As usual, the WALK TO STOP AIDS was a success.

I'm getting bored with the ongoing excellence and pride that STOP AIDS (formerly AVOC) takes in its crown jewel of event. Every year, it's the same old well-organized, fun event where hundreds of people show up and hundreds of thousands of dollars are raised. I'm annoyed by the free stuff I get, the competition I generate raising money against friends, the hugs you get from everyone you know when you're walking around Sawyer Point, and the exhausted relaxation in the grass with your Dixie Chili at the end of the 5 miles. And, I know, I know. Those people they get to cheer along the route and hug you, give you high fives, and tell you how great you're doing -- I know. Bothersome.

This was my sixth year there. And it's just annoying to have to be involved that much, isn't it?

And this year, I'm glad to see so many of my fellow homosexuals agreed with me. See, when I came out and thought "gee, I want to get involved," I did what every self-respecting queer does... get involved as much as possible everywhere I could. And then I started dating, made friends, got laid a couple of times, and became more jaded than my own good.

Maybe I'm not as active as I have been in the past.

But, I would like to whole-heartedly agree with every single homosexual who decided to sleep in the morning of the WALK TO STOP AIDS rather than drag their hung-over asses out of bed, write a $10 check, and walk for about two hours in the interest of supporting their community.

You're right, the whole noxiously cheerful and feel-good-ness of the event was just too much to deal with at 8am. STOP AIDS should really do something about that.

And, you're completely right, when you say that everything you go to has the exact same people show up. To me, it's almost a disappointment that there are few dedicated individuals in the community that really try to make things work so there is an ongoing set of gay things to do. I mean, after all, it's not like there is something to do every single night of the week at a bar or otherwise. I mean, the volleyball and softball leagues are practically silly with the amount of people that participate. There should be fewer attendees. And, while we're at, less people should spend time playing competitive sports with other people of the same persuasion in order to have fun.

I've been to the bars, too. And the great community-oriented focus of many of them does get on my nerves. I hate going to places where people know my name, where it's fun to move around and dance with guys that may actually want to sleep with me, and get harangued by an ugly drag queen who has
nothing but love in her heart.

Personally, I'm glad Universal Grille closed. It's one less place I have to think about going on a Friday or Saturday night. I would much rather spend my time in a bar where I don't have to be gay.

I think there should be more barstool activism. After all, that fits much better into my life than this whole "getting out and doing something" thing that actually makes sense. Why can't GLSEN -- whose primary focus is high school's and younger -- just do something at my favorite local watering hole? That's where we'll be, after all. It seems absurd that they would ask me to pay to go to a dance in support of the dozens of gay kids who want somewhere to go and not worry about possible harassment.

Speaking of the kids, aren't they so cute when they participate? Wait, when does that guy turn 18?

But, back to the Walk. . .

It's really sad that no one is dying anymore, isn't it? It's really inconvenient that anyone would mention that you could. It is a real downer.

It is wrong that people are getting better and living better with the disease; after all, just 20 years ago, gay people were dropping off like flies. And maybe it was better that way. Then we all understood just how serious it could be. It's not like STOP AIDS/AVOC has gone out of their way to make sure everyone is included that can be included, and it's not like they haven't done everything in their power to make sure that no one leaves their events with a positive feeling in their soul and that maybe you've made a difference that day.

All the hugs and "thank you"s in the world can't make up for, apparently, a couple of well-placed deaths to get us off our asses, right?

Wrong.

My snarkiness aside, I am disappointed with all of you. Every last person that slept in rather than getting your butt out of bed, writing a check, and high tailing it Sawyer Point -- you missed out. A lot of people will say, "But, Barry, you don't go to everything." You're right, I don't. But I make an effort to attend when I'm interested or when I know it's important. And, yes, AIDS is "my issue." Maybe you have your own.

But this is in no way directed to the mass of regulars you see. This is not for the Scott Knox's, the Kathy Laufmann's, the Jill Benavides's, the Dan Ley's, the Doug Meredith's, the Harold Keutzer's, the Michael Chanak's, or even the bar owner's of the world.

The ongoing depopulation of gay events and locations is indicative of a broader issue -- the community's growing disinterest in itself. In a time when we get to be gayer than ever, when we get to be out and proud, we have, apparently, decided that we don't want to be, anymore. We want to be just like everyone else. The revolution is dead, and the interest in what we can offer to each other is dwindling.

Don't tell me about how you want to have kids until you tell me how you want to help build community. You don't get to have children or get married until you've paid back the people and the places and the organizations that have worked so hard to allow you those rights.

You don't get to tell me, anymore, that you have a picture of your partner on your desk and that's all you ever wanted. First, you have to hug Michael Chanak and all the other pioneers in employment in Cincinnati.

You don't get to talk to me about how supportive your parents are, not until you go to a PFLAG meeting or at least tell a PFLAG parent how important they have been to the cause.

You don't get to talk about the great strides we're making, or even celebrate the passage of Cincinnati's human rights ordinance, until you thank Jill, Gary, the NGLTF, or the countless of volunteers who fought. Or, talked to Equality Ohio.

You don't get to mention how many gays are in the media, until you listen to Cheryl and the great crew over at Alternating Currents... or any of the countless people that made the gay TV show in the 1980s (and that's not hard, as Burger of Serpent fame is a former contributor).

You don't even get to talk about gay history until you can list off at least five pioneers and what they did... it's easy to learn, just contact gohi.

And, more salient to the original topic, you don't get to talk about how important a condom is, or how valuable testing is, until you use one, get tested, or at least write a nice email to STOP AIDS thanking them for 20+ years of tireless efforts they have putting into saving all of our asses ... literally.

Guess what? You have a responsibility to be there to pay homage to all those who came before. And you have a responsibility to learn that history. And you have a responsibility to honor it.

You no longer get to sit across from me and say "Well, I just don't do gay stuff" because you are doing "gay stuff" just by talking to me. And you wouldn't have been able to do that years ago, if it weren't for the hundreds and thousands of people who worked, were abused, and died for your right to sit there and be condescending and complain about the lack of community engagement.

It is your responsibility to be engaged in any way possible, in every way possible.

Where have all the gays gone?

The same question could be asked of a hundred different events for a hundred different organizations at a hundred different times. Again, this is not person or group specific, but it's about a "community" that has all but lost interest in itself.

Bars are closing and homo's are flocking to straight bars in record numbers. Gay pride is dominated by nice hetronormative homo's. Drag queens are looked upon as a menace rather than the glorification of gender anti-norms and challenging the system. Drugs and sex are bad, while sitting at home with your partner and a dog is what we hope to achieve. And no one is getting laid on gay.com. It is, increasingly, a "community" that doesn't take itself seriously anymore.

They are just fading away, and we'll have a generation where the gay bar is for special events (or a special night at an otherwise straight bar), and prides are no longer liberally disseminated throughout the country but reserved, instead, for a few choice locations where "I can go and really be gay rather than this backwoods bullshit town I live in."

(Sound familiar? It should. One of my readers said those exact words to me.)

And that's disappointing because those were the places and events that helped me and directed me out -- and, when I lost my way, reigned me back in. I know I won't go to everything, but I'll make a damned better attempt than most people.

But it shouldn't just be about me, or Mike Volmer, or Penny Tration, or Chris Seelbach, or this person or that person. It should be about everyone. And that's why I'm not pointing fingers ... because it's not their fault. It's all of ours.

All because these places we should be -- AIDS walks, drag shows, group meetings, -- are dying and I don't want to find myself twenty years from now at some empty event thinking Where did all the gays go?

Barry blogs regularly over at QueerCincinnati.com, and you can either email him at queercincinnati@gmail.com, or follow him on Twitter.

Gender.

My mother still has no idea what I mean when I reference gender in discussion. I don't think 3/4 of the people I talk to know what I mean by it. When I talk about "gender deviation" or "trans-identity," the impression I get from the pallid stares is that most people are picturing a drag show in their head. And, while that immediate gut reaction is valid and important - as drag is probably the most regular example of gender performance that people can relate to - it is not everything. However, the rhetoric of the gay rights movement probably rests on a better understanding of the spectrum that gender implies.

Transgenderism is a term found within the Ohio Revised Code as an asterik under the phrase sexual orientation, linking the two together under the law. Ohio is actually on the cutting edge of the movement, as the term is even modified to include whether real or perceived. Cincinnati is one of a number of growing municipalities that protect sexual orientation and gender identity/expression. I know, I was little shocked too. Lacking a regular and/or valid LGBT rights organization that could lobby for this kind of coup in the world of Citizens for Community Values, the ordinance relied on the activism of individual lobbying efforts and the support of knowledgeable council members to get it through. But the protection of gender is, ultimately, the lynchpin of the whole movement and could, in fact, be the end of our "community" as we seek to place ourselves more firmly in the mainstream. As we continue to buy into heteronormativity and abandon our amassed experiences and identities, as we seek our own integration, it is gender that will continue to divide us.

My own gender identity and expression is confused. When asked in an online chat room, "r u masc" ("are you masculine?" -- i.e., do you conform to the expected and stereotypical gender roles attributed to "men"), perhaps out of self-delusion, I would answer "yes." As if I was fooling anyone, especially after I would pull up to someone's house with Donna Summer blasting on the radio -- whatever, I was still passing easily. Sure, I dabbled in drag from time to time, but that didn't play into my primary, quotidian gender expression. I thought all the jokes were camp -- done in play.

That is, until i heard myself on the radio and the DJ made the comment: "You sound like a drag queen." Insignificant actions yield huge results in my world. I hung up and, parked in my car outside of Golden Lions watching boys, I listened to the interview.

Oh my god, I sound really gay.

Though the interview was lighthearted, I was sure I had butched it up for the mainstream station. "Overactive pilot light" were the words that came to my mind -- the flame always on. I called my friends to recount this story, and they were more amused by how long it took me to find out than anything else. I went up for a new job a few months later. It's rare you get the opportunity to ask questions of your interviewer -- since this was only the second job I had ever interviewed for and not gotten, and because they were colleagues, I took the opportunity. "You were too... [long pause] enthusiastic." It was the most bullshit cover for "you're too gay" that I had ever heard.

"Mama" is a social identity I've taken on with my friends. It's an honor usually bestowed upon dowagers and drag queens. With me, it was a description of my gender role, and an expression of the safety within the feminine. I knew it was mine, and that it embodied who I was, when Sity Hall called me Mama at the Dock one night. As Mama, I am safe as a sexual being, because it's funny. As me, whose escapades are the stuff of legend, my sexuality became creepy. As Mama, all things are allowed. I became genderqueer to allow my sexuality to be OK, even within this community that theoretically embraces sexual and gender minorities.

As femme, I am sexualized and fetishized within the eyes of the most uber-masculine, hyper-dom's, and I'm not saying I don't play into that sometimes. But the assumption is that I also have to be a bottom (a position I enjoy, but have only done so in the past few years, but not primarily). The pride I have in my body and my sexuality is key to me -- to be stripped of that based on my expression is unfortunate. It's devaluing to the "community," to all of us queens because we are out and proud. We live the life of the revolution, of a fight yet to be one.

When we seek protections for gender identiy and expression, it is not for some theoretical trans-identified person that may or may not be around. Rather, it is a protection against all of us. The movement here, for the most part, has moved beyond the right to have your partner's picture on your desk -- a litmus test which is awful in a "community" that embraces sexual minorities. It's no longer about the right to domestic partner benefits or the right to simply be known as gay. There, we are just tying up loose ends.

It's about personal expression, and the right to personality, even on Craigslist.

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com. Feel free to email him at queercincinnati@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter.

I read somewhere that relationships go through times of testing at 30 days, 90 days, 6 months, 1 year, etc.

With every relationship I am in, meanwhile, I stop at that first test in what I have deemed the "thirty day curse;" in short, that's when my relationships end. I'm not quite sure, though, whether it is something I am doing to myself or it is more telling about me as a person (and potential boyfriend). After six years, you'd think I would have figured it out by now.

It started in 2003-ish, when I had my first "grown up" relationship. I got bored around 30 days, dumped him, and moved on. Lather, rinse, repeat -- seven times over. I dumped seven boys in a row at or around 30 days simply because I had grown tired with the whole relationship thing. It tied me down too much.

The seventh, meanwhile, turned out to be a doozy of a dump.

Around that magical day, there were a couple of cracks forming in the perfect veneer of our young love, and, rather than deal with them as a mature adult, I dumped the guy. He floored me. Somewhere along the line, he had come to trust me and become comfortable in our relationship.

I had hurt him. He had placed hope, maybe even love, in me and I had broken his heart.

To this day, I mark that event as one of those life-changing events -- not just from the practical "experience-based learning" point of view, but as a point of departure from karma. I had genuinely hurt him. I think it was more of a shocker that people actually had these feelings for each other -- and that the profundity of joy that can come from love can also hurt you.

Over the next few weeks and months, I produced some of the best writing of my life as I tried to sort out the whole mess in my head.

Soon after, I started dating someone else. At 30 days, eveything was fine, and I liked the boy. At 31 days, he broke up with me. To my own disbelief, he hurt me.

I have been broken up with at 30 days (with one exception) ... get this ... seven times in a row since then.

But back to the modern day.

There are two current players in this awkward stage play known as my life: the Professional and the Goober. Both were warned, and both came back with the exact same line: "Well, I guess I only [insert amount of time] left."

There's something to be said for self-fulfilling prophecies.

Around 30 days, the Professional and I had a drunken-ish conversation at Adonis that effectively ended our brief flirtation; I doubt the worthless trick I brought home that evening helped matters. Since there was no one truly ending the relationship -- that is, no one saying "I don't think this is going to work" -- I count this as a mutual break up. You can begin to see where this is going, symbolically.

The Goober has about one week left -- 8 days, to be precise. I'm starting to think it's time to move on. His newbie-isms are starting to grate, while the juxtaposition of constant attention with insecurity with lack of definition have slid this relationship into the "It's complicated" category on my Facebook.

Oi.

The debt to karma has been paid, now, and I feel my eyes wandering and the cycle starting over again.

I have to wonder if, this time around, I'm going to try to make it to the 90 day mark, but I'm afraid it's just going to be the same thing over again. I've always counselled people that when you find yourself saying "everytime I do something..." or "all my friends are..." or any other negative point about your life, then maybe it's something in you. Does expanding the time period in which the curse plays out do anything more that just expand the time I'm miserable, or should I take it as a personal point that I can't seem to make it to that idealized "LTR" that we all, ostensibly, want? Is it possible that I am not a monogamously oriented person, after all?

I don't know, but I hope that this cycle doesn't keep repeating at differing time spans. It took six years to consider a 90 day relationship.

Eighteen years seems like too long to wait for an actual one-year anniversary; though maybe that's what it will take, for me.

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com. Feel free to email him at queercincinnati@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter.

"I dunno -- we could watch a movie or go out or invite a hot 3rd to join us," came the text message, two days after I had made a fool of myself and introduced him to all of my friends by the wrong name.

I knew his name, now, but this was a bit of a surprise. Is this, then, the way my relationships are doomed to end?

Five years ago, I broke up with a guy because he suggested a threesome -- with a woman -- before we had had sex.

This time, I was mildly amused, but the same disgust and annoyance remained.

Though no stranger to group sex, I think it's tacky to suggest it a mere two days into a budding relationship. Especially with a newbie.

The newbie is a recent addition to my pantheon of possibilities in this brave new world of dating I have entered. Having spent years screwing up every chance of a relationship I got, my new mindset is distinctly more "LTR" oriented.

"And you won't find [a relationship] at the Dock or on gay.com," one of my BFFs was quick to point out.

Well, the newbie's from the Dock and the handful of others I have some interest in also hail from bars. So, I shouldn't be too surprised by this turn of events.

Without replayed the story line of Broken Hearts Club by going over the dangers of dipping into freshmeat for your quotidian protein supply, the newbie is already teaching me. I have already started learning that dating is not necessarily about compromising your daily lives, interests, and anoying habits. Rather, the compromise comes from resolving where two people are in their lives and somehow coming to a happy medium.

At least, I think.

When my favorite gay couple in the world -- favorite mainly because of the fierce drama that ensues between them -- come to me and tell me their problems, I have one answer every time: you're in two different places. One is 30-something and wanting to settle, the other is 20-something is bound socially only by his perpetual poverty.

The goal for them, then, is to create a couple that exists somewhere in the 28-31 range. Unfortunately for them, this doesn't seem to be working. I, who have no problems giving other people advice on their own relationships and reasonable compromises, am confused at what is reasonable compromise between me and a newbie.

How do you compromise the desire for exploration with a need to nest and cocoon? The hope is that we'll balance each other out, with me helping to guide him -- he gets the experiences, and I get the vicarious joys of his excitement. And, of course, the unexpected joy of knowing someone is there when I wake up.

Regardless, I have already started to pick and begin the most inevitable part of the dating experience -- self sabotage. The nascent joint experience becomes frayed and tattered in my my jaded hands and I find excuses to justify my own bad behavior and nasty rationalizations for every misstep he makes.

What is unexpected is just how quickly your friends jump on the sabotage wagon and pick at their own loose strings and insecurities to add to your own.

I don't know if it will work, but I like him and he likes me and that should be enough.

In the same breath, though, I have to admit that my friend is right --

"You know you're going to be the one who jades and corrupts him."

Damn.

Addenda to the original piece: I'm insane, and I think I'm insanely jealous in a relationship. God, I don't think I would even want to date me. :-)

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com. Feel free to email him at queercincinnati@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter.

Despite studiously following polls, and making sarcastic remarks on the latest scandals, and having a handful of political blogs I follow, I have a confession:

I am an uninformed voter.

And, you know what, I don't really care. I'm a bit of a Democratic party man, and I can be a bit of a one issue voter, especially on local issues. The main reason is that I feel that 99% of government action affects other people, or it just maintains -- keeps the trains running, if you will.

You could make an argument that corporate welfare affects me in a convoluted economic model, or that a minimum wage increase will eventually trickle up to me, or that the ongoing rape of African natural resources sets up a volatile foreign policy that promises to bite us in our ass. However, those things don't motivate me, and they don't lend credo to one candidate or another in an election.

In fact, I believe that using these examples only help others reinforce their existing beliefs about one side or the other. When my friend pointed out that our current economic problems are rooted in Bill Clinton's policies, and that the housing crisis was created by his administration, I shrugged.

"Nobody who preferences the economy should support a Clinton," he said, late in the Democratic primary season. "They did this."

Actually, no. It is the cumulation of hundreds of bad economic policies during a boom, without thinking that the bubble will burst.

I supported a Clinton this go-round because leadership is about managing in times of crisis. It is about having someone say to you "It's all OK, don't worry, we carry on," and you believing that person, in good times and bad. With my busy life, I don't have time to worry daily about water resources, or central European foreign policy, or the daily ins and outs of various military actions throughout the world.

Rather, I vote for people I believe are smart enough, courageous enough, and have enough similar values as me to manage these decisions for the country.

I tried the other method -- voting strictly along my policies and beliefs -- and I was a 2000 Nader voter. We see how that turned out.

When this election came around, I saw what I needed and wanted in Hillary. I told my friends that should 9/11 come around, she would be the one person I would feel safe with on the evening news telling me that it would be OK. I believed in her, even if she is a bit of a war hawk. I like the Clintonian Democrats, despite that.

When she lost, I was torn. On the surface, my pure political convictions indicated that McCain may be a viable candidate for my vote. Experience -- the tag line we used against Obama in the primary -- dictated I support him, or, at least, the McCain circa 2000. He is one of the few Republicans I would vote for for President.

My mother agrees, and she's supporting him, after being a Hillary supporter in the primary.

But I couldn't.

Despite what the right is saying, belief counts for something. I have to believe and hope that the President will make decisions I agree with. I have to believe and hope that our President can genuinely make things better.

For all of his rhetoric, I could not see that in McCain. The only reason I could vote for him is because of cold hard politics, and that's just not me.

I want to be moved -- call it left over idealism.

Do I believe McCain would make a good President? Yes. Do I believe that he will destroy the country? No. Do I think he will genuinely work within the best interests of the country? Yes. Do I think he will significantly alter policy as to lead us to a path of destruction? No.

I do believe, however, that he will be nothing more than a place holder in history -- another Bush I, just waiting out the years between two excellent and effective Commanders-in-Chief. I just don't think he will be anything special.

I have not been touched by the insanity that is Obamania; I have not seen a heavenly light that directed me into the rhetoric of "Obama as messiah." In fact, I have my serious doubts about him, especially since he is lukewarm on many of my issues.

Do I believe that he will be a great President? No. But he inspires me to hope that he will be.

And that is what I need.

As an addenda, the question of Joe Biden just came up. I like him, so far. I think it was pretty good choice, though I'm sure there are lots and lots and lots of Clinton voters that are PISSED OFF.

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com. Feel free to email him at queercincinnati@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter.

Overwhelming feeling of love for you right now if you are read -- just happiness!!! :-) *MUAH*

"When did you become a hypocrite?" Libby asked as I handed her an HRC sticker during the Northside Fourth of July Parade.

Just a few weeks before, she and I had harangued a local HRC Steering Committee member at Dayton Gay Pride about the evils of the gay empire -- the Human Rights Campaign. And now? I was promoting their event. In the matter of less than a month, I had become a hypocrite.

Let me be clear: I am no big fan of the HRC. Although I have a certain respect for what they do, my general feelings for them tend towards the negative.

In 2003, three of my friends and I took a trip to Washington, DC and met with the HRC. We were planning two protests against Ohio's upcoming Defense of Marriage Act -- one protest would occur outside of Representative Bill Seitz's office in Cincinnati, and the other would happen on the grounds of the Ohio statehouse.

We went to the HRC and to the NGLTF for assistance. The NGLTF never answered our phone calls, while the HRC welcomed us with open arms.

It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

As young queer activists, we wanted to actually mock marriage and its heterosexual roots by protesting with style -- drag queens, glitter, dykes on bikes, the works. Essentially, we wanted to take everything we thought was fabulous about being queer and use it as a stiletto heel to strike down the bonds of legislative injustice.

The meeting with HRC went well, until we got to that point. I remember the exact words that were said to me. "You want people straight America can identify with. You want normal couples."

Normal.

We took their advice, and the protest went on. Though we were disappointed with their reaction, and a little taken aback by their rhetoric, we bowed to the wisdow of those above us.

At both protests, there was no a single drip of media. Even the gay media ignored the statehouse, though John Zeh showed up at the Cincinnati protest. In Columbus, I remember speaking into the microphone and watching a local news channel, all of whom had received our press release (approved by the HRC), pull up to the grounds, sit for a moment, and then move on.

No one knew we were there.

A lot of arguments have been made against the mainstream media's coverage of gay pride parades and events. Notably, detractors say that the only thing that the world sees are drag queens and leather boys, and they are bad for "our" image. So ubiquitous are these arguments, that some drag queens and leather boys have even started to believe it, without understanding that our people embrace a wide spectrum of expressions.

The message is clear: our difference is wrong. No one will accept us unless we are just like them.

I disagree, as drag shows and leather bars are a constant fascination for heterosexuals around the country, and there are many, many straight girls who would rather spend the day around oiled up muscle men grinding on them at a parade than at home with their kids.

Normal.

The Human Rights Campaign lost me at that word. True, I still stuck the bumper sticker on my car as a coded way of saying "YOOHOO! I'm GAY!!!"

But then came ENDA. Oh, how I wish this had come about in two years instead of now.

Politically speaking, the Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA) will pass easier, even possibly under Bush's nose, as simple employment protections based on sexual orientation. There is a valid argument that says that sexual orientation protections are a jumping off point for future work, and that some courts may even interpret that term to include gender identity and expression -- the definition of sexual orientation in Ohio, for example, includes the latter terminology.

I understand and appreciate that argument, and that gender is a far more difficult concept to grasp. But intellectual laziness on the part of other people does not, to my mind, justify our inability to effectively educate them.

Because, by the HRC endorsing a bill that does not protect gender, the HRC has abandoned the people it says that it works for.

The debate over ENDA's inclusiveness speaks to a wider divide in our community, and the HRC can be seen as the flagship with a single word written on its flag: NORMAL.

Not the "all human expression is varied and beautiful, and, thus, normal" normal; rather, it is "we are just like you."

There's a rant to be made here, by the way, about representation of certain subgroups and minorities within the LGBT community on the local steering committees of the HRC, but it's hard to find a truly diverse organizational board here in the city. Even my former employer, STOP AIDS, has an education department staffed almost primarily by white, gay men.

But back to normality...

To use that as a goal is to achieve marginalization. By endorsing legislation that does not include gender identity and expression in its language, they are abandoning more than just the burdgeoning trans-community -- rather, they abandon all of us. I've said it before: this fight is not about white, middle class men fighting for the simple right to put your partner's picture on your desk. Rather, it is a fight to be who we are and express ourselves as we are.

I should not be worried about my ongoing employment, housing, or any other part of my life, simply because I can be a tad effete.

Rather, the HRC prefers normality and conformity -- the HGTV version of homosexuality.

This is a flip-flop of a previous opinion, as I had previously blogged my support for a sexual orientation-only ENDA, and I was lukewarm on the issue. However, I work in a heterosexual environment now, and work with gay men who I sometimes feel have bought into the corporate queer ideal.

I had to accept that, one day, my own personal expression will put my employment in danger. Not because I can't do my job, but because someone will say "I don't want this queer to take care of me."

Will my job, will my employer, and will my community come up to support me, then?

As a follow up to this, as it was written when it was still "fresh in my head," I have this to say: the HRC is the guardian at the gate for gay politics. It makes me sick and I hate it. But, they do have a touch job to do. Bully on them, at least, for trying; shame on them for not trying harder.

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

First off, welcome to Juliet from Juliet & Juliette to gaycincinnati.com -- really, I'm just taking the time and getting my friends to write too :-). I love my friends. Also, god, it's been a hectic two weeks nad I've been sleeping a lot... I'm sorry I've been so slow on stuff, but don't forget to check out my mom and my newest blog over at Mom&Son Writing

My car died over three months ago. Lacking any sort of financial plan, I was forced to take to the busses.

I became a Metro rider.

At the time -- to give you a clue of how much has changed in the last three months -- gas was expensive when it was over $3. Though the price was still high, it was still within the upper limits of my budget.

Thank god for the Metro.

I am one of the lucky ones in that my employer has a deal with Metro to provide free bus rides with my ID. Even without that, the monthly $55 Metro card still would have cost me a lot less than driving for a month would.

I have also become better with my time management, and have stopped taking extra trips to just to get out of the house and buy something. My grocery bill has dropped -- carrying everything is a bitch -- I've only eaten fast food three times in the last three months -- down from 5-12 times a week -- and I've lost almost 25 lbs from walking everywhere.

It has also allowed me to reconnect with my city -- finding new places, congregating in corner markets, and taking the 1 through Mt. Adams just so I can see the sun set in Eden Park every evening on my way to work.

Some days, I feel like Lisa Simpson, extolling the virtues of public transit and amazed that I can get just about anywhere with a little slip of plastic and my feet.

Most days, I curse my rotten financial sense at not being prepared for this.

Don't get me wrong, I have hugely benefitted from the experience and glad to find that, like most big cities, you can make it carless in our town, but the two hours of travel everyday is becoming annoying.

I say "two hours," but the reality is that it ranges from a paltry 20-minutes (one bus, straight shot from downtown to Clifton) to three hours and fifteen minutes (three busses from the airport to home).

Most days, it only takes 1.5 hours to really get anywhere.

A typical work week -- start time at the job: 10pm -- has me finish packing up at 8pm, right after SCRUBS. Packing and planning are essential to the process. You have to know what you need to do for the next 24 hours and carry everything with you, as there is no room for just a "quick trip home." For a while, Sunday nights required me to leave the house at 530pm to catch a 6(ish)pm bus -- the last one close to my house. I soon found an alternate route that lets me leave at 8p and walk an additional 10 blocks (uphill, the whole way).

The first thing you learn when you embark on this adventure is that the bus will rarely be on time. Again, I'm lucky because the times I ride (8p-10p and 6a-8a), traffic and travellers are low so you generally get a close approximation of the correct schedule. Attempts at riding during the day have failed and left me usually running 30min-1hour late.

So you arrive early, and hope you're there first and that the bus isn't late.

Once, my bus was five minutes late, and through missing a single transfer, my travel time ballooned by 30 minutes. Some days, I curse the elderly and disabled because they slow the whole process down, but that's just some days.

When you get on the bus or to Government Square, you are treated to the comedy and tragedy that is human behavior. Drunks are my favorite, and they seem to be able to stand up straight as the bus sways and jerks while you ride. Of course, they also tend to pass out and take a quick nap on your shoulder on the ride.

I read or write or listen to music while I ride -- or text ferociously, much to the annoyance of my friends -- trying desperately to emote a "don't bother me unless the bus is burning" vibe. It doesn't always work.

Why some sweet, 89 year old lady would suddenly turn to me, for example, and whisper, "When did so many blacks move to the city" is beyond me.

It also plays a lot into my voyeuristic and exhibitionist tendencies. I get to hear people compare their relative experiences on Jerry Springer, while I get to go into lurid details of a friend's herpes infection on the phone, turning up the volume of my voice so that other people get a good story out of it.

"This funny gay kid on the bus today..."

After I step off the bus, all of this goes away and I am thankful for the personal time it allowed me. Otherwise, I would just be sitting at home in front of the TV. At least I get some time out and I'm doing something.

If planned right -- which I usually do -- I show up to work early and get to center myself.

The sheen over the whole Metro is somewhat worn in my mind, and I don't tell as many stories about it anymore. Like my work, the eccentricity of the experience is common place, and I'm a bit jaded to the homeless people and cell phone shouting matches every day (I always wonder who she's shouting at and why).

I have a bus driver, who has more than once stopped at my stop without me pulling the bell because he knew where I was going and knew I wasn't paying attention. And there's a small cadre of third shifters on my bus on the ride home, who I know well enough to give the "hello nod" every morning to. And there is a nice old lady on the first morning bus who, when I was gone for a week, squeezed my hand and said, full of concern, "Everything all right?" Or, there's the lesbian couple who loves me and desperately wants me to date their friend; we had originally bonded over my dad's copy of COOL HAND LUKE that I had been reading.

Thus, when I get to introduce a new person (or my roommate's kids) to the Metro, and they tell everyone about their experience over and over and over, I have to smile because I do appreciate all I've been through, and seeing it through their eyes makes me remember that.

Nevertheless, I still wish I had a car. I would also like a chauffeur and a maid, but you play the hand you're dealt.

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

"I love how you look right now," the hottie said, stroking my stomach outside of the Serpent. He had not seen me since my recent weight loss, and the attention was welcome.

Never mind that I've been trying to lay him for years.

Later, when the alcohol faded and the self-respect returned, I realized just how sickened I was by the comment. After years of flirtation, hundreds of drunken nights and online conversations, it took this for him to finally perform this little song and dance to completion.

The best people to ask about weight loss are those who are, well, "chunky," or "curvy," or simply "obese." Trust me, we've done it all, and our efforts to remain thin are documented by the ongoing ups and downs of our waist lines.

A dear friend of mine even arranges his closet by waist size. "So I always have something to wear, no matter how fat I am." Me, on the other hand, have clothes that can be worn no matter my weight. The thinking is that I will be thin one day, while I know the reality is that I will probably get fatter again. Why bother with clothes that fit?

Stacy and Clinton would have a field day with me on What Not to Wear -- they may, in fact, encourage swear pants.

In my opinion, I actually look pretty good at this weight, even though my body image issues still plague me.

Four years ago, I hit my all time low weight -- 165lbs. Few people remember because it lasted approximately two weeks before I start the slow climb up to my high point of 240lbs. (My gay.com profile, by the way, always reads between 190-200lbs, though I am perfectly honest about my cock size.)

The joke Rae and I use is "the skinnier I am, the prettier I am." It's not true, but it speaks to my issue about the comments I hear.

"You look great -- looks like you've lost weight!" (Even when I've gained -- what, did I not look good before?)

"Oh, you aren't fat, you look just fine!" (Right, I'm not fooled, stop blatantly lying to me.)

"You're just a big teddy bear!" (This is simply not helpful; I'm convinced my friends hate me.)

These are the sources of many of my problems, more than the media and/or the perfection of certain celestial bodies in the universe. It is the constant reminder that, somehow, my weight is directly linked into my physical attractiveness.

Don't tell anyone -- especially if they're trying to sleep with me -- but you can actually tell when I'm going through a good patch when I gain weight. Because, then, I don't need my body to feel confident. Funny: I'm most datable when I'm fat, and most fuckable when I'm thin.

Years ago, a coworker has battled the bulge for years gave me excellent advice: never date anyone who knew you when you were fat. Good advice, and something I need to repeat to myself when I'm at these "low points."

So, to the hottie: I'm not going to answer your phone calls, and I'm not going to pursue you to take me out. We will have sex only when I want to (i.e., when I'm drunk, and then only maybe). Because I can't stomach the fact that you would only want to be around me for my looks -- I am not a conquest.

I'm gaining my confidence back, my waistline is growing, and I'm too good for you.

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

I'm sure my editorial board is tired of me sending them a lot of really good columns and then not using them. Well, here ya go...

Matthew Shephard and Lawrence King are just dead queers with good publicists.

Not to undermine their deaths, but there are hundreds of people who have paid the ultimate price for being out, and the lack of coverage of their stories gives me pause.

I mourn every time I hear about another death. It's not often, as the lack of a central source of this kind of information leaves me only with the mainstream media. Even the blogosphere is silent on many people who die.

It's times, though, when I hear about Sean Kennedy, who was run down outside of a bar by a man who later referred to Kennedy in a phone call as a "fucking faggot," that upset me the most.

Not because Mr. Kennedy is dead, but because I never heard about it.

What precipitates the perfect storm of media coverage for a dead queer? In reality, it's a host of factors that play into the "media darling" situation that King and Shephard were in. For the latter, it was undoubtedly the "small town, good-looking white boy" aspect, coupled with the brutality of his murder. For the former, it was the age of the murdered, and of the murderer, and the fact that he seems to have fallen between the gaps of our broken foster care system.

Where does that leave everyone else, the other dead who are silent in the media?

They are in limbo, and there is a giant question mark over their graves.

Locally, James McGee was beaten to death. There are some who say it was a hate crime, others who say it was just a crime of opportunity. One eyewitness heard the 13- and 14- year old that killed him say that McGee had AIDS. I assume that was part of the motivation. However, he was alone on the street late at night and drunk. Therefore, he did it to himself.

Then, there's Alexio Bello of Miami, who was murdered by a Mexican immigrant who targeted Bello because he was older and alone. Surely, this man would appreciate the company of a young, cute 21-year old. It's pederastic and Bello invited the murderer in. Therfore, he did it to himself.

And Cameron McWilliams -- a suicide by hanging because the torment over his gender expression had become too much. McWilliams was only 11-years old. He took his own life, and it was his decision to tell others that he wanted to be a girl. Therefore, he did it to himself. (To this day, by the way, if you google McWilliams' name, QueerCincinnati.com is still in the top-20 results you'll get back.)

What about Victor Manious of Michigan? He was beat with a bat and stuffed into a car trunk. His attacker would get off on a lighter sentence by using the "queer panic" defense; apparently either being hit on by or receive head by a gay man was too much for his Southern Baptist sensibilities. Regardless, a gay man came onto this good southern boy. Therefore, Manious did it to himself.

And Steven Hirschfield who may have been murdered without cause by the police. Reports say that Hirschfield attacked first, but there are no witnesses to corroborate that story. Hirschfield was in a manic state brought on by drugs at a gay event. Therefore, he did it to himself.

Finally, what about 17-year old "cross dresser" Simmie Williams, gunned down in Florida. They still haven't caught the men that killed Simmie. However, he was out late at night in a bad neighborhood and in women's clothing. Therefore, he did it to himself.

None of them did it to themselves. It is hubris to say, "well, had they just acted normal, none of this would have happened." It is an affront to sensibilities to blame the victim of a heinous death just because they were being themselves, or acting upon a set of cues from someone else that would lead them to believe that they were in a safe situation.

Where is the media coverage, or is the "they did it to themselves" factor mildly alleviated in King's or Shephard's case because we can take on some level of liberal guilt for not doing more to protect them?

I don't know.

I wish there were a gay listserv that kept me up to date on these sorts of crimes, rather than waiting on CNN to tell me when to care.

The problem with this strategy is that it is not enough. There's no anger, no fire there. The deaths of Shephard and King were awful and should be well-publicized. They forced America to deal with the ongoing violence against LGBT people -- a violence that is so ubiquitous in some places as to require a gay posse to protect people in predominately gay areas. It forced other people to realize that our fight isn't over; and it forced us to realize that people are still dying in our fight.

Already, the anger over Lawrence King is subsiding, and we are rationalizing it as an isolated incident by an unbalanced child.

That's wrong. It is a symptom of a larger problem, a grosser issue that needs to be addressed and dealt with with greater alcrity, rather than placating our minds with gentle "it can never happen to me"'s. All of these deaths should force us out to confront the problem that has always been there.

But, for now, we have King and Shephard. They are our memories, our martyrs, and our heroes. Because, somehow, they have become accepted by mainstream America.

And that's a start, but it's not enough.

I'm sure there are people who have been greatly affected by other deaths and are screaming every night that there is no such thing as just another dead queer. If there is a community, we should reach out to all of them and not just one or two.

And we should demand the rest of the country to do the same.

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

"I just don't watch studio porn anymore," says my most porn-savvy friend, effectively crushing my personal goal to one day be gold-chain ladened adult film producer (it's better than my current status as a bare chested porn connoisseur). "It's just not real."

We, of course, were discussing the most popular unspoken gay site in the world -- Xtube. Though not exclusively gay, I've found knowledge of its existence in heterosexuals lacking -- much to their own dismay as I open their eyes to the glory of free, seemingly endless, amateur porn. The joy is mine, as the opportunity to arouse is a great pleasure. In the gay world, Xtube has been whispered from homo to homo and has taken on a huge following. I was never so surprised as when on very late night, I was with friends "having a good time," and I was asked about my Xtube favorites. As if, of course, I had them.

And, really, there's nothing better than cruising the straight section to remind myself that women don't know how to suck cock.

Back to my friend, the porn savant. What is the state of studio porn? I feel I had to enlighten an acquaintance who wants to be a porn star that it is dying -- and quickly. Another person who circles my life handed me a box of probably 40-50 studio porns "because [he doesn't] watch them anymore." Outside of the occasional major studio release, his picks now lie with Xtube and the multiplicity of online "amateur" sites that pop up every other day and litter my email. Even local porn blogger, RandyXBoy.com, features primarily this amateur stuff; all of the porn bloggers do. (Not that I spend a tremendous amount of personal time trolling the interweb for appropriate "spank bank" material.)

The decline in studio porn is counterintuitive. The demand for it online is growing, but the interest is in amateur and barebacking material. However, we are seeing a rise in extremely wealthy and powerful pornography studios -- Falcon, Colt, Vivid, etc. -- along with some very successful individual pornographers -- Rob Navarro, D. Sanchez, Sean Cody, etc. There appears to be two trends at work here.

One, unlike the studios' hey day of the 1960s-1980s, there are fewer and fewer of them. Though the market has grown, the ability to access small time studios has similarly shrunk. In fact, without a little more research, there are only a few individual studios that come to mind, and mostly because they are sponsors and advertisers on, you guessed it, Xtube.

Second, there is the increasing professionalization of "amateur" productions. Navarro's Military Unclassified has many examples of this, as he often prefaces his new stars as "exclusive" or as having appeared on other sites. IE: though billed as "amateur" and set up as an "amateur shoot" (uncomfortable stars, living room settings, 3rd party/involved director), in reality, they are no more than a new branding of professional porn.

"I just like them because the cum shots seem real. Professionals are staged." Again, the porn savant friend speaking.

I find genuine amateur porn, like those regularly posted on Xtube or on the less popular sites like PornoTube and Redtube, grainy and rarely interesting enough to hold my interest for the requisite three or five minutes. The sites are littered with individual jerk off videos -- usually done without a face -- and short, poorly made 30-second clips of people "doing it" in dark rooms. The creativity of the settings are hackneyed, and attempts at placing some meaning behind the actions are rough. More often than not, the sound is bad, the music is worse than the familiar wakka-wakka-wakka of studio work, and the dialogue of the "stars" is forced and disgraceful to any self-respecting homosexual.

I have better things to do than to constantly open another video (2 of 16!!), each 30 seconds, while listening to a man who resembles my neighbor half-heartedly saying "suck my cock, boy" -- better things, like, for example, getting off.

I watch porn for the fantasy. People who have watched with me are usually annoyed because I want the build-up, the storyline. I'm far more cerebral in my sexuality, if you can believe that. I need a reason to care that this dom top is sling training his pup for use by others. How did we get into this? It's cliche, but what's the motivation here? And I'm not a fan of written "erotica," as it requires too many hands to enjoy. The little blurbs the "authors" of the videos give you are not enough to -- ahem -- to satisfy me.

Theres' money in sex. There's celebrity there, too. But give me bad acting and then a good fuck. If I wanted just the good fuck and regular people, I'd just head on down to the Serpents.

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