me. He asked if he could make me dinner some time.

So this is what it feels like to be pursued by a guy my own age.

I gave him my number to put into his telephone and mentioned that I'm a journalist. He plugged in my number. Then asked me if my name has one or two R's.

"Just one."

"How do you spell 'journalist'"?

I gave him a look.

"I want to be sure I know it's your number."

That wasn't what I meant, but now that he was mentioning it, how many people with my name did he have in his phone book, and how many of them spelled it with two R's? I repeated the look. I couldn't believe he couldn't spell "journalist." Now he seemed to get it.

"I'm sorry. I'm a terrible speller."

That's what they all say. He'd better be really good in bed (if we end up there) because judging from today's evidence, I doubt he's going to say anything to make me forget about Shane. But I'm open to persuasion.

After he walked away, I turned to my friend. "And that is what guys my own age are like. Some of them have their own homes, their own lives, but does that even matter if they think my first name has two R's, and they can't spell what I do for a living?"

What Will 2012 Bring: Joy, Pain, the End of the World?

2011-12-30T23:57:00.000-08:00

It's New Year's Eve in Bangkok, and I can still remember the last one, in Buenos Aires, like it was yesterday. In a way, I can't believe that it wasn't. Each year seems to go by more swiftly than the one before it!

Last New Year's Eve's celebration began with a small get-together at the apartment of a dear friend and ended in bed with the cutest guy I picked up at Angel's. I remember waking up thinking that this might not be the beginning of a great relationship (I was, after all, moving to Melbourne in two months), but it might be a sign that a great year had just begun. (I'm not sure if I'd call 2011 a great year, but it was an era of great personal growth, which, in hindsight, a few months down the line, might actually make it a great year, after all.)

Unfortunately, the guy, one of my final tastes of flaky porteno man meat, turned out to be like so many others before him. There were those few perfunctory text messages before he dropped off the face of the earth completely. I was disappointed. Had I been planning on sticking around, I may have been devastated. This guy was all that.

Last New Year's Day, I never would have guessed that I would be ending 2011 in Bangkok. But here I am. That's the beauty of life, how it can take you off course to strange, unexpected places, if you let it. I have no plans to celebrate, no real resolutions. I have promised myself that there will be less whiskey and less worrying about the future in 2012. Life will bring what it brings.

Already I feel a strange sense of calm and serenity that I can't recall ever having before. I still have my hopes and dreams but no expectations. Without expectations, there is no disappointment.

And that is what I'm most excited about as 2011 segues into 2012: my open road. What will life bring? So much can happen in one year. Today, I can't even remember the name of the first guy I woke up with in 2011, the one I spent weeks focused on at the beginning of the year. His face is also something of a blur. Who knows? Maybe by this time next year, so will all of the faces and people and things that dominate my thoughts these days, the ones I don't necessarily want to be there.

Goodbye, 2011. It's been... an experience. Welcome, 2012!

How Not to Get Lucky (Hint: Pick Up Your Cell Phone at the Dinner Table!)

2011-12-24T01:31:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago, I had possibly the most delicious non-Thai-food meal I've had in Bangkok (cream of corn and crab meat soup, and penne with Italian sausage, basil and juicy cherry tomatoes!). To borrow from 13th U.S. President Millard Filmore's final words, the nourishment was more than palatable.

The company? Not so much.

It's not that he wasn't chatty. Au contraire, we touched on a variety of topics, from diabolical exes to cartoon characters we're sure are gay (my picks: Yogi and Boo-Boo, Tweety, Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck; his: Tom and Jerry). And he picked up his half of the tab: 500 baht, or about $17, making it the most expensive meal I've had since I arrived in Southeast Asia.

So what made me wish I'd been able to enjoy this fantastic Italian meal in the company of no one? My dinner companion's buzzing cell phone. For the first 30 minutes after we sat down, he kept picking it up, reading and typing. I excused myself to use the restroom, and when I returned, there he was, typing away. I made a mental note to myself -- How obnoxious! -- but I held my tongue. Then a beautiful couple sat down at the table next to us. The woman didn't look at the menu, or her date. She was too busy staring at her cell phone.

I couldn't keep quiet any longer. "That's so rude," I said. "She's having dinner with her gorgeous boyfriend, and she can't stop looking at her stupid phone." It was a passive-aggressive move on my part, but I'd made my point. My dinner companion knew I was talking about him, too.

"Well, how do you know they are boyfriend and girlfriend," he said, obviously trying to change the subject.

"Well, they're clearly not just platonic friends."

"Maybe they're married."

I decided I wasn't going to let him off the hook anymore. "Regardless, it's extremely rude to fiddle with your cell phone, or iPhone, or whatever, at the dinner table. If someone you love isn't being rushed to the hospital, there's no emergency that can't wait until 9 o'clock." (It was 8.11pm.)

There, I said it. He explained that the reason he had been on his earlier was because his friend had sent him a text asking if he was going to join him and some other people for dinner, and he didn't want to leave him/them hanging. He had already blown them off in order to accept my last-minute invitation.

I was flattered, especially since I'd made it clear that there'd be no hanky panky, not even a kiss, before or after dinner. (Lips that taste like cigarettes won't be tasting mine until after the owner of them spends some quality time with a toothbrush and/or mouthwash.) Still, it was a flimsy excuse -- and it didn't explain 30 minutes of back and forth. Why hadn't he sent his friend a text message before dinner telling him that he'd made other plans? In order to avoid being rude to his friend, to whom he had already been extremely rude, he was being rude to me. None of it made any sense, but by then I'd lost interest in him and his excuses. I was more interested in the question of general cell-phone etiquette, at the dinner table and elsewhere.

Have we become so plugged in that we're constantly distracted, never truly living in the moment, enjoying -- and respecting -- the people who are right in front of us? I go out to bars, and I see guys standing around texting -- maybe sexting -- or trying to score on Grindr, and I go out to dinner and see whomever is sitting across from me doing the same.

Sometimes I miss the good old days when we focused our attention on our present company, unless someone hotter happened to pass by. We'd scold a dinner date for paying more attention to someone at another table than to us, or someone hitting on us in a bar while constantly looking over our shoulder, so what makes lavishing so much attention on a cell phone any different? There's nothing wrong with turning it off for an hour when you're having dinner with someone, or putting it away when you're ordering at the bar, or dancing shirtless on the stage.

Answering your cell phone during dinner, particularly in the middle of an intense conversation, may not be as bad as excusing yourself to go outside and have a smoke, leaving your dinner companion alone at the table (yes, I've been there, too), but it comes pretty close. Years ago, I went on a first date with a guy who interrupted our discussion to answer his cell phone during dinner and proceeded to talk to whomever was on the other line for a good five minutes. It was July 4th, and as we watched the fireworks later on, I decided that I wouldn't be seeing him again.

And then there was Paolo, an Italian I met in New York City in 1999. It was love at first sight. A few months later, I went to visit him in Milan. We had a lovely time together, in-between his cell-phone conversations. I appreciated that he usually kept them short and sweet (and I was charmed by how he answered it: "Pronto!"), but we could barely make it through a sentence without the damn thing ringing, and he always had to answer it. I saw him a few years ago in Buenos Aires, and I was shocked -- and thrilled -- that not once during dinner were we interrupted by his cell phone. Maybe over the course of 10 years, he'd learned that there's a time and place for everything.

It's a lesson that Shane, for all of his shortcomings, knew very well. In all of the time we spent together, I can count on one hand (possibly with a finger or two left over) the number of times I even saw his cell phone. Alas, one of them was on my birthday. Shortly after checking his messages, he had to go, and he departed, with my blessing. I was ready for some alone time.

When he returned hours later, he was contrite -- and quite drunk. Instead of going home to study (a lie that I'd been in on from the moment he told it), he had gone to Chapel Street to meet some friends. "I never should have left you," he said over an over, slurring his words. I didn't exactly agree (as I said, I had been happy to have some time to myself), but I was pleased that he'd returned.

It was a strange end to the strangest of birthdays, but after he'd cooked me such an incredible birthday feast the night before, I wasn't going to not let him off the hook. And it was a one-time thing, which might not condone cheating, but it was certainly a get-out-of-jail-free card here. I often said that our problem was generally what happened when we were apart. When we were together, I had his undivided attention. Yes, he knew there was a time and place for everything.

My dinner date two weeks ago apparently doesn't believe in such boundaries. He accused me of not living in the 21st century. If he has the means to be in constant contact with his friends, why not take advantage of it? It's not that I'm old-fashioned, but technology doesn't absolve us of the responsibility to exercise good table manners.

Just as you shouldn't take a week, or more, to respond to text messages and emails, there's no need to read and respond to every single one as it comes in. Has the Facebook/iPhone age created a civilization of uncivilized people who have such sophisticated means of communicating but no longer know how to communicate?

A few weeks earlier I had lost my Thai cell phone, and one of the reasons why I haven't replaced it is because I wanted to see if I could get through a few hours -- or a workout -- without being reachable. (Surprise! I can.) I remember once, about a year before I left New York City, I texted a guy on whom I had an unrequited crush while I was working out. It was 8am on a Saturday morning.

"Where are you at this early hour?" he responded a few minutes later.

"I'm at the gym."

"Good for you. But shouldn't you be paying attention to the weights and not sending texts?"

He had a point. I put the phone away and returned to my workout. My dinner date from two weeks ago wasn't going to go down without a fight, though. He made some truly ridiculous arguments, like this one: Since he's known his friend longer than he's known me, politeness to his friend takes precedence. So how would he explain blowing off his friend, to whom he owes a greater degree of courtesy, to dine with me?

Dinner was over, and so was the conversation.

"Check, please."

As I went off into the night -- alone -- I made a mental note that I'd definitely be returning to that restaurant -- alone.

The XXX Files: Boys Gone Wild in Thailand!

2011-12-14T03:36:00.000-08:00

And I thought I'd read everything -- first in Argentina, then in Australia.

But in Bangkok, kids say -- and write -- the darndest things, too. No, I haven't gone pedophile on you. It's just that so many men here act like boys -- the over-sexed prepubescent variety that's just discovering sex for the first time. Though the boys come on strong at DJ Station, the anonymity of the Internet inspires a forthrightness that can make me cackle and/or cringe.

"What are you looking for?" I was asked yet again today by one of many unoriginal manhunters on PlanetRomeo. That particular question, harmless as it might sound, makes the meat market seem even more like a meat market, and the guy who's too lazy or too stupid or too both to start a normal conversation is the butcher behind the counter.

"A good story," I replied, yawning. I knew this wasn't going to be one of them, but I already have plenty to tell. They vary in length: Some go on for days, others are only a few words long.

I can't blame all of my boy-on-boy misadventures on the Thais. It's funny how in Bangkok, you meet as many guys from all over they world as you do ones who are actually from Thailand. It's a gay scene full of transients -- flight attendants, vacationers, guys in transition (like me) who stick around for a few months before moving on.

Of course, there are locals and resident expats, too, and like the short-termers, they've made my interactions here -- down on the corner, out in the street, at DJ Station, at G.O.D., on Manhunt, Grindr and PlanetRomeo -- as memorable as in any place I've ever been.

Here are the 10 that played out on PlanetRomeo (where I created a profile a little more than a week ago) that I'm least likely to forget: My PlanetRomeo Top 10.

Before I begin, dishonorable mentions go to the guy who offered to pay me for my company (So I look like a "money boy" then?) and to the expat from L.A. who knows where I live, when I work out and how many movies I watch a night, and I don't even know what he looks like. Creepy, yes, but kind of intriguing, too -- though not enough to make me actually want to meet him. (Note to on-/offline stalkers: Your modus operandi is less likely to turn off if there's at least a photo or two included in your half-dozen Internet profiles.)

And now, on with the show... er, countdown!

10. chaian69: "so what r u looking for?" (Ooh, goody, my favorite!)
Me: "A more original opening line than that one!"
chaian69: "my apologies. I've had three messages like that and thought that was the routine. That being said, should be my own man."

9. chicoxxx: "creo que no pero podemos conocernos si tu quieres.....:) (Translation: "I think not, but we can meet if you want." What happened? Did I fall asleep and wake up back in Buenos Aires?)

8. chi1972: "Hi,my name is... im japanese.im working and living in bkk.im 39/179/75.im looking for real lover.then im very interesting about u.so may i know about u more?what is ur name and how old r u?where u living?what u looking for?do u have partner?so if u dont have can we to be real lover?ok i wait ur mail.this is my number... kiss and love!"

7. 01thaiman: "hi want to fuck me now..?"

6. HeavenCannotWait: "hi, r u looking for sex fun too? i am nice manly bottom looking for a big top."

5. bautz: "have you a big big cock ? :-)"

4. bossbil7777: "Where r u.wanna meet how big your dick"

3. tumtum77: "Hi Do u want to fack me am Hight sex?"
Me: "nope"
tumtum77: "am good body"
Me: "i'm sure, but your approach needs some work."
tumtum77: "How? am Thai"
Me: "you should not begin a conversation with 'do you want to fuck me?'"
tumtum77: "How ? R u free? How long your cock?"

2. ilovelongblack: "i really love african man...im malaysian malay..i really love african man..im a boy...im NOT a girl.. i really looking for african boyfriend. i wnt to feel african dick in my mouth and ass.. i like free african man... if u really wish to fuck my ass plz contact me with this email or add me on yahoo messenger;... ..do u interested?"

1. bottomseektopinbkk: "love u be my forst black dick fuck me i am 39 german"
Me: "I don't think so."
bottomseektopinbkk: "no problem then fuck someone else blacky"

Will I Find Love in a Hopeless Place?

2011-12-08T15:37:00.001-08:00

"i think I now u :)"

It wasn't exactly Shakespeare, but after nearly five days on GayRomeo, receiving crude messages from horny Thai boys with nicknames like Deepthroatxx and Sit_on_Top, my expectations had been lowered to rock bottom.

All week, they'd been inviting me to threesomes, telling me about their boring black-man fantasies, and asking me if I "want to have fun" (a turn-off proposition if ever there was one). Here was someone who actually made me want to respond, if only to find out if he was right.

I did.

"I'm not sure if you do, but you are really cute."

"thx u
u are cute too
w dont know each other but i saw u in DJ
where are u in bkk?"

And thus began our 30-minute conversation, first on GayRomeo, then, at his suggestion, on Skype.

Besides being cute, he had a few other things in his favor: He's 31. He's not a flight attendant. He lives in Bangkok, not just passing through. He's from Serbia. Now there's a country whose name you don't hear every day. After months of meeting countless guys from Holland, I was beginning to fall into a Dutch funk. They tall, and they're cute, but they seem to all have interchangeable personalities, one fits all. They love (some more skillfully than others), and they leave. Next!

I was so excited to be chatting with someone from a different country that I didn't even mind that he's a fashion designer. I'm mean, if not a flight attendant, what else would he be? I've met so many fashion designers and design students (including Shane), I'm beginning to think it's my destiny to be with one of them. At least they don't have interchangeable personalities. And he has a job. One more for the plus column!

Not once during our conversation, did my new Serbian acquaintance mention tops, bottoms, dick size or "fun." He's seen me at DJ Station, so he knows what I look like up close. He's not a regular. He only goes when friends drag him there. He prefer places with names like Koi and Mixx, off the beaten-to-death path of Silom Soi 2 and Soi 4.

If nothing else, he can introduce me to a side of Bangkok that I desperately need to see, one that doesn't involve cabin crew from KLM, Etihad and Emirates, or Thai boys looking for a prize farang (an Eastern trophy). We're "meeting" on Skype at 5pm and then making plans to hang out later on.

God knows I could use a break from the emotional roller coaster I've been on since breaking up with Shane four weeks ago. Up, down, hot, cold, happy, sad. Come to think of it, it's really not that much different from when we were together. But my heart still skips a beat when I type the first word of his name in the Facebook search bar and his profile shows up.

Will I find (new) love in a hopeless place? I'm not counting on it -- nor am I really looking for it. Right now I'd settle for segueing out of this totally hopeless place back into the light.

Addictive Love: Why Can't I Quit You?

2011-12-01T21:53:00.001-08:00

I've always prided myself on not having an addictive personality, but now I think I might be in on how an addict feels.

It's been exactly three weeks since I ended things with Shane, and I'm still hopelessly hooked -- on him, on love, on the security of knowing that someone is waiting for me back in Australia, or possibly on all of the above.

Instead of moving forward, I feel as if I'm moving backwards. If I had been writing this one week ago, I would have been worried that I was getting over everything too quickly. Last Friday afternoon, I felt like the worst was behind me. Ambivalence was beginning to feel like indifference, and part of me didn't want it to because I didn't want to rush through the grieving process. But my recovery didn't last long. Now I feel like I've relapsed, and I'm several steps, or 12, behind where I started.

Did I do the right thing? Is there any getting over Shane? In spite of what we both wrote, could we actually have a future together?

Mark, a 43-year-old guy from Massachusetts whom I met on Tuesday night at DJ Station, says no. (Actually, he said we'd met before, but I have no recollection -- too much post-break-up whiskey!) He recently broke up with his early twentysomething boyfriend, so he's been in my shoes. He said that Shane doesn't understand where I'm coming from because he's incapable of it right now -- not just because of his age but because of who he is. One day he might see the light and realize that if you love someone, you don't not respond to an email from them for an entire week. But I can't help him. He's going to have to get there on his own.

Should I reach out to him anyway? A part of me wants to pick up the phone and maybe the pieces, too. I want to know if he's okay, if he misses me, if he still loves me, if he ever really did. Truthfully, if the answer to any of the last three is no, I'd be happy with a lie.

"No, you shouldn't contact him." That was Mark's final answer.

This week my friend in Melbourne is supposed to pick up my things from Shane. Part of me hopes that the exchange hasn't happened. That stuff Shane has been holding onto for me was my last connection to him, the only reason left why I had to see him when I get back to Melbourne. Another part of me is being ridiculously insecure. What if Shane and my friend hit it off? What if I log onto Facebook tomorrow, and see that they are now friends? What if they begin dating? What if they fall in love?

I know, it probably sounds as stupid as it felt writing it, but Shane always had a way of playing on my insecurity, whether he intended to or not, perhaps more than any other guy I've ever dated.

I'm also thinking about his 23rd birthday, which is on December 16, two weeks from now. Should I call him to wish him a happy birthday? After the way he took care of me on my birthday, making me dinner and spending most of the night before and most of the day of with me, it's the least I could do.

But then, he never did respond to that final email I sent him. Does that mean he's through with me? Maybe he never received it. Facebook isn't always so dependable, especially when you are communicating with non-"friends." Maybe the email went to some strange inbox that he never checks. I have one labelled "Other" that I'm always finding unread emails in weeks after I receive them. Maybe the last words he ever read from me are still the ones telling him that I don't want anything more to do with him.

A few nights ago, I had a dream about Shane -- actually two of them. I'm not sure where we were, and the storyline is pretty fuzzy. But I do remember that we were together again. It was as if we'd never even had a falling out. How disappointed I was when I woke up and realized that he's no longer in my life. I fell asleep with him on my mind because of GetUp's beautiful new pro-gay marriage ad. The guy in it could be Shane's twin brother. I wanted to send him the video. Maybe he'd recognize himself in the guy, and it would shove him out of the closet once and for all. Maybe he'd even get on his hands and knees and put a ring on it. That's an even lovelier dream than the ones I had. But I'm not expecting any of them to come true.

There've been other guys. Four, to be exact: Edwin, a Dutch club owner with the cutest dimples I've ever seen in real life (he's from the Hague, and just several weeks ago, I was talking about how I'd like for one of my myriad KLM flight attendants to be from there); two Germans; and Mark, American. All of them have been uncharacteristically around my age. They've boosted my ego, made me feel like there can be life after Shane. But when they leave, all I have are the memories -- of them, but mostly of Shane.

In another time and place, Karl, one of the German guys, the one who stood me up awhile back, would have potential. We finally got it together and got together three weeks ago. He was in the other room asleep while I was dumping Shane on Facebook for ignoring me for a week and then being such a cruel, insensitive S.O.B. about it. He was a great listener when I told him my s.o.b. story, someone who might actually be the perfect rebound guy. But he already has a boyfriend, and I'm not sure that I'm ready to rebound from Shane anyway.

I've stopped expecting a reply to that last email I sent. I've even stopped expecting him to drunk dial me in the middle of the night. I'm still not sure whether I will wish him a happy birthday, or whether I'll contact him before then. My Australian mobile phone is out of credit, and I haven't refilled it because I know that refilling it will make the temptation to contact Shane even stronger.

But there's hope, now that I'm running out of hope and have no expectations. Maybe this is when Shane will surprise me. He'll call me up, sober, and tell me how sorry he was for ignoring that first email, the one that started this whole mess, and how he didn't mean all of those cruel things he said, and how he really wants to try to make us work. Maybe we'd finally have "the talk" and finally embark on a real monogamous relationship.

My gut tells me it's not over. Yet. But is that just me stuck in the denial phase of getting over love? Last night I was singing La Bouche's "You Won't Forget Me" and pretending that I was singing it to Shane. Maybe there ain't no getting over me either. Maybe he's a total mess, wracked with guilt and grief, dreaming of me and wondering if there's a way to win me back.

I hope he is. Not only because misery loves company but also because we'd finally have something very powerful in common. And isn't that the perfect foundation for a perfect reunion? But where words used to get in the way, now it's pride. "Love is stronger than pride," Sade sang on one of her best songs. That doesn't mean that love always wins.

She also sang "It's only love that gets you through." Wrong again. Sometimes a shot of denial and shot of whiskey are what get you through. If only for one night. But I think I'll lay off the whiskey, if not the denial, for now. I can only deal with one addiction at a time.

Secrets & Lies: The Guy Who Played with Fire, the Truth and My Heart

2011-11-18T04:38:00.001-08:00

"U were right about my bf. I found out everything. He's been lying to me since the beginning. It is over."

That was the end of the first text message I received today from my friend David. I'm not sure what first tipped me off to the fact that something was amiss with his boyfriend. Maybe it was my general mistrust of men, acquired over decades of loving and losing.

Or perhaps it was the certainty that long-distance love rarely works: David has been based in Bangkok for the last seven months, while his beau lives in Hawaii. (Though most people won't admit it, security is the main reason why they stay in relationships, when it should mostly be about togetherness -- in the same room, or city, or continent!) Or could it have been the age difference? David is 28; his boyfriend is 42. By the time David told me about him and his boyfriend, my experience with 22-year-old Shane had already taught me some valuable lessons.

But that's not the main reason why I knew this guy in Hawaii was nothing but trouble. The light bulb in my brain clicked on when David told me that his boyfriend was never interested in sex, even when they were still living in the same city. That just didn't sound right. Years of soap operas and reality (not TV, life) have taught me that all men crave sex. Period. If they don't, either they're getting it from someplace else, or worse.

In my experience, it had been the latter. The guy was Leandro, the first person I seriously dated after moving to Buenos Aires. We met in February of 2007, five days after I was attacked and robbed in my apartment. Our first date was on Oscar night. We watched together, and he stayed over afterwards. We didn't have sex that first night, or do anything more than make out. When he asked if it was okay if he took off his shirt to sleep, I thought it was refreshing -- modesty in such a hunky package.

Before long, Leandro and I were a couple. It was probably the most seamless transition from strangers to boyfriends that I've ever had. When I told my best friend about him, though, she was concerned. First of all, there was the age difference. (I was 37, he was 22 -- what is it with that number?) But more importantly, I had just gone through a major traumatic experience. She said that it might be too soon to get seriously involved with someone because I might be acting out of a need for comfort and safety.

I should have listened to my friend. Or to my own instincts. For weeks, Leandro and I didn't have sex. Although it bothered me, I was more suspicious than horny. As someone who once was told by a guy after having sex with him that he can tell I'm not gay for the sex, I've never been particularly driven by carnal desire. But gay 22-year-old guys, especially Argentine ones, are not generally inclined to abstinence or celibacy. I knew there was something going on.

It wasn't until about two months into the relationship, when we took a weekend trip to Colonia, Uruguay, that I woke up one morning to find Leandro on top of me. He was like a wild animal who had been uncaged after years in captivity. There was no penetration, which, frankly, has never been my thing, but I noticed that he wouldn't let me pleasure him in the same ways that he was pleasuring me. I was only allowed to kiss him (as usual). He did all the rest. Afterwards, for the first time, he told me that he loved me.

I thought we had finally made the big breakthrough, but when we got back to BA, another dry spell began. I'm not sure who finally brought it up one Sunday afternoon two weeks later, but once we were finally staring down the elephant in the room, Leandro explained why he was unable to have a normal sexual relationship. He said that he and his ex-boyfriend had broken up about a year and a half before he met me, after the ex raped him one night following an explosive argument. When Leandro threatened to go to the police, the guy threatened him right back: If he breathed a word about what had happened, he would tell Leandro's parents that Leandro was gay. (Here's another reason not to date a young guy who is in the closet.)

Days later, he went over to the ex's house to confront him about what had happened, and the ex raped him again. Now, several warning bells immediately went off in my head. Had Leandro been tested for HIV. (Yes, he had, he insisted.) And how does a guy as big and solid as Leandro, who was 6'2" of pure muscle, get raped by anyone? (Apparently, the ex was even bigger and more solid.)

Things with Leandro were never quite the same after he told me this story. We continued to date for another sexless month, and whenever we had a disagreement, he'd drag out the I'm-defective card: "I don't work," he'd say, over and over, as if that were a blanket excuse for every type of misbehavior. I knew there was more to this story. Leandro was getting sick with the flu all of the time, and he'd never let me go with him to the doctor, but I don't think I was ready to give up the security of our relationship, no matter how dysfunctional it was, so I didn't put together the pieces of the puzzle.

Before long, though, I was forced out of my denial. One Tuesday afternoon in late May, a couple of weeks after my 38th birthday and about three and a half months into the relationship, Leandro called me and told me he had something important to talk to me about in person. Immediately, I knew that it was going to be a matter of life and death, and I didn't want to have to wait to hear what he was going to tell me. "It has to be in person," he insisted.

That night, he came over, and he told me that he had been to the doctor the previous week because of some blemishes on his back. The doctor had ordered a series of blood tests and was alarmed by his low red blood cell count. That's when he suggested an HIV test. The results would be in on Friday morning. Although I wasn't surprised, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Hadn't he been tested after what happened with his ex? He told me that although he had been tested, he'd never picked up the results because he was too afraid of what he might find out. So it was possible that he had contracted HIV from his ex.

That's when I had my first moment of clarity in months. He clearly already knew that he was positive and had probably known for a while. I wanted to blast him for not being upfront with me -- who goes to the doctor for such unnoticeable blemishes unless they're searching for something? -- but he looked so small and ashamed that I just wanted to be there for him. Instead of confronting him, I held him and tried to reassure him. When he left the next morning, his head bowed in shame and defeat, I knew that it was over. I hoped that I was wrong -- about it being over, about Leandro -- but I was done living in denial.

On Friday, when he didn't call me at 10am, the time he should have been getting the results of the HIV test, I prepared for the worst. About three hours later, it arrived via text message: "I'm sure that since you haven't heard from me until now, you know what the results were...." Over the course of the next few days, we had a number of conversations, none of them in person. I went through a range of emotions -- sympathy, sadness, anger -- before finally settling on the latter.

How could he do this to me? I was convinced that he had known all along, but he couldn't figure out how to tell me, so the best way to save face was to make it seem like he had just found out himself. That's why he couldn't even face me. I was angry about that, too. Hadn't I deserved more than a stupid text message three hours after he had supposedly found out?

Leandro and I continued to talk sporadically via email for several weeks, but he seemed uninterested in everything, especially me. I wasn't sure if he was trying to let go of me for my own good or his own. One afternoon, I exploded in a fit of blind fury. I was fed up by our lack of real communication or face-to-face time (we hadn't seen each other since he'd left my apartment that Wednesday morning in total defeat, and he didn't seem to want to see me) and his evasiveness about his situation and about us. Yes, us. I had previously dated an HIV positive guy -- twice! -- so even with all of the secrets and lies, that wasn't a deal breaker, though I now realize that it should have been. Not the HIV -- those secrets and lies.

With all the anger that had been simmering inside of me finally boiling over, I sent him an email telling him how disappointed I was in him and his mishandling of the situation. I felt that not only was he unfairly pushing me away, but he never showed any real concern for what I might be going through in the first place. I also came clean about my suspicion -- my certainty -- that he had known all along. I didn't hold anything back.

He responded all full of recrimination and self-righteousness for my lack of understanding, but he never denied anything. The email was so perfectly composed that I knew Leandro -- who although studying to be an English teacher, still struggled with the language -- didn't write it on his own, which infuriated me even more, although I resisted the urge to respond. I never heard from him again.

For months, I was despondent. I lost myself for a little while trying to erase Leandro from my memory, drinking too much whiskey and picking up strangers and bringing home waifs and strays. It wasn't until one night when I was telling a friend my story, and he told me, "If you are looking for an apology from Leandro, you might have to figure out how to go on without one," that I realized I had to start controlling my anger and curb my self-destructive behavior or risk ending up just like Leandro. Today, as I write this, after thinking about what happened in detail for the first time in years, I wonder if Leandro was just a dream? And if it wasn't, did he ever love me? What is he doing now? Do I ever cross his mind?

By the end of the summer of 2007, I had recovered enough to pick up the phone and call him. We hadn't spoken on the phone since the day he'd called and said he had something important to tell me. I wanted to say what I had to say live so there would be no risk of misinterpretation.

He didn't answer, so I left him a message apologizing for all the things I'd said in that final email. I didn't necessarily want to reopen the lines of (poor) communication between us, but I was driven by the same impulse that led me to write that final email to Shane one week ago: I didn't want the last words Leandro heard from me to be so full of hate and negativity.

He never called me back, but I did see him out a few times after that. As with too many exes before and since (and how I dread the day that this will be Shane and me), we pretended that we didn't see each other -- or know each other. After everything we'd been through, we were back to where we started.

Like strangers. No secrets, no lies, just uncomfortable, deafening silence.

Down in the Depths

2011-11-14T20:52:00.001-08:00

Today I'm having a particularly difficult post-break-up day. I know they are never easy, and since my relationship with Shane was no walk in the park (we never even got to walk in the park), why should the split be any different?

For the record, I don't want him back. When you get right down to it, I never really had him. And my life today isn't much different than it was one week ago, except now I'm not thinking that possibly maybe I might hear from him.

Yesterday I went on a mini-shopping spree at MBK mall with my friend Devarni, who is visiting Bangkok from Melbourne. I bought two t-shirts -- one says, "Mr. Sexy," the other says, "Mr. Virgin" -- and a pair of green cargo shorts. I gave passersby a thrill with three costume changes over the course of the day. I got my second-ever tattoo at Jimmy Wong Tattoo Studio: my first name written in Thai across my left forearm.

It made me feel better at the time, and I've been meaning to get a second tattoo for two years now, ever since I got my first one -- a bull, to represent my astrological sign -- on my right bicep. I got that one shortly after my last big break-up, with an Argentine named Gonzalo, another guy who was way too young for me (birthdate: May 10, 1988, seven months and six days before Shane).

All I can think about today is that Shane might never see Mr. Sexy, Mr. Virgin, or the new tattoo. But right now, I'd settle for just a text message or an email, even if it's only a recycling of the sad face he sent after I confronted him about the initial unanswered email. It's funny how a response in less than three characters could be so much more welcome after a weekend of brutal silence.

My final email to Shane left the door open, but deep down I didn't really expect him to walk through it. What I want isn't so much a reconciliation, or even an apology. I just want to know that he understands where I'm coming from. I want acknowledgement that he understands where he failed. I want him to say that I am not needy, and that I wasn't holding him back. He was holding himself back.

I'm going to have to accept that I might not get any of those things and move along. I know I will see him again when I return to Melbourne, in order to pick up the things he's been holding onto for me. I've been going over in my head what the dialogue will be. Will I explain my stance yet again? Will he nod and tell me he was wrong? Will he hug me, kiss me, pick me up, carry me to the bed and make sweet love to me?

That's probably the least healthy of my various mental scenarios, but it's usually the way things go down between us. The scenario that looks best on paper is the one where I meet him in a neutral place, thank him for holding onto my things, wish him well, and say goodbye. I don't look back.

After goodbye, you should never look back. Just keep moving forward.

The Man with the Child in His Eyes

2011-11-13T08:12:00.001-08:00

I've spent the weekend trying to climb up from the wreckage of my doomed relationship with Shane. I've covered pretty much the entire spectrum of feelings -- sadness, anger, relief, confusion, love, lust, loss, hate, hope, etc. -- sometimes all in the space of five minutes.

Some of my friends and family have offered their support and their unique takes on the situation, and a lot of what they are saying has been revelatory. Lori mentioned how the modern age has brought a whole new level of stress to relationships. Because we're all so plugged in, always available via texting, emailing and so on, non-responses take on a whole new level of hostility. Back in the good old days when reaching out and touching someone required the picking up of a telephone, if the person didn't get right back to you, you could comfort yourself with easy excuses: Maybe they were too busy to call, or perhaps they just hadn't checked their voice mail.

Now it's not so easy to rationalize the silent treatment. To me, it was very telling that Shane answered my first email commenting on his non-response to the one from a week ago within minutes. And in true 21st-century 22-year-old style, he did so in less than three characters: ":("

The next time I fall in love, there'll be no exchanging email addresses and no Facebook friending. Oh, and texting will be kept to a minimum. It will force us to communicate in real time the way people did when conversations took on the form of actual paragraphs -- spoken ones -- and not silly acronyms and symbols. An actual laugh sounds so much nicer than LOL looks! Had Shane and I hashed things out on the telephone rather than on Facebook, the altercation may have ended with the sound of laughter and "I love you." For that, I accept part of the blame. Instead of expressing my disappointment via email, I should have called.

Lori also feels Shane's pain. "But he's so young. And you've left him for so many months!" she wrote in an email to me. I can't argue with that. I own the role that my living and working (or more accurately, non-working) situation played in the difficulty of our relationship, and I've apologized to him over and over for it.

I know he's been aware of the damage he's done over the course of our previous blowouts. In the past, he's been very good at eventually owning his misdeeds. But not this time. He seems to not realize or simply not care that by not responding to my first email, the nice one, he was being incredibly rude and passive-aggressive. I keep telling myself that deep down he's fully aware of the error of his ways, and he's kicking himself for being so cruel and unusually punishing. Or not. I might not hear from him at all, and I've got to find a way to be okay with that.

Devarni says that whenever his name pops into my head, I should send it on its way. We all know that's a lot easier said than done. As writer, I will no doubt spend months writing about and analyzing to death all of the details of me vs. Shane. But I promise not to become like Carrie Bradshaw did after she broke up with Big the first time, and her friends had to stage an intervention.

My brother says don't dream it's over. He suggested that when I return to Melbourne, I meet up with Shane, take his hands in mine, and look into his eyes. That will tell me everything I need to know.

The hours that he and I spent discussing Shane and me helped me understand exactly why I was so drawn to Shane. I can't get one particular image out of my head. It's from a few days after we met in October of 2010. Shane was leaving my apartment, and in one hand he was holding an oatmeal raisin cookie I had given him, and in the other he was holding his school supplies. That was the moment when I knew I could fall in love with him.

I wanted to take care of him, and I wanted him to wrap his big strong arms around me and protect me. "The mix of our desire to care for someone and our need for masculine erotic love and domination is a heady combo," my brother wrote to me in an email, and I think that perfectly sums up my attraction to Shane.

He is so young and wet behind the ears, almost like the most adorable puppy. Every time I see a cute baby, or a cute animal, or a cute cartoon, I think about Shane. At the same time, he's big and solid and masculine, a guy who could lift me off the ground and carry me to the bed, which he's done -- twice!

He was my man with the child in his eyes. Today I listened to Kate Bush sing about hers, and what has long been one of my favorite love songs resonated in a way that it never had before. This time, she was singing about Shane and me. If I wasn't certain that I loved him -- love him -- before, there's no doubt in my mind now.

Relationship Status: It's Not Complicated, Just Over!

2011-11-12T00:12:00.001-08:00

Yes, over.

Again.

Yesterday, Shane and I, in true 21st-century style (on Facebook, which is better than Twitter, I suppose), arrived at yet another parting of ways. This time, though, it felt different. Almost final.

What a long, strange trip it had been -- 13 months of wildly inconsistent behavior, hot and cold, like that guy in Katy Perry's best song. Would he be cruel or kind today, love me or loathe me, pay attention or pretend that I don't exist?

I can't say that I didn't see the break-up coming -- even without my glasses, it was visible from miles away. Relationships are hard enough as it is and even more so when they are conducted mostly from the discomfort of your own homes on different continents. It doesn't help when you are dealing with someone who is uncommunicative by nature and generally doesn't talk in more than three sentences at a time unless he's drunk or lashing out in anger. I'm still in shock that he said, "I love you," first. Considering his taciturn nature, those were the last words I ever expected to hear him say -- or text, which was better than nothing. Did I mention that he'd had a few drinks?

In our final confrontation yesterday, terrible things were said -- or rather, written -- by both of us. I called him cruel and told him that I wanted him out of my life for good. He called me needy and suggested I was holding him back. I carefully considered his criticisms and wondered if he had a point.

I decided that that they were the mad ramblings of someone who was grasping at straws. How can someone with such a fierce independent streak, who lives alone, travels alone, does almost everything alone and has spent the last five years living alone on three new continents possibly be needy? Clingy has never been my thing. Ok, I can be a bit of a cuddler, but I'll never try to hold your hand as we walk down the street. I rarely have anyone around to cling to, and that's been mostly by choice. If anything, I could probably stand to be a bit more dependent on others.

I never made any demands on him or his time. For the four months that we both were living in Melbourne, we saw each other only a few times a week, and I never pushed for anything more. I thrive on solitude, so daily togetherness doesn't appeal to me. I'm okay seeing someone two or three times a week. Sometimes it's nice to fall asleep and wake up with arms around you, but I'm a lifelong insomniac, so either way, I probably won't sleep like a baby.

I hate meeting the parents, and I'm not terribly interested in bonding with the friends. I realize that this might not be conducive to having a healthy relationship, but if you want to spend most of your time with your friends and family, focus on university and hide in the closet (as he did), have I got the perfect deal for you. "No wonder you're alone," he offered as one of his parting shots. I'm not sure what he was getting at, but after rereading this paragraph, I see that he might have a point.

For all of my insistence on having plenty of alone time, daily communication is a must for me, even if it's just a brief phone call or text message or email saying that I'm thinking of you. He and I were generally good at that when I was in Melbourne, although he'd go through periods -- roughly once every other week, for several days -- where he would respond to me like the most casual acquaintance (I assumed that this might be the Aussie way) or shut me out completely.

It hurt, and our arguments usually stemmed from what I interpreted as indifference on his part. Maybe he perceived my desire to have open lines of communication and express ourselves openly and without fear as neediness. Several weeks ago, during our penultimate blowout, he blamed his general attitude on the fact that he didn't really know how to be in love. He's always been a lone ranger (his words), and suddenly, he was forced to feel, to be lonely when I wasn't around. He wasn't sure how to deal with that.

My extended time in Asia -- a one-month trip that turned into a six-month one -- didn't help matters, though you might think it would be the perfect set-up for a guy who hates neediness and doesn't want to be held back by romance. For months, he'd said he didn't have a problem with it, but yesterday, in his usual roundabout way, he finally admitted that he did. I get that. I understand why he might have felt like I abandoned him.

If only he'd tried to understand what I was going through. I'd spent four months in Melbourne looking for a job with no success. I had a number of freelance offers, from magazines and from the University of Melbourne, but I couldn't even freelance for any Australian-based organizations without a work permit. Before I went to Asia, my plan was to go to Sydney -- which is pretty much where all things publishing happen in Australia -- in hopes that being there would make the job hunt easier.

But when the opportunity to go to Asia came up, I jumped at it. It was a way to put some distance between me and the place that I'd come to associate so much with failure and gain some new perspective. My relationship wasn't working either. I figured that if I spent time away from him in new surroundings those regular blasts of coldness wouldn't hurt so much.

I ended up staying largely because of economics. Melbourne is very expensive compared to Bangkok, so it makes sense for me to live in Bangkok while continuing to look for a job in Australia. I could also freelance for Australian publications while I am outside of the country. To my knowledge, the guy who claimed to love me never really considered how moving to Australia -- something I had decided to do well before we met in October of last year -- had been very complicated for me. I tried to explain it to him, but he never seemed to be listening.

In the end, I think he was resentful and angry with me. We've communicated only sporadically over the last four months. There were a few clumsy attempts at regular conversation early on, but as I've said, he doesn't speak in paragraphs unless he's angry. Frustrated with his three-word responses, I stopped pushing so hard.

But I didn't give up completely. Last week, after having a conversation with my brother Alexi, who encouraged me to be more forthcoming with him about my feelings, I sent him an email in which I told him how much I missed him. For an entire week, he ignored it. When he finally addressed it, it was only after I scolded him for not responding. He made the email seem so trivial, like the blabbering of a lovesick fool. If being hurt by that makes me a needy person, then I suppose that shoe fits. But I think everyone -- both the needy and the non-needy -- feels the sting of unanswered emails and text messages to someone you love who claims to love you back.

As for my holding him back, I'm not sure how that is even possible, considering that we've spent nine of the 13 months we've known each other on separate continents. Even when I was in Melbourne, he was free to do what he wanted to do. If I were to be completely honest with myself, I probably wanted more than the normal two or three dates a week that I usually require, but he had a lot going on, and as I've established, I don't do clingy, and desperation looks as horrible on me as baseball caps.

I think perhaps it wasn't me who was holding him back, but his feelings for me. Maybe he doesn't want to deal with the messiness of love and romance. He wanted to be the lone ranger. Now he gets his wish. But he's still going to have to deal with those feelings. Just because the guy exits your life doesn't mean you don't have to live with all of those emotions you've been trying so hard to bury.

I don't want to give the impression that I think I'm the perfect boyfriend. I can be moody, impatient and reclusive, with a tendency toward wanderlust and extreme melancholia. I'm also a perfectionist, so I can be quite hard on people. I'm trying to be better about that, but I believe that when something is bothering you, it's important to speak up in a timely manner or forever hold your peace. I may be terrible at a lot of things relationship-related, but I do know how to communicate.

In the end, I didn't want harsh words to be the last things he heard from me, so I sent him a kinder, gentler email, explaining my position and leaving the door open to further communication. I don't know whether he will use the door. He's been trapped in the closet for his entire life, so opening doors and walking through them isn't his strength.

Maybe our paths will cross again, maybe not. I feel strangely ambivalent. I'm actually looking forward to going back to being me, a guy who isn't so emotionally crippled by uncertainty and insecurity. I've already been defriended on Facebook, so I guess that speaks volumes. It's the 2011 version of romantic finality. Of course, there's always the possibility of refriending. It wouldn't be the first time for him and me.

But truthfully speaking, I'm pretty much over it. If this isn't the end of our wild and crazy ride, it probably should be. It's time to get off the rollercoaster. After a year of being tossed and turned with my insides spinning around, I'm ready to embrace the peaceful easy feeling that comes from not being entangled by a guy.

At least until the next one comes along.

The Truth About One-Night Stands

2011-11-06T01:50:00.000-07:00

Here's a sad-but-true fact of my so-called gay life: I didn't become truly comfortable with it until I mastered the art of the one-night stand.

Ah, yes, the one-night stand. They're a sad-but-true fact of gay life. Too many of us don't play for keeps. Love is just a game, and those who win always have one eye on the countdown clock. "Will you be there (in the morning)?" Heart asked in its final Top 40 single in 1993. If Nancy Wilson had been singing to a gay man, the answer probably would have been no.

Sometimes, if the chemistry is right, the lovegame goes into extra innings. But that's not something you can count on. If you do, you lose. Treat every f**k like it's the last one -- at least with him, because usually, it is.

That was the attitude I had on Friday morning when yet another KLM Airlines flight attendant exited my Bangkok apartment. He was incredibly nice, and in my still-inebriated haze, cute, too. At least he was tall. That's always a good start.

Little did I expect to see him again last night at DJ Station. But as I made my way from the bathroom to the bar, there he was, standing in front of me -- tall, handsome and smiling. Unlike the bulk of his fellow cabin crew (or at least the majority of the ones I've encountered here), he didn't pretend not to know me the second time around. He gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and asked how I was doing. He genuinely wanted to know.

But the biggest surprise was how much cuter he was than I remembered. I've woken up next to one-night stands who were even better looking than the night before. It's one of those rare freaks of nature that occur only a few times a decade. But this one was cuter and nicer, too.

I got a few more details than I had during our previous encounter. He was in Bangkok for nine days, and he had just completed a Saturday round-trip shift to and from Taipei. For a brief moment, I considered calling it a night and dragging him back home for a repeat of Thursday evening.

But rational thinking prevailed. He was leaving on Monday morning, and this time, he wasn't flying back. I had to let him go. The best one-night stands may look even better in the morning, but nothing ruins it for good like a clumsy attempt at trying to turn it into something it's not. Had I taken him home again, I probably would have tried to keep in touch with him after his departure. We know how that always turns out. Not well.

And this was another Dutch guy, the third I'd tangled with since my arrival in Bangkok. My track record with the Dutch isn't good. I've rarely met one who wanted to see me more than once. The one who did, Wilhelm, I met in February of 1996 in New York City when he was there on vacation. He worked for KLM but on the ground. I went to visit him in Amsterdam later that year with disastrous results that I must remember to detail in a future post. If only I knew then what I know now.

But sometimes fools do learn. I was going to file this one under foreign affair in the folder titled "Best One-Night Stands That Were Better Left Alone."

Sex and the City of Bangkok

2011-10-29T07:34:00.000-07:00

The freaks and the creeps come out at night in Bangkok.

I can't say I wasn't warned. Weeks before I arrived in Thailand, I was told by people who had been to Bangkok that it's a city that's all about sex -- it's the No. 1 consumer good! Even its name -- Bang! Kok! -- screams sex. Sounds great, I thought. I was only planning on being in Southeast Asia for one month, just enough time to sample the boys and then get the hell out.

Nearly four months later, with a little more than two to go, I'm looking for something more meaningful in Bangkok than hit-and-run sex. Alas, my search thus far has been fruitless. No-strings sex can be a lot of fun, but must enforcing it involve such callous behavior? They love you, they leave you, and the next night they act like they don't even know you.

I can understand not wanting to sleep with the same person twice. Gay men on holiday are already thinking about their next score while they're wiping your cum off their chest. Foreign affairs can make for a memorable holiday, but they're too hard on the heart when it's time to say goodbye. So I get it when guys don't want to repeat last night's performance. But walking by someone with whom you were rolling around in bed just the night before and barely acknowledging him seems so hostile.

Bastiaan did it. So have a few others. I've gotten pretty good at weeding out the guys whom I must avoid from the first night. If you're cabin crew, walk on by. If you're in Bangkok only for a few days, keep on walking. And opening lines are everything.

That's something that Justin, a 28-year-old guy from Melbourne who is in Bangkok for a few days, has yet to learn. The other day he messaged me on Manhunt. I'd read his profile before he even messaged me, so I knew exactly what he wants people to think he is after:

"Would like to settle down, do not have much experience when it comes to relationship.I know that there are some good guys out there so if you are keen say hi. I am attracted to fit guys of any age (well I guess I do have my limits). I am also a sucker for a guy in uniform."

He'd won me over with most of what he said -- if not his punctuation. I even ignored the double entendre of the final line. Unfortunately, though, Justin appears not to be one of the good guys he's looking for. The subject line of his message to me: "looking for some fun?"

I considered his proposition. Justin was hot. I'd seen his profile before, when I was in Melbourne, and I'd drooled over it. I could finally have my shot with him. If he'd caught me three months ago, when one-nighters were pretty much all I was after, he and I would have been a done deal. But after receiving countless "looking for some fun?" invitations in the last four months, it has now reached the point of being a complete turn-off. That he didn't bother to write anything in the message didn't win him any points either. Were we going to even have a conversation before we got down to f**king?

Obviously, this was going to be a classic case of sexual hit and run. I ignored the message.
Fifty-four minutes later, he sent me another empty message. Subject line: "Want your cock sucked?"

He was crude for sure, but so fine that I considered giving up and giving in to my temptation. I tried to steer the conversation in a less X-rated direction.

Me: "Have we crossed paths before? I live in Melbourne, but I've been in Asia for the last four months."

Him: "I don't think so??? Are you in Thailand now?

Me: "Yeah, I'm in Bangkok. Are you living here or on holiday?"

Him: "I'm just for work for a couple of days."

Hopefully, he's better in bed than he is in conversation. Pretty as he was, I ended the conversation right there. He'd have to find someone else's cock to suck. It shouldn't be too hard in a city that's all about sex.

Who said fools never learn?

HOLLYWOOD STAR ZACHARY QUINTO: THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING OUT

2011-10-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

The self-outing of Zacahary Quinto this week in the pages of New York magazine is huge news, and not just because it means that if I were to move back to the U.S., I might possibly have a shot with him.

It's major news because it might be the first time, to my knowledge, that a mainstream actor (he starred in the 1999 Star Trek film, the 2006-2010 TV series Heroes, and is currently onscreen in the romantic comedy What's Your Number?) has come out of the closet without being forced out. Also, as far as I know, the world didn't already suspect he was gay, as it did with Ricky Martin, Neil Patrick Harris, Lance Bass, Clay Aiken and Adam Lambert. Not even playing Tori Spelling's gay best friend on her VH1 sitcom So NoTORIous gave him away.

Most importantly, Quinto's coming out -- which he said was inspired by his appearance in the play Angels in America and the recent gay-teen suicides all over the U.S. -- doesn't just tell gay teens that it gets better. (Yes, Quinto did one of those "It gets better" ads.) It shows them. You can be gay and still grow up to live a normal life as a movie star. I can't think of a better example that an actor can set as a role model.

I remember months after meeting Shane, he told me how happy he was that he'd met me, and how grateful he was to me. Growing up in rural Victoria, Australia (in a place called Gippsland), he had spent his entire life being fed macho-man images. And presumably, he was given the worst possible impression of what it meant to be gay: You know, the stereotype that the media feeds us of the bitchy, swishy queen obsessed with his next hook-up. Will & Grace may have been funny at times, but Jack did no favors to the image of gay men among straight people.

With me, Shane said, for the first time, he was exposed to a successful gay man leading a normal life that wasn't any different from the ones that straight people were leading other than that I sleep with men. I told him to look around. There are so many others just like me. But coming from where he came from and considering how far back in the closet he'd been hiding, it made sense that he'd be oblivious to the side of gay life that Will had to represent on Will & Grace because Jack was too busy playing the gay clown.

In the end, I was glad to have done my part in easing Shane's shame, as he slowly began to emerge from the closet. (He still has a long way to go before he makes it out the door.) By leading by example, though, Zachary Quinto has done so much more -- and for far more people. He's played heroes on TV and in movies. Now he's one in real life, too.

LESSONS IN LOVE AND WABI-SABI

2011-10-14T02:24:00.000-07:00

The other day Shane asked me to do something for him. He needed help with a paper he had to do for university. He was so down on his writing and insecure in his ability as an author that when he sent his essay to me, I opened the file with no small amount of trepidation. Could it possibly be as terrible as he'd led me to believe it would be?

It wasn't. In fact, I learned something. Actually, I learned a lot. The subject was wabi-sabi and how it relates to fashion. I'd never even heard of "wabi-sabi," and wondered how Shane, a self-professed non-reader and not someone who'd ever struck me as having a philosophical streak, landed on the topic.

I'm glad he did, though, because it's a pretty interesting concept. I won't delve too much into it here -- if you're interested, check out the Wikipedia entry on it -- but as I read about it, a movie scene kept popping into my mind. It's the one in American Beauty in which Wes Bentley's character (whatever happened to that gorgeous actor?) talks about the breathtaking beauty of a plastic wrapper blowing in the wind.

At the time, I thought it was a throwaway and hopelessly pretentious sequence in a throwaway and hopelessly pretentious film. Now I got it: That, in a nutshell, is wabi-sabi.

Shane did a pretty good job of describing it himself:

"So all in all, it's finding beauty, fascination and adornment in the simplest of things. Finding art everywhere you look: in the cracks in a concrete wall, the patterns in faded grey wood, the rust on a steel structure. It is seeing something where others would see nothing, or maybe an eyesore."

As I read the passage over and over, my insecurity got the best of me. Was he subconsciously writing about me?

Here's a little background on my psyche: I don't take compliments very well. I grew up fat and unattractive, and the other kids teased me mercilessly because of the way I looked, the way I talked, the way I dressed. When you grow up in that kind of environment, no matter how much weight you lose, how much you blossom, in your mind, you are always that unattractive kid that everyone makes fun of.

The other night at DJ Station, I was talking to a guy and his female friend, and they were showering me with compliments. When the guy told me that I look like a supermodel, I nearly dropped my Singapore Sling. Me? Could he possibly be talking about fat, gangly, ugly me? No, I'm no longer the misfit I was 30 years ago, but the image sticks. And no matter how many nice things those two said about me, I still felt like one of the unpretty ones.

It's the same way with Shane. Several weeks ago, he sent me a text message calling me "a beautiful man." My heart leapt, but I didn't really believe him. As I read his paper on wabi-sabi, I asked myself, "Am I his wabi-sabi? Am I really an eyesore that he was able to turn into something beautiful?"

They say the camera never lies, but for me, the mirror does. I don't see an eyesore when I look in it, but I don't see a supermodel or a beautiful man either. I think I see something between ugly and beautiful. Ugly beautiful, like the title of that Babybird album. There was a song on it called "You're Gorgeous." Maybe that's how Shane feels about me: It's not the way I look but the way I do the things I do.

Once the surge of insecurity passed, I actually began to feel closer to Shane and respect his affection for me more than I did before. If I am an eyesore in which he found beauty, then his love has more depth than I gave it credit for. He loves me for my 1) mind, 2) body and 3) soul -- with an emphasis on Nos. 1 and 3.

And isn't that the strongest foundation for true blue love?

IS IT RACIST TO DATE WHITES ONLY?

2011-10-10T16:56:00.000-07:00

I said I wouldn't go there, but sometimes I just can't help myself. And in light of what the KLM flight attendant said, what better time than the present?

As part of my ongoing study of the dating and mating rituals of gay men around the world (okay, in Argentina, Australia and Southeast Asia -- so far), last March shortly after I arrived in Melbourne, I put up a new profile on Manhunt after about a year and a half off the online meat market. Though I only met three of the guys who messaged me (one, from Sydney, I'd actually met last year at a club in Melbourne called Disgraceland, but he didn't recognize me as being the same guy when he sent me a Manhunt missive complete with quite revealing photos, nor when he spotted me on the street hours later), hearing all of them out cleared up what I admit may have been a rose-colored view of the typical Aussie male.

Yes, he's still more ruggedly handsome, more charming, taller than his counterparts just about everywhere (those photos and screen images of Hugh Jackman, Eric Bana and all of the hunky Aussie up-and-comers currently crowding the Hollywood scene don't lie), they aren't necessarily as flawless as I've made them out to be in my mind.

In fact, they're only human. They've got warts and all, and they, too, are cursed by one of the most shameful of all human character defects: racism. While I didn't actually witness racism of any kind in my day-to-day offline life during my first four months in Melbourne, two weeks of Manhunt messages taught me that whether it's against black, red, white or blue people (yes, blue -- Didn't you see Avatar?), racism lurks in every corner of the world.

Here's one:

"Hey mate,
You are hot! Anymore pics?"

Flattered, I checked out his profile to see what he had to say. At first, I was impressed. He was good-looking, and he seemed to have a decent grasp of the English language. Unfortunately, in offering all of the pertinent details about himself, he saved the worst for last.

"Only interested in caucasian guys between 25 and 45."

I cringed but decided to take the bait, so I responded.

"Thanks, buddy. But I'm not caucasian!"

His response did nothing to reverse the negative impression he'd already made. In fact, I was even more turned off.

"I can see that! lol!
For some reason I get alot of asians messaging me, that was for them!"

His words got me thinking: Is what he's saying really so bad? We all have our preferences, be it for a certain height, a certain hair color, a certain body type, and for some, even a certain religion. We accept all of that, so why should skin color be exempt?

Is a white person wanting to be with another white person any worse than a black person wanting to be with another black person, an Asian wanting to be with an Asian, a Latino wanting to be with a Latino. Does that make them all racist? Was I just being overly sensitive after watching the ladies on The View spend two days debating the implications of Donald Trump's demand that U.S. President Barack Obama release his birth certificate for public inspection?

Here's what the Oxford English Dictionary has to say.

RACIST: An advocate or supporter of racism; a person whose words or actions display racial prejudice or discrimination. Also in extended use: a person who is prejudiced against people of other nationalities.

PREJUDICE: Preconceived opinion not based on reason or actual experience; bias, partiality; (now) spec. unreasoned dislike, hostility, or antagonism towards, or discrimination against, a race, sex, or other class of people.

Going strictly by the Oxford definition, if you're so unyielding in your racial preference that you'd take the time to include it in your Manhunt profile, then yes, you are racist. This guy is discriminating against an entire group of people (Asians) presumably based on the way they look or act, as if they all look or act one particular way. His blasé attitude and response, the way he almost seemed to be inviting me into his circle of bigotry (note the "you know what I mean?" exclamation mark), indicate that he doesn't even realize how dangerous his attitude is, which makes it even more so.

People will argue, "Oh, but it's just a preference, and don't I have a right to that." Of course, you do. But having a preference is different from eliminating an entire group from your playing field out of hand and doing so in such and aggressively offensive manner.

And no matter how hard you try to make the apples-and-oranges comparisons work, skin color is different from hair color or height or body type. Yes, discrimination because of how tall you are, how thin you are, or the hue of you hair hurts, but deadly wars have been fought, crusades have been launched, people have suffered and continue to suffer around the world because of skin color. It's not something you can change with a trip to the hair dresser or a few months with a personal trainer. Like being gay, you're born that way, and you stay that way.

Appealing to "Caucasians only" in your Manhunt profile is not just about whom you want to f**k. It sends out a message that it's okay to disregard entire ethnic groups and casually advertise it online. Attention, so-called chocolate queens who are "interested in black guys only": I'm talking to you, too! To those who say, "I can't control to whom I'm attracted," I say, oh yes, you can! I don't believe that racial preference is as ingrained as sexual preference, and it's even less black and white (no pun intended).

I met a guy in Bangkok who told me that before he moved here, he never found Asian guys particularly attractive. Now that he's living here and has exposed himself to more than just the stereotype (small, smooth and queeny, with a tiny penis), he can't get enough. At least he was open-minded enough to try.

Gravitating toward one race doesn't have to mean completely dismissing another, especially so publicly and so off-handedly. An open mind leads to an open heart. And one need not wear a white sheet with a pointy top or go around burning crosses to be racist. We all harbour prejudices of some kind, and many people are casually racist while being perfectly pleasant otherwise.

The guy who sent me the Manhunt message above could be one of them -- at least his words were somewhat polite. Not so the profile of this other man who messaged me -- let's call him Bigot_in_Au -- in which he wrote the following:

"IF ANY OF THESE DESCRIBE U YOUR NOT FOR ME THANKS!!

*asian

*oldies

*do not offer me money

*dont be way hairy/over weight

*dont be queeny

*dont just be out to get laid

*most important DONT be up yourself"

Well, he gets his points across (in an annoyingly ungrammatical way), and I'm sure all of the Asian guys leave him alone, but I suspect so do all of the decent white ones (and this black one), because on Manhunt, or anywhere you happen to be looking for Mr. Right, or Mr. Right Now, racism and a nasty attitude are even uglier than love handles.

WANTED: A BLACK LOVER! WILL YOU BE MY FIRST?

2011-10-10T05:26:00.000-07:00

Last night at DJ Station in Bangkok was one for the history books. So many men, so little time -- or rather, so little attention span. I only intended to stay for a drink or two, but random guys kept buying me Singapore Slings and shots of tequila. Before I knew it, it was 4am, and I was dancing shirtless onstage at G.O.D. while swinging my t-shirt around in my hand.

The WTF moment of the evening had to be mid-conversation with the flight attendant for KLM Airlines who was offended that I didn't recall our first meeting several weeks earlier. Considering the number of flight attendants I've met in the last three months (including his colleague Bastiaan -- be still my beating heart), if I didn't sleep with you, chances are I don't remember you.

But he pretty much ensured a permanent spot in the recesses of my mind where memory lurks with this gem of a comment: "You know, I've never been with a black guy. And to be honest, I never even thought about it until I met you."

How do you respond to that?

Answer: You don't.

I'll never forget the first time someone said something like that to me. It was in London during the mid-'90s, we were on the dance floor at G.A.Y., and he told me that he's normally not into black men. He was cute, so I slept with him anyway. In Buenos Aires, I was the first black guy for pretty much every guy I hooked up with. "Mi fantasia" they called me, as if I was supposed to take that as a compliment. I even dated one of them for a few months. Naturally, it was a disaster.

I suppose someone's wanting me because of my skin color -- or not wanting me because of it -- is not unlike wanting me for my looks in general -- or not wanting me because of them. Well, actually, there's a big difference, but I don't want to turn this into a post on racism. If I were white and I were on the verge of hooking up with a black guy for the first time, I'd certainly be making a mental note of it. But not all thoughts need to be expressed out loud.

The KLM flight attendant didn't really stand a chance anyway. But every now and then, I like to, as my friend Dave says, give back to the fans. That means you sleep with someone who's not so hot just because he's there. But being told that you make someone who usually swings white want to go black isn't exactly verbal Viagara. Sunday night at DJ Station was not going to be a fan event.

Check please. I'll be leaving alone.

WHO DO I LOVE NOW? (HINT: GEORGE TOWN, ON PENANG ISLAND, MALAYSIA)

2011-10-07T06:45:00.000-07:00

The view from my window up above at Traders Hotel in Georgetown, Malaysia

Exactly one year ago today, I met Shane, and exactly one year from that day, he's got some stiff (well, maybe not as stiff, if you know what I mean) competition for my heart.

If I could spend forever in any of the places I've visited in Southeast Asia over the last three months without having to worry about such troublesome details as visas, making a living or missing a certain someone, I'd probably be calling George Town on Penang Island in Malaysia home.

Like all great loves, this one was totally unexpected. It sneaked up on me when I wasn't looking (well, truthfully speaking, I was probably staring at one of those mountains in the near distance), and it's something of a mystery. But this much I know for sure: 1) The way the mountains meet the sea leaves a visual impact that has me constantly craning my neck to get a different, better view. 2) It's the perfect balance of energetic and chilled. 3) The people are friendly without being obsequious. 4) Like sex for breakfast, a brisk jog and "No Scrubs" by TLC on my iPod, it puts me in the best possible mood.

WHAT DO PEOPLE REALLY THINK OF ME?

2011-10-05T07:44:00.000-07:00

When it comes to how others perceive me, I've always assumed the worst until proven differently.

Back in high school, it wasn't hard. I was an awkward, overweight gay teen with a funny accent (courtesy of my Caribbean heritage) who was too smart for my own good. If I impressed anyone at all, it was because I was able to recite all of the U.S. Presidents in order since second grade.

Or so I thought.

It wasn't until Facebook came along and blasts from my past -- some remembered, most not -- started flooding out of the woodwork and back into my life that I found out what they'd been really thinking of me way back then. I remember the word "nerdy" being used at least once, but most of my retroactive reviews were positive. One told me she had been shocked when I showed up at our 10-year reunion gay. She'd always assumed that the reason I didn't date in high school was because no one was good enough for me.

Huh?

Another former classmate recently sent me this message along with a Facebook friendship invitation:

"My gosh, I FINALLY found you!! I'm hoping that you remember me...hmm? Okay, how about St. Cloud High School Journalism Class/Newspaper. You and I always sat together and wrote for the school paper.... I always thought you wore the best outfits and I can't forget those very cool suspenders!! LOL.... I've often thought about you over the years and wondered what happened to you...I'd LOVE to chat sometime and/or just hear back from you. Ps. I also wondered how in the world you ever ended up in little St. Cloud anyway??? I miss you, my friend."

Sadly, I remember those suspenders, if not so much about the girl who can't forget them! My memory still serves me well enough to recall that they were paisley print. Yes, folks, that's how I rolled -- and dressed -- back then. Now that I'm in on the joke that was my fashion victimhood, at least I can LOL right along with her.

WOULD YOU SLEEP WITH SOMEONE BECAUSE HE SHARES YOUR BIRTHDAY?

2011-10-04T03:56:00.000-07:00

I said never again (but there we were).

When Marc approached me at Market Place in Kuala Lumpur last Saturday night, I had no intention of going to bed with him. He was cute, that was a fact. And he was from Toulouse, my favorite city in France. I don't believe I'd ever met anyone from Toulouse outside of Toulouse, so he sort of had me at shortly after hello.

But then he dropped the F-bomb: He's a flight attendant for Etihad Airways. He was careful to say that he's works in "cabin crew," which is a euphemism they all use when they're all too aware of the poor reputation trolley dollies have among frequent travellers. ("Steward" and "stewardess" are, apparently, completely out of circulation.) I would have dismissed him out of hand, especially after the whole episode with Bastiaan back in Bangkok, and also since I still thought it was Mark with a K (remember my name fetish), but when he said he's based in Dubai, something drew me in.

My friend Rob is mid-application process to work for Emirates, my favorite airline since I recently flew them from Auckland, New Zealand, to Melbourne, Australia. Like Etihad, Emirates is based in Dubai. I'm not sure why Dubai recently has become so significant in my life. Just a few weeks ago, Alan in Pattaya (the one from "The Sexiest Man Alive") was telling me that he used to live there. Was this strange confluence of coincidences trying to tell me something?

Then he asked about the bull tattoo on my right bicep.

"That's a bull. It's because of my star sign. I'm a Taurus."

"So am I."

"No way. When is your birthday?"

I didn't even need to ask. I could tell by the look in his eyes what he was going to say. The thing is I rarely meet people with my birthday. There was one girl, Milo, an Asian-Aussie I met in Buenos Aires two years ago. Then there is Robin Strasser, formerly Dorian Lord on One Life to Live. Strangely, she's one of four Emmy-winning-or-nominated daytime soap stars who share my birthday. The others are Michael Knight (Tad Martin on All My Children) and John Ingle and Peter Reckell (Edward Quartermaine on General Hospital and Bo Brady on Days of Our Lives, respectively, neither of whom I've ever met.)

George Cooper is always the first one to come to mind. Then Teresa Brewer, Traci Lords and Patty Redgrave, a girl from high school who, as far as I know, is no relation to the famous British acting dynasty. Harry S. Truman, George Clooney, Enrique Iglesias and Darren Hayes from Savage Garden were all born in the general vicinity, but Marc was actually a May 7 baby just like me.

I'd slept with two guys who shared my name, but never one who, to my knowledge, shared my birthday. I wondered if there was a guy with my name who was born on May 7 in the house, but I figured I'd better take the man and run. He pretty much sealed the deal when he told me I was the best-looking guy in the club and looked like he actually meant it.

He was staying in a fabulous suite at the Westin. I wondered how an off-duty flight attendant (he was at the beginning of a 22-day trip around the world, which would take him all the way to Costa Rica), could afford such luxurious five-star accommodations. But who was I to judge, or resist, especially when room service arrived with our late-night meal (nasi goreng, or friend rice -- I know, healthy) and set it up on a dinner table in the middle of the room?

I'd seen this in movies like Jet Lag (starring Juliette Binoche, my favorite actress, who is also French), but I don't think I'd ever eaten on one of these impromptu hotel-room dining tables in real life. I'd say that the view of Kuala Lumpur from the bay window made me feel like a princess -- or rather, a prince -- but I was too hungry and horny to think about glamor.

I ended up staying the night and most of the next morning. As I departed, we shared a goodbye kiss and a promise to keep in touch. The best part of it all: The Westin was on one end of Bukit Bintang and my hotel was on the other, so my walk of shame was a simple straight line home.

LOVE PART 2: HE'S PULLING ME BACK AGAIN

2011-09-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

What?

Who's pulling me back? And where's he dragging me off to now?

That would be Shane, and he's bringing me back to love. Somehow, he's maneuvered his way from the corner of my mind, where he had been spending much of my summer tour of Southeast Asia, back into the vicinity of my heart. But for now, he'll have to do as an emotional presence rather than a physical one.

Tonight I was supposed to fly back to Melbourne (at 10pm Bangkok time), but I didn't really want to. "What am I going back to?" I kept asking myself last week. Astronomical rental rates (four times what they are in Bangkok), $7 pints, bad English (it's been a nice three months not constantly hearing "mate," "buddy" and "nice one"), and a guy who's been acting like he doesn't even notice that I'm gone.

Yes, there's been the occasional Facebook chat, during which Shane gives his normal three-word responses while I bend over backwards trying to be upbeat and talkative. (No wonder my lower back is killing me!) Though he always left me wanting more, if anyone could have gotten me to fly back to Melbourne as scheduled, it would have been him.

But when I asked him if he would mind hanging on to the things I'd left with him for a little longer since I'm considering sticking around Bangkok and Southeast Asia through the end of 2011, all he could muster up was "Nah it's fine." That's that, I figured. Thanks for the memories and the enthusiasm. Obviously, my absence has made his heart grow colder, not fonder.

I made arrangements to stick around Bangkok until 3 January. People I'd met in the last week were more enthusiastic about having me around than the man who claimed to love me. Why go back to no job, an overpriced living space, and someone who can't communicate in more than three words at a time?

But Garbo finally talked, and yesterday, so did Shane. And surprise! He was speaking in sentences. Here's what he wrote:

"I can look after your stuff for as long as you need Jez balls. Glad you like it there and are obviously happy, I want to see you but wouldn't want to be the reason for you to come back. I'm not going to wait for you anymore tho, I need to move forward Jez balls, all the best for rest of your trip, keep in touch, I'll see you when you come back to OZ. Xoxoxo"

He's been waiting for me? Since when? I'd had no idea. The icicles that were beginning to form around my heart started to melt. I read and reread his words, and I finally began to see everything from his point of view. For the last three months, he's been protecting himself from a man he loves who went away for one month, two months, three months and now six. If the tables were turned and I were in Shane's place, I'd play it cold, too. When I rejected Melbourne, it was like I was rejecting him, too.

That's when I decided it was time for me to drag out all my cards and plop them down on the table. I took the blame for not wanting to define our relationship as we'd gotten closer over the past year (we met on the morning of October 8, 2010). When he tried to put a name on what we were after telling me that he loves me back in May, I made a clumsy attempt at steering us away from the subject.

I apologized. For not wanting to go there then, for not being clear that I wasn't abandoning him or Melbourne, and for not letting him know how much I still care. Being in Southeast Asia hasn't been just about having a good time. It's also been about restructuring my employment plan. Finding a job in Australia hadn't worked out, and part of why I left was because I was beginning to associate being there with rejection.

I had to go back on my own terms, in a financial space where I'd no longer have to worry about finding work there. Several publications in Malaysia have expressed interest in having me contribute to their pages, and if I can secure enough ongoing freelance work in Asia, finding a job in Australia will no longer be necessary. Maybe it was a good thing that nobody wanted to hire me there. Perhaps it's not time for me to give up my freedom.

But I think I'm getting closer to wanting to commit to something -- if not to 9-to-5, maybe to Shane. Absence has made my heart grow fonder, and I feel for him more now than I did when I left. When I return, I want to return less needy, not as dependent on him to carry the burden of giving my life there structure and meaning. During my four months in Australia, I was lurking in a dangerous mental space, a place I'd never been to before, where my sense of well-being was too dependent on outside forces -- potential employers and Shane. I needed to take the pressure off of all of them.

I shared these thoughts with Shane and ended with "I love you."

Within an hour, Shane responded. He understood exactly where I was coming from, and he loved that I'd finally shared with him where I am emotionally. What I didn't share with him, what I still haven't shared him, are the doubts I have about us. I'm in love with guy who's half my age (will December 16 and 23 ever get here?) who's stuck in the closet. It doesn't have obvious potential for everlasting love, but the heart wants what it wants, and right now, mine wants Shane.

He's going to be in Bali for one week beginning October 19, and I threw out the idea of possibly meeting up with him then. He'll be there with his footy team, and I knew he'd be pretty busy with sports-related activities -- or that he'd say so. He did, but that doesn't mean I won't end up in Bali anyway. Rocking new places solo, without the benefit of a boyfriend, a wingman or any kind of human safety net, has become my specialty.

As for Shane moving forward, he'll be inundated with school work on both sides of his trip. So hopefully, there won't be time for moving on with someone else.

But still. What if?

He must have read my mind because he ended with the four words I needed to read most.

"I love you, too."

THE DAY I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE

2011-09-25T05:58:00.000-07:00

The scene of the crime

Most people get one defining moment in life -- a split second, an hour, a day, maybe even a week or longer -- when something happens, and they know things will never be the same. I've had two of them. The first was September 11, 2001, the day I watched the second tower of the World Trade Center go down, seemingly in slow motion, from the vantage point of Sixth Avenue in New York City. This other day that will live in infamy? February, 18, 2007, the day I was robbed in my apartment in Buenos Aires by three men at screwdriver point. Yes, you read that right. Screwdriver point!

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and I was returning home from picking up lunch (a cheese omelette, french fries and freshly squeezed orange juice) at my favorite neighborhood café. I was in a fantastic mood, mid-daydream, thinking about the really cute lawyer I'd met the night before at Glam, and what I'd wear for our date that evening. When the elevator opened on my floor, the door to my apartment was open, and three men were standing there waiting for me. They were dressed like workers, so at first I assumed that there was some problem in my apartment, perhaps a leak, and the super had let them in so that they could fix it.

But then they began motioning for me not to say a word, covering their mouths with their index fingers as they approached me. At this point, I still didn't know what was going on. Perhaps they had received some tip that there was a burglar in my apartment, I thought, and did not want him to know that we were there, about to pounce on him. Yes, a ridiculous assumption, I know, but in situations like this one, the mind works in mysterious ways, and you respond in a manner you never thought probable.

When they grabbed me and began to drag me into my apartment, my next impression was that they were part of some movement to kidnap expatriates. I'd say that I'd watched too many action movies, but I rarely do. All I knew is that I had to enter Jodie Foster Panic Room/Flight Plan/The Brave One mode and save myself. So I fought back. I fought like hell. Three against one.

At the time, I spoke very little Spanish, so I couldn't really understand what they were saying. But the sight of one of them threateningly hovering a screwdriver over my face told me everything I needed to know. So I fought back harder. Soon we were on the bathroom floor struggling. I looked out the window and thought about my mother. Although we had been estranged for more than a year, I thought to myself that I couldn't do this to her.

I couldn't die on my bathroom floor in a pool of blood. It was fight or fright, and I was going with the former. I managed to get the screwdriver from the one guy by grabbing it by the blade (securing myself a permanent scar between the index and middle finger of my left hand in the process) and tossing the weapon behind the toilet.

They'd taken my belts from my closet and were beginning to tie one into a noose. Oh no, I thought, they're going to hang me from the shower curtain rod (never mind that it's adjustable -- now was not the time for rational thinking). Just when I began to fear that maybe it was all over for me, it dawned on me: They weren't out to kill me. Come on, I thought, this is three against one. If they wanted to eliminate me, they would have done so by now. They were robbing me. They were f**king robbing me! "Take what you want!" I shouted. "And get the f**k out of here!" Bastards!

They seemed to understand. They used one of my belts to tie my feet together and another to tie my hands behind my back. Then they gagged me. They tried to blindfold me, but always the diva, I wouldn't let them. They didn't insist; they left me in the bathroom and went back to their business. It took me less than a minute to untie myself, and I considered going out and fighting some more. But common sense prevailed, and I waited until I heard them leave, locking me inside the apartment, before I emerged from the bathroom.

I ran to the balcony and started screaming: "Help! Help! I'm being robbed! They're coming back to kill me!" Luckily, some people were sunbathing on the roof of the apartment building below, and they called the police. I surveyed the damage. They'd stolen my TV, my laptop (it was time for an upgrade anyway), my DVDs, my portable DVD player, a bedspread (?!), a little cash, my cell phone (with the lawyer's phone number -- so much for our hot date!), and my wallet (I'd only received my replacement driver's license a few weeks ago), but no books (do Argentines even read?) and not my iPod, which I'd refused to give up in the struggle (diva strikes again).

The cops arrived shortly thereafter and were able to enter the apartment because the men, interestingly, had left the key in the lock -- a sign that this was an inside job, possibly arranged by people who had worked on the building, which had just been constructed, and therefore would have had a key to the front door. After the dust, and my head, had cleared, I figured that a fourth partner downstairs had warned my three attackers of my imminent arrival. The police were not much help. As is so often the case in Argentina, they were more concerned with procedure and filling out forms than fighting crime.

I could go on and on about the cops, but I won't. I am told that pretty much everyone who lives in Buenos Aires has an experience like this at some point. It's almost like a rite of passage. So the police, many of whom are former, even current, robbers themselves, don't treat it like a big deal. Neither did some of my Argentine "friends" (now ex-friends).

It was my first major learning experience in Argentina (with so many more to come -- thankfully, none quite so violent). A woman who lived on the fourth floor, two stories down, also was robbed that day but was fortunate enough not to have arrived home in the middle of it told me that in a month, I'd be back to normal, I'd forget that it ever happened. She was only half right: I was back to normal. But I'll never forget. I spent the next week in a rental because I couldn't bear to return to the scene of the crime. And when I finally did, I had to go to the parrilla across the street and ask one of the guys who worked there to accompany me up to my apartment -- just in case.

Three and a half years on, long after the cuts and my bruised ribs have healed, I've moved on. Now I can tell people the story and laugh at my chutzpah. If anyone had asked me before the incident how I would have reacted in a robbery situation, I never in a zillion years would have expected myself to actually fight back. But that's exactly what I did. I learned a lot about human nature, who my real friends are, who my casual friends are, who my fairweather friends are, and who just doesn't give a damn (you know who you are -- and if you don't, I do). But most importantly, I learned a lot about myself and what I have inside of me.

The incident changed me forever. I'm harder now, less trusting, something of an angry not-so-young man and ready to fight if someone crosses me. Perhaps I've always been like this, but something just needed to bring these qualities to the forefront. I'm grateful that time has healed all the wounds, physical and emotional.

Though I'm not living in Buenos Aires at the moment, I still own the apartment. Looking around it, you'd never know that one day someone thought he was going to die there. Of course, whenever a new renter moves in, the truth in advertising never includes anything about three men and a screwdriver. We'll keep that one between us.

BANGKOK VS. MELBOURNE: SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO BACK?

2011-09-23T08:02:00.000-07:00

More of this?

Or a limited return engagement?

I'm closing in on a big decision.

I've been torn all week, trying to figure out whether I should return to Melbourne as planned on Tuesday or stick around Southeast Asia for another month or three. Doesn't Christmas in Bangkok kind of have a nice ring?

I asked for a sign, and I think today I got it. I was eating a fishburger at this little shopping center near my hotel in Bangkok, listening to music on my iPod and weighing my options, when my sign arrived. He was cute. I smiled at him. He smiled back.

"Is the food here good."

"It's amazing. You really should go to the stand around the corner and get the strawberry tea. It's incredible." I couldn't believe it. I was flirting sober.

"Thanks. I think I'll do that."

He walked away, and I returned to my iPod and my thoughts, eating a little more slowly so that I wouldn't finish before he returned. A few minutes later, he was back, with the wrong tea. "I'm sure it's just as good," I told him. I know. It was kind of stupid, but I didn't know what else to say. We looked at each other awkwardly and tentatively struck up a conversation.

He told me that he is from Antwerp, Belgium, and he's been living in Bangkok for 12 years. Like me in Buenos Aires, he started off as a regular visitor to Bangkok and eventually found himself living here and running an art studio. I told him about my dilemma: Bangkok vs. Melbourne. "Well, I'm sure you can get by on one week in Bangkok what you spend in one day in Melbourne," he said, underscoring his math by mentioning a great, inexpensive short-term rental complex on his street. He offered to take me there, if I didn't mind riding on the back of his bike.

I considered the risks. Should I get on a bike without a helmet and zip off to God knows where with this complete stranger? But then again, maybe this was the sign I had been waiting for. If it didn't kill me, at least it would be a good story. I was in.

So off we went, riding like the wind to his house, which, thankfully, wasn't too many bumps and close calls away. He offered me a drink and the sweetest mango I've had since my arrival in Southeast Asia, and then, as promised, he took me to the complex down the road. The apartment I was shown there was serviceable, if not spectacular, but for 13,000 baht a month (roughly $430), which is less than I'd been paying for one week in two my three Melbourne rentals, one could do so much worse.

I ended up spending most of the afternoon hanging out with him and his colleague/housemate (I suspected they might be lovers as well, but I didn't want to ask, especially since he was being so careful not to reveal the full nature of their relationship), drinking champagne and jumping from subject to subject (Thai culture, U.S. foreign policy, travelling). Just seeing their house -- two stories with shiny dark wooden floors and beautiful art hanging everywhere (much of it done by the roommate, an artist) and the life they've made for themselves in Bangkok was so inspiring it made me think that my work here isn't done yet.

Also, the more time I spend away from Australia, the more I lose interest in it. In fact, if I hadn't left most of my things there, I might not go back at all. And then there's Shane. I miss him blind, but it scares me that if I were to return to Melbourne full-time, it would be mostly because of him, and our relationship just isn't strong enough to withstand that kind of pressure.

I'm also thinking that perhaps it's been a blessing that no one wants to hire me Australia. Maybe that was a sign all along, but I just didn't want to see it. Australia feels like that boy I had a huge crush on, and who liked me back, but not enough to want to really commit to me, and now I'm finally getting the message. That could also describe my relationship with Shane. Another sign?

Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, next week, or next month in love with Australia all over again. Maybe I'll get on that flight as planned on Tuesday. If I do, chances are I'll only stick around Melbourne long enough to finally get a taste of spring weather, collect the belongings I left behind, and spend some more time with Shane before I move on to the next phase.

OVER SHARING ONLINE: SOME THINGS ARE TOO PRIVATE -- AND PAINFUL -- FOR THE SOCIAL NETWORK

2011-09-21T18:13:00.000-07:00

Just when I thought I'd seen, heard and read it all.

Few things shock me anymore, but somehow, after all these years, Sinéad O'Connor still has the power to pull my jaw to the ground. Not only with her music -- which remains undiminished in both quality and emotional clarity decades after phase one of her public meltdown on Saturday Night Live -- but with the things she says. Her ripping up that photo of the Pope on SNL in 1992 didn't surprise me nearly as much as finding out that she's a fan of relatively obscure Loretta Lynn oldies. I guess you had to be there, or be devoutly Catholic, like, presumably, Frank Sinatra and Madonna, both of whom blasted her.

Since then, though, O'Connor has upped the stakes well into the stratosphere of bizarre with her offhand comments. Now with the rise of Twitter, she can let loose with her dogmatic rants whenever she wants to, in real time, without fear of being misquoted, misrepresented or looking like a fool. One can only sound silly on Twitter.

This past weekend, she tweeted her suicidal contemplations. She said the only thing preventing her from pulling the proverbial trigger and ending it all is how it would affect her kids. Too late! The damage has been done, to both her psychological reputation (if she even had one left to salvage after all the stunts she's pulled over the years, including temporarily coming out as gay) and to her four children. They range in age from 4 to twentysomething, which means first-born Jake, 23, and his sister Brigidine, 15, are old enough to read everything their mom wrote online, possibly even directly on her Twitter page.

Considering O'Connor's headstrong, capricious nature (talk/type first, think later), she probably hadn't thought this one through. If nothing else, Twitter can be a great tool for self-promotion -- I'm still trying to figure out the attraction of dumbing down your deepest thoughts in 140 characters or less -- but some conversations should be limited to the psychiatrist's couch, to the one-on-one company of a close friend, or to a phone conversation on a suicide hotline.

This morning I woke up to more over sharing, this time on Facebook. One of my "friends," whose status updates are as bipolar as any I've ever read (up one day, down in the dumps the next seven), had this to say:

"if i posted exactly how I am feeling the cops would come and drag me away for the rest of my life...fear of the unknown...All I ever asked for was love and respect....but seems you better than me...I am about to lose it...somebody help me!"

What followed read like the climactic scene of an original melodrama on the Inspirational Network, with one member of the ensemble of characters poised to go over the ledge as the others try to stop him.

"Don't lose Ȋ̝̊ŧ Ɓαβγ,its not worth pray an ask god 2 take control"

"today I feel like GOd has turned his face from me..never really felt like anyone ever loved me..not even GOD"

"I know the feeling, its hard try to hang in their. I feel the same BTW."

"You need to speak to my friend Shelly. She has had it ALOT worse then you over the last two years. She never gave up on God taking care of her. He took her into some deep places, but she kept the faith and is now doing great. You can't give up on God. He wants you to show your faith. She is a licensed counselor and if you want me to hook you up with her I will.
And God does love you. We are never promised an easy life, but we are promised that he will take care of his children."

"I aint his child..he abandoned me"

"It's time to check that spirit and get off that roller coaster ride! Get that devil off of your back man! Don't be fooled! Get some Word in your heart and head and push him out! (Rom. 8:5) His love seems distant most when we are out of fellowship with Him! Come back to Him and you will see the shift! He's where He's always been, close by! Get out of that house and get back to His house!"

"no offense...but bruh you have no idea what has happened to me....I probably know just as much word as you, right now I need GOD to speak to me..if he dont...then...i got no need to live...I been suffering all my life with mental illness and all anyone eve did is laugh at me and make fun...that aint love...if you want to talk to me you got my number...if not i treat you like i treat everybody else...wont talk to you no more.. you have no idea no idea what i been dealing"

"Well said sherry an mark!!!!! God is always d boss,an he never abandon us.trials an tribulations is life.the battle isn,t 4 d swiftest but 4 those who endures Ȋ̝̊ŧ 2 d end.blessed luv"
"you can stop with the blah blah blah Jesus is love crap..he dont love me..never did...yall not listening....yall just self righteous religious and judgemental....he can be the boss...all i want is the grave so i can be no more...life aint for me"

"Well... You are my brother through Christ and I hope you get to speak to someone before you do something drastic to yourself. You are right, we don't know what you are going through, but there ARE people out there willing to listen and help you. I pray that you find them soon."

"all they gonna do is what you doing...spout a bunch of gibberish at me...your words mean nothing without actions...."

"It's hard when I am 325 miles away. I will leave you alone then. I just hope you find some peace."

"not for a phone call"

"see how my brother just turned his back on me? A pastor? wow"

"I would drive over and give you a hug but I'm kind of 800 miles away. I am thinking about you and sending all my love right now. You are special and this planet would not be the same without you. Hang in there, please."

From there it went from tragic to comic in a matter of posts, devolving into a barrage of bickering and recriminations. I felt like I had flipped channels from INSP to a Jerry Springer transcript. Apparently, my depressed Facebook friend got the joke and ended the thread in much improved spirits: "I feel the love from you...thank you...but its time to take it down a notch..later." (Within hours, he'd returned for more over sharing, but I couldn't bring myself to get sucked in again.)

What shocked me more than the fact that everyone I went to high school with seems to have found God somewhere between graduation and middle age, and the fact that this Facebook friend would go there so publicly, possibly just to get attention (and yes, I think that was his motivation), were the Facebook stats that followed his original status update.

"2 people like this."

EVERYONE SINGS "I LOVE YOU" (BUT WHY DO THEY SOUND SO SAD?)

2011-09-20T16:29:00.000-07:00

Love and happiness.

They are, as Al Green sang in his 1972 classic of that name, "something that can make you do wrong, make you do right." They also seem to bring out the best and the worst in us -- in life and in music. Maybe it's because both joy and romantic love are generally fleeting, and we know it.

Sort of like fantastic weather. I was listening to "Blue Skies," the first single from Jamiroquai's excellent underrated 2010 not-quite-comeback album "Rock Dust Light Star," when it dawned on me: Like love and happiness, blue skies bring out the worst in singers and songwriters. Willie Nelson crooned Irving Berlin's gorgeous "Blue Skies" (same name, different song) on his 1978 album "Stardust" as if his emotional forecast actually called for pain. Listening to Jamiroquai's Jay Kay singing about sunny weather ahead on his "Blue Skies," I almost expect a thunderstorm to break out mid-song.

It's unclear what's got him sounding so, well, blue, but I'd venture to blame it on love. Songs about love come in every kind of mood, but those three words, "I love you," seem to bring so many singers and songwriters down. Mary J. Blige, Sarah McLachlan and Faith Evans used them for the title of songs; Stevie Wonder just called to say I love you. But if love is such a beautiful thing, why don't any of them sound particularly overjoyed singing about it. (Martina BcBride, in an interesting break from pop tradition, sang her biggest hit, 1999's "I Love You," like she really meant it, and when Smokey Robinson danced with irony on 1984's "And I Don't Love You," he sounded positively giddy.) No wonder Annie Lennox declared on her 1994 hit "No More I Love You's."

Off the records, "I love you" lost much of its impact during my four and a half years in Buenos Aires. "I love you," "Te quiero," "Te amo" -- all of them were incredibly overused by boys who got carried away in their ardor. I met guys who would utter those words between the dance floor and the bedroom, yet I don't think I ever saw any of them again. In 2007, I dated one guy, Matías, who told me "I love you" every chance he got, but once, when I made the fatal error of texting him "Te extraño" (I miss you), he dumped me shortly thereafter because he thought it was too much too soon.

Was it something I said? Well, in this case, yes. Within a month, he was in a serious relationship with someone else, who no doubt had carte blanche to say, "Te extraño," whenever he wanted to. It took me six months to get over Matías's curly brown hair and crazy blue eyes (the latter the results of his Danish heritage), but when I did, I did it so well that when I ran into him at Sugar on my 40th birthday nearly two years later, I didn't even recognize him at first. He'd gained weight and was covering his beautiful face with a scruffy beard. He kept me guessing, but eventually, his deep, raspy voice gave him away.

He sent me a Facebook friend request a few weeks later and deleted me hours after I accepted it. Though I haven't heard from him since, recently, I started to receive spam emails from his Hotmail account. I'm always tempted to respond just to see if he'll answer back (and two days ago I did -- no reply at all), but I don't think he ever forgave me for that momentary memory lapse on my 40th.

In total, I said, "I love you," to three guys in BA (Matías, Leandro and Gonzalo), but I don't think my heart was ever really in it. During my final two years in BA, after Gonzalo, I issued an unofficial moratorium on those three words (two words, if I was saying them in Spanish). I didn't use them, and I really didn't want to hear them. So when Shane said, "I love you," back in April, it jolted me right out of bed. I never expected him to say it first. I never expected him to say it at all. As strange as it may sound, I thought the "I love you" phase of my life might be over.

Of course, I never gave up on love in music. I recently went through a '70s love song phase, and as I backtracked to the late Phoebe Snow's "Poetry Man," Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You" and the late Karen Carpenter's "All Because of You," I couldn't help but notice that as gorgeously sung and poetic as these songs were (and are), none of these women in love sounded like they were in a much better emotional space than Dorothy Moore on her tear-jerking 1976 hit "Misty Blue."

But that's the thing about love. When it sneaks up on you, fear and insecurity are never far behind, and heartbreak lurks in the shadows. It's the most complex state of being, and if it doesn't end in tears, singing about it is almost certain to bring on the rain.

12 amazing "I Love You" songs

"I Love You" (from My Life, 1995) Mary J. Blige
"I Love You" (from Surfacing, 1997) Sarah McLachlan
"I Still Love You" (from Living Eyes, 1981) Bee Gees
"Do I Love You (Yes In Every Way)" (from Shame on Me, 1977) Donna Fargo

"No More I Love You's" (from Medusa, 1995) Annie Lennox
"I Love You" (from Faithfully, 2001) Faith Evans
"I Still Love You" (from Symphony Or Damn, 1993) Terence Trent D'Arby
"I Love You" (from Once Upon a Time, 1977) Donna Summer

"I Love You" (from Falling Into You, 1996) Celine Dion
"Te Amo" (from Rated R, 2009) Rihanna
"I Will Always Love You (from Eyes That See in the Dark, 1983) Kenny Rogers
"Ti Amo" (from Self Control, 1984) Laura Branigan

CONTEMPLATING COLOR: ARE YOU A RACIST FOR USING THE WORD "NIGGER"?

2011-09-19T18:30:00.000-07:00

One of the most beautiful passages in the classic Toni Morrison novel Beloved is when Baby Suggs, the mother-in-law of Sethe, the main character, is about to die. She retires to her bedroom to think about color.

"God puzzled her and she was too ashamed to say so." So she takes to her bed "to think about the colors of things."

"I want to think about something harmless in this world," she says, and "except for an occasional request for color," she utters nothing, silenced by color.

"'Bring me a little lavendar in, if you got any. Pink, if you don't.' And Sethe would oblige her with anything from fabric to her own tongue.... Took her a long time to finish with blue, then yellow, then green. She was well into pink when she died."

I cry every time I read this. These words are among the most powerful in all of literature, and they speak to me on so many levels. As with all excellent metaphors, it's open to interpretion. Does "color" actually refer to the ones you'd find in a box of crayons, which would be the obvious interpretation, or to those of human beings. The implication is there for anyone who is willing to see it.

"An advocate or supporter of racism; a person whose words or actions display racial prejudice or discrimination. Also in extended use: a person who is prejudiced against people of other nationalities."

That's the Oxford English Dictionary definition of "racist." With this in mind, one day in December of 2009, smarting from my enounter with the Alvaro Zicarelli, the racist Argentine, I posed the following question on Facebook:

"Have you ever used the N word? And if not, could extreme anger ever drive you to use it?

The responses ran the gamut, but the honesty of one, in particular, surprised me:

"Lets face it, you know people are going to lie about this answer!!! I, on the other hand, have said it! And no, it is not because I am prejudiced. I haven't ever directly said it to someone's face either, but who ever was with me at the time has heard it come out of my mouth."

So what I was being told is that just because you don't say it to the person it's intended to demean means you are not racist? Basically, you are a racist, a coward and delusional. To use the word "nigger," to think it, whether in private or in public, to somone's face or behind his or her back, means that you harbor racism within. To some degree, you consider black people to be inferior. Fact: You don't have to go around burning crosses to be racist. And for the record, I do believe that everyone, including myself, is, to some minute degree, prejudiced -- if not against blacks, against some other group.

Here's another question: Is a whites-only dating policy racist?

Living in Australia, has exposed me to forms of racism that I hadn't encountered in any significant way when I lived in Buenos Aires or in the United States. There's Australians vs. Aborigines, which I knew about before I stepped foot on the continent, and Australians vs. Asians, which was news to me. The Asian population in Australia is much higher than I ever expected it to be, but they don't seem to be so welcome by everyone, particularly gay Australian men looking for someone to date, or fuck. So many Manhunt profiles I've read specify "No Asians," and it's done so casually that one suspects the people typing those words don't realize how offensive and racist they are.

Hardly a week goes by when I don't read about some racist antic in the news, whether it's sports players dressing up in blackface for a gag, or some jock hurling racial slurs on the playing field. Surprisingly, with all of the racisim surrounding me in Oz, none of it has been directed at me. Sure those outdated black myths are alive and well -- How big is your dick? -- but for the most part, in Melbourne, I've never been acutely aware of being different because of the color of my skin, unlike in Buenos Aires, where people never let me forget. In Aisa, it's somewhere between the two. I'm less a fetish than a curio, a fantastic photo op for women travelling in gaggles.

But getting back to my Facebook inquiry, several respondents reasoned that when people are angry, blinded by fury, they are driven to hurt the person responsible for their rage in the worst way possible. This is understandable. But it's no excuse. It's still racism. And no matter how many black people you sleep with, how many you date, or how many friends you have who are black, once you use the word, whether in thought or in speech, you are racist. Yes, there are degrees of racism, and racism in people with violent or confrontational natures tends to be more dangerous, but in the end, racism is racism.

The same is true with pejorative expressions based on sexual preference. Years ago, during an argument with my brother, who is also gay, my sister called him a "faggot." I suspect that she has forgotten the incident (just as Alvaro Zicarelli has probably forgotten calling me a nigger and telling me that I should be picking cotton in Alabama), but I never did. From that moment on, I was never able to look at my sister without hearing her hurling that epithet at my brother and wondering what she really thought of me. I never forgave her for it. I haven't spoken to her since 2005.

And as I detailed in my previous post, my other brother once directed the word at me during an argument by email. Words are dangerous things, and the written word can be more treacherous than the spoken word. Once something is said, it's gone. Only the memory of it remains. But when you write it, we get to sit and look at it over and over, as it cuts deeper and deeper. "You're a stupid faggot that nobody likes," he wrote to me. This was five and a half years ago. I never spoke to him again.

But I digress slightly. Racism and homophobia are two sides of the same coin. Quite different, but related in an interesting way. I've often found that racism is particularly strong in the male gay community, which is disappointing, because they should know better. I never did much online dating when I lived in the United States, but my friend Rob, who is black, did, and he told me some disturbing things about what white guys put in their profiles: "No blacks." "Whites only."

I'd rather be asked about my penis size than read something like that. To me, it's aggressively racist. But like the person above, these guys probably wouldn't describe themselves as prejudiced. They'd explain it away with a tossed off "Sorry, that's just my preference." But why not leave race out of it and simply ignore the messages you receive from black guys as you would messages from white guys whom you find unattractive? Whether intentional or not, it excludes and demeans.

And what about guys who respond to those profiles? Are they racist by association? I think to a degree, yes. Why would a non-racist person give a second glance to someone who has a "whites only" rule when it comes to dating? Yes, I understand that preferences are preferences. But as soon as you write the words, "whites only," you have completely dismissed an entire group of people. And that, folks, is what prejudice, discrimination and racism is all about.

Unfortunately, as proven by Alvaro Zicarelli, who was so casually racist in his response to my rejection, the "whites only" folks aren't the only enemy. Those who fetishize blacks are just as likely to harbor dangerous levels of racism. Because, when you get right down to it, fetishizing blacks indicates an over-awareness of race that really is at the root or racism. Rob told me an extremely disturbing story about a girl, who was white, whom he used to date. When he broke up with her, her response was "I should have known this would happen if I dated a nigger."

Shocking.

We are sleeping with the enemy. It makes me suspicious, fearful, of everyone who crosses my path. No, we never know what people are really thinking, which makes life both interesting and terrifying. But I've been dumped before. I cried. I threw things. I lashed out. But I never resorted to name calling.

In the end, the response of Rob's ex-girlfriend, of Alvaro Zicarelli, of everyone who dares to utter, or think, the N word, has nothing to do with me. If you've been sleeping with trash, or trying to sleep with trash -- and that, basically, sums up how anyone who uses that word views black people -- what does it say about you?

BLACK AND WHITE PEOPLE

2011-09-19T17:59:00.000-07:00

In 1971, when the Persuaders sang, "there's a thin line between love and hate," they were really saying something. There is, apparently, also a thin line between fetishism and outright racism, being eroticized for being exotic and being stigmatized for the same reason.

I have a hard time saying no, and for two weeks, I turned down Alvaro Zicarelli without actually turning him down. It didn't impress me much when he went on and on about how much he loves black men, how his last boyfriend was black, and yada yada yada.

Interestingly, before he went off on his black tangent, he asked if he could say something without offending me, so I gathered that he, like so many other porteños in Buenos Aires who preface similar tangents similarly, suspected that no black guy wants to hear about a white guy's thing for black men. But that didn't stop him. Even less appealing was the general aura of desperation about him. In short, I wasn't feeling him.

Whenever he sent me an instant message on MSN, if I bothered to respond, it was usually monosyllabically, cordial but with minimal enthusiasm. I ignored his Facebook friend request, which is usually pretty tell-tale. But not for him. Undaunted, he continued to pursue me on a daily basis. Finally, today, bored and annoyed with him and his attention, I decided to level with him. I told him as bluntly and succinctly as possible that I just wasn't interested in going out with him.

Now I was accustomed to the poor manner in which porteños generally react to rejection. (In a quest for revenge, one reject actually told the police that I had assaulted him, resulting in my being detained for five hours. Weeks later, he was hitting on me again, having completely forgotten the previous incident!) They're hot and they're cold, and they can go from charming to vicious in mid-sentence. But this previously mild-mannered guy's response stunned me nonetheless. It was way over-the-top, even in a country where drama rules.

"sos un negro de mierda que se cree que eres muy importante para hacerte el dificil, tendrias que estar recolectando algodon en Alabama, imbécil! Go home, fucking yankee nigger!"

You can see him getting angrier with each passing word, even dropping in some slave imagery for poetic effect. Perhaps he included that final sentence because, let's face it, racial bigotry is so much more powerful in English. For those of you who don't understand Spanish, it pretty much sums up the spirit of the rest of it. Intriguingly and disturbingly, his message, as vile as it might have been, was the only time I found him even remotely interesting. But I'd take boring over racist every day of the week.

His words make me wonder what's lurking just under the surface of some of these guys who are so obsessed with black men. Argentines like to think they are not racist. I know better. After all, the country, the whitest in all of South America and proud of it, shipped its black population off to the front lines in the wars of the late 19th century, essentially using them as human cannons as part of a crusade to Europeanize the country.

Yes, many Argentines fantasize about being with a black man. We are exotic and erotic, a must-do before you die. But make no mistake, the N-word is in full circulation there, and no matter how many times I heard it, it never failed to shock and infuriate me. I thanked Alvaro for dragging me out of my Saturday afternoon torpor, spicing up my day, and confirming my suspicions about him.

Bullet dodged!

DOES CALLING ME A "STUPID FAGGOT" MAKE MY BROTHER HOMOPHOBIC?

2011-09-18T05:23:00.000-07:00

Not a day goes by that I don't think about him. For many years, he was the most important, most influential man in my life, something I don't think I realized until I just typed those words. I'm talking about my brother James. This is not a eulogy. He's alive and well. But for about five and a half years now, he's been pretty much dead to me.

We're a little under one and a half years apart, so when we were younger, my mom treated us a lot like twins, dressing us in matching outfits, making us take our baths together, having us sleep in bunk beds (him on top, me on bottom), giving us the same bedtime. It was bad enough that my big brother was shorter than me -- did he have to go to bed at the same time, too? It's an argument I must have heard James make hundreds of times, and it never got him so much as an extra half hour.

By the time James hit his teens, we'd begun to grow apart. I was a nerd in bloom, and James was a budding jock. When I graduated from college, we were practically on different sides of the personality spectrum and leading polar-opposite lives. James was spending a year in prison for shooting a rival in the foot; I was moving to New York City to launch my journalism career.

Sometimes I couldn't believe that we'd ever been so close. We used to do everything together, from drawing imaginary worlds with honey trees to making up games with Greek mythology, comic-book superheroes and the U.S. Presidents (we called the latter "President Junk," which was way too complicated to explain here) to having balloon tosses in the driveway and water fights in the bathtub (both of which earned us spankings from mom) to playing on one of the neighborhood soccer teams (something I did only to be close to him at the start of our growing-apart phase) to watching Friday Night Videos and Night Flight and grading the music videos all night until the sun came up on the weekend. (Shh! Don't tell mom!)

He was the only one in the family who pretended to share any interest in two of my gayest childhood obsessions: pop divas (Olivia Newton-John, Sheena Easton, Laura Branigan) and the charts, specifically, the ones in Billboard magazine. Once he went to Record Mart at Mill Creek Mall and wrote down the entire new Top 40 just so that I could have something to obsess over that night. It may have been the nicest thing he ever did for me.

It may have been the last thing he ever did for me. For the most part, our adult relationship was defined by his problems. The family was always expected to root for him and pull him out of his latest impossible situation, and for me, that usually meant donating money to his cause. As kids, we'd made a vow to be each other's best men, and when he got married in 2004 (in a wedding paid for largely by our other brother and me), I was surprised that he held up his end of the bargain. In my best-man speech, I reminisced about the good times we shared as kids -- I was always terrified of thunder, and once I shoved a cookie down his throat to get him out of the kitchen and back into the living room to protect me from a storm, an incident I was shocked that he remembered -- and hoped that there would be more of them in the future.

But there wouldn't be. Within two years, we'd no longer be even speaking. He had moved to Los Angeles in order for his wife to pursue stardom via modeling and/or acting, and they were broke, living in a small one-bedroom apartment with two kids -- his daughter from a previous relationship and her son from another -- and one on the way. One day his wife sent me an email chewing me out for failing to show sufficient enthusiasm when she had called me at work several weeks earlier seeking marketing contacts. I was on deadline, and I tried to explain to her that I did not work in marketing, and therefore couldn't help her. She seemed to understand, but weeks later it became clear that hadn't been the case.

She said she didn't appreciate the way I had blown her off without even trying to help her. I responded that I didn't appreciate the way she was always looking to me for handouts. It was always about her. I felt like I was being used and not appreciated for all that I had done for her -- practically paying for her wedding, taking the family out to dinners, listening to her gripe about my brother's chauvinistic ways. "Grow up, and leave me alone," I pleaded. That's when James interceded. Nobody talks to his wife like that! He let me have it, and I gave as good as I got. I called him a "loser." He called me "a stupid faggot that nobody likes."

What? A stupid faggot?!

He also refused to ever pay me back the $1,000 I'd loaned him for the wedding since he considered it their "wedding gift." If we'd been talking on the phone, that would have been the part where I hung up. Instead, I simply deleted the message and ceased all contact with him. He wrote me another email a few hours later, but I didn't bother to read it. Knowing him, it wasn't an apology. A year or two later, his wife had the gall to try to befriend me on Facebook. Naturally, I wasn't going there with her.

James and I never spoke again, and it's doubtful that we ever will. Though I could use that thousand bucks right about now, that's not what's been keeping James and me apart. It's his choice of words. Sticks and stones may break my bones, and certain words will cut right to them. I can no more bring myself to have a relationship with someone who'd call me a "faggot" than with someone who'd call me a "nigger."

A New York magazine article recently quoted John Amaechi, a former NBA center who is both black and gay, expressing a similar opinion regarding the separate-but-equal status of the two words in the chain of insults. In a sense, "faggot" is even more hurtful because gay people haven't co-opted it as a term of endearment the way rappers and some blacks have done with "nigger," draining the word of some of its venom. But as far as I'm concerned, "faggot" suggests homophobia as much as "nigger" coming from a non-black does racism, and I find homophobia and racism equally unacceptable.

An apology might be a start at bridging the gap between us, but James has never been the "I'm sorry" type. I can't say that I miss him -- I got used to not having the brother I grew up with in my life somewhere around my mid-teens, but I hate that I'm not getting to see my two nieces grow up. They're both past the cute phase, and entering the emotional- and fashion-disaster zone, which is why I'm sure they could use the influence of their gay uncle right about now.

Someone once told me that if you are thinking about someone, chances are they are thinking about you, too. I wonder what would be going through James' mind. Is he sorry about what he said? Or does he see himself as the injured party? I might never know, but every day of radio silence makes living without that knowledge a little bit easier.

BURNING QUESTIONS: THE SEPTEMBER EDITION, FEATURING JAMES FRANCO AND BEYONCE

2011-09-17T19:17:00.000-07:00

We now interrupt the regularly scheduled topics of discussion -- dance, music, sex, romance, men, travel and the importance of being gay -- for some pop-cultural musings.

Can Sarah Jessica Parker cut it as a movie star in projects without "sex" and "the city" in the title? Despite the use of a very Carrie Bradshaw voice over in the trailer, Parker's latest flick is also her latest flop. With a North American gross of just over $1.5 million on opening day (September 16), I Don't Know How She Does It is unlikely to even bow in the Top 5. Good thing Sex and the City 3 is on!

Who cares about Kate Bosworth? Quick name one movie she's been in! Oh, that's right, she was in the last Superman reboot. But does anyone even remember the name of the guy who played Superman? (Actually, I do -- Brandon Routh -- but I'm a freak like that, plus he used to star on One Life to Live, my favorite daytime soap.) Considering the opening-day gross of her latest forgettable movie Straw Dogs (close to $2 million), she'll continue to be more famous for tabloid appearances (and being Orlando Bloom's ex) than film ones. At least she did better than SJP!

Why is pop radio avoiding Beyoncé like the plague? Her first two singles from 4 tanked -- which by Beyoncé standards, means they both failed to go Top 10 on Billboard's Hot 100. And the third, "Love on Top," which benefitted from her performance of it three weeks ago on the MTV Video Music awards, which benefitted from her end-of-tune revelation that she's expecting, plummeted to No. 70 one week after debuting at No. 20. Nothing says, "It's been real. See you in the next pop life," like a 50-notch tumble. At least the pregnancy-reveal-as-publicity-stunt was good for a week of chart action.

Now that he has an Oscar nomination and is the star of the hit reboot of the Planet of the Apes franchise, James Franco no longer has anything to prove. So why is he returning to General Hospital? This week -- September 20, to be exact -- he'll back in Port Charles for what is being called an "extended stay" to wreak havoc as artist Franco. Last time we saw him, on February 25, he was taunting Jason on the phone while dressed in a tuxedo (presumably en route to the Oscars, which the real-life Franco hosted a few days later). But if he must toy with daytime, wouldn't it be so much smarter to go with One Life to Live? It may be going off the air in January, but it's the daytime soap with all the heat right now.

REMEMBER THE TINMAN: IS IT REALLY BETTER TO HAVE LOVED AND LOST?

2011-09-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

"Who stole your heart

Left you with a space

That no one and nothing can fill

Who stole your heart

Who took it away

Knowing that without it you can't live"

Last night, I pressed "play," then "repeat," and let Tracy Chapman's beautiful words sink in. Who can't relate to the sentiment of "Remember the Tinman," the standout track from Chapman's 1995 album New Beginning (the one that contained her biggest hit, "Give Me One Reason")? We've all been there, standing far from the ledge with our hearts in armour, or in love with someone in that very same spot, heart eternally out of reach.

They say it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. True or false, those words probably have never offered much solace to anyone in the thick of heartbreak. But I will say this: The best things in life aren't free. Great reward comes with great risk.

Grief is the price we pay for love. So said Queen Elizabeth II after 9/11. Is it worth the cost? Without a doubt. So unchain your heart. Let it beat. Let it love.

"And remember the tinman found he had what he thought he lacked

Remember the tinman

Go find your heart and take it back"

THE NAME GAME: WOULD YOU DATE A GUY (OR NOT) BECAUSE OF HIS?

2011-09-17T03:28:00.000-07:00

I know. I know. It sounds so shallow, like dating for looks, or money or, ahem, endowment. But don't even try to tell me that you don't have a name thing. Everybody does -- though for some, it's more extreme than for others. On a name-nut scale of 1 to 10, I'd say I'm about an 8.

How does this name fetish work? An example: During my first trip to Melbourne last year, I was at the pub Windsor Castle with friends one Sunday afternoon when I overheard someone talking about her new boyfriend Nathan.

Nathan!

My ears weren't the only things that perked up! My friend Annie and I spent the next half hour discussing the importance of being Nathan. Now there's a name you don't hear every day. There was Dr. Horton, the recently departed Nathan on Days of Our Lives, and there's Castle star Nathan Fillion, but I don't believe I've ever met a Nathan in real life. I pretended that the really cute guy I'd met the night before was named Nathan because I couldn't remember his name. Who knows? Maybe he was a Nathan, but he looked more like a Josh.

Once, upon a mattress, Josh would have worked wonders for my libido. In the U.S., Josh and Ryan aside, my greatest ambition was to go out with a guy named Brendan (it happened, a few days after September 11). In Argentina, I turned my name focus to Lucas. Instead, I got Martin, Fernando and Marcelo -- tons of them -- but not one single Lucas. It got to the point where I would attach personality traits to certain names (Matias = Hot, Federico = Player, Hernan = Shady, and so on) and avoid others like the plague. During my first weeks back in Australia, I was relieved that I'd never again have to cross paths with Alejandro, unless it was via the Lady Gaga song. It was all about finding Nathan.

Not that any name slut wouldn't have his or her pick of good ones in Australia. It seems every guy I meet calls himself something cool -- or totally different. Blake, Clint, Grant, Mick. Hayden (which I've been told is pretty common Down Under). Beau. Zoren. Kimberley. Kimberley! Ashley. Ashley! My friend Marcus used to date a guy named Dade -- which was also the name of a former NYC colleague of mine -- and lately he's been hanging out with a bloke named Harris. (I've always had a weakness for surnames as first names!)

A friend of mine has a two-year-old nephew named Mason. I always thought of that as a name for a grown up, but I suppose everybody has to start somewhere. Though I've met a Jason and a couple of Scotts (I don't know why, but I've always considered both to be uniquely American), I don't think I've met a single Mike, John or Tim, not to mention Tom, Dick or Harry. I did sleep with another Jeremy three months ago just to see what it would be like. It wasn't unforgettable, but he did convince me to come to Asia, so he was worth the trip to the bedroom.

Last April, when I finally found my Nathan in Melbourne, I ended up getting two of them. On my way to a date with Nathan No. 1, a cute inebriated guy stumbled up to me and struck up a conversation. His name: Nathan. After nearly 42 Nathan-free years, I was going to meet two in one night, though I only went out with one of them. I chose wisely: Nathan No. 1 ended our date by servicing me in a deserted alley. His technique more than lived up to his name. He sexted me about 15 minutes after leaving me, saying that he wished he could have spent more time with me. I never heard from him again.

Speaking of guys I'll probably never hear from again, when I hooked up with Bastiaan a few nights ago, it didn't have anything to do with his name, although I could think of worse things to scream out in the throes of passion. When I ran into him last night, he kissed me on the lips, stroked me up, and introduced me to his boss by name (one which I immediately forgot), but didn't say mine. I suspected he'd forgotten it, but I let it go.

Why add insult to injury? Wasn't it bad enough that he didn't call and didn't seem particularly interested in a repeat performance of the previous night? I did some digging on Facebook, and I think he has a boyfriend back in Amsterdam. I imagine they have one of those modern gay relationships where you can fuck around but you can't fall in love, which means one night only for suckers like me. At least I got to cross "Do a guy named Sebastiaan with two A's" off my bucket list.

But getting back to Nathan -- the name, not the guy -- I'm not sure what it is about it. Maybe it's memories of history class and Nathan Hale, the Revolutionary War hero whose last words were "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country." Even in elementary school, I pictured him being kind of hot and possibly gay, and I suppose that somehow the name became hot -- and possibly gay -- by association.

I couldn't imagine either of the Nathans I met that night ever doing anything quite so noble as dying for his country (though Nathan No. 1 said his life-long dream is to do good deeds in East Africa), but with a name like that, they don't really have to.

6 WARNING SIGNS THAT I WAS GAY

2011-09-16T07:51:00.000-07:00

Of all the reactions to my coming out of the closet at 23, the one that sticks out most in my mind is my sister's.

"You know you're completely taking me by surprise," she told me over the phone. "I had no idea."

"Seriously?" I asked, wishing I could see her face for a sign that she wasn't screwing with me. Months later, when I broke the news to my mom, she had a similar reaction. To this day, I'm not sure whether they were being honest or "ironic." (And how gay are quotation marks used that way? And italics?! Oh, and exclamation points, too!!)

Sure, growing up, there had been a few red herrings. From third-grader to tween, I'd had crushes on female classmates (all of them out of my league -- maybe subconsciously I was shooting for the unattainable so that I'd never actually have to date one of them), and at the eighth-grade banquet, I spent all night sobbing into my punch after Kim LaRose turned down my invitation to dance. But now that I think back on it, would a heterosexual-in-training really have behaved like such a drama queen? Even without shoulder pads, I could have taught Alexis Carrington and Erica Kane a thing or two about over the top.

No, I never walked around in mom's high heels, admired her dresses or experimented with her make up -- but young gay boys generally only do that on TV and in the movies. Though my interest in charts, the Oscars and The Golden Girls wouldn't flourish until my teens, and the Lifetime years were more than a decade away, there were early signs. I couldn't be bothered with fast cars, playing catch with my brother, Pete Rose or Farrah Fawcett. Which brings me to the first of six hints that I'd grow up preferring Ken to Barbie (though I never played with dolls).

I was a Jaclyn Smith kind of guy. Boys wanted Farrah, girls wanted to be her -- or at least accurately simulate her flip hairdo. In a sense, she was on everyone's lust list but mine. I had my eye on another one of Charlie's Angels. Sweet, refined and beautiful in a wholesome kind of way, Jaclyn Smith was more my style. Unlike Farrah and Suzanne Somers, the top-two TV bombshells of the age, she never sold sexy. She was the kind of lady whose hand you could spend all night holding and never have to go farther than first base.

Actresses rocked my world. Burt Reynolds, Clint Eastwood and Sylvester Stallone were the major movie stars of the day, but I was too focused on the queens of the small-screen -- Smith, Lindsay Wagner, Victoria Principal and Jane Seymour at night, Bewitched's Elizabeth Montgomery and I Dream of Jeannie's Barbara Eden in afternoon reruns -- to care about the tough guys. I don't remember much about the moment when I found out that Elvis Presley died (other than that I was watching Star Trek), but I vividly remember every single emotion that swept over me when I heard the news that Grace Kelly and Natalie Wood had passed away.

I was obsessed with beauty pageants. I mean anything I could get my eyes on: Miss America, Miss U.S.A., Miss Universe. To me, Miss America host Bert Parks had the best job in the world. I still remember prancing around the living room as if I'd just won the lottery when Janelle Commissiong, Miss Trinidad and Tobago, was crowned the first black Miss Universe in 1977. By the time Vanessa Williams became the first black Miss America in 1984, I'd lost interest, but beauty pageants and I had a good run. When I came out, one of the first things my mom said was, "But you loved beauty pageants so much as a kid!" Exactly.

I hearted Olivia Newton-John. Unlike many gay men of a certain age, it had nothing to do with Grease. In fact, to this day, I've never even seen the musical. My love of ONJ began in 1979, just as she was shedding her good-girl image with "A Little More Love." It was love at 25th sight, though I was more enamoured with her music than her sex appeal. I never got into Judy Garland (too tragic), or Barbra Streisand (too Broadway), or Madonna (too raunchy), and I was a bit late to the Kylie Minogue party, but to this day, my heart skips a beat whenever I hear "Xanadu."

I was addicted to soaps. Most people around my age remember being sucked into daytime soaps at some point as a kid because their mothers were hooked. I was no different. Some of my fondest pre-kindergarten memories are watching Love of Life, Search for Tomorrow (I'll never forget the sight of a young Morgan Fairchild, who played Jennifer on SFT, throwing herself through that glass door) and The Young and the Restless with mom every weekday afternoon. Nothing too out of the ordinary there. But surely mom should have suspected that she had a future diva on her hands when I insisted on missing the first day of third grade because I had to see the resolution of All My Children's Friday cliffhanger. If only we'd had VCRs, TiVo or YouTube back then!

I was a suburban metrosexual. Other boys my age were going to the Boy's Club, or playing football and baseball, but I couldn't be bothered with such manly pursuits because dirt and sweat repulsed me. I was more concerned with the crease in my straight-leg Toughskins (boot-cut and bell-bottom hems made me look fatter), and spent too much time frowning at myself in the bathroom mirror, warding off pimples, and patting down my hair, trying to get the Afro just right. I'm no longer quite so high-maintenance, but I'm hooked on Kiehl's, and I never go to bed without flossing.

Mom, if you're reading this, don't despair. Your gaydar may have been out of service for years, but at least you raised a son who's well-groomed and loves women.

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

2011-09-16T01:13:00.000-07:00

When I look in the mirror, what do I see?

No matter how many compliments I collect, how many hot guys I cross off my to-do list, how many people stop me in the street asking for me to pose for a photo with them (one of the occupational hazards of being one of the few black men in Asia, Australia and South America, the three continents on which I've spent the majority of the last five years), when I look in the mirror, I'm never thrilled by what I see.

Or rather, by whom I see.

Who's that boy? He's the shy, depressed, overweight youth I used to be. No matter how much I squint or turn my head to angles that hopefully will give me a more flattering view, it's the same old unattractive image staring back at me. When you grow up fat, no matter how much physical weight you lose, you carry around those extra pounds for the rest of your life. Atlas shrugged, and I try to do the same, but the dead weight, that excess baggage, stays on your shoulder, a permanent chip to remind you where you've been and where, in your head, you'll always be.

I drag it around with me every time I walk into a bar or a club, no matter how much attention I get on any given evening. One night in Bangkok (last night), the bartender slipped me the number of a guy across the bar, who'd written it down hoping to win an audience with me. Another bartender, the one I kind of fancied, told me that one of his colleagues -- the one grinning at me from across the room -- liked me.

Guys looked, a few touched, several of them talked to me. But nothing prepared me for Bastiaan, the guy wearing an "Alexander McQueen" t-shirt who spent five minutes glancing over at me inside DJ Station before throwing caution to the wind and approaching me. I'd thought he might be attractive after viewing him through the corner of my eye, but looking at him full-on, I wondered what he was doing pursuing a loser like me.

Small talk and intense eye contact ensued. I found out that Bastiaan was from Amsterdam, and he was 28 years old. What was he doing in Bangkok? He was a flight attendant from KLM Airlines. How cliché, I thought to myself when he told me. Every western tourist in Bangkok, it seemed, either was one or was hooking up with one. I'd already gone there several times during my nearly two months in Bangkok, but Bastiaan was the first one who made me want to go out and buy a ticket for one of his flights just for the chance to spend a few hours in coach staring at him.

Snap out if it, I told myself. Play it cool. People were staring at us -- at him, I figured. One good-looking guy after another came over and talked to him. Some were colleagues. Some he'd met when he'd been out the previous night. I felt invisible next to him. I wondered what he saw in me when he had all of these beautiful admirers.

But he never left my side. Every time he stepped away to use the bathroom, he faithfully returned to me. He kissed me passionately, but not too passionately. He said he wanted to give me something to look forward to.

He didn't disappoint. He loved me two times in 30 minutes flat. He had an early flight the next morning, so he had to leave my hotel room after about an hour. It was a short flight, so he'd be back in town the following evening. We could go out if I wanted to. He took my phone number and wrote his on the hotel stationary.

I grinned when I looked at the piece of paper after he'd left. He'd underlined his first and last name at the top and written it again after "facebook:..." No one goes through all that trouble if he's just not that into you. Still, I knew I had a 50/50 chance of seeing him again. If I don't, my heart will go on. That's the beauty of gay life: Even for a guy like me who's dragging around all of this extra weight on his shoulder, every gorgeous guy I meet is the last one right before the next one.

I will love -- lust -- again!

RATED TRIPLE XXX: THE TOP 10 MOST RIDICULOUS THINGS I'VE EVER READ ONLINE

2011-09-15T05:21:00.000-07:00

Now I've officially heard -- um, read -- it all.

After a year and a half away from the online hook-up scene, I decided to check out the action on Manhunt Australia about a week after my arrival in Melbourne back in March and created a profile with six photos that revealed nothing below the waist. (I've since deleted it -- this was just an experiment, after all, a fruitful search for material, not a man.)

Among the things I learned during the first 24 hours: 1) An acquaintance I made in Buenos Aires a couple of years ago is now studying in Melbourne. 2) Gay guys in Australia, apparently, are even more comfortable with online nudity than the ones in Argentina. 3) The art of the perfect come-on isn't lost only on Argentines.

Oh, and a dog in heat will say just about anything! I collected enough material to fill up weeks worth of blog posts, but after a while, all the dirty stuff started to blend into one giant bag of trash. So I'm sharing the best stuff -- my 10 funniest Manhunt Australia messages. Of course, it's not all lust and lewdness around there -- some of the messages were polite and actually kind of sweet, and I did meet one good guy, Tomás, the 36-year-old Irishman in Oz whom I mentioned in a previous post and who might possibly be the best lay I've had since the '90s.

But the more colorful ones make me wonder how many seemingly perfect gentlemen whom we meet through normal offline channels are privately talking trash online, sort of like Belle/Hannah's seemingly straight-and-narrow book editor on Secret Diary of a Call Girl who had a fondness for hookers off the clock. It's something to think about the next time a guy on the corner wearing an expensive designer suit catches your eye -- and you know he will.

Warning! These are not for the prudish, the homophobic, or those obsessed with proper English, as all of the bad grammar, misspellings and typos have been retained. Some of them get kind of graphic. Nausea might ensue, then laughter.

10) "ever free wed nights or thursday mornings?"
Thursday mornings? I was tempted to respond just to find out what -- or whom -- has got him so tied up the rest of the week.

9) "Fuck me"
Short, not so sweet and straight to the point. Sometimes, though, less is just less.

8) "how big is that cock of yours?"
Ah, penis size -- a recurring theme down under. I guess it's not just an Argentine obsession! Perhaps I was under that impression because I'd never done the online thing until I moved to Buenos Aires.

7) "yum u should charge to let ppl blow u ;)"
Something to consider if the job search doesn't work out?

6) "Hey dude how's it going. You look really hot ;-) I'm coming to Melb for a holiday in may and am looking for any black guys that are interested in meeting. I've never been with a black guy b4 so would love to meet someone. I'm a bttm and I'm friendly and chilled. Anyway dude let me know if you're interested. No stress if you're not. I thought it was worth a try lol
Cheers ;-)"
Ah, the dreaded chocolate queen! A word of advice to any who might be reading this: If you're jonesing to go black for the first time, keep it to yourself. You'll increase your chances of success.

5) "I'm guessing ur not interested..apparently I'm the worlds best deepthroater.....not to mention a great fuck ;) But thats cool if I'm not ur thing I'm not ur thing..thats life eh.
I love to please hot tops, I'm obsessed with black dudes, not indian, nothing else, african all the way.
let me know if you change ur mind, take it easy"
I've got to give this guy credit for being persistent. I never responded to his messages, but he kept trying, and although he lost his cool (if he ever had any), he never lost his temper, which his Argentine equivalent probably would have done around the third unanswered message.

4) "Would love 2 suck your cock sometime.
If interested,let me know. xx"
So. Not. Interested.

3) "damn honey, you are sooooo damn fine :) experience raging bottom here :)"
"Raging bottom"
Sounds unappealing and kind of unhealthy, too.

2) "hows things..
hot profile and pics there :)
where in melb are you?
would love to lie back and watch yr body as yr pumping me sometime... looks hot as.
interested, let me know.
cheers"
Just what I've been looking for, a lazy bottom who doesn't know how to spell.

1) "hey man
last black dude i was with had a hugely thick dick.. couild barely get it in.. is that common??"
Stop! In the name of love! It's the man of my dreams!

THE CAIRNS EDITION: 3 FOR THE ROAD

1. "Hey mate, please take this as a compliment, 'you look lik the fuck of a century'
Correct me if im wrong but i reckon you would know how to do a tight ass like it should be done"

2. "hi
hows your night going, what you upto??
Mate you have got such a cute smile and your very good looking, your body is amazing and so horny, I bet you have a big cock, Ive never seen a guy like you naked before what a dream."

3. "hey sexc man, il be in cairns wed nite. U wana play n hav a good session, i crumble 4 dark guys so u cn make me ur slave 2 do wot eva u wish. Send me a text."

THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE?

2011-09-15T00:18:00.000-07:00

Alan wasn't buying what I was selling. In this case, that would have been my real age. But then, no one ever does. I don't know whether it's because black don't crack, the power of Kiehl's, genetics, or a lucky combination or all of the above.

"I don't believe you are 42? You don't look it all."

"But if I were going to lie about my age, which I've never done, why would I pick 42? I'd go down, not up."

"I guess that's true."

I could tell he still wasn't buying it, but by then, he'd left that old topic alone in favor of some ones: my body and my singing voice. He was impresed with both, which told me that he must definitely be either hearing impaired or this was his idea of foreplay. It was working. I took the compliments and ran -- though not too far.

If Alan, who was one-half Chinese and one-half Thai, hadn't already won me over with his sex appeal, he did when he asked to see my i.d. to confirm that I was a day over 28. No, he didn't quite have me at hello, but somewhere between refusing to believe my age and squeezing my bicep, I was his. Alan was the 25-year-old door man at the Copa showbar in Pattaya, Thailand, and considering how beautiful he was, I'm not sure why it took me three days staying at the adjacent hotel before I even noticed him.

But once I did, I immediately started writing the final chapter of this particular story. "We'll be together tonight," I told my friends, echoing Sting in one of his solo hits from the '80s. What followed was an evening of flirting and kissing and melon margaritas at Nab, my favorite club in Pattaya, after he got off from work. During the tuk-tuk ride home, he wasn't afraid to hold my hand, although we were sharing with at least eight other passengers. So this is what it feels like to hang out with a guy who's not hopelessly closeted? Between Shane and all the closet cases I'd dated in Buenos Aires, I'd almost forgotten. When we returned to my room at Copa, we fell asleep the way we woke up the following morning, in the throes of passion.

That Shane didn't dominate my thoughts the way he normally does when I'm with another guy is telling, but by the time I departed Pattaya for Koh Samet and Koh Chang the morning after my morning after with Alan, Shane was once again the captain of my heart and foremost in my thoughts When I returned to Pattaya for two more days after my koh-hopping adventure, I didn't even go by Copa to see Alan. I was terrified that this time I wouldn't be able get Shane out of my head -- or that I would. I wasn't sure which outcome was less desirable.

And I wanted to leave my good impression of Alan intact: He would go down as one of my favorite memories in Thailand, undefiled by my trying to make it more than it was. But it's good to know that if I change my mind, I'll know where to find him.

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD: WHERE WILL MINE LEAD ME TO NEXT?

2011-09-14T20:06:00.000-07:00

Exactly five years ago today, I did something that would come to define my entire life for the next half-decade. I boarded a flight at John F. Kennedy International Aiport in New York City with a round-trip ticket to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and back again.

I never did get on that return flight six months later. In fact, it would be nearly two years before I'd once again step foot on U.S. soil for the wedding of my friend Amy G. By then, Buenos Aires was home. I'd made good friends there; I'd bought a great apartment in Palermo; and I was finally speaking the language. But it wasn't until the bus from JFK dropped me off at Madison Square Garden near the apartment of my friend Dave that I knew for sure I wouldn't be coming back to NYC permanently. That part of my life was over.

All of the things I used to love about New York -- the hustle, the bustle, the in your face -- no longer appealed to me. Tellingly, my favorite moments of the entire trip was the weekend that Lori and I spent in her friend Moby's Central Park West apartment. When you have a penthouse view far above the maddening crowd, pretty much any city becomes tolerable. (I returned to New York City once again at the beginning of 2010, after I'd sold my apartment there, making NYC and I official exes and closing that chapter of my life for good. To celebrate, I had stopovers in Rio, Washington D.C., London and Istanbul.)

Although BA and I wouldn't be exclusive for long -- this year alone, I've two-timed with Melbourne, Australia, and Bangkok, Thailand -- my friend Karen is convinced that we belong together. She recently drew an interesting parallel between my connection to certain great cities and the love lives of Sex and the City characters.

Manila and I, she said, are Steve and Miranda. Our connection wasn't a given, and it's not all glamour, but sometimes it's those unexpected bonds without all of the emotional bells and whistles of great loves that are worth giving in to.

Melbourne is Berger to my Carrie. Despite my valient attempt to win it over, Melbourne has never really let me in. And according to Karen, I may have been holding back as well without even realizing it. If and when I leave, I'm pretty certain I will do it with all the fanfare of a Post-It note. Though I've met some great people there, I'm not sure how many of them will even notice when I'm gone for good.

Buenos Aires is Mr. Big. Our romance has been difficult and stormy at times, but we belong to together, and to borrow the title of Diana Ross and the Supremes' final hit, someday we'll be together again. Karen is sure of it, and I must admit that I concur -- somewhat.

I guess that would make my time in Bangkok an episode devoted fully to Samantha.

But who do I love? For the last three months, Southeast Asia with an emphasis on Bangkok has been the object of my affection. For the first half of 2011, it was Melbourne, a city I still adore and I am scheduled to return to on 27 of September. I have a return ticket to Buenos Aires on 5 of October. Right now the million-dollar question is this: Will I be on either flight?

I'm not sure if my work in Australia is done, but it's getting hard to keep the faith since my leap of faith has thus far led to no great reward. After months of trying, my job search has been disappointingly unsuccessful, and as gregarious as Aussies are, they don't invite you into their lives the way they invite you over to their table to join them for a beer. If there's anything I miss about Argentines (besides their great beauty), it's their passion. They make you feel like it really matters to them that you're there, that of all the cities in the world, you picked theirs. For four and a half years, it was home.

Australia, on the other hand, is not, and I fear it never will be. I'm toying with the idea of spending more time in Bangkok and seeing more of Southeast Asia. For right now, there's nothing in Melbourne for me to run back to, and I can't shake the feeling that somewhere in Southeast Asia, maybe in Thailand, maybe in Manila, maybe somewhere I've yet to even visit, there's something -- or someone -- waiting for me.

Where will I be on 28 September? On 6 October? Keep reading. You'll be the first to know.

REJECTION BLUES: I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU DON'T WANT ME

2011-09-14T02:26:00.000-07:00

Thanks so much for sending your story ideas through but unfortunately we have gone with another candidate. If you’re keen to freelance for us please let me know.

Kind regards,

Jessica

Here we go again.

Unemployment sucks! Anyone who has ever hit the pavement pounding, in search of the perfect job, or one that will merely pay the bills, knows what I'm talking about.

Can I get an amen?

Unfortunately, the Australian job market, at least in the publishing sector, is not set up to welcome foreigners who are desperately seeking journalism jobs. (Thanks to smart investments and a decent nest egg, I haven't been too desperate -- but I'm getting there.) Since journalists were recently removed from Australia's Department of Immigration and Citizenship's most-wanted list, they are no longer eligible for independent work visas. If you are a well-educated wordsmith who's over 30 (the maximum age for the Work and Holiday Visa), your best bets are either to go back to school (which would give you the option of working up to a set number of hours per week in your field of study) or find an employer who is willing to sponsor you in order for you to be granted permission to work in the country.

Good luck on that!

I arrived in Melboune in March a little too cocky for my own good. Everyone told me that with my experience -- which includes 15 years in New York City, writing and editing for huge publications like People, Us Weekly and Entertainment Weekly -- and my talent, finding employment would be a cinch. By the time my plane took off, I was believing the hype.

I was in store for some rude awakening. Before I left Buenos Aires, I scoured the websites of Australia's major publishing conglomerates like Pacific Magazines and ACP Magazines as well as job search sites like Seek and The Loop, and put together the sales pitch of my life.

"I'm a writer and editor looking for a new challenge. I've worked for some of the top U.S. magazines in New York City, edited three travel guides and learned Spanish in Argentina, and interviewed some of the biggest pop stars and rock icons, so what's next?"

A few editors wrote back, impressed, but with nothing to offer. Most didn't bother responding. During week one in Melbourne, the rejection emails for the jobs I'd applied to on the job-search websites starting pouring in. I felt like I was back at the University of Florida at the end of my senior year, collecting rejection letters from internship programs all around the country. Back then I hung on to them for posterity -- and as a reminder at some point in the future of how I got to where I'd hopefully eventually arrive -- but I'm no longer so masochistic. I pressed delete and moved on.

Encouraged by a few friends, I reached out to the journalism departments at several Melbourne universities, including Melbourne University, whose journalism department head requested a meeting with me. A native German, she understood exactly what I was going through, but as much as she would have loved for me to teach a few classes, if I didn't have the proper work visa, she wouldn't have been able to pay me.

She offered me advice on how to go about getting a work visa, but things had changed in the years since she'd moved to Australia. Journalists from overseas were simply no longer in demand, no matter how many years of experience they had working for big-name brands. I was out of luck.

I decided to go to Sydney, the epicenter of Australian publishing, a city which I wasn't nearly as crazy about as Melbourne, for the purpose of networking. (Though it was a business trip, I did make time for some down time with Tomás, an Irishman in Oz to whom I shall return in a future post.) I met with editors at Time Out (for whom I'd edited several guides while living in Argentina), TV WEEK, InStyle and Who, as well as the guys who run Australia's social-networking division at Ogilvy. TV WEEK's editor-in-chief asked me to apply for an open features editor position on the spot, but she ended up hiring internally.

I had two meetings with the fine folks at Ogilvy, who, at one point, actually asked if I'd like to come to work with them. Alas, a few weeks later, I got an email from a woman I hadn't even met telling me that they had gone with someone else. The other day I received a foursquare invitation from one of the Ogilvy guys asking me to link up with him. I accepted. Might he be reconsidering?...

The editor of Who -- which was launched by People editors in the early '90s when I began working there -- took a liking to me and spread the word about me to all of her editor friends in the Pacific group. Thanks to her testimonial, InStyle contacted me about a possible features editor position, filling in for someone who was about to go on maternity leave. (I can't believe they get an entire year in Australia, but that's another story for another future post). That was back in June. I'm assuming they've gone with someone else, too. I'm afraid to email them and find out for sure. Ignorance is bliss.

Today the rejection email that began this post arrived from Cosmo, for whom I'd spent much of last week coming up with ideas for feature stories per the instructions of the acting editor. "Sex and the Not-So-Single Guy: Do all men cheat?" "Not Tonight, He Has a Headache: Do you have insufficient fun in the bedroom?" "He Moves Like Jagger, But Is He Great in Bed? How his dance moves can predict his love motion." Not good enough? I've been an entertainment editor, an articles editor, a senior editor and a deputy editor. Maybe features editor is one professional title that I wasn't meant to have.

My best friend is convinced that Cosmo made the decision to hire someone else for the position before they received my ideas on Monday. I don't know if this is true, but it sounds good. And it eases my disappointment and boosts my confidence just enough to get me back out on the pavement, where I intend to keep pounding on doors until someone answers one of them and lets me in.

DESPERATELY SEEKING SEX

2011-09-12T16:27:00.000-07:00

Malcolm* was cute, and he seemed like a nice enough guy. He just happened to catch me at the wrong time -- 2.30pm on a Tuesday, when the last thing I wanted was love in the afternoon.

What I was looking for was to kill a few hours in Manila between my late 2pm check-out from Antel Spa Suites and my 11.15 flight back to Bangkok. So when he messaged me on Tuesday morning asking to meet up, after a weekend and a day spent avoiding him, I finally relented.

We arranged to meet at 2.30 at the Starbucks in Ortigas Center. What was the worst thing that could happen? He might be a total jerk, but I'd still get to see another part of the city. I arrived at the appointed meeting spot on time, and he was waiting for me outside of Starbucks. We shook hands, and he asked if we could go to his car and talk. Why? Yes, I was wondering that, too. He said his cousin was inside Starbucks, and he was trying not to be seen.

Oh, just what I needed -- another closet case. But that's not the only reason I was reluctant at first. I kept hearing voices in my head. They belonged to my friends, and they were repeating those horror stories about Americans being kidnapped in the Philippines and held for ransom. I looked at Malcolm. What could this baby-faced guy wearing braces possibly do to me? I sat down but kept the car door slightly ajar.

We engaged in the perfunctory small talk. He told me all about Ortigas and the nearby attractions I'd missed by spending the last four days exclusively in Makati and Malate. He asked me about my writing and told me he'd like to read my blog sometime. I wrote down the name and the URL on a piece of paper and handed it to him. He took it from me and reached into his bag and pulled out three stacks of yellow and green pens. The yellow ones read "Prozac," and the green ones read "Cialis." (Foreshadowing!)

"These are for you," he said. "You're a journalist, so maybe you will need them."

Random, but cute. I shut the car door. After a bit more chit chat and a moment of uncomfortable silence, he got down to business. "You know, there are a lot of hotels and motels around here." He gave me that look. I knew exactly what he was getting at.

"Well, I just checked out of a hotel, so the last thing I want to do right now is go back to one," I said with a chuckle. "And it's so nice out today." Indeed, it was the first day since my arrival in Manila that the sun had bothered to come out. I wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

He seemed to catch my drift, but then again...

"Ah, okay." Pause... "So... do you want to have some fun?"

I struggled to hold in my laughter. I asked him why every guy in Manila talks like that. What was this obsession with "playing" and "having fun." I didn't have a better euphemism for "Wanna fuck?" Still, I would have preferred one that didn't make me think of slides and monkey bars, especially from guys who looked like they were only a few years removed from them.

"Do you want to have some fun?" he asked again, apparently, hoping for a different outcome.

This time I levelled with him. "Actually, no. I only have a few hours left in Manila, and I want to do a little bit of shopping and get something to eat afterwards." I felt kind of like a tease, but it's not like I'd promised him a rose garden, or a roll in one. (Ouch! That would hurt!) I was hoping he wouldn't want to tag along. How awkward would that be?

He was disappointed, but he was such a good sport that I almost considered backtracking. He asked what I'd like to do then. He offered to take me to Robinsons Galleria, one of the nearby supermalls, but he couldn't go inside with me because he has a lot of friends who work there, and they'd ask questions.

"What questions?" I played dumb.

"Like who you are. They know all of my friends, so if they see me with a guy they don't know..."

Yeah, they'd put two and two together. I understood. I've been around my share of closet queens, so this road we were headed down was an all-too-familiar one. He started to back out of the parking space.

"I'm really sorry," he said. "The reason I'm being like this is because I took some Cialis, and I'm really horny and really hard."

"What?" I asked. I'd heard him clearly, but I hadn't been expecting him to say that. I thought it was kind of presumptuous of him to think that I would be a guaranteed score. And furthermore, wasn't he a bit young to be popping Cialis? At least the pens finally made sense.

"Do you have erectile dysfunction? At your age?" I couldn't believe what I was asking him.

"No," he said with a laugh and explained that he'd gotten the pills -- and presumably, the pens -- from a friend who's a pharmaceutical rep. I thought to myself that a nursing student in year one of the master's program should know better, but I held my tongue. I glanced in the vicinity of his crotch to see if there was any evidence -- exhibit E, for erection. Nothing.

"Are there side-effects?" I felt like we were filming an infomercial.

"Yeah, there are some. Like you get a headache. But I'm fine."

I've always wanted to try it myself, and I already had a slight headache. For a split second, I thought, this is my chance. But I wasn't in the mood for "fun," and I knew the libido enhancer would make me want it as much as Malcolm did. And speaking of libido enhancers, I kept thinking of the episode of True Blood in which Jason Stackhouse overdosed on V Juice and ended up critically rock hard in the ER. With my luck, that would be me!

"Well, if you decide later on that you'd like to meet up before your flight, give me a call," Malcolm said, interrupting my inner dialogue.

"Sure."

"Do you think you'll come back to Manila?"

"Definitely."

"Cool. Next time you are in Manila, we'll have to go out one night for drinks."

And fun?

He didn't have to say it. After what I'd heard over the course of the last four days, I understood him perfectly.

*The name has been changed to protect the disappointed.

WILD (AND YOUNG) AT HEART: WHY I STILL REFUSE TO GO GENTLY INTO THAT GOOD NIGHTLIFE

2011-09-12T00:52:00.000-07:00

Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.

So the saying goes, and I'm inclined to concur. But middle age and thereabouts are the times that try men's souls.

Before you ask, I'm not in the throes of some midlife crisis. I had mine five years ago when I uprooted my entire life and moved from New York City to Buenos Aires. It was the best move I ever made, but what was I thinking? These days, I'm undergoing more of an existential crisis, wondering about the meaning of life, why we're here, and how it will all end. But I won't bore you by dwelling on any of those things.

Right now, I just want to know this: Do you know anyone whose life hasn't defied their expectations? Though I've never taken any kind of official survey, nor have I even casually brought up the subject with any of my close friends, I've always assumed that nobody's life turns out the way they expect it to.

Mine certainly hasn't. Not that I ever had a life plan all mapped out for myself, but I'm pretty sure that 20 years ago, I never imagined that I'd one day live in Argentina, or Australia, or be spending a significant amount of time in Southeast Asia. Hell, I distinctly remember saying just a few months ago that I had no desire to ever visit Asia period. I'd always been far more interested in Europe, South America, Australia and Africa. Travelling to Asia was someone else's dream. But look at me now. Here I am, and they can't seem to get rid of me. The other night someone called me a "rice queen" as he watched me flirt with the entire staff at the Copa in Pattaya, Thailand, two hours outside of Bangkok. I didn't know whether to get offended or just come out and admit it.

I'm not the type of person who sets long-term goals (I like to keep my goals short-term and sweet), and I've never had a five-year, or 10-year, or 20-year plan. But if I had, it probably wouldn't have included four and a half years in Buenos Aires, a half-decade away from 9-to-5, a tattoo, threesomes after 30, and a three-month stopover in Southeast Asia, with an emphasis on Bangkok. That, of course, is the beauty of life. It's what happens when you're busy making other plans.

A few weeks ago, my friend and former colleague Mara left a funny message on my Facebook wall referring to an episode of Sex and the City that we always used to make fun of when we worked at Teen People. It was the one in which Carrie took Berger to task for writing a book with a female character in Manhattan who wore a scrunchie in her hair. (It's probably best known by everyone aside from Mara, my friend Cara and me for its soon-to-be-infamous catchphrase "He's just not that into you.") "A scrunchie!" I used to walk around the office shrieking, hamming it up even worse than Sarah Jessica Parker did in the worst bit of acting of her entire career.

Mara was watching the scrunchie/"He's-just-not-that-into-you" episode on TV and wanted to tell me that it always reminds her of my SJP imitation. Her sister Shelley chimed in with an interesting observation of her own. She derided not only SJP's acting in that particular scene but Carrie Bradshaw and company's entire mid-thirtysomething way of life. "Rewatching these episodes," she wrote, "I feel like the women are pathetic -- dying to go the Hamptons and Bungalow 8 at the age of 35."

I thought Shelley was being a bit harsh, but I didn't disagree. And I wondered what exactly that made me. If you're 35 and married with children, Bungalow 8 is probably not the place to be, but if you're single and childless (which some of those who are married with children would probably qualify as having a serious case of Peter Pan Syndrome, but I say to each his or her own), what then? I'm past 35, and though I was never a Hamptons or Bungalow 8 type of guy, some would say a man my age has no business dancing shirtless onstage at G.O.D. in Bangkok -- no matter how much time he spends in the gym working on his abs! Who do I think I am? Zac Efron? Taylor Lautner?

If there's anything that wouldn't have been in my life plan had I had one 20 years ago, that would be it. I remember hanging out with a friend in London when I was 29, telling him that my 30th birthday would be my party swan song. After that, I'd stop drinking, clubbing and bar-hopping. He tried to talk me out of it -- "You're only as old as you feel," he said, or maybe it was some other similar cliché -- but I didn't want to be one of those people who spent his 30s and 40s desperately clinging to youth.

Yet, more than 10 years later, I'm still holding on, dancing on the ceiling with the vigor of someone half my age. I do it more for love of the game (it's fun) than as some misguided stab at remaining forever young. Shelley insists that what made Carrie Bradshaw different from me was her desperation. You may find me most weekend nights on a dance floor in whatever city I happen to be in at the moment, but you'd never see me waiting in a long line outside of the hot new joint (I hate hot new joints!), hoping to get past the velvet rope, or angling for a spot inside the VIP section.

In fact, you generally wouldn't catch me in a place with a velvet rope and a VIP section at all, and models are for catwalks and the pages of fashion magazines. I don't need a perfect view of them from the dance floor or on barstool mountain. I prefer places with more of an egalitarian feel. I associate velvet ropes and VIP sections with insecure youth and the need to be accepted into hallowed spaces to feel better about yourself. Give me a bar stool or a dance floor where everyone is welcome -- and equal -- and I'm in.

No, the party's not over yet, but I'm starting to think about last call. Right now I'm considering 45 as my possible cut-off point. But who knows what will happen between now and then? My recovery time gets longer with each passing week, but dreadful hangovers aside, I can still pull it off.

I must have been doing just that a few weeks ago when a 40-year-old Parisian I met at DJ Station described me as "elegant." It was probably the best compliment I'd ever received, especially coming from someone from the land of ageless, eternally graceful beauties like Catherine Deneuve and Juliette Binoche. Sure I still have my sloppy moments, but if I can down tequila shots with beer chasers while still looking "elegant," I must be doing something right.

ABOUT A BOY

2011-09-11T16:14:00.000-07:00

"Hey sexy man. This is Shane. I'm so glad I met you last night. Sorry I had to leave early with my friends. Let me know if you want to do something before you leave town. You're so hot LOL!"

"Who the hell is Shane?" I asked myself after receiving his text message the morning after. Was he that 21-year-old guy I met at the Peel last night? But wait! Wasn't he there with a girl?

The beginning was not exactly what you'd call the start of a story-book gay romance. In fact, chapter one began with the girl, who I'd later find out was Shane's girlfriend at the time. I was too bombed to recall the particulars of the circumstances under which she and I met at the tail end of my first trip to Melbourne, Australia, in October of 2010. I think it had something to do with my pullover. When she zipped it down halfway, I wasn't wearing anything underneath, which she found both scandalous and sexy.

Soon after, her friends had joined in on the fun. The rest is a blur. There was dancing. There was laughing. And by God, there was drinking. A lot of it.

I was alone at the Peel Hotel in Collingwood. My friends had gone home about an hour earlier, and I was still smarting from a snubbing by Chris, a guy from England whom I'd met a few weeks earlier at the Prince of Wales, way across the Yarra River in St. Kilda. He had given me barely the time of day (or rather, night?) earlier at Sircuit. We kissed a little, and he told me that when he masturbates, he thinks of our make-out session weeks earlier at the Prince. But he still ended up leaving Sircuit with someone who wasn't me. I felt defeated, a loser in lust, and I needed an ego boost badly.

That's where Shane's GF came in. When she was finished propping me up, Shane, to whom she had introduced me by then, took over. I remember huddling in the corner with him while the others were on the dance floor, and he and I chatted about my previous career as a journalist in New York City before moving to Buenos Aires, Argentina, four years earlier. I'm not sure why I gave him my phone number. I don't even really remember giving him my number, and most likely still wouldn't remember if he hadn't sent me that text message at 8 o'clock the next morning.

After my initial confusion, it all started coming back to me -- at least, some of it did. Shane and I had sort of bonded. But I'd assumed he was straight. Despite the fact that we had met in a gay bar, I had no reason to think otherwise. He was the epitome of what they call "straight-acting," and he'd kept his physical distance. As far as I knew, so had I. Yes, there'd been some heavy flirting on my part, but for me, that's a common side effect of too many whiskey and cokes. I don't recall much of what was said that night -- neither does he -- but I assume I went for broke with him because I didn't think he was gay, so I had nothing to lose. It wasn't like he could reject me like Chris had if I didn't have a chance with him in the first place.

The Peel Hotel: scene of the pick-ups

To this day, Shane insists that he did most of the pursuing that night when his friends weren't looking, so I'm not really sure why I sized him up as straight. Now the message was as loud and clear as his text: He was one of us. I'd have to deal with him later, though. At the moment of his text's arrival, I was busy hitting on my taxi driver, a cute Indian guy wearing a turban over his head. He told me he'd picked me up at the Peel (in his cab, not on the dance floor) and taken me home exactly one week earlier.

"You were with this guy," he said. "And he kept kissing you in the back seat." I couldn't tell if he was disgusted or interested. "Do you remember?"

The guy? Yes. Him? Not one bit, though strangely enough, I remembered the taxi ride perfectly. How could I have forgotten a face like that? Was I that wasted? I couldn't possibly have been more drunk than I had been the night before. Thanks to copious amounts of Jäger shots and whisky and cokes, I'd ended up leaving the Peel with two guys and gone to the apartment of one of them. After an hour or two spent rolling around on the bed with both, one of the guys left, and the one who lived there, called me a taxi.

As I leaned forward in the back seat and stroked the driver's lap while listening to him recount our previous chance encounter, Shane's message arrived. It must have been a sign, I thought. Last night and the morning after was one serendipitous adventure telling me that I belonged to the city: Melbourne, Victoria. That was when I decided that Buenos Aires and I were definitely through -- for now. Melbourne was my brand new lover.

I'd find out months later, while Shane and I were drinking wine after eating the birthday dinner he'd cooked for me, that I wasn't the only person who had realized his so-called destiny that morning. Until the following evening when we had our first date, Shane had never been with a guy. That's when he told me that the girl who'd played with my zipper and introduced him to me that night was his girlfriend, though they were on the verge of breaking up at the time, and when he texted me, he was lying in bed next to her, his head still spinning from all the booze.

"I don't think that guy Jeremy liked us very much," he recalled her saying a few days later. "I thought, Well, he liked me."

We arranged to meet up that evening. He'd come over to my rental apartment in St. Kilda, which, coincidentally, was only a few blocks from his place. When he showed up at 9pm, his head was still spinning. To this day, he says it was his worst hangover ever, and he couldn't believe he made it to my place, and not just because I was a complete stranger -- and a guy. I'm glad he did, because the 24 hours on both sides of his arrival contained significant milestones for both of us. For me, he was the first guy I'd ever been with whom I met when he was with his girlfriend. (Once at Amerika in BA, a guy named Jorge came up to me and asked if I was gay or straight on behalf of his female friend, and I ended up hooking up with him, but that's a completely different situation.) The fact that at 21, Shane was 20 years my junior, became less of a big deal next to that revelation.

For him, it was a game-changer for the simple reason that I was a guy. As he revealed on my birthday, when we hit the sheets and the shower and the bathtub the night of our first official date, it had been his first real sexual experience with a man, which, come to think of it, may very well have been another first for me. Five days and four dates later, I went to Sydney for two days before returning to Buenos Aires. I had no idea where this thing with Shane would lead, and if I hadn't resolved to return to Melbourne even before we'd met, I probably would have let it go.

Nearly one year later, through many twists and turns, ups and downs, and his shocking first "I love you" in early May, two months after I'd moved to Melbourne, my future with Shane remains uncertain. But in that taxi ride, as I was coming on to the cab driver and reading Shane's text message, who would have guessed that he would have such staying power? He was so young, so inexperienced, so in the closet. And we had met through his girlfriend!

When we clicked again upon my return to Melbourne and decided to give "us" a go, I knew it would be a total disaster or the start of something huge. Either way, I was certain it was going to be one of the stories of my life.