On Hearing, Seeing and Smelling the Vomit on the Bus

I saw her the moment I stepped on the bus. She was seated at the front in one of those seats that faces the aisle. She was rocking back and forth with a vacant look in her eyes. I took her for one of the many mentally ill patrons of public transportation and made my way through the crowd of early-morning commuters to the back of the bus.

Within moments, the woman I had not given a second thought became the unequivocal center of attention.

First I heard it. There was an awful gagging sound from the front of the bus.

Then I saw it. Vomit spewed from the woman’s mouth, splattering on the floor of the bus and splashing up on to any rider unlucky enough to be seated near her.

Then I smelled it. The vulgar, tangy stench seemed to attack the back of my throat before it came to fester inside my nose.

I sat stunned for a moment and let the horror of the scene seep into my brain. Watery vomit started to trickle down the aisle of the bus. People were hollering, jumping up while at the same time trying to avoid the small sea of waste at their feet. The driver slammed on the brakes of the bus and the doors were instantly opened.

I, along with the rest of the passengers, fled the bus and gulped down deep breaths of fresh downtown Chicago air. It was of little help. The powerful stench of the vomit was firmly implanted in my nose and my memory.

The driver exited the bus to inform us another would be here shortly to pick us up. It did not take long for me to decide against that option. A walk would do me good. I need the air.

And I needed to be as far away from any vomit as possible.

On Goodies, Crotches and Wondering if You Think I’m a Slut

Do you think I’m a slut?

It’s fine if you do. I almost wouldn’t blame you for thinking I’m a big old hussy who is out there servicing any man who crosses my path. I haven’t exactly given off the impression that I’m as pure as the driven snow. In fact, I’ve probably succeeded in making you all think that I spend all day and night cruising the internet looking for prey who will aid me in completing my sexual conquest of the United States.

God, I bet you do think I’m a slut.

The truth of the matter is that I’m not really a slut. Sure, I like men. And yes, I love sex. But I’m not exactly out there getting my fill of either on any kind of regular basis. In fact, I’m willing to bet I am actually some kind of frigid prude. Compared to what I imagine other people’s sex lives to be, I’m the proverbial Virgin Mary.

I suppose I would be a slut, however, if I had intentionally grabbed some guy’s crotch on the train this morning. I’m fairly certain only sluts do things like that.

If I had done something of that nature, you can rest assured that the owner of said crotch would have been asking for it. He would have been all over me, rubbing up against me and making it seem like he had no other choice because the train was so full. And he would have gotten me all hot and bothered, boiling until I reached the point where I was literally forced to grab a handful of his goodies. Remember, I’m not really a slut so any human contact is likely to get the juices flowing.

If all of this had happened, I really couldn’t have been blamed for doing what I would have done. Anyone in my situation would have done the same. It would have been so easy to just reach around and gently cup his bulge as I made my way out of the train, leaving him and his quickly growing member to wonder where I had gone.

Not that I would ever even think of doing anything of that nature. I, my friends, am no slut.

Unless, of course, I did do that this morning. Not that I am claiming I did. But if I had, I’d certainly be a slut. There would be no turning back from that little stunt.

It would be all downhill from here for this little slut.

On Chasers, Bellies and Wearing My Belt Any Way I Choose

I miss the days when I was just fat. Little did I realize at the time, but those were good days. Those were days when one was either fat or not. And if you were fat, you dealt with all the unpleasantness that came with the territory and moved on with your life.

Those were the days. Let me tell you.

But those days are gone. A new day has dawned and that new day has brought with it so many degrees of fatness that my head is spinning. In this new day, I am still simply fat to a lot of people. But to some people, I am too thin. And for those who think my weight is becoming, there is a whole new set of ideas about how I should be the size I am. It’s utterly exhausting.

It all started when I was directed to a website (my God, the internet is an evil evil place) that caters to big gay men and the gay men who love them. In a cruder sense, it’s a website for chubby men and chubby chasers (my God, sexual attraction is an evil evil game). Being a gay man who has more to offer than most, I thought I’d give this site a whirl. I’m seriously beginning to think that was a mistake.

For one thing, I’ve found out that I’m not actually that big. There are some really large men out there. And the irony of the situation is that to those men, I am small. As far as they are concerned, I am the chaser.

On the flip side, the men who are looking for bigger guys seem to be looking for those men who are much bigger than I. They can acknowledge that I am not exactly small, but I’m nowhere near large enough to be considered desirable by that group.

And then there is the group of men who find my weight acceptable. Sadly, this group seems to be the most difficult with which to deal. Here is a sample chat I had with one such man:

Belly Lover: Hello. I love your pics. You’re hot.

Dr. Sparky: Thanks! You are pretty cute yourself.

Belly Lover: Tell me about your belly.

Dr. Sparky: Excuse me?

Belly Lover: I love bellies. Tell me about your belly. How do you wear your belt?

Dr. Sparky: I wear it on my pants. I don’t think I understand.

Belly Lover: Do you wear it over your belly or under your belly?

Dr. Sparky: I wear it over my belly. Why?

Belly Lover: You should wear it under your belly. It’s hot.

Dr. Sparky: Well, it wouldn’t be very comfortable and it would look a little odd. My body is just not built that way.

You can guess where things went from there. My belly, as it turns out, is all wrong. In the course of the chat, I discovered that there is a whole array of belly types and certain men are into certain bellies. It’s quite ridiculous.

I’ve since mostly given up on visiting this particular website. It’s not really my goal to fulfill someone’s belly fetish. I’d rather just hope that someone will find me attractive for all that I have to offer, regardless of what kind of belly I have.

And in the meantime, I’ll continue wearing my belt anyway I choose.

On Singing, Skating and Hiring for the Position of Blog Muse

I need a muse.

Over the weekend I saw the stage version of Xanadu and it got me thinking. If Sonny Malone can have a muse to help him open a roller disco (yes, that is the actual plot of Xanadu), why can’t I have a muse to help me write this blasted blog? Sure, his roller disco is the “apex of the arts,” but I think this blog is something pretty special as well. And these days I could really use a Grecian intervention to help keep it afloat.

And so I’ve talked to the Powers That Be here at Welcome to My Truth and we’ve decided to advertising for the position of Blog Muse.

We once tried hiring for the position of Blog Stalker and Dr. Sparky Fanatic, and that did not go so well. Sure, I’ve got a stalker or two, but none that really live up to the job description that was posted. It’s a bummer, really. But hopefully we’ll have more luck this time around.

Below is a list of responsibilities and duties to be held by the Blog Muse:

1. Offer suggestions for daily posts, making sure to diversify the subject matter to sufficiently keep the readers of Welcome to My Truth fully engaged.
2. Sing pop duets with Dr. Sparky upon request.
3. Serve as a thesaurus so that Dr. Sparky can appear to have a much wider vocabulary than he actually possesses.
4. Provide interesting photos to go along with uninteresting posts. It’s a well-known fact that a good photo can make any post seem exponentially more engaging.
5. Craft witty titles for each post.
6. Shower Dr. Sparky with unconditional praise to ensure that he is always at the top of his game.
7. Encourage others to read Welcome to My Truth.

This is an unpaid position. The reward for holding the position of Blog Muse is knowing that you are integral to the very modest success of Welcome to My Truth.

Welcome to My Truth is an equal opportunity employer. However, special consideration is given to applicants who are avid roller skaters and speak with an Australian accent.

Interested parties should leave an inspiring comment on this post or show up unexpectedly just when Dr. Sparky needs them.

On Cards, Tricks and Discovering the Cleverly Disguised Perspective on Reality

When I was a little boy, my dad would do this card trick for me. Each of the four jacks represented firemen. He would show me the firemen and then place them facedown on the top of the deck.

“After a long day at work, the firemen finally get to go home,” he would explain as he took each of the cards and placed them somewhere deep into the deck.

After a moment he would exclaim, “Oh no! The queen’s house is on fire! We have to get the firemen back – quick! The only way to do it is for you to knock four times on the top of the deck.” I’d earnestly knock on the deck as if the queen’s house actually were burning to the ground right around me.

Once the magical knocking had taken place, my father would triumphantly flip over the cards on the top of the deck, revealing the four jacks he had placed into the center of that very deck just moments before. I, of course, was in awe.

When I got older, my dad revealed his secret. The key to the trick is to hide four cards neatly behind the one jack that will eventually end up on the top of the deck. That way the jacks never leave their position on top. It is, of course, a simple and logical explanation for the trick. It isn’t magic. It is just a cleverly disguised perspective on reality.

Now that I am an adult, I am hardly ever taken in by the kinds of magic tricks done by odd men in capes and top hats. Even if I can’t quickly discern the reality behind the illusion, I know it’s there.

And yet, sometimes magic comes in packages that we don’t expect. Sometimes magic comes in the form of a bottle of wine and a passionate night. Sometimes magic takes the shape of 984 miles of separation that keeps the reality behind the illusion from being seen. But in the end, there is always that cleverly disguised perspective on reality lurking behind every piece magic. We just have to be astute enough to find it.

What must be remembered, however, is that the reality behind the magic does not always kill the glimmer of the moment. Sometimes the reality behind the magic can make you see that what you mistook for one thing is actually something just as wonderful. My father was never really doing magic, but he was spending time with his son and making memories that would last forever.

I uncovered the reality behind a bit of magic this weekend. I pulled back the curtain to reveal the old man operating the switchboard. And yet, I am not sad. I am not disillusioned. In fact, I feel as though I am ahead of the game. I’ve seen the reality and I can no longer be fooled by the magic. I can move on with my eyes opened to the truth and enjoy what life has graciously dropped into my lap.

And one day, if I am lucky, a piece of magic will come along that will hold its splendor long enough to turn me back into that child knocking on that magical deck of card.