Rainbow Cincinnati - Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender blogs

Tales of Dating in a 25-year old Waste Land

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 11:46:51 +0000

When you have barely known a guy for a week and a conversation turns, already, to "I'm going out with another guy tonight," you start to believe that your dating life is perpetually cursed.

Gay men are funny, and lesbians, when it comes to this unusual world of dating. We have a couple of models, but none of them come close to what I would like to call "an ideal scenario."

Do we compare ourselves to Jack, whose boyfriends are unknown mostly but the implication is that there are a lot of them? Or to Will, who maybe had two relationships throughout the show, and only one of them showed any real affection? No, no, my friends say. We have Queer as Folk and The L-Word.

Great, as much I love my drugs, alcohol, promiscuity, and destructive relationships, I don't find them the ideal for anything I'm pursuing. (Although I'd love to bad Robert Gant, but that's a whole other column, and not the point here.)

Unlike our heterosexual counterparts, the queer 20s (and, perhaps, late teens) are a time of learning how to date. Note, this is not learning how to date as adults, rather, it's just learning how to do it. I was out in high school, but I was not dating. I still got to watch everyone else date and have developed an excellent bank of advice for friends with problems.

However, I have yet to get an answer on what is the proper protocol for fucking your friends' exes. That's still up in the air.

What is the proper protocol to date in the gay world?

When I debated the idea of celibacy and sobriety to my close friends, the reaction was immediate -- laughter. It's funny because it's true. There is a basic truism that our community lacks any healthy alternatives at meeting men. If you take your own drunken hook-ups out of the picture, or remove every guy you've ever met at a bar from your phone book, how many are you left with?

I would guess the answer is very few.

I gave up my healthiest relationship because we were too good of friends. Really. We met in a healthy place, did healthy things together, and supported each other in a healthy way. We met each other's friends, made dinner, went on a trip, watched movies, went to events... blah blah blah.

The remainder of my relationships have been torrid, hot, and quick and usually laced with more alcohol than could kill most small mammals.

So the idea of celibacy and sobriety are shocking and almost deal-killers for me because I don't know how to meet men otherwise. When I tell this to established homosexuals, they react to the comment with an immediate guffaw. There are plenty of places to meet people, they say. Go to a softball game. There are great arts. What about helping out with an organization or two?

I think, first, they forget that I've done most of these things. And, second, said established homosexuals will also drunkenly reveal to you that, despite their partner at home, they will gladly make out with you after a couple of drinks.

Uh-huh. Never underestimate the power of the drunken make-out session. I've met some of my best friends that way.

Translating the bar-relationship into the real-relationship left me in an Outback Steakhouse in Western Hills one night, hearing someone tell me that they would refer to me as their girlfriend Barbara because why would he tell anyone he was gay? And making a developing real-relationship somehow also include my dearest bar scene left me with a Dear John letter on Facebook and an invitation to call for further clarification.

The phone call was never answered, and I have yet to ever hear from him again. It's too bad, really, he had a really nice penis.

I run all this by my sister and she laughs and says, "You sound like you're in high school!" In a way, yea, I feel like I am.

What is the way, then?

The School of Hard Knocks has a really inexpensive tuition, almost no lab fees, thousands of unnecessary books purchasable at your favorite local shop, and enjoys a long list of very prominent graduates. Dating is a process, teaching us what we want, what we like, and who we are most suitable with. It is not an ends; it is a means. A teaching method.

Thus, I meet this cute boy at a bar. I like him. He likes me. We do a little give and take and chat for a while. We hang out for the night. And we have a genuine conversation with a promise for more. This is all the healthy stuff.

Then we go into the parking lot and have a fierce make out session for a half hour or so. Because that's what I know how to do really well. Maybe not the healthiest, but, despite a little groping, we decide to draw the line at making out.

A week later, I'm on the phone with him, telling him the advice I would have given any good friend: "You need to experience the world after a break up. We'll put our dating on hold and just be friends for a while. Go out and have fun."

Because, though I've told a hundred people this a hundred times, you've got to save yourself and your feelings first.

I like you, but not enough to hate myself for it.

I'm learning how to date as an adult -- and it's annoying.

Give me a drunken make out and quick fuck. I know how to do that. This, well, there's just too many damn rules.

Barry blogs regularly as Queer Cincinnati at QueerCincinnati.com. Barry is also trying to enter the 21st century, so you can also get in touch with him via Twitter or via his blog email -- queercincinnati@gmail.com

SPECIAL BLOG: National HIV Testing

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 14:49:26 +0000

The last year has been rough, and I would be lying if I said I hadn't fucked up a time or two.

But, for the most part (I continue to tell myself), I did ok. However, when someone is naked behind and in front of you, the lines begin to blur on exactly how safe you are being.

I have been truly concerned about the results of an HIV test exactly twice in my life.

The first time was my first test. Fresh into the world of gay.com, this chubby 19 year old found a boy that liked him. He was 38 (ish), I was 19. It made perfect sense when I wanted him to fuck me that we should do so without a condom. HIV happens to other people (A) and (B) he likes me and would look after my interests. All I remember is desperately trying to clean myself out and seeing blood.

Three months later, he called to tell me that he was HIV+. That was the first time I was worried and it opened up a whole new world of learning, growing, and a career path that was unexpected.

Today was the second time I was worried, and I arrived via bus to the STOP AIDS offices promptly at... 8:40am. I got to sit out front, reading a book my father had recommended to me, and greet all of my former coworkers, having to make light of the situation with each new smiling face.

"I'm here to celebrate the day!" It being National HIV Testing Day, the ruse was plausible.

I didn't tell them that I was scared shitless, or that I was there only because a series of signs from the heavens were directing me there. No, no, I was just there doing my good, gay duty.

Having not been tested since March (ish) 2007.

You read that right. I am an HIV Counselor and Advocate and had not been tested in over a year. Let's ignore the lapse in judgment and move on with the story...

I had decided that my desire to be tested would also be mitigated by who was testing me. First, Libby. She and I had talked about it before, she's one my dearest friends in the world, and, if I had to have bad news, I wanted to hear it from her. I wanted a friend in that room. Second, Cheryl. It seems counterintuitive. She is an older, religious, dignified African-American lady. When you consider the game of identities, it's not that unusual because she is exactly the opposite of who I am.

And I always said that she would be the best person to hear that you were positive from because she's so much like a mother. I would guess that she would just swoop me into her arms and make me feel better.

Third, Todd. Todd is amazing at what he does, but none of this was necessarily his business. However, if it were positive, he would have to be called in to guarantee my anonymity. I figured the result would be safest in his hands, and he would treat it with the kind of respect that I would want.

Adam and Brent and the rest of the staff... I love them all, but I didn't want them to test me. Sorry, guys. I don't know any of you as testers, and I was really worried.

Todd drove up first. I called out: "I'm in need of your services!"

He looked flustered and said: "TODAY?"

"It's National HIV Testing Day! I wanted to be your first test of the day!" I know I have a bad habit of popping with random projects. I think it's funny he would not have thought that I would be there for an HIV test. When he realized, he looked visibly relieved that it wasn't another "Crazy Barry Scheme" (which he would buy into because he knows they work).

Libby pulled up immediately after, we worked out the details and Libby was going to test me.

I have been in that room many times, but this was the first time in the cushy chair which is now a big loveseat like monstrosity. I reclined and Libby and I gossiped.

If you've never been tested, I'll clue you in: you get asked a lot of questions. And since places like STOP AIDS have a 20-minute test, you are definitely going to have time to chat. Libby whipped out the list and answered the questions for me. We giggled about some of the answers, made light jokes, but that was because I was worried and I get the impression she was a little worried for me.

But she was being a professional, and I love her for it.

I learned one thing, though: don't look at the test. I was watching her eyes the whole time. I freaked out every time her gaze lingered. Kathryn once suggested you just turn the test around so neither of you can see it. Now that I've sat in the big cushy loveseat at the STOP AIDS office, I understand better why. When my job switches to the 20-minute test, I'll remember that then.

When I called her on her eyes, she said, "Honey, it's working. And I'm not seeing anything." She flipped the test towards me.

For most other people in the world, this would be a terribly unprofessional move. I have seen these tests turn positive. Ten minutes into it, I saw what she was seeing: there was no indication of an HIV infection.

Ten minutes in -- and it's a big secret that the tester can usually tell that soon, if not sooner -- and we knew it would be fine.

I texted my sister immediately after: TWICE I'VE DODGED THE BULLET ON THIS FUCKING TEST.

Her response: AND HOW MANY TIMES ARE YOU PLANNING TO HOLD THE GUN UP TO SEE IF YOU CAN.

OK, OK. I get it. Learned my lesson.

Carry on.

But I'm HIV-negative... today.

Over the Rainbow

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 16:13:38 +0000

For the second consecutive year I took part in the parade at this year’s Pride festival. Last year I walked in support of the newspaper for which I was writing; this year I participated because Nonta (bartendress supreme from BronZ) was in need of a volunteer for her float. I wavered at first; on the surface walking from Burnet Woods to Northside may not seem like a long trek…but at the halfway mark you begin to feel something that the Navajos must have felt when they made that infamous trip that lasted twenty days. But when Nonta told me the float was going to have a ‘Wizard of Oz’ theme I became more intrigued. And when she told me that she was in need of someone to be the Scarecrow I immediately said yes. In junior high school I auditioned for a singing role in ‘Wizard’, desperately hoping to land the role of the famed farm mascot who was searching for a brain. Of all three ‘Oz’ characters that accompanied Dorothy on her magical journey, the Scarecrow was definitely the most notable. Alas, I was disheartened (and a little embarrassed) when I was given the role of the Cowardly Lion instead. When you’re young, gay and have low self-esteem, the last thing you want to do is stand up in front of your sneering classmates and sing the line, “It’s sad, believe me, Missy…when you’re born to be a sissy.” But sing it I did. Perhaps it was fitting; the lion was searching for courage, and by getting through that song in front of my peers I, too, was able to find a little courage I didn’t think I had.

Now, by agreeing to be the brain-seeking Scarecrow in the Pride parade, I was being given a chance to play the part I’d always wanted. It was gay poetic justice. I also couldn’t say no to Nonta. John and Brad have always been good to me at BronZ. And if you know Nonta at all, you know it’s just too damned hard to say no to her. With that great smile and killer hair (how DOES she get it to do that?), even the most hardened of individuals can’t resist. If I were a lesbian, I’d be in love. As a gay man, I'm infatuated with her hair.

I showed up at BronZ on the morning of Pride. Nonta was fitting the costumes of the other people who’d agreed to be in the float. Aside from me and Wade (who played Dorothy), the float was comprised of young, attractive lesbians. I was on foreign soil here. I remember thinking that though I have many gay male friends, I am sorely lacking in the lesbian friend department. This gave me a chance to study them and see the way they interact. They behaved exactly like…well, girls. They fretted about makeup, dished about other women, and slammed back as much alcohol as they could before having to leave for Burnet Woods (and it’s ‘no alcohol’ policy). By the time we arrived up in Clifton, the Tin Man was feeling no pain and the Wicked Witch of the West was turning green for an entirely different reason.

Side note: putting the actual float together was an exercise in Shakespearean drama, with almost as much bloodletting. Assembled quickly at the last minute, it was a classic example of having too many gay cooks in the kitchen at one time. Part of it (the cardboard piece that resembled the infamous Kansas twister, of course) literally blew off on the Ludlow viaduct. I considered it delicious irony and went back to listening to the lesbians discuss masturbation and their ability (or in some cases, inability) to bring themselves to climax. I was trapped in a sapphic episode of ‘Sex and the City’, only Miranda looked a lot like one of those winged monkeys, and Charlotte was being played by Toto.

I stayed close to the float in Burnet Woods (schmoozing just isn't my thing), taking in the sights and sounds of Pride Day 2008. Nearby someone was smoking pot, as police officers strolled by. Talk about courage. Someone handed me a bootleg beer. I’m not a beer drinker, but everyone else on the float was drunk. So, when in Oz…

My last boyfriend, Mike, stopped by to say hello. (Why do relationships, once they’ve ended, seem like they happened in another lifetime?) I played a quick game of ‘Count the Tricks’, where I looked for all the guys I’d slept with in the last year. I only counted three. I’m either getting older or becoming boring; I’m fine with either. In front of us was some sort of float where they were handing out lube and condoms; behind us was the cast of ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show.’ I was literally stuck between a Rocky and a hard place.

The ride down to Northside was long, if uneventful. There were a few protestors just outside Burnet Woods, holding up signs that included the usual hell, fire and brimstone bullshit. The lesbians just smiled and waved, while Dorothy gave them the finger. Halfway down Ludlow my drunken comrades realized that the Crown Royal gift bags we were supposed to hand out when we reached Northside actually had mini bottles of Crown Royal in them. Needless to say, the bottles had miraculously disappeared by the time we hit Hamilton Avenue. So had my energy. Maybe it was the early morning drama over the assembly of the float. Maybe it was the intoxication level of the Lion. Or maybe the novelty of being in the parade had worn off (let’s face it, Pride Day is more or less the same year in and year out, give or take a few drag queens). But by the time we reached the masses in Northside I was TOTALLY over this rainbow.

After the parade I quickly got out of my Scarecrow costume (a word to the wise…be careful with straw, because it can end up in places you don’t want it) and met some friends at BronZ. Later that afternoon my gal pal Rachel showed up with her…girlfriend. Up until now Rachel had only ever been with men. “So, now you’re a lesbian?” I asked. “Well,” she replied, “I don’t know what I am yet.” Part of me was dumb-founded. The other part was ecstatic, for two wishes had come true on this Pride Day. I’d finally gotten to play the Scarecrow, and I finally had a close lesbian friend. No, Toto…we definitely weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Still Brainless,

Darren M.

Travelin' Through

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 08:19:55 +0000

Had a whole other blog lined up for post-pride, but that's going to have to be delayed. I didn't go to the Parade :-(. Oh well. Edro Edro had a great time though.

On Sunday, events dictated that it was time for me to go home -- Charleston (SC) -- in one of those "you need to be here for a few days" family things we all have in our life. Missing the Pride Parade, I spent my hungover afternoon planning my trip.

Lacking a car, air travel what it is, and a train requiring a detour through DC and 21 hours of my life, my family and I "discovered" a "new" method of travel...

...the Greyhound.

For the last two-ish months, I have been a Metro bus rider. When my car broke down and my mechanic said that "you need a new engine" and "it will cost over $2000" and "how the hell do you drive the damn thing to wear an engine out on a 2002 truck," I took to the city busses.

Friends told me I would never make it. I have been successful, and I am still learning new and exciting things. For example, do you know that taking a bus from my house to the airport and then back cost me exactly 6 dollars. When I drove, parking and gas and etc. cost me somewhere in the range of $90. Granted, part of it was my foolishness, as falling asleep at the gate in Dayton and paying for parking there and in Cincinnati was probably not a wise series of decisions.

The proscpect of extending my local bussing onto an interstate adventure was exciting -- and cheap! Again, my friends warned me that the trip would be hell.

The ride down was easy. I slept. The whole way. In fact, I slept for nearly two days, finally coming out of my self-imposed coma that began on Sunday afternoon sometime Tuesday mid-day.

My mother woke me up from a pleasant nap at around 2:00pm on Thursday, after events had calmed down, to head to the bus station in Charleston. We arrived at 2:30pm for a 3:30pm bus -- plenty of time, right? We were one of the last three people to purchase tickets for the already full bus (they started a waiting list shortly after) and we were informed that it would be late.

The station was full, so we settled in and swapped stories. A nice older lady from Waynesville, NC took all of us under her wings and told us her tales of woe on the Greyhound. We all comforted the Arizona boy who had two days and 13 busses to go to get home. There are not constant busses, so one late means that you may have a 10 hour layover in some godforsaken hole in Texas.

My 3:30pm bus pulled out at 4:30pm. I was disappointed that the cute boy on his way to Columbus did not sit with me. Instead, the clearly high good ol'boy on his way to Alabama in the hopes of work plopped into the seat next to me, offered me some dirty cookies, and regaled me with tales of "this good ol'Southern pussy" he had gotten there in Charleston.

Of course, he had also spent most of the time in the Charleston County jail, so I wanted to question where he got said pussy. But I wasn't that interested. I like a little white trash in my men, but I expect them to finish up and leave. To sit for two hours next to him was a little too much.

An hour late, we rolled into Columbia (SC) to switch busses, where me and the troupe of young people going to Cincy (there were four or five of us, shockingly, and we became mighty good buds) were told off by our new bus driver that, no, we could not smoke, could we please get on the damned bus because we've been waiting.

ZOOM.

We pulled out of Greenville (SC) about the time we were supposed to be in Asheville (NC). Luckily, the bus emptied a bit at Greenville, and I was able to comfortably float in and out of consciousness in my own seat to our stop, where we were pushed off this bus and onto a new one.

I tried thanking this new bus drive. He didn't even look at me.

The cute Columbus boy was in an empty seat -- YEA! -- and I jumped on the opportunity to set my bag down and say "Mind if I join a friendly face." He smiled and said "Sure." I interpreted this as "I love you, too, let's make out the whole way."

Oops, no. Some girl with crazy eyes and breasts popping out of the top of her dress dive bombed into the seat, looked at me, and said "No, no, you sit there" pointing at the seat behind, next to the restroom, "I sit here."

Cute Columbus boy and his green eyes looked at me. We were confused, but I moved back.

I got to watch and hear the terror that unfolded out of this girl through the mountains -- our driver at top speed, passing semi's on the two-lane curves in the middle of the night. I was getting road sick, and she was offering some amusement.

It was her birthday. Her 21st birthday. She tried to get the bus driver to sing Happy Birthday to her over the intercom, to which he replied ARE YOU SERIOUS. (I loved him again at that point.) She had been jailed that day for "sleeping" during a layover. She was still drunk, and proceeded to feel up every man around her. She took a nap on Columbus boy's shoulder. He looked back and mouthed SAVE ME, but I just shrugged. The oversized African American gentleman next to me was taking up my worries; his oversized ass was taking up half of my chair.

I nearly threw her in the bathroom and locked her there when she started feeling up the cute-ish mountain boy's arm next to me and saying "You feel like you've boxed before." Later, he would comment that she required three condoms and a plastic bag to be fuckable.

Whoo-pee.

Thank god Knoxville came when it did, but not before a 10-minute stop at Big Bob's Leather Supply Barn in Waynesville (NC). Said through the slow Southern drawl of our driver, the word "Waynesville" sounds fabulous. The nice lady from Charleston left us here, leaving with me a handful of Advil for my head and a new pair of socks for one of the Cincinnati girls who was cold.

In Knoxville, we met people just going to Lexington who had been waiting for 6 hours or more. They could not ride with us because, to make up time, we wouldn't be stopping there. We offered our condolences and allowed them to cluster with us as we enjoyed our first longish cigarette break of the journey.

We made fun of the girl from the bus, until we had one of those awful movie moments -- she was standing right behind us.

Needless to say, we didn't see her the rest of the trip.

Cute Columbus boy was siphoned off onto another bus for people going "beyond Cincinnati." We turned our attention to hottie army boy to flirt with until we were put on a rickety old bus with the cool, young driver who smiled and joked with us. Hottie army boy blew us off and sat way in the back. We were pissed until crazy girl sat next to him.

He got his just desserts.

Voice over the intercom: GET COZY, FOLKS. THE AIR CONDITIONING'S BROKE AND I CAN'T TURN IT OFF. 'SGONNA BE A COLD RIDE TO CINCINNATI.

Funny thing about air condtioning. It runs down the motor pretty quickly. That, on top of the broke down bus we had been given, we were going 15mph at most up small hills into Kentucky because that's as fast as it could go.

The boy with the tattoos that had been with me since Asheville and I joked that we should all start chanting I THINK I CAN I THINK I CAN I THINK I CAN... the bus driver must have heard us because the intercom soon shot out DON'T NONE OF Y'ALL START COMPARING US TO NO LITTLE ENGINE.

Oh well. We noted the hottie army boy was asleep and the crazy girl's head was no where to be seen. Tres romantic.

In London (KY), the bus stop is a Burger King. No kidding. 24 hour Burger King. We had barely had time to pick up any food the whole trip, so the sign of THE KING was like a beacon in the night. My girls from Cincinnati and I had said we wanted a Whopper through this whole ordeal. Everything would be ok as soon as we get a Whopper. And some fries. But that Whopper would make everything OK.

Burger King starts serving breakfast at 3:00am. We rolled in at 3:05am. I was introduced, instead, to the wonderment that is THE KING's Cheesy Tots. You know, tater tots with cheese, that's it. YUM.

I have yet to get my Whopper.

My belly full of Cheesy Tots, we pull out of London (KY) -- why London and not Lexington for such a major stop? no one knows. I pass out and wake up as we turn off the interstate into Cincinnati at 5:45am.

Though I had to grab my overloaded bag off the bus and hoof it at 6:00am through the city from the Greyhound station to the closet Metro stop -- a good ten or so blocks up hill -- to get home. I have to say one thing:

I can't wait to get on a fucking bus again. Flying is never this fun.

Barry blogs regularly as Queer Cincinnati at QueerCincinnati.com. Barry is also trying to enter the 21st century, so you can also get in touch with him via Twitter or via his blog email -- queercincinnati@gmail.com

Welcome + Pride Photos

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 21:38:45 +0000

Please welcome Barry and Darren as Rainbow Cincinnati's latest contributors. And, I'd like to thank my other contributors who have helped keep the site going during my little? medical (circulatory) problem. It's been a long slog but things are finally looking up.

Rene Micheo has again posted great Pride photos for this year.

Baggage Claim

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 18:23:47 +0000

I recently became reacquainted with someone I went out on a date with years ago, during my Pre-Fabulous Era. I had just come out and was still shy and introverted, whereas he was out, proud and definitely an extrovert. When he gave me his phone number one night at The Dock I was dumbstruck; back then my self-esteem was lower than George Bush’s current approval rating, and I simply couldn’t understand what the guy saw in me. I, however, considered him to be something of a god; he had a great smile, a terrific personality, was cute as hell…and had the best legs I’d ever seen. I remember thinking how great they’d look in the backseat of my car.

Our date was unmemorable. It wasn’t a total disaster, like Madonna’s performance in “Body of Evidence” or the last episode of “Seinfeld.” And it wasn’t a complete crash and burn (the Hindenburg flamed out faster). The date was more along the lines of “Ishtar”; a flop, to be sure, but not nearly as bad as the critics made it out to be.

Flash forward several years (and a few failed relationships) later. I ran into the young gentleman who I’d once idolized. I’d definitely changed; my self-esteem was running high and the shyness was gone, as was my tendency to place certain people on pedestals. (If nothing else, disappointment breeds perspective). He still had great legs, a terrific smile, and a certain charm that I still found thoroughly infectious. However, as we talked and got to know each better, I soon realized he was carrying a lot of baggage. We all have issues, whether they be personal, physical or psychological. But whereas some of us only merit a monthly subscription of ‘Better Homes & Baggage’, others have so much drama that they could fill an entire newsstand. At this juncture in my life I’m traveling with what I consider to be a fairly small carry-on; he’s lugging around a twelve piece set of Samsonite. Sitting there listening to him honestly come clean about certain issues and demons in his life (and liking him more because of his direct honesty), I had to ask myself…when it comes to romantic relationships, how much baggage is too much baggage?

Back in 1999 I dated a guy who broke up with me because he thought I had a drinking problem. He said, and I quote, “I just can’t bring this into my family.” And this came from someone who only days earlier said he loved me and wanted to marry me. My penchant for well liquor aside, I was under the assumption that love (and marriage) meant ‘for better or for worse’, and not ‘for better…or until I learn something about you I don’t like.’ But I had to admire his devotion to his family, for it’s a noble thing to want to spare others the possibility of hurt and disappointment. Personally, I think he simply didn’t like messiness (or the potentiality of it). I later realized that he had done me a favor; I have no desire to be with someone who’s that quick to toss me (and my Louis Vuitton makeup case) to the curb without first opening it up to see what’s inside.

Because of this failed relationship I’m trying not to kick this current gentleman (and his steamer trunk full of issues) aside without first getting to know him. I’ll admit one of my flaws is that I dismiss people quickly, pre-judging them in those first few minutes and never really giving them a chance to prove me otherwise. He’s surprised me by coming clean about his personal demons; I knew of them but didn’t expect him to share them with me so quickly. Let’s be honest, people will share the good things quickly, but they’re slow to move when revealing the bad stuff. In the past few weeks he’s taken down each piece of luggage from the attic and opened it for me to see, as if to say, “Here it is. It’s not pretty, but it’s worth a look.” The lining is torn on some pieces. Others have been dented, and the handle’s broken on another. Some of it’s faded, but some of it looks brand new. In short, it’s heavy but not impossible. I’m not at a point where I’m willing to grab it up off the airport conveyor belt and claim it though. Sometimes even my one-piece carry-on can be a burden to get into the overhead compartment. But I’m glad he’s shared his baggage with me. A different person may be able to handle it. Me? Maybe I, like my previous boyfriend, simply am afraid of the mess that might come from it. Maybe I’m not strong enough. Maybe I’m afraid that his demons would soon become my own. I guess I’m simply not ready for matching luggage. But I am looking for a companion piece for my makeup bag.

Carrying On,

Darren M.

Family

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 19:02:10 +0000

First of all, welcome to Darren. Welcome back to writting. I'm glad you're here. Second of all, sorry to everyone for delayed column. I had an emergency Sunday morning -- even in spite of the hangover -- that meant I got to take a bus home to Charleston, SC. Just right now I've had a bit of quiet time that has allowed me to sit down and write. This is also not the blog that I had intended to post today, but I felt this was more salient, personally. My editorial board is becoming annoyed. Nothing I send them ever gets published.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have four roommates in my tiny, three-bedroom house. Rae (a pseudonym) and I have known each other for years; we met years ago in the days of the Oxford Planned Parenthood. It seems really condescending to say this, but her life -- daily struggles with her partner, her kids, jail time, etc. -- was inspiring in Oxford, where the average person is upper-middle class and probably doesn't face most of these problems.

Four years later, I accidentally attended the birth of her third child, linked her into a new job, and watched as her domestic situation crumbled. And that's how I found myself one evening in January helping to move her and her three kids into my house.

Her three children.

I am a perpetually single gay man in his 20s. I have a host of personal issues going on. And I am, now, the most regular adult male figure in these three children's lives.

And, when I fuck up, it affects them.

And, every time I fuck up, I am a better person because of them. A lot of people don't understand the situation, but I am defending them now. I am becoming a better person because of them, and I owe Rae and the children more than they will ever know.

My parents are unsure of the situation, but I talk about the kids with all the pride of a parent. Friends have started asking about them. I brag about their grades, or share funny stories about them, or complain about the kind of problems I'm sure my parents had raising kids ("who ate all the cookies?!"). I have those shocking moments where my new role becomes so unbelievable and so tangible that even I am barely aware of how I got here.

One day, we took the kids to the park. I was welcomed at the table next to the swingset with the other moms and dads, joking and swapping tales. Oh, my god, I thought, and texted to my father, I've seen my parents at this table before. My camera, one of the most selfish purchases I've ever made, is now the archivist of our lives together.

At times, I'm becoming my dad. At others, I'm becoming my mom.

These are the only kids I've really loved. For a perpetually single gay man in his 20s, who never wanted kids, this single fact has rocked my world. And I'm going to brag on them now.

The oldest, a boy of 9, has a tendency to throw you for a loop with everything he says. Not a great reader, he absorbed a game of Scrabble voraciously, only to sharply retort his daycare provider a few weeks later by saying "I may be bad sometimes, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid." He's not, and his struggle to beat an oft debilitating case of ADHD will be the stuff of TV movies.

When he looks at me and says "When is he taking me to school?" I wish I had a car again just to do that. Just he knows I'm here for him.

And for him, I'm going to be better, because he needs a better, stronger, smarter man in his life than he's got right now.

The second, a girl of 6, is one of the beautiful children in the world, and a daddy's girl. She will break hearts one day, and she fills my heart with joy. Gifted in arts, her body knowledge and (slowly) developing grace is magnificent. I see my sister in her -- sharp and beautiful with the ability to control every situation she is in.

She hugs me and hangs on me constantly. Though I'm not as touchy-feely with children as I am with boys in the bar -- also an interesting reaction as I don't want people thinking anything strange going on with this older man and these children -- I hope she never stops trying. Like a puppy, she knows when I need just a little love.

And for her, I'm going to be better, because she needs a better, stronger, smarter man in her life than she's got right now.

The third, whom I helped birth, is my baby. I want to eat her -- metaphorically, of course. I've developed that annoying habit parents have: lips all over the baby's face, unable to let go of her. I can't stop playing with her, though I have an aversion to the slobber and snot she produces.

She calls me BABA. It's all she could say of my name. Rae and I had a quiet moment together when we found out BABA is the Chinese equivalent to DADA or DADDY. Now, all of them refer to me, at times, as BABA. I'm their BABA.

And for her, I'm going to be better, because, even though she won't remember the darkness, she's going to need a better, stronger, smarter man than what's promised for her at this moment.

We went to the grocery story, the five of us. I had the grocery list in my hand, Rae was pushing the cart, and the kids were being sent on minor tasks of picking up foodstuffs they couldn't mess up on ("go get a gallon of milk... make sure it's the pink one!"). I turned to Rae and I asked whether or not we were that couple. You know: "That poor woman, she doesn't know her husband is gay."

Because that's what we looked like: a family doing their weekly grocery shopping.

There is a lot of talk today in the gay press and in the mainstream media about the new definition of family. I still have some aversion to it, because I can still mildly distance myself from that. But I knew, when Rae first couldn't pay rent, that we were in this together, that I wasn't going to kick those kids out. Because they need stability, and they need a family. And between me, Rae, her lesbian grandma and her partner, their daycare provider, our friends, the crazy father, our neighbors... and the host of people who have become a part of our life...

...we are the new family. And it's time I became the better, stronger, smarter man that can be there for them.

Barry blogs regularly as Queer Cincinnati at QueerCincinnati.com. Barry is also trying to enter the 21st century, so you can also get in touch with him via Twitter or via his blog email -- queercincinnati@gmail.com

Back...and More Opinionated Than Ever

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 15:46:39 +0000

It's the dawn of a new gay day. After writing for two of the local gay publications here in the Queen City over the past three years, I've now moved my fabulous self to gaycincinnati.com; yes, the blond guy has finally moved into the 21st century and created his own personal blog. I've resisted this for a long time, for two reasons. One, I'm inclined toward the printed word. I won't lie...seeing my 'Out in the City' columns in published form gave me a natural high. Two, modern technology and I go together about as well as Britney Spears and sanity. But here I am, blogging for the very first time. So far, so good.

First, a quick word to say 'thank you' to those who read my monthly columns in the QCity News and offered kind words of support; I can't tell you enough what it means to a writer to have their work appreciated. Some writers may scoff at this (we're not supposed to care what the critics think), but I for one can tell you that being stopped on the street or in a bar by someone who said they looked forward to reading 'Out in the City' each month made this writer's day. So to those of you who have followed and supported (or simply humored) me in my literary endeavors, I say thank you...I'll keep on writing as long as you have even the slightest interest in hearing what I have to say.

Next, I'd like to welcome any and all readers who are about to jump on this gay bandwagon with me. When I first started writing my column in 2005 I wanted to shed some humorous (though insightful) light on gay life in Cincinnati, Ohio. So many of the gay publications were either political or way-too-serious in their nature. I wanted to be the Carrie Bradshaw of the Queen City...to write about men and sex and life (though without the required Cosmopolitans, because frankly I don't care for the taste of them). It's not that I don't occasionally veer into serious territory (and I've realized that I get more political with each passing year). It's just that I prefer to keep most of my writing light-hearted. I'm sarcastic without being bitchy, pointed without being mean-spirited. And yes, I will occasionally be explicit about my sex life (though never vulgar).

A friend of mine once asked how I could lay bare my sexual exploits for the world to read. Honestly, I couldn't care less. I use my experiences to throw some light (and humor) on gay sex...and some of the more unusual facets of it. I don't believe in shock value, but I do believe in enlightening others about what's out there. My life's not an open book (a few chapters are private), but I'm willing to share more than the table of contents.

So here we go, after a four month hiatus I'm back on board; my sleeves are rolled up, and my mind is working overtime. Harold has his purple crayon in hand. It's time once again to add a little more color to the world.

Over and Out,

Darren M.

Love Song to My Penis

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 08:01:11 +0000

I love my penis.

It was the conversation du jour as we laid around in the backyard one day, enjoying the sun. Not surprisingly, penises -- or "penii," if you assume Latin declension -- are a normal conversation topic in my life.

"Mine is the penis by which I gauge all other penises." There is assent across the green, and sordid tales of very bad -- along with glorious tales of very good -- penises spring up.

I do love my penis, and I consider it absolutely perfect. Once, while drunk, I named it to properly explain to the world how highly I regard it -- Mary Poppins.

You know, practically perfect in every way.

I have seen many other penises in my life, and it's the absolute truth. Others come out misshapen, or disproportionate, or the wrong size, or just downright unfortunate. I, meanwhile, put a great deal of stock in having the perfectly sized, shaped, and arced penis.

It sounds grossly judgmental, but I don't know how other men put up with a penis that is not perfect like mine.

On the TV show Ally McBeal, the psychologist told Callista Flockhart in one episode to figure out her best attribute and, when flirting, put all of her confidence into that one place. Mrs. Harrison Ford lacks in most definitive feminine traits, except her charm, grace, and delicate features. She chose her lips. The show was a fun house mirrors of imagination, and the audience got to see Ally imagine her lips grow every time a cute man came around.

You can imagine where this metaphor is going. Fortunately for me, my confidence is placed firmly in a part of my body that takes little to no imagination to grow.

"Lose weight and your penis will get longer." Most overweight persons have heard this, I'm sure. I remember hearing it said to other people. But, at the top of my weight of 260lbs while in college, I remember thinking "not only is it perfect, there could be an extra inch or two hiding in there!"

I have always been the fat kid -- not fat, my roommie tells me, perhaps chunky or husky or, when I'm feeling confident, voluptuous. And I long ago accepted that I am passably attractive (though that took a lot of work).

When I came into this gay life, though I saw plenty of people that looked like me, it was immediately communicated that you are not sexual. Rather, my body type and my build are decidedly asexual unless I chose to marginalize myself into the bear or leather communities. I celebrate and adore both groups, however, because they celebrate and adore natural bodies. My complaint is the expectation of identity.

I am no twink and no muscle boy, though I understand the appeal of both groups. Trust me.

As I grew into myself and accepted many of my physical "failings" as part of the grandeur of my sexuality, I found my confidence, and I found my way into the beds of sexual ideals. Though I don't have the perfect anything, my confidence and my social network afforded me the ability to flirt freely and find fun and new ways to get social diseases.

Thus, I have seen many other penises.

When it comes down to it, and the room is hot, and you're on someone's bed, and the shirts and pants are off, and you're getting to that point and you crawl down your trick's body with your tongue, reach up to grab the elastic of the underwear and...

...to be perfectly honest, I would rather have my perfect penis than a perfect body. At least it does something for me.

Barry blogs regularly as Queer Cincinnati at QueerCincinnati.com Barry is also trying to enter the 21st century, so you can also get in touch with him via Twitter or via his blog email -- queercincinnati@gmail.com

Pride Night - Kings Island, Friday, August 29, 2008 - Community Center Fundraiser

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 15:27:48 +0000

Fuel Up With Extra Savings! We changed the date – for Kings Island Pride Night to Friday August 29, 2008.
The earlier date, allows The Gay & Lesbian Community Center of Greater Cincinnati to show some love by offering free parking for the first time to our loyal guests.

Pride Night proceeds help to cover the yearly operating expenses of the Community Center. This marks the twelfth year The Community Center and Kings Island have hosted this unique night of fun, rides and entertainment.

As an added bonus – ticket prices will actually be less this year; so don’t miss the chance to be part of Pride Night 2008, where over 3000 family and friends meet:

Online: $39.99
Ticket outlet: $40.99
Gate: $42.99
Online group sales 10-25: $37.99
Online group sales 26 or more: $36.99

The Center is currently updating the Pride Night site. Just check back periodically for the opening of the online ticket store, ticket outlet information and event specific information. Regular Kings Island season passes are NOT valid the night of the event. Specific questions, write: Pride Night.

The parking area at Kings Islands is available to guests beginning at 5 pm with admission gate opening at 6 pm on August 29. The event concludes at 12 midnight.

The Community Center is a non-profit organization founded in 1993 whose mission is to provide information, support, resources, social activities and meeting space to the GLBT Community.

The Professional Persona, and the Person Professionally

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 08:29:37 +0000

Fun day in the sun today!!! Yea, pool days! However, I'm in a bit of a thoughtful mood this morning. Current life trends would anticipate that, though. As always, much love to all of you...

There are three stories to be told in the work -- a euphemism I use when referring to HIV prevention. First, the poz person. Second, the friend. Third, the professional. It is sad to admit that most of us have played the part of the friend; it is worse to admit that so many of us have played the part of the poz person. For me, I have been the professional -- the work is a personal passion -- and I have been the friend -- for so many people and in so many place. And though my knowledge and experience is vast and growing, I can tell you only one thing: I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

I have told people they are HIV+. Many people ... and their names and stories are implanted in my head. It is an unfortunate side effect. Their first reaction is interesting, academically, but the ultimate response is almost universal: "I guess I already knew." From shock to acceptance -- the synapses firing -- the face contorting -- possible tears. It's amazing and saddening, as every bit of humanity cries out for you to hug them, but your professional instincts scream "NO." Like any true romantic moment in life, they and I are linked for a moment. I know they will always remember this, and me, perhaps, and I want to tell them that I will remember everything, too. Everything.

They will understand later -- and hopefully appreciate -- my professionalism. People who are not part of this moment will question everything I did and said, but they are not there and there is no room for judgment. What the client needs is a professional. I always question myself, believing that there is something from my vast experience or knowledge that could give some comfort, to reach into the stony silence after I tell them. I'm always sure that there's something more. But there isn't. I pour out my emotional set to coworkers, later, who can appreciate every part of that moment, like only the truly loved can appreciate a romance.

And, almost universally, the same response: "I guess I already knew." How many people have I told they are HIV-negative that "already knew?"

Friends have told me they are HIV+. Many friends, perhaps to many ... and those moments, too, are indelibly etched into my memory. This is the other side of the same story. This is the set of feelings that come out after the faux acceptance in my office and the "I guess I already knew." They didn't really know, and it hurts.

I've become used to the the hug. If you've ever had a friend begging for love and support, you know it. It's more than a friendly pat on the back or a kiss-kiss hello. They curl up into you. This private moment is found in some obnoxious bar and surrounded by obnoxious people. I have been told first because of what I do -- they think it's wise, approaching the professional first, as I would know what to say. But I know they also need me as a person, as their friend. My professionalism says to ask questions and give supportive information, but my humanity screams "NO." For me, there is no one to talk to this time, not immediately. I have my own personal support person I go to when I need to pour out, someone I take into my confidence, outside of my social circle. I can't just talk to anyone, because I have been trusted with a secret. The professionals in my life are not helpful, and the people immediately around me can't know.

Later, when I think about or recount these stories, I feel tremendous guilt. There was surely something in my vast experience and knowledge that could give more comfort, break through the tears or the attempted coolness. Maybe they will come to appreciate my attempts at support, my lame words and bumbling statements and overzealous information, but it's all back to the hug, when you can reach out and hold them, allowing the world to disappear and we can have our moment.

It is selfish to discuss my feelings. It is selfish to believe that any of this has to do with me. I always question: why come to me? Why am I the one who has to tell you? Why am I the one you have to trust? I don't know what the fuck to do, either, despite my vast experience and knowledge.

This is the moment all the training builds up to, but there is no script ready in my head. I always said that if I was ever so cold as to feel like this is "just another positive," then it was time to jump ship. I don't want that script ready. Scripts lack emotion and do not anticipate them. All the stats and figures in the world are not enough to comfort people, though they listen and acknowledge politely. We both know there is a shit storm coming.

And, in both stories, all I'm trying to say, "It will be all right." Not every day, probably not today, even. But it will be. But I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, and I can rarely find the words to tell you properly that it will be.

So, when someone, either a friend who looks to me as a professional or a colleage who looks to me as a friend, asks what's to be after they've been exposed, I wish I could tell them that, for all the knowledge and experience that may be in my head, I know it's not enough. Even though there is fear there, and both of us make jokes to lighten the emotional burden, I wish I could tell them that I know everything I say is a reminder of how inadequate my words are, how little I can do for you.

But I will share this moment with you, every time. We won't cry, we don't even have to talk, but we can just be here for a little while. There is comfort there.

Of all the things I don't know, that is the one thing I'm sure of.

Barry blogs regularly as Queer Cincinnati at www.cincywestsidequeer.blogspot.com Barry is also trying to enter the 21st century, so you can also get in touch with him via Twitter -- www.twitter.com/queercincinnati -- or via his blog email -- queercincinnati@gmail.com

No Cheerleader

Fri, 30 May 2008 11:49:16 +0000

I owe nothing karmically to the theoretical "gay community" that others purport to believe in so fiercely. I don't believe it exists. To assume that there is some group of people that you gain access to by mere virtue of your homosexuality is false, and an ongoing lie perpetuated by would-be corporate cronies and demanding charity groups looking to raise a buck for a cause. In the end, the need for a community comes down to money.

What passes for queer journalism in this city is appalling. Despite a smattering of honest attempts by the local "names" in the field, it has become little more than cheer-leading. Though there is a mass of salient issues, politicking, and partisanship between and amongst those who claim to hold share in the "community's" future, investigation and consideration of the actual outcomes is lacking. I am no cheerleader, and this is not that kind of journalistic attempt. In fact, it is not journalism at all. It is punditry -- the lowest form of the practice, barely above yellow journalism in respectability.

I communicate almost exclusively by text message these days -- much to the annoyance of many of my friends and family. When the question of whether I become a contributor to Rainbow Cincinnati was posited, I sent out a question to the people in my life you will hear referred to as my "editorial board" -- those people that I trust completely and whose job it is to keep my feet on the ground. More often than not, their job is to deal with my ego as it rises and falls, and to give advice when needed. The question I texted out was about this blog: "Do I use my powers for good or do I go for the jugular?" There were two immediate responses:

1) "Both -- they are needed." (via a local "name" that stands a little outside the in-crowd here in Cincinnati.)

2) "Can you do good by going for the jugular?" (via a PR professional who happens to be my brother.)

The truth is, I have my bitterness, but my life and my history is filled with events and shame that have begun to drastically alter my perception of the Cincinnati gay scene (in the microcosm of my monumental life changes). It is well known that I left this scene professionally in a huff of glitter and glamour -- frustrated and burnt out with the standard bearers and visionless corporate monkeys that lead the "community." As my personal problems mounted, my patience shortened, and I burnt up the forest behind me, along with many of the bridges that I have only now begun to rebuild.

Buddhism holds a great interest to me. I have always been a fierce believer in karma, and the balancing of my cosmic, karmic scales has been a recent personal goal, at least for the past a few weeks. The fact that the future does not yet exist, and, is thus, is malleable, is something I wrestle with daily while I stressing over the insignificances of my life. More importantly, the release of regret over past actions -- the simple act of personal forgiveness -- is the hardest thing I've ever done, especially with constant reminders every where I go.

When I confront the issue of our community here in Cincinnati, my dilemma over my karma and my disbelief perform a torrid Tennessee Williams play in my head.

In reality, a community consists of the nice heterosexual couple up the street who heard the plight of erosion on my front hill and offered me free ivy as a sensible and decorative alternative. Community are the friends I have grossly disrespected through my behaviors and who still called me a few days later to make sure I'm okay. Community are groups of people working together to overcome adversity -- responding to crises and offering solutions. Community does not consist of board meetings trying to identify problems and create half-assed solutions. My community consists of the people still around me. I owe very little to the rest. And I owe nothing to the perpetuation of heteronormativity, because that's not me either.

Do I use my powers for good, and become a cheerleader and re-dictator of quotes from the same people that have always and will always be there? A great shame of mine is that I never used interviews of me to express any valid opinion, but only used them to appease and manipulate others.

Or, do I go for the jugular; do I fight for what I believe is good in an attempt to to save others from future putrification? The problem is the possibility of viewing myself as some sort of savior, which I'm not. My rhetoric indicates that I would go for it, but there is a the significant portion of this "community" that I respect and adore who I know are validly and genuinely working towards something real with nothing else in their heart but goodness -- cheerleaders, straight supporters, mom's, mom figures, ex-boyfriends, quasi-journalists, etc.

I'm no cheerleader, but I'm not cold-hearted, either. If blogging as Queer Cincinnati has taught me anything, it's that truth matters, but soundness of opinion and purpose are better. I write what I see, as I see it, as I feel it. Don't expect me to be nice -- because, as a cheerleader has pointed out, no one does bitchy like me.

Queer Cincinnati blogs regularly at http://www.cincywestsidequeer.blogspot.com

Queer Cincinnati's First Blog on GayCincinnati.com...

Wed, 28 May 2008 09:39:44 +0000

...is a bust.

This is just a test to make sure everything works.

Welcome to the cheesegrinder.

Pride is Alive 2008 - June 14 & 15, 2008

Mon, 19 May 2008 22:07:47 +0000

Keep up with the latest information at the PrideIsAlive web site.

The Festival runs Saturday and Sunday, June 14th and 15th at Hoffner Park in Northside. On Sunday, June 15th, the Rally and Parade begin in Clifton's Burnet Woods at 11am. The Rally preceeds the Parade which steps off promptly at 1pm and finishes at Hoffner Park.

Get maps and driving directions from GayBarMaps.com. Here are direct map links to Hoffner Park and Burnet Woods.

Cincinnati Drag Races 2008

Mon, 19 May 2008 09:26:16 +0000

The annual Cincinnati Drag Races are this Sunday, June 8, with associated events beginning on Friday. For more information visit the DragRacesCincinnati.com web site.