When I Need A Pick Me Up, by my friend Ryan King

Saturday, July 4, 2009

So I Almost Lasted A Week, Right...?

...Not blogging about my gayness?

But I do want to thank you guys for the concern about the possibility that Jester could do me some kind of serious harm. My first reaction was that Jester would never ... but then I realized, I thought I would never say something like "I'm gay" and mean it, either. And I've had enough team-ups with Worst Case Scenario Man to know not to discount any possibility. And I've have seen some personality alterings in ol' Jester that makes it seem possible that he could snap. A crime of passion. Very entertaining, but I wouldn't get to enjoy it. So eff that. Plus, Jester doesn't deserve to know this part about me. He's antagonistic about all aspects of my emotional life, so quite figuratively screw him.

What I'm concerned about is getting this weight off and making myself attractive again. To me. And someone who would like the Jason Statham type. Because I want to give as much as I ask for.

And yeah, I do think I'm going to ask for something in the next few years. I'm lonely and I feel crazy being alone. I still love the look of ladies' ta-tas,

but I've not been turned on enough to ever go after them in any heterosexual way. I've never been driven by "red-blooded" chest-beating, loins-throbbing, knuckle-dragging urges to get in that. And that's just one of a few nails in the coffin of my hopes to be hetero.

But right now I have my keyboard in my lap and my fat stomach is a hard pillow in the way of my wrists. It's big and fat and not washboardy or even flat, it makes bending down to put my socks on a chore, and it makes all my pants tight enough to cause pressure wounds under my navel from the pants' button.

I'm not going to attract the kind of guys I like if I don't look like them, methinks. Because we men are a superficial, shallow, and visual bunch. And even if I attract them, I'm way too vain for them to see me nekkid.

Ugh. Again I'm getting the willies. I hate this stuff. I hate sex. I hate the whole friggin idea of having a part of me that I can't control or get rid of without psychiatric intervention.

It is not fair.

Okay, moving on.

Yeah, so overeating.

I'm doing it because it's something I can have NOW, without initial guilt, and the gratification is immediate and fulfilling. Literally. But also, I find I've been doing it because I've had this extra money I've been saving up. So when the urge hits to swaller a cheeseburger from a diner instead of McDonald's, chomp chomp chomp. Or when I want a decadent dessert. Or when I want candy ice cream candy fruit smoothies candy potato chips candy. Or a steak. Or shrimp.

So since I have to pay my taxes anyway because of all the untaxed income from the therapist's gig, I might as well pay back my friend loans too. It will empty my savings, but they'll build up again just like they did the first time. And meanwhile, I won't be so free to pig out. I've got shelves and shelves of Nutrisystems, so I won't starve even if my savings DIDN'T replenish.

But I want my 34-inch waist back. It would go SO good with my broad shoulders and my stout chest. I mean, hey. I'm a good-looking guy, dammit! I want to be the best I can be! Even if it's not for a woman anymore (which y'all don't really care anyway. I've done my research. I know these things.)

Okay, so the coming-out process. I still don't want to do it. I don't want to be defined. I don't want to be labeled. I've never wanted that. EVER. And I still don't want my friends to re-categorize me. I don't want my co-workers ... ah. Fuggit. I can't control what people think. For better or ill. I can't although I desperately want to and have a personality tailor-made to. It's for nought.

You're going to like me because you just do, or you won't because you just don't. I can only control myself, and as my waistline proves, I can't even do that without some real effort.

So yeah.

So anyway.

How are y'all? Y'all some QUIET Bloggers out there, I swear!

I'll try to post pics or vids from the fireworks tonight. They're blasting off over the Hudson this year (where the plane went down) and I'm hoping they won't seem too miniature from the George Washington Bridge, because that's where I'm going to be.

Happy Fourth of July!

Independence day.

Mmph.

3 comments:

Dre said...

Do you really hate sex?

GrizzBabe said...

Note to self: log out of The Boyfriend's blogger account before posting.

Alan said...

Awesome tho. Here I thought Dre was joining into my fun!

What I hate about sex is the apparent condition that I wont get to have it the way I've always dreamed of it. I won't get to pledge love to a beautiful woman at an altar. I won't get to carry her over a threshhold. I won't get to be her Tarzan, her Leonides, her Clark Kent, her Steve Trevor, her T'Challa (Black Panther). Her Han Solo, her Jack T. Colton (Romancing the Stone), her Det. Tony Carlson (Foul Play).

Alone sex seems just like scratching an itch these days. It feels great, but only because there's an itch. It'd be WAY better not to be itching.

And still it's haunting. From 13 until now, it's always been marked as something to be ashamed of. Something I'd better not get caught doing. Something that I have to tune out the fact that God is watching me, else I'd never get 'er done at all!

I've always wanted to have the kind of sex that was just glorious, loving, binding, exciting, calming, treasured. But I've never had any kind of sex except that alone & embarrassed stuff.

So yeah. I hate it. These days, anyway.