On Plans, Soaps and The Short Life of North Shore

When I quit Welcome to My Truth last fall, I had big plans for myself. I was going to create an online soap opera and revolutionize the blogging world forever. My new blog was going to consist of weekly stories that would propel various intersecting narratives, much like the episodes of a television show.

This new blog was to be called North Shore and was to revolve around a rather wealthy family based in and around Chicago. There was Ellen, the domineering matriarch. Her husband Peter, we would learn, had a second family he had been keeping from his wife for years. They had a daughter, Laura, who was entering a marriage with a man who was having an affair with her gay brother, Matt. And then there was the youngest member of the family, Christopher. Big things were in the works for Christopher.

Sadly, North Shore never got off the ground. I soon realized that there was a lot to be said in a single post. In fact, there was simply too much to be said for the average online attention span. And so North Shore was dead before it was ever born. All I have left is the beginning of the first post.

The Wedding

Laura McEwan sat stiffly at the antique vanity, absorbing the first taste of silence she’d experienced in hours. Her gaze drifted from the dark wood of the door as she exhaled the breath she had been holding for too long. Her eyes fell naturally to the mirror in front of her and she tried once again to reconcile her reflection with the woman she believed herself to be. As before, she got as far as her lipstick before giving up. This particular shade of red had seemed appropriate only hours before, but now, with her dark hair pulled away from the pale skin of her delicate face, it just seemed garish. She longed to wipe it clean, but there was no time. She would simply have to spend the day wearing a ridiculous shape of lipstick.

“You are the single most perfect bride I have ever seen,” her mother had told her just seconds ago. She wanted to believe the sentiment, but she knew better than to put much stock in anything her mother had to say. It was, after all, her mother who had talked her into letting her face be painted in shades that better suited a night in the city than a walk down the aisle.

It was not really the shade of her lipstick that was truly bothering her, however. It was also not the fact that she was being married at Sacred Heart because her mother refused to see her only daughter wed anywhere other than a Catholic Church. Neither of those things were enough to have her on the verge of tears, a state that would send her mother into a fit of worry over her expertly-applied eye makeup. What had her so upset was what her mother had said before proclaiming Laura to be the most perfect bride she had ever seen.

“Honey,” her mother had begun in a tone of voice that was all too familiar to Laura. “I have some rather unfortunate news. You father had to fly to Beijing last night.”

Laura had frozen, staring at her mother’s reflection in the mirror. “Beijing?” she had asked as she slowly turned to face her mother.

“I know, Honey. It’s ludicrous. But you know how you father is. That damn phone of his rings and the next thing you know he’s on a plane.” Her mother’s nonchalance, while not surprising, had made Laura’s jaw tighten.

“On my wedding day?”

“You better believe I gave that man a stern piece of my mind. I just knew you would be devastated.”

That had been the moment when most mothers would have given their daughters a hug. Ellen McEwan was not one of those mothers. Ellen McEwan did not believe in hugging her children.

Perhaps one day North Shore will be a reality. Perhaps it will even be a literary soap opera. Or perhaps you will see it on your television sets. One never knows.

Until then, the McEwans and their exploits will live in my head.

On Heroes, Dance and Busting a Move Like One Hot Bitch

We all have heroes. For some people, their hero is a parent who faced tremendous obstacles to give them a good life. For others, a historical figure serves as a hero. For some, a hero may simply be a person they work with or know through their community. What defines the word “hero” is personal to each and every one of us, which makes being a hero such a tremendous honor.

I have a few heroes. For me a hero is someone to be admired and emulated. A hero is a person who teaches us how to be better through example. And, most importantly, a hero can dance.

One of my heroes is Judson Laipply. This white boy can really bust a move. And not only can he bust a move, but he can bust several moves. In fact, with the noticeable exception of any move even remotely related to Madonna, Judson can bust just about any move there is.

That, my friends, is talent worthy of hero worship. And that fact that there was not a hint of Madonna or Britney or Janet must mean our dear Judson is a straight dude. Not to mention the fact that he is an inspirational comedian. That just screams heterosexuality. And let’s face facts – for a straight dude to be able to bust moves like that is simply miraculous.

Yes, Judson Laipply, you are my hero.

Worry not, however. I do have a gay hero(ine) who, quite frankly, puts Judson to shame. This hero(ine) is none other than Miss Tandi Dupree.

Tell me that is not one hot bitch! Anyone who can fall from the ceiling in a Wonder Woman outfit and land in the splits just has to be a hero(ine) of mine. That is, quite literally, the fiercest of all fierce entrances. There is just no denying it. Add to that Miss Dupree’s lip synching skills, stamina and penchant for drama, and you have found the drag queen of my dreams!

One day I will bust the moves of one Judson Laipply. It is my destiny to ooze fierceness like Miss Dupree. For I have heroes that can guide me in my quest to be all that I can be.

See you on stage, my friends.

On Memorial Day, Timelines and Being Sensually Molested by a Strange Woman

My Memorial Day was rather quiet this year. After all the excitement of IML, I decided to lay low and spend a day with my self. As it turns out, it was a great day. My schedule looked a little like this:

• 10:00 a.m. – Crawled out of bed
• 11:15 a.m. – Showered
• 11:40 a.m. – Ate lunch at my favorite sandwich shop
• 12:10 p.m. – Was sensually molested by a strange woman
• 12:40 p.m. – Caught a matinee of Forgetting Sarah Marshall
• 3:00 p.m. – Started a few loads of laundry
• 4:00 p.m. – Started watching The Last Kiss
• 5:10 p.m. – Paused The Last Kiss to chat with my best friend in Australia regarding the sale of Madonna tour tickets
• 6:25 p.m. – Finished watching The Last Kiss
• 7:00 p.m. – Finished my laundry
• 7:10 p.m. – Ordered a pizza and watched the copy of Another Gay Movie I won at IML
• 10:15 p.m. – Fantasized about the adorable Jason Segel and went to bed

Yes, it was a nice day of one-on-one time with the main man in my life. And, other than being touched inappropriately by a woman I don’t know, it was deliciously uneventful. That one moment, however, was a highlight and one that I am sure that poor woman will not soon forget.

I was wandering my neighborhood before Forgetting Sarah Marshall started. It was the perfect day for a lazy stroll down the store-lined street near my apartment. Young families were out in droves, kids laughing and snoozing in strollers. Elderly couples watched from porches. Birds were singing and the sun was shining. It was a quintessentially tranquil spring day here in Lincoln Square.

I decided to duck into the local bookstore to browse a bit since I had time to kill. I took a quick peek at the staff picks and saw that Steve had once again recommended three of my favorite books. I do not know this Steve, but I can’t help but noticed he always recommends books I love. I secretly believe he is my soulmate.

I then moved to look at the tables of featured books at the front of the store. It was while I was standing there that I was sexually assaulted.

I saw her approaching me out of the corner of my left eye and thought nothing of it. As time went on, however, I couldn’t help but notice just how close she was getting to me. She was looking down at the table and showed no sign of even realizing I was even there, but with each second she moved closer and closer. Soon enough she was standing so close to me that we were touching.

Before I could contemplate what was happening, she reached up and squeezed the back of my neck, giving me a brief massage. She then dropped her hand and absently began to stroke the back of my arm. I looked over at her, wondering if perhaps I knew her, and saw that she was indeed a stranger. Unsure of how to handle the situation, I decided it was best to quietly draw her attention away from the books on the table.

“Hi?” It was more of a whispered question than a greeting

When the woman looked up and saw me, the most horrified look spread across her face. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed, her hands flying from my arm to her mouth. “I am so sorry.” She quickly looked around and located the man who was supposed to be the object of her affections. “There you are,” she hissed at him as she scurried off, apologizing all the while.

“It’s fine,” I said with a smile.

She turned to me one last time as she took hold of the other man. “Thanks for not being completely appalled.” She led her man toward the back of the store and I quickly left, stifling a fit of laughter.

Thanks to that poor woman my Memorial Day was, in fact, memorable.

On Fantasies, Whisking and The Daddies of My Dreams

International Mr. Leather rolled into town over the weekend. As I perused the aisles at the Leather Market, I realized that as erotic as the whole leather scene is, it’s really not for me. Sure, the parade of peach-fuzzed posteriors in chaps was rather titillating, but all in all I think I may just be a little too vanilla for the likes of the men strapped to the bondage tables or being flogged in public.

I came to this not-so-surprising realization as I was looking at some rather amazing jewelry for the family jewels. I’m all for accessorizing, but this was a bit much. I avoided any eye contact with the vendor and moved on.

And that is when I saw them.

I turned from the Steelwerks Extreme vendor to find myself face-to-face with a table of porn stars. And these were not your typically waxed and vapid porn stars. Nor were they the uncut Eastern European variety. These were firm-bellied, hairy-chested, beefy pieces of prime man meat. These were the daddies of my dreams. Before I knew what I was doing, I loudly blurted out, “Now that is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

The four sexual fantasies in front of me all laughed a little at my expense and I felt a little foolish. But then one of them addressed me and I felt a lot better. “Then why don’t you come over here?”

I did as I was told. “Having a good weekend?” I asked, unsure of how to properly speak to a porn star.

“I’m a bit hung over.”

[Cut to fantasy sequence.]

“I have a cure for that,” I offered as I reached out and took hold of the weighty jockstrap hanging between his legs.

“I see you do.” He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me to him. When our lips and tongues met, I forgot that I was surrounded by hundreds of other people. All that mattered was his mouth on mine.

“I feel better already,” he said as he pulled away. He gave my ass a hard grab. “And I know exactly how you can make me feel even better.”

He told his fellow erection-inducing pals that he would be back, gave me another deep kiss for the benefit of jealous onlookers and then led me to the elevators. I was able to wave a quick goodbye to my comrades before the doors shut and I was whisked up to his room for an evening that was sure to leave me sore for a week.

[Cut back to reality.]

“I’m a bit hung over.”

“Yeah. I bet that’s a common problem today.” He smiled politely at my lame excuse at conversation and I, knowing full well a guy like me was never going to get whisked anywhere by a guy like him, walked away. There would be no strong hands on my body any time soon.

I finished off the market in a haze, unable to get him out of my head. I just kept thinking about his arms and his legs and his chest and whatever he was hiding in that tiny black jockstrap. I drove myself crazy.

But I was never to find out if the reality of him is as good as the fantasy of him. I left the market without seeing him again and headed home to my empty apartment. I listened to my neighbors having loud rhythmic sex and then I fell asleep.

Sometimes it sucks to be me.

On Fathers, Grandfathers and The Generations of Friendship

I’ve been thinking a lot about my father lately. I suppose it has a little something to do with the fact that Father’s Day cards have started sprouting up along with the first signs of spring, but it is a lot more than that. If the truth be told, I am a little worried about my dear old dad.

In December, my father lost his father.

The end was a hard one for my grandfather. He spent weeks in the hospital facing complication after complication. He was unconscious most of the time, and when he was awake he was confused and scared. My family spent day and night by his side or in the waiting room, calling me with hourly updates. When it seemed like the end really was coming, I flew out to California to be by his side.

I arrived with hours to spare, the most heartbreaking hours of my life. My grandfather looked like a corpse when I finally made it to his hospital room. I’d never seen anyone on his deathbed, and seeing my grouchy spitfire of a grandfather like that was beyond painful.

Once I arrived, it was decided that we would take him off of all support and let him go. It was obvious that there was no saving him and I was the last family member to arrive. It was time to say goodbye.

My grandfather, having almost died on my birthday, died the day before his own.

The loss of my grandfather hit my dad particularly hard. Those two men were as close as a father and son could be. My dad saw his father every day. They worked in the garage together and watched sports together. They had breakfast together at the donut shop and took trips to Home Depot. I can honestly say that my grandfather was my dad’s best friend.

Since losing his father, my dad has been going through a rough time. He was named co-executer of his parents’ estate and that has taken a toll on him. My family is not exactly the quiet civil type, and going through the various possessions has been a lot more difficult than it ever should be. And through it all, my dad has to watch his siblings bicker over coffee grinders and old mattresses while dealing with the fact that his best friend is gone.

It breaks my heart to think of the pain my dad must be going through. He is a strong man and showing emotion is not in his repertoire, but I know that he is really hurting right now. And because he is hurting, I am hurting.

All I can really do to help him is to be there for him as a son and as a friend. I made the decision earlier in the month to fly back to California for Father’s Day. I’m going to take him to a baseball game. And I’m going to help him paint my grandparents’ house and get it ready for sale. I figure it’s the least I can do.

Maybe it is time for me to be for my dad what he was for his.