Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, the families have been met and the proposal was in place. All that was left for our newly betrothed One was a move across country, a wedding to plan, and a husband to break in...It was gonna be a busy six months...
In retrospect, I probably could have taken two years to plan this wedding. Giving myself a six month time line was perhaps the absolute worst thing I could have done, and yet I pulled it off...Brilliantly, I might add. The first thing we must recognize is that it wasn't always to be a wedding in a mere six months. Pre-move to Arizona, we had contemplated holding the event in our lovely hometown of Peoria, Illinois. I had it all sorts of imagined: a wedding in April at the Botanical Gardens in Glen Oak Park. It would be intimate and beautiful. It is to be noted here that my fantasy was is technicolor, smell-o-vision. I wanted candles and jasmine with white chairs and a pink, maybe champagne-colored walkway. Three representatives for each party in corresponding colors to denote rank in line-up would filter down the aisle and I would make a grand entrance to the orchestral theme of "Both Hands" by Ani Difranco.
Following the wedding we'd have a no-less-than 500 guest reception at the Packard Plaza to be catered by One World Eats and Drinks and flowers done by Leo's Florists. There would be more candles and yet- a still more jasmine scented atmosphere. I would be whirling around on the dance floor to the first dance song of "Lucky" by Jason Mraz and the night would be perhaps the wedding to end all wedding, or so the "Chicago Tribune", "Peoria Journal Star" and "People Magazine" would all call it.
Is that gay enough for you?
Now, lets put in the reality check: Weddings in April are overdone. The Botanical Gardens is a million degrees with 98 percent humidity in December, so we can imagine what it would be like in mid Spring, and the Packard Plaza was about $9000 just for the room on that weekend. Clearly there were obstacles standing in my way.
After some lengthy discussions, Trevor and I decided that a Vegas-style union would be the most fun and economical shindig we could come up with. But that's getting ahead of ourselves. You see, it was only April, and we still had to sell a house before we could do anything. Namely my house which I'd only purchased a mere 2.5 years prior to now. Given the age of the establishment and the location in Peoria, I knew I'd have a bit of a challenge. I really didn't want to go through a realtor. The thought of paying a person upwards of 7% made me ill, not too mention broke. I was willing to take a loss, but not because of realtor commissions. So, on a wing and a prayer, I stuck a "FOR SALE BY OWNER" sign in my front yard and told Jesus to take the wheel.
In six days, my house was sold. I, to this day, will always say that God sold my house. Really, it was Remax. The house two doors up from me had had their house on the market for like two months. Well, a nice bloke by the name of James had seen their yard sign and advertisement at the end of the street. He drove up to check out their business and took a gander at my bricks. Not to boast, but my house was TOTALLY the cutest pile on the avenue. He called me up, saw it an hour later and put in an offer in two days. As he was realtor free and so was I, it was a match made in heaven. On a side note, to be a total bitch, I later sent flowers to the realtor whose picture was plastered all over my street with a note saying, "Thanks for selling my house!"
And with that all wrapped up, I just needed to gather the resources to move across the country. And that was easier than it sounds. The groom already had a brother living in Phoenix who was offering up his pad for us to live in until we were able to find a home of our own. And his mother and twin, were more than willing to take up with a U-Haul and some hotel rewards points so that we could corral our stuff to the 85013.
At this point, I stop to say that it was not emotionally as easy to make the trek as it was physically. For many years in my life, Peoria had been my home. And it may have been awful, but it was still what came naturally. After all, I wasn't just leaving my house. I was also leaving my friends, my co-workers, my family, my animals and my past. I left them all there lying off of I-74 and I wasn't entirely sure that I would ever be able to pick up those pieces again. I drove past the school where I had been a Speech Junkie. I looked to my left and saw the first place I fell in love. I looked right to see my friends driving to a bar without me. As I crossed the 74 bridge, I looked in the rearview mirror and I saw all of the ghosts that had haunted me wave goodbye. Then they turned around and continued as if I had never been there at all. It wasn't the poetry of the situation that hit me so hard, though looking back, it was poetic. It was the finality and more than that, it was that I was ok...I had survived.
Crossing the great midwest, headed to the great southwest, was a whole other adventure that includes road-head, hotel trysts, and a excursion into eating grits...
Monday, November 9, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
An Indecent Proposal...
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, our bridezilla had met the one, and his parents, and the rest of his brew. The groom had successfully survived his own run-ins with his soon-to-be in-laws and there had been not a single nervous breakdown in the process.
The next couple of months flew by with little trouble and lots of fun. There was an uneventful New Years Eve that climaxed with a climax to Britney Spears' song "Breathe On Me". Don't judge me. Not even from afar. Next would come a not-so-romantic Valentine's Day where we both had to work and finally, we moved onward to the fast approaching springtime. Over the passing weeks, we had become more than just lovers. We became best friends. There wasn't overwhelming need to be perfect all of the time. Things could become comfortable. Specifically, One evening, Trevor and I were laying on the couch watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I had adjusted my position on the couch pressing on his belly. All of a sudden, I heard a loud rumble emit from his stomach. What happened next was as defining of our love as it was side-pain funny. I heard a small "buurrrrnnn." Here, I am using "buurrrrnnn" as an onomatopoeia. Clearly he had just dropped ass all over the sofa, and me, uncharacteristically I might add, chose to ignore it. But then my lip started to curl in the corner and my face began to scrunch. I just about had it all controlled and then the odor began to catch me right around my nose and that was it. I started laughing and I couldn't stop. Trevor, on the other hand, did not find his flatulence hilarious. He turned this odd shade of magenta and began to fume. Because he was clearly upset, I did the only thing that I could think to do. I told him I would try to blast ass too. So here he is all purple from embarrassment and then there's me all purple from pushing, hoping against all hopes that I didn't give myself a roid...
Trevor was not the only one who had grown comfortable in his nestled surroundings; I too, became more lax in my compulsions over the progressing months. For example, anyone who has ever met me can attest that I have always been a bit obsessed with, shall we say, outer beautification. In layman's terms, I would sell my kidney for a pair of square toe, silk stitch Prada loafers and a bronzer that could both conceal and highlight. In my warped obsession, I had this philosophy: Trevor didn't actually know what I looked like. And more than this, he could never know what lay beneath this cosmetically enhances coiffure and face. So for the first, say 2 months, I ensured he never be burdened with what I affectionately called "The Ugly Truth." Unbeknownst to Trevor as he lay dead to the world in the wee hours of the morning, I had set my alarm to 5 am every morning for a very specific purpose: to hop out of bed and haul my tequitos into the bathroom to apply a thin layer of bronzer and some silky lip balm so as to appear stunning upon his rile from slumber. This way, he would see me in my most natural state: beautified and pretentious. You know, like Paris Hilton, before the scary, green-lit, hotel-room porn. But, as the months rolled by, I dropped the ritual and gracefully allowed him to see me, all rough and tough. (Although I still shy away from situations where he might espy me under flourescent lighting.)
We had become more and more a commodity, and less mutually exclusive. We spent all of our time together and even began to merge our groups. One night, Myself, Trevor, my friends Mike and Carol, Mary Beth, and a couple we new from afar all decided to make an evening of play and laughter. So, we relieved ourselves from the earlier Saturday onslaught at around 7 pm and flew out to the Shoppes of Grand Prairie to a new German restaurant called Kaiserhoff. At this time, I ask you to let me describe the scenery that I shall be immersed in for the next 2.5 hours of my life. Picture it: Peoria, March 8, 2009. Two gays, Three girls and a couple of hetero males find themselves seated in a recreation of a German stereotype. There were large mugs of dark beers, men and women dressed in liederhosen, and an accordian player walking around serenading individual tables to with polka-ed out stylings of "The Sound of Music." Von Trapp, My Ass! It was awful. The scenery, not the company. In fact, the company would lead to the very proposal later that evening.
As I choked down a burnt breast of chicken cordon bleu, the topic turned toward my ideals of getting married. Let us revisit the past so as to clearly define who I had been, pre-Trevor. My last boyfriend of seven years had on occasion asked me if I'd like to get married at random times throughout our relationship. The first time, I was still young and naive, so of course I said yes. The next time he would bring it up would be a few months later, and I said sure, why not. The final time he ever mentioned me headed down an aisle in taffeta I was just plain appauled. And drunk. From what I can remember it went a little something like this:
Bob (ex-boyfriend): "So do you think you want to get married?"
Me: "WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!?"
And then I didn't speak to him again for a week. So, as you can see, my ideals on marriage had somewhat waned over the years. Trevor and I had, in the past, discussed maybe getting hitched down the line, but nothing immediate as he was still in college and wanting to move to Phoenix over the upcoming summer, and I was a homeowner in Peoria, Illinois not looking to make a cross-country move. As we explained our thoughts and feelings on marriage and adoption, Carol took it upon herself to use this time for a cigarette break. Mary Beth joined her leaving the rest of the party to the conversation at hand. Mike, Carol's husband, leaned over to me.
> Don't tell Carol this, but if you and Trevor want to get married, I can do it. I got ordained online. But don't tell Carol. She doesn't know.
At this point, I raise my glass to my lips and drink the entire Vodka and Cranberry Tall that had just been sat in front of me. The rest of the evening occurred with a personal polka serenade of "Do Re Mi" and some gracious goodbyes. No sooner had the doors of my Kia Sportage been shut, than Trevor turns to me and says:
> We need to go be gay.
Let's go down to Diesel
> Done!
With that we whisked ourselves off to Diesel for some faggotry and debauchery, only once we arrived it looked like the debautchery was going to be kept to an absolute minimum. There was next to nobody around. It was the eve of my cousin's birthday, so she was having all of our friends over out at her place located a good 30 minutes from where we already were and the gays that had found their way to the hole of downtown were comparable to that of the color beige: Throw them up against a wall with some throw pillows and they disappear. Seeing that the evening's fun was going to have to come from us, we loaded the Sportage back up and headed home.
TIME OUT!
I WANT TO BE VERY CLEAR HERE. As most of my decision making had been done with some degree of inebriation up to this point in my Bridezilla blog, I would like to let the record reflect that I was sober. Trevor was sober, but more impressively and importantly, I was sober. And all of what is to follow happened pre-sex, so there is no post-coital, male bliss syndrome occurring either. You know, that period of time immediately following a good romp where a man will say anything and you get him to promise doing stuff like wax your car, or pay your bills...
TIME IN!
As we lay in bed, we reflected on the nights involvement of liederhosen and marvelled at the notion of our straight friends being more exciting than our gay friends. I made reference to Mike being ordained and how hilarious it would be if Carol knew that he had offered to make us a union-ed couple. Trevor looked over at me.
> You know, if you asked me to get married, I'd say yes.
Are you asking me to ask you?
> No. I'm just saying. If you ask, I'll say yes.
Oh, OK.
There is totally a huge silence here. I was torn. I was torn between whether I should ask him to get married or not because he was expecting me to. I mean, you can't just say something like that and then not have an expectation. On the other hand, I was terrified. I mean, I hadn't been broken up from Bob too terribly long, and I was scared that maybe I was just replacing one relationship with another one, kind of like how a fatty replaces one piece of cake with the next piece of cake...But then, it hit me: I wanted to get married to Trevor. Lord knows, I didn't want to get married ever. I didn't want the fanfare. I didn't want the commitment. Hell, I didn't want the divorce. But, even in the face of all of that, I did want to marry Trevor, and only Trevor. That was my revelation. I hadn't jumped from one relationship to the next. I had jumped from one relationship into forever. I didn't want to fill any void. I wanted to be complete. I wanted Trevor and no one else. With this realization, I turned to him and say, "Will you marry me?"
> Yes.
And while technically, I popped the question, I will always say we just agreed to get married. So, it wasn't a typical, normal, or even decent proposal. It was our Indecent proposal. And not the awkward Demi Moore kind.
It was the kind that starts with a "will you" and ends with a "yes."
The next couple of months flew by with little trouble and lots of fun. There was an uneventful New Years Eve that climaxed with a climax to Britney Spears' song "Breathe On Me". Don't judge me. Not even from afar. Next would come a not-so-romantic Valentine's Day where we both had to work and finally, we moved onward to the fast approaching springtime. Over the passing weeks, we had become more than just lovers. We became best friends. There wasn't overwhelming need to be perfect all of the time. Things could become comfortable. Specifically, One evening, Trevor and I were laying on the couch watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I had adjusted my position on the couch pressing on his belly. All of a sudden, I heard a loud rumble emit from his stomach. What happened next was as defining of our love as it was side-pain funny. I heard a small "buurrrrnnn." Here, I am using "buurrrrnnn" as an onomatopoeia. Clearly he had just dropped ass all over the sofa, and me, uncharacteristically I might add, chose to ignore it. But then my lip started to curl in the corner and my face began to scrunch. I just about had it all controlled and then the odor began to catch me right around my nose and that was it. I started laughing and I couldn't stop. Trevor, on the other hand, did not find his flatulence hilarious. He turned this odd shade of magenta and began to fume. Because he was clearly upset, I did the only thing that I could think to do. I told him I would try to blast ass too. So here he is all purple from embarrassment and then there's me all purple from pushing, hoping against all hopes that I didn't give myself a roid...
Trevor was not the only one who had grown comfortable in his nestled surroundings; I too, became more lax in my compulsions over the progressing months. For example, anyone who has ever met me can attest that I have always been a bit obsessed with, shall we say, outer beautification. In layman's terms, I would sell my kidney for a pair of square toe, silk stitch Prada loafers and a bronzer that could both conceal and highlight. In my warped obsession, I had this philosophy: Trevor didn't actually know what I looked like. And more than this, he could never know what lay beneath this cosmetically enhances coiffure and face. So for the first, say 2 months, I ensured he never be burdened with what I affectionately called "The Ugly Truth." Unbeknownst to Trevor as he lay dead to the world in the wee hours of the morning, I had set my alarm to 5 am every morning for a very specific purpose: to hop out of bed and haul my tequitos into the bathroom to apply a thin layer of bronzer and some silky lip balm so as to appear stunning upon his rile from slumber. This way, he would see me in my most natural state: beautified and pretentious. You know, like Paris Hilton, before the scary, green-lit, hotel-room porn. But, as the months rolled by, I dropped the ritual and gracefully allowed him to see me, all rough and tough. (Although I still shy away from situations where he might espy me under flourescent lighting.)
We had become more and more a commodity, and less mutually exclusive. We spent all of our time together and even began to merge our groups. One night, Myself, Trevor, my friends Mike and Carol, Mary Beth, and a couple we new from afar all decided to make an evening of play and laughter. So, we relieved ourselves from the earlier Saturday onslaught at around 7 pm and flew out to the Shoppes of Grand Prairie to a new German restaurant called Kaiserhoff. At this time, I ask you to let me describe the scenery that I shall be immersed in for the next 2.5 hours of my life. Picture it: Peoria, March 8, 2009. Two gays, Three girls and a couple of hetero males find themselves seated in a recreation of a German stereotype. There were large mugs of dark beers, men and women dressed in liederhosen, and an accordian player walking around serenading individual tables to with polka-ed out stylings of "The Sound of Music." Von Trapp, My Ass! It was awful. The scenery, not the company. In fact, the company would lead to the very proposal later that evening.
As I choked down a burnt breast of chicken cordon bleu, the topic turned toward my ideals of getting married. Let us revisit the past so as to clearly define who I had been, pre-Trevor. My last boyfriend of seven years had on occasion asked me if I'd like to get married at random times throughout our relationship. The first time, I was still young and naive, so of course I said yes. The next time he would bring it up would be a few months later, and I said sure, why not. The final time he ever mentioned me headed down an aisle in taffeta I was just plain appauled. And drunk. From what I can remember it went a little something like this:
Bob (ex-boyfriend): "So do you think you want to get married?"
Me: "WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!?"
And then I didn't speak to him again for a week. So, as you can see, my ideals on marriage had somewhat waned over the years. Trevor and I had, in the past, discussed maybe getting hitched down the line, but nothing immediate as he was still in college and wanting to move to Phoenix over the upcoming summer, and I was a homeowner in Peoria, Illinois not looking to make a cross-country move. As we explained our thoughts and feelings on marriage and adoption, Carol took it upon herself to use this time for a cigarette break. Mary Beth joined her leaving the rest of the party to the conversation at hand. Mike, Carol's husband, leaned over to me.
> Don't tell Carol this, but if you and Trevor want to get married, I can do it. I got ordained online. But don't tell Carol. She doesn't know.
At this point, I raise my glass to my lips and drink the entire Vodka and Cranberry Tall that had just been sat in front of me. The rest of the evening occurred with a personal polka serenade of "Do Re Mi" and some gracious goodbyes. No sooner had the doors of my Kia Sportage been shut, than Trevor turns to me and says:
> We need to go be gay.
Let's go down to Diesel
> Done!
With that we whisked ourselves off to Diesel for some faggotry and debauchery, only once we arrived it looked like the debautchery was going to be kept to an absolute minimum. There was next to nobody around. It was the eve of my cousin's birthday, so she was having all of our friends over out at her place located a good 30 minutes from where we already were and the gays that had found their way to the hole of downtown were comparable to that of the color beige: Throw them up against a wall with some throw pillows and they disappear. Seeing that the evening's fun was going to have to come from us, we loaded the Sportage back up and headed home.
TIME OUT!
I WANT TO BE VERY CLEAR HERE. As most of my decision making had been done with some degree of inebriation up to this point in my Bridezilla blog, I would like to let the record reflect that I was sober. Trevor was sober, but more impressively and importantly, I was sober. And all of what is to follow happened pre-sex, so there is no post-coital, male bliss syndrome occurring either. You know, that period of time immediately following a good romp where a man will say anything and you get him to promise doing stuff like wax your car, or pay your bills...
TIME IN!
As we lay in bed, we reflected on the nights involvement of liederhosen and marvelled at the notion of our straight friends being more exciting than our gay friends. I made reference to Mike being ordained and how hilarious it would be if Carol knew that he had offered to make us a union-ed couple. Trevor looked over at me.
> You know, if you asked me to get married, I'd say yes.
Are you asking me to ask you?
> No. I'm just saying. If you ask, I'll say yes.
Oh, OK.
There is totally a huge silence here. I was torn. I was torn between whether I should ask him to get married or not because he was expecting me to. I mean, you can't just say something like that and then not have an expectation. On the other hand, I was terrified. I mean, I hadn't been broken up from Bob too terribly long, and I was scared that maybe I was just replacing one relationship with another one, kind of like how a fatty replaces one piece of cake with the next piece of cake...But then, it hit me: I wanted to get married to Trevor. Lord knows, I didn't want to get married ever. I didn't want the fanfare. I didn't want the commitment. Hell, I didn't want the divorce. But, even in the face of all of that, I did want to marry Trevor, and only Trevor. That was my revelation. I hadn't jumped from one relationship to the next. I had jumped from one relationship into forever. I didn't want to fill any void. I wanted to be complete. I wanted Trevor and no one else. With this realization, I turned to him and say, "Will you marry me?"
> Yes.
And while technically, I popped the question, I will always say we just agreed to get married. So, it wasn't a typical, normal, or even decent proposal. It was our Indecent proposal. And not the awkward Demi Moore kind.
It was the kind that starts with a "will you" and ends with a "yes."
Monday, September 21, 2009
Intro to Parents 202...
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, CJ McBridezilla found himself celebrating his holidays with his old family members and soon-to-be new family members, unbeknownst to even them. And while our bride has met the masses, Trevor has yet to look his future in the face...
The next time that parental introductions would occur would be one month later as the holiday season came to a close, culminating into that one day for which all mini-malls, super-centers, and village bars celebrate: Christmas. Oh, Christmas, the sound of Capitalism Carols in the air. Anyway, as my family is what one would consider "broken," Trevor was to find himself smack dab in all things CJ, not once, but twice. First up, would be the very large and loud gathering at my Aunt and Uncle's home.
Let me start at the end of the story by telling you first, that Trevor survived. The holiday merriment that he experienced was very different from what I was accustomed to. Christmas, for me growing up, had always consisted of going to my Grandma and Grandpa's ranch-style abode. There would be a small gathering with presents, Bing Crosby's "White Christmas," and White Zinfadel by the box. It was small, but it was, in a word, merry. For twenty years, the holiday spirit had meaning for me. For twenty years, I enjoyed the ritual of Christmas. But, in December of 2001, our holiday goings-on changed. Truthfully, Christmas died. I do not intend this as a provacative statement against religion, but as a small truth that has defined me for the better part of this decade. You see, Jim McBride, my grandfather, always made the holidays, not only bearable, but damned-right enjoyable. He loved to be surrounded by his family. And he loved to give gifts; great gifts that were always perfect for the recipient. In October 2001, Jim McBride's health had started to decline. In November, we canceled Thanksgiving due to his hospitalization and by the beginning of December, he was dead.
So flash forward to 2008, where Trevor was going to be initiated into the new McBride tradition. The new tradition brought about new festivities and among these new traditions was the beautiful blending of families. Big families. Big, loud families. Big, loud families with lots of loud children. Lots of raucous-ass children. My Uncle and my Aunt were the new hosts of Christmas, bringing her family (brothers, sisters, parents, nieces and nephews) to our family. My aunt had spent loads of time making the food and planning the festivities with all the traditional fixings: tree, stockings, and presents, presents, presents!
Trevor and I promptly arrived at 1:00 behind my Grandma, my Father, and Donna, my Dad's long-time girlfriend. The introduction occurred in the driveway. As I had already been called a vapid-whore over cranberry sauce, I was sure that this meeting was to be especially memorable. As it turned out, everyone was completely cordial and pleasant. We walked into the house and were greeted with wonderful smelling food and loads upon loads of noise. Chit-chat, banter, screaming, and crying. A very merry XMAS to all.
If there is one thing to be counted on with my family, it is that there will always be a bountiful amount of liquor at any family gathering. Today, would be no different. As we entered the house, I made an immediate left hand turn into the kitchen to scope out the large pot of brewing coffee and the Bailey's Caramel Liquor that I had brought with me, stashed in my stylish, yet affordable purse from White House, Black Market.
As I made my way to the coffee pot, I became aware of two horrifying facts. One: there was no coffee brewing and the coffee maker that they owned look like something out of Star Trek; all futuristic and terrifying. And two: it dawned on me that my Uncle Rob's house had recently made the cover of the Peoria Journal Star for having a very large Black Widow Spider infestation on his lot. So here's me, sober without an immediate cure, in a home that, although treated, was home to my worst nightmare...ever. Because I can't just freak out in my head all alone like a normal or even sane person, I let Trevor in on my discovery. Being the problem solver that he is, he figured out the coffee maker and let me quietly sit in the corner doing shots of Bailey's Caramel Liquor straight out of the bottle.
Newly armed with my good friend Bailey, I began to simmer down into a coma-like lull. There were polite conversations abound with the usual questions surrounding new partnerships.
"Where are you from?", "What do you do?", and so on and so forth. He was pleasant and assured. He passed every test with remarkable ease and comfort. If he was nervous, they never knew it. And here's the best part: the only negative feedback I received on him was that he was a little quiet. FABULOUS! They had nothing to nitpick, or rip apart. He passed all of the family nonsense with flying colors.
Just as the present-opening extravaganza began to wind down, we said our goodbyes and happy holidays and fled the scene like a couple of bandits in the night headed straight for I74 East. We hopped across the river and went on over to his parents house for their evening of present-giving. I sat quietly and watched the Thompson family laugh and joke over presents and old times like a scene from "The Homecoming: A Walton's Family Christmas". Mom and Dad ushering out gifts and the granddaughter, Madison grabbing individual stockings from the mantle. As an outsider I can honestly say, Christmas was brought back to me, a small bit.
Trevor's next family fiasco involved the ever-lovable, mostly zany Patten family, my Mom's brew. Something to note about the Patten family: we are caricatures of real people a lot of the time. You know, like the normal picture of you with some feature greatly exaggerated to bring out the funniest part of you. Only, as beautiful people, the exaggeration is found in the personality, rather than the physical. For instance, Aunt Jamie: loud and raucous. Aunt Karen: aloof and nonchalant. Nana: talkative, for days...
My Mom, unable to come down for the actual holiday, had decided that she would pop down for a visit following Christmas. Trevor's eldest brother Josh was also in town visiting from Phoenix, AZ and was hanging out with his little brother for the day. Fate would have the cold winds from the Northern Chicago air collide with the balmy currents of Phoenix right over 803 W. Corrington Ave for a meeting that I wouldn't soon be forgetting.
The meeting was casual. My Mom, Aunt Karen, Nana and a couple of my cousins sitting around my Christmas Tree with Trevor and Josh. All was going well with the telling of stories and a mimosa and then it happened. My ever-aloof, ever-nonchalant Aunt Karen brings up my Mom's 3rd husband. What happened next was merely proof that the good Lord has a sense of humor. The glorious tale of her flight from his grasp commenced.
The year was 2000. My Mom had recently been married to man she was dating for a good eight years. They had decided that they were going to move to Gold Canyon, AZ for his retirement and her life. They sold their home in Chicago, loaded up a 30-foot UHaul and began the 2000 mile journey across the US of A. The back story, which Trevor and Josh were unaware of, goes that he wasn't a very nice man. He was controlling, domineering, and outright mean. Mom had been having misgivings about making the trek and beginning anew for a while but kept putting off the talk that should have preceded the move. So, all loaded up and on their way to Arizona, my non-confrontational mom in all her eloquence pulled into a gas station, dialed his cell phone number and told him that it was over. That's right. My Mom eighty-sixed her beau at the local Gas-n-Gulp, leaving herself homeless and unemployed. As all children do, she retreated to Bartonville to stay with her mom and began to rebuild her life, which did not nor nor would it ever, include a newly built home in the middle of Arizona.
Don't get me wrong. The story itself isn't much more than hopefully hilarious. But the telling of that tale in front of my now brother-in-law-to-be was mortifying. The one terrible thought began to creep into my head: does he think I'm going to do the same thing? to his baby brother? Not at all, the kind of thing you want floating in the mind of the big brother.
The rest of the eveing happened very quickly as it was a short visit. Presents, chit-chat, and more mimosas and fianlly, a departure from both parties. As my family left my house, I ran to the bathroom, applied my bronzer, and high-tailed it to the nearest bar I could find. A few drinks later the holidays were over and the thought that I had survived rang gloriously through my head.
On a side note, while my embarrassment from that evening remains a good chuckle in my head, let it be known, that I am proud of the choice my mother made to start her life over, without him in charge. I will applaud this bravery forever, even if it does involve a Gas-n-Gulp.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a "Thank God! It's over."
The next time that parental introductions would occur would be one month later as the holiday season came to a close, culminating into that one day for which all mini-malls, super-centers, and village bars celebrate: Christmas. Oh, Christmas, the sound of Capitalism Carols in the air. Anyway, as my family is what one would consider "broken," Trevor was to find himself smack dab in all things CJ, not once, but twice. First up, would be the very large and loud gathering at my Aunt and Uncle's home.
Let me start at the end of the story by telling you first, that Trevor survived. The holiday merriment that he experienced was very different from what I was accustomed to. Christmas, for me growing up, had always consisted of going to my Grandma and Grandpa's ranch-style abode. There would be a small gathering with presents, Bing Crosby's "White Christmas," and White Zinfadel by the box. It was small, but it was, in a word, merry. For twenty years, the holiday spirit had meaning for me. For twenty years, I enjoyed the ritual of Christmas. But, in December of 2001, our holiday goings-on changed. Truthfully, Christmas died. I do not intend this as a provacative statement against religion, but as a small truth that has defined me for the better part of this decade. You see, Jim McBride, my grandfather, always made the holidays, not only bearable, but damned-right enjoyable. He loved to be surrounded by his family. And he loved to give gifts; great gifts that were always perfect for the recipient. In October 2001, Jim McBride's health had started to decline. In November, we canceled Thanksgiving due to his hospitalization and by the beginning of December, he was dead.
So flash forward to 2008, where Trevor was going to be initiated into the new McBride tradition. The new tradition brought about new festivities and among these new traditions was the beautiful blending of families. Big families. Big, loud families. Big, loud families with lots of loud children. Lots of raucous-ass children. My Uncle and my Aunt were the new hosts of Christmas, bringing her family (brothers, sisters, parents, nieces and nephews) to our family. My aunt had spent loads of time making the food and planning the festivities with all the traditional fixings: tree, stockings, and presents, presents, presents!
Trevor and I promptly arrived at 1:00 behind my Grandma, my Father, and Donna, my Dad's long-time girlfriend. The introduction occurred in the driveway. As I had already been called a vapid-whore over cranberry sauce, I was sure that this meeting was to be especially memorable. As it turned out, everyone was completely cordial and pleasant. We walked into the house and were greeted with wonderful smelling food and loads upon loads of noise. Chit-chat, banter, screaming, and crying. A very merry XMAS to all.
If there is one thing to be counted on with my family, it is that there will always be a bountiful amount of liquor at any family gathering. Today, would be no different. As we entered the house, I made an immediate left hand turn into the kitchen to scope out the large pot of brewing coffee and the Bailey's Caramel Liquor that I had brought with me, stashed in my stylish, yet affordable purse from White House, Black Market.
As I made my way to the coffee pot, I became aware of two horrifying facts. One: there was no coffee brewing and the coffee maker that they owned look like something out of Star Trek; all futuristic and terrifying. And two: it dawned on me that my Uncle Rob's house had recently made the cover of the Peoria Journal Star for having a very large Black Widow Spider infestation on his lot. So here's me, sober without an immediate cure, in a home that, although treated, was home to my worst nightmare...ever. Because I can't just freak out in my head all alone like a normal or even sane person, I let Trevor in on my discovery. Being the problem solver that he is, he figured out the coffee maker and let me quietly sit in the corner doing shots of Bailey's Caramel Liquor straight out of the bottle.
Newly armed with my good friend Bailey, I began to simmer down into a coma-like lull. There were polite conversations abound with the usual questions surrounding new partnerships.
"Where are you from?", "What do you do?", and so on and so forth. He was pleasant and assured. He passed every test with remarkable ease and comfort. If he was nervous, they never knew it. And here's the best part: the only negative feedback I received on him was that he was a little quiet. FABULOUS! They had nothing to nitpick, or rip apart. He passed all of the family nonsense with flying colors.
Just as the present-opening extravaganza began to wind down, we said our goodbyes and happy holidays and fled the scene like a couple of bandits in the night headed straight for I74 East. We hopped across the river and went on over to his parents house for their evening of present-giving. I sat quietly and watched the Thompson family laugh and joke over presents and old times like a scene from "The Homecoming: A Walton's Family Christmas". Mom and Dad ushering out gifts and the granddaughter, Madison grabbing individual stockings from the mantle. As an outsider I can honestly say, Christmas was brought back to me, a small bit.
Trevor's next family fiasco involved the ever-lovable, mostly zany Patten family, my Mom's brew. Something to note about the Patten family: we are caricatures of real people a lot of the time. You know, like the normal picture of you with some feature greatly exaggerated to bring out the funniest part of you. Only, as beautiful people, the exaggeration is found in the personality, rather than the physical. For instance, Aunt Jamie: loud and raucous. Aunt Karen: aloof and nonchalant. Nana: talkative, for days...
My Mom, unable to come down for the actual holiday, had decided that she would pop down for a visit following Christmas. Trevor's eldest brother Josh was also in town visiting from Phoenix, AZ and was hanging out with his little brother for the day. Fate would have the cold winds from the Northern Chicago air collide with the balmy currents of Phoenix right over 803 W. Corrington Ave for a meeting that I wouldn't soon be forgetting.
The meeting was casual. My Mom, Aunt Karen, Nana and a couple of my cousins sitting around my Christmas Tree with Trevor and Josh. All was going well with the telling of stories and a mimosa and then it happened. My ever-aloof, ever-nonchalant Aunt Karen brings up my Mom's 3rd husband. What happened next was merely proof that the good Lord has a sense of humor. The glorious tale of her flight from his grasp commenced.
The year was 2000. My Mom had recently been married to man she was dating for a good eight years. They had decided that they were going to move to Gold Canyon, AZ for his retirement and her life. They sold their home in Chicago, loaded up a 30-foot UHaul and began the 2000 mile journey across the US of A. The back story, which Trevor and Josh were unaware of, goes that he wasn't a very nice man. He was controlling, domineering, and outright mean. Mom had been having misgivings about making the trek and beginning anew for a while but kept putting off the talk that should have preceded the move. So, all loaded up and on their way to Arizona, my non-confrontational mom in all her eloquence pulled into a gas station, dialed his cell phone number and told him that it was over. That's right. My Mom eighty-sixed her beau at the local Gas-n-Gulp, leaving herself homeless and unemployed. As all children do, she retreated to Bartonville to stay with her mom and began to rebuild her life, which did not nor nor would it ever, include a newly built home in the middle of Arizona.
Don't get me wrong. The story itself isn't much more than hopefully hilarious. But the telling of that tale in front of my now brother-in-law-to-be was mortifying. The one terrible thought began to creep into my head: does he think I'm going to do the same thing? to his baby brother? Not at all, the kind of thing you want floating in the mind of the big brother.
The rest of the eveing happened very quickly as it was a short visit. Presents, chit-chat, and more mimosas and fianlly, a departure from both parties. As my family left my house, I ran to the bathroom, applied my bronzer, and high-tailed it to the nearest bar I could find. A few drinks later the holidays were over and the thought that I had survived rang gloriously through my head.
On a side note, while my embarrassment from that evening remains a good chuckle in my head, let it be known, that I am proud of the choice my mother made to start her life over, without him in charge. I will applaud this bravery forever, even if it does involve a Gas-n-Gulp.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a "Thank God! It's over."
Monday, September 7, 2009
Intro to Parents 101...
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, the soon-to-be male bride and groom had an interesting first meeting, followed by a series of other interesting firsts: kiss in the truck, date at Diesel, and a romp in the sheets. But another series of firsts were on their way: introduction to the families.
Before we journey into the tale of parental introductions, let it be known that the time line places us near the most dreaded of times of the year: the damned holidays. For this reason, we must set a mood; CJ's mood for the last 27 years of holidays. I hate them. Even as a child, I was never eager to stand in long lines to sit on Santa's lap. No one was passing off a hillbilly drunk, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and Milwaukee's Best as good ol' Kris Kringle for me. The holidays, for me, had meant lots of relatives that you don't know or don't like, terrible Christmas movies usually involving a bebe gun or Chevy Chase, and food. Lots and lots of food, followed by the unavoidable belly-aching about the extra 15 pounds gained around the holidays til mid-March.
So, as you can imagine, my ritual of hunkering down and praying for daylight had commenced. This year, however, something new had happened. I had fallen in-love with a gentlemen who was really family oriented. REALLY REALLY family oriented. It wasn't just being a twin, though I'm sure that had a little something to do with it, but his whole family was close. My family, while not distant from one another, certainly had maintained a respectable amount of space from the next of kins. We'd see each other four, maybe five, times a year, throw back a few bottles of whatever, regale each other with exaggerated tales of hilarity, and drive away having survived yet another holiday season. This was commonplace for me; it was easy. Trevor's family, though, would not be like anything I'd known.
It starts with A Very McBride Thanksgiving. Up unto this point, my family had been very involved in my relationship with Bob and very uninvolved in its' aftermath. This is not to say that they did not support my decision, but at the distance that I had kept them at during the break-up, I knew that they would be shocked to find that I had begun seeing another man. Trevor had his own family plans that day and so, we had separated to our respective dinners to endure the holiday merriment. In true-to-form fashion, as soon as I arrived, the questions surrounding my whole ordeal began to arise. To make matters worse, as part of my new-lease-on-life, I had given up alcohol intake. So, not only do I now find myself in the middle of a sinkhole hell of holiday cheer, but I have to do it all sober.
For a refresher course in CJology, sobriety hadn't been my strongest attribute in, well, ever. But sobriety during a break-up, a new relationship, and a holiday stream was going to be the ultimate test, a battle-royale if you will. Surprisingly, I was able to dodge daunting questions like "how are you doing" with a side-shoulder hug, and "will you be alright"with doe-eyed sympathetic stares looking for answers within my oh-so-telling eyes. What a bunch of shit! I was over it. I was fine. That's what people like me do: we become fine. And by fine, we mean unfeeling, cold, and blunt, but nonetheless...fine.
As we had just been seated around the table in grand-ole Thanksgiving style, the passing of every dish holding feast commenced. Spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and helpings of turkey were going to be accompanied by the annoyances of small-talk surrounding my life. So I let it out.
"I'm fine. In fact, I'm so fine that I've started dating again. I am dating. I am dating a someone. I have a someone."
That did it. My task had been accomplished. Utter, uncomfortable silence. And not just normal silence, but a judgmental, screaming silence with an icy tone was filling my head. Yes ladies and gents, a cool, damn-near frigid front had rushed into Bartonville and settled directly over our dinner table. Dad was silent. His long-time girlfriend, Donna, snorted into her wine glass. My uncle just looked at me. It was my non-blood relative aunt who broke the chilly quiet.
"So, what's his name? How'd you meet him?"
"Trevor. I met him at a downtown bar. He's a Senior at Bradley."
What came next was as unexpected as any event I've lived through to date. You see, my grandmother had been listening to the banter between my aunt and I steadily, calculatingly, and as mentioned before, judgmentally.
"So from one man to the next. What are you? Some kind of vapid whore?"
Silence.
Ok, to make the story really, really good you have to have a clear picture of my grandmother. She is 70 years old, 5'4" tall, and British. British in every sense of the word. So, can I tell you that when Mary-Frickin'-Poppins asks you if you're not just a whore, but a vapid one, it tends to create stirred emotions in the room. Donna snorted, yet again, into her Boxed-wine White Zinfadel-containing glass. Dad cracked a smile and looked down, his shoulders twitching to avoid outburst of laughter. My uncle and aunt quickly shoved mouthfuls of turkey down their gullets. The rest of dinner was hurried and encumbered by more thoughtful silence. After a rush of goodbyes, I flew out the door and chain-smoked the whole way home.
So endeth the life lesson: Never tell British grandmommies about new boyfriends over Thanksgiving. Check.
After this, I figured that no matter what occurred at the Thompson feast, it could never be as shocking nor as uncomfortable as this day had been. Boy was I wrong. Earlier in the week, I had purchased a floral arrangement for the Thompson family. They were Calla Lilies, with greenery and a pretty, clear vase. I thought it was best to go with simple elegance. I mean roses seem pushy, mums are ugly, and carnations? Ewe.
Trevor arrived promptly to pick me up at my house so that I wouldn't have to join his festivities alone. I was prepared to meet the family, but I wasn't prepared to meet his FAMILY. His whole family. We are talking parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins and so on and so on. We pulled up to his lovely cul-de-sac and I took my first of many deep inhalations of the evening. Armed with my lilies, I hand-in-hand strolled with Trevor into his parent's home where, upon entry, we were greeted by the noise created by Whiskey Sour and Jack Daniels, the yorkies belonging to the Thompson's. Following the raucous noise of barks created by the pups, I hear an even bigger bellow.
"SHUT UP! DAMN DOGS!" Enter Mr. Thompson. Or at least Mr. Thompson's voice. The first person I actually met was one of his older brothers, Chad.
"Chad, this is CJ, he's my...friend."
Thanks, Trev! Way to clear that up for me. I was mortified. You see, it began to dawn on me, in this moment, that Trevor had not actually lept from his closet singing "Over the Rainbow" all dressed up in Mother's heels. To the members of his family that weren't a twin, gay-friendly, or his mom, Trevor was still a girl-lovin' man. Ok, let's not overexaggerate, but he wasn't out. And, for that matter, he had only 'come out" to his mom just a few days earlier. Luckily enough he had mentioned me during his chat so she was aware of my existence. Dad, Chad, and the rest were neglected from this new-found information. In a word, awkward.
So as I made my way into the kitchen, the introductions began. There were a couple of family friends who were on their way out as we were on our way in. They were Jacy and Jason, an "adopted" sister and her fiance' along with Trevor's mom, Robin (though she would be Mrs. Thompson for months to come.) Most of his family were curious to meet me. You may remember Taylor, the twin from earlier tales, Becci and Michelle, adorable and accepting cousins, and then there was also Nicoli and Emily, both fabulous people with adorable children, which coming from me is alot considering I think most children are snotty little toe-rags full of germs and vomit. These kids, however, were cute. And smart. And best of all, they were tolerable, well-behaved children.
After I'd met everyone else, it happened...
"Dad--this is CJ, my boyfriend."
Silence.
That was two show-stopping silences in two days. I was definitely on a roll.
"Hi, Mr. Thompson. Nice to meet you."
His response? "Ya. Uh-huh. Nic, toss the salad."
The irony of his statement was not lost on me then or now. But, dinner was soon served, and then we were on our way home. I survived. I lived past the awkward introductions of all members Thompson. Mom liked the flowers, the food was excellent, and the family members were as nice as I could have hoped. Obviously, with two sons, already out in the family, Trevor's coming-out wasn't the most shocking of occurences to Rusty's (Dad's) existence. But, a word of advice to all closeted queers: DO NOT, under any circumstance, COME OUT ON THE HOLIDAYS! A second word of advice: DO NO BRING THE BOYFRIEND HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS BEFORE YOU DO COME OUT!
All in all, it was awkward and awful and humiliating and I wouldn't change a single ounce of the way that it happened. It only makes our story that much more perfect.
Before we journey into the tale of parental introductions, let it be known that the time line places us near the most dreaded of times of the year: the damned holidays. For this reason, we must set a mood; CJ's mood for the last 27 years of holidays. I hate them. Even as a child, I was never eager to stand in long lines to sit on Santa's lap. No one was passing off a hillbilly drunk, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and Milwaukee's Best as good ol' Kris Kringle for me. The holidays, for me, had meant lots of relatives that you don't know or don't like, terrible Christmas movies usually involving a bebe gun or Chevy Chase, and food. Lots and lots of food, followed by the unavoidable belly-aching about the extra 15 pounds gained around the holidays til mid-March.
So, as you can imagine, my ritual of hunkering down and praying for daylight had commenced. This year, however, something new had happened. I had fallen in-love with a gentlemen who was really family oriented. REALLY REALLY family oriented. It wasn't just being a twin, though I'm sure that had a little something to do with it, but his whole family was close. My family, while not distant from one another, certainly had maintained a respectable amount of space from the next of kins. We'd see each other four, maybe five, times a year, throw back a few bottles of whatever, regale each other with exaggerated tales of hilarity, and drive away having survived yet another holiday season. This was commonplace for me; it was easy. Trevor's family, though, would not be like anything I'd known.
It starts with A Very McBride Thanksgiving. Up unto this point, my family had been very involved in my relationship with Bob and very uninvolved in its' aftermath. This is not to say that they did not support my decision, but at the distance that I had kept them at during the break-up, I knew that they would be shocked to find that I had begun seeing another man. Trevor had his own family plans that day and so, we had separated to our respective dinners to endure the holiday merriment. In true-to-form fashion, as soon as I arrived, the questions surrounding my whole ordeal began to arise. To make matters worse, as part of my new-lease-on-life, I had given up alcohol intake. So, not only do I now find myself in the middle of a sinkhole hell of holiday cheer, but I have to do it all sober.
For a refresher course in CJology, sobriety hadn't been my strongest attribute in, well, ever. But sobriety during a break-up, a new relationship, and a holiday stream was going to be the ultimate test, a battle-royale if you will. Surprisingly, I was able to dodge daunting questions like "how are you doing" with a side-shoulder hug, and "will you be alright"with doe-eyed sympathetic stares looking for answers within my oh-so-telling eyes. What a bunch of shit! I was over it. I was fine. That's what people like me do: we become fine. And by fine, we mean unfeeling, cold, and blunt, but nonetheless...fine.
As we had just been seated around the table in grand-ole Thanksgiving style, the passing of every dish holding feast commenced. Spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and helpings of turkey were going to be accompanied by the annoyances of small-talk surrounding my life. So I let it out.
"I'm fine. In fact, I'm so fine that I've started dating again. I am dating. I am dating a someone. I have a someone."
That did it. My task had been accomplished. Utter, uncomfortable silence. And not just normal silence, but a judgmental, screaming silence with an icy tone was filling my head. Yes ladies and gents, a cool, damn-near frigid front had rushed into Bartonville and settled directly over our dinner table. Dad was silent. His long-time girlfriend, Donna, snorted into her wine glass. My uncle just looked at me. It was my non-blood relative aunt who broke the chilly quiet.
"So, what's his name? How'd you meet him?"
"Trevor. I met him at a downtown bar. He's a Senior at Bradley."
What came next was as unexpected as any event I've lived through to date. You see, my grandmother had been listening to the banter between my aunt and I steadily, calculatingly, and as mentioned before, judgmentally.
"So from one man to the next. What are you? Some kind of vapid whore?"
Silence.
Ok, to make the story really, really good you have to have a clear picture of my grandmother. She is 70 years old, 5'4" tall, and British. British in every sense of the word. So, can I tell you that when Mary-Frickin'-Poppins asks you if you're not just a whore, but a vapid one, it tends to create stirred emotions in the room. Donna snorted, yet again, into her Boxed-wine White Zinfadel-containing glass. Dad cracked a smile and looked down, his shoulders twitching to avoid outburst of laughter. My uncle and aunt quickly shoved mouthfuls of turkey down their gullets. The rest of dinner was hurried and encumbered by more thoughtful silence. After a rush of goodbyes, I flew out the door and chain-smoked the whole way home.
So endeth the life lesson: Never tell British grandmommies about new boyfriends over Thanksgiving. Check.
After this, I figured that no matter what occurred at the Thompson feast, it could never be as shocking nor as uncomfortable as this day had been. Boy was I wrong. Earlier in the week, I had purchased a floral arrangement for the Thompson family. They were Calla Lilies, with greenery and a pretty, clear vase. I thought it was best to go with simple elegance. I mean roses seem pushy, mums are ugly, and carnations? Ewe.
Trevor arrived promptly to pick me up at my house so that I wouldn't have to join his festivities alone. I was prepared to meet the family, but I wasn't prepared to meet his FAMILY. His whole family. We are talking parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins and so on and so on. We pulled up to his lovely cul-de-sac and I took my first of many deep inhalations of the evening. Armed with my lilies, I hand-in-hand strolled with Trevor into his parent's home where, upon entry, we were greeted by the noise created by Whiskey Sour and Jack Daniels, the yorkies belonging to the Thompson's. Following the raucous noise of barks created by the pups, I hear an even bigger bellow.
"SHUT UP! DAMN DOGS!" Enter Mr. Thompson. Or at least Mr. Thompson's voice. The first person I actually met was one of his older brothers, Chad.
"Chad, this is CJ, he's my...friend."
Thanks, Trev! Way to clear that up for me. I was mortified. You see, it began to dawn on me, in this moment, that Trevor had not actually lept from his closet singing "Over the Rainbow" all dressed up in Mother's heels. To the members of his family that weren't a twin, gay-friendly, or his mom, Trevor was still a girl-lovin' man. Ok, let's not overexaggerate, but he wasn't out. And, for that matter, he had only 'come out" to his mom just a few days earlier. Luckily enough he had mentioned me during his chat so she was aware of my existence. Dad, Chad, and the rest were neglected from this new-found information. In a word, awkward.
So as I made my way into the kitchen, the introductions began. There were a couple of family friends who were on their way out as we were on our way in. They were Jacy and Jason, an "adopted" sister and her fiance' along with Trevor's mom, Robin (though she would be Mrs. Thompson for months to come.) Most of his family were curious to meet me. You may remember Taylor, the twin from earlier tales, Becci and Michelle, adorable and accepting cousins, and then there was also Nicoli and Emily, both fabulous people with adorable children, which coming from me is alot considering I think most children are snotty little toe-rags full of germs and vomit. These kids, however, were cute. And smart. And best of all, they were tolerable, well-behaved children.
After I'd met everyone else, it happened...
"Dad--this is CJ, my boyfriend."
Silence.
That was two show-stopping silences in two days. I was definitely on a roll.
"Hi, Mr. Thompson. Nice to meet you."
His response? "Ya. Uh-huh. Nic, toss the salad."
The irony of his statement was not lost on me then or now. But, dinner was soon served, and then we were on our way home. I survived. I lived past the awkward introductions of all members Thompson. Mom liked the flowers, the food was excellent, and the family members were as nice as I could have hoped. Obviously, with two sons, already out in the family, Trevor's coming-out wasn't the most shocking of occurences to Rusty's (Dad's) existence. But, a word of advice to all closeted queers: DO NOT, under any circumstance, COME OUT ON THE HOLIDAYS! A second word of advice: DO NO BRING THE BOYFRIEND HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS BEFORE YOU DO COME OUT!
All in all, it was awkward and awful and humiliating and I wouldn't change a single ounce of the way that it happened. It only makes our story that much more perfect.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Geroni...MO?
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla....Our bride found himself stronger, wittier, and finally available completely for the first time in seven years. Our groom, however, found himself elbow-deep in the muck of relationship's past and new beginnings...
So, if this were a trashy romance novel, we'd be nearing page 185. Yes, the sex act between me and my new endeavor was getting ready to bounce into reality. The only problem with the bounce here was that I did not want to seem easy, but being a tease was just as unappealing. You see, it had been quite sometime since I had last dated someone before I slept with them. Seven years to be exact. So, as you can imagine I was torn. On the one hand, I didn't want him to lose interest in me for not sleeping with him. On the other hand, I didn't want him to lose interest in me because I had slept with him too soon. Clearly all of this sex nonsense was to be caught in a very small window of opportunity; a balancing act between too long and too short - much like other aspects of the gay sex.
The date is November 1st, 2009 and it is planned that Trevor will be coming over to my house to spend the evening with me. Bear in mind, that Bob and I had officially ended the relationship and my house was beginning to fill up with cardboard boxes encasing the remnants of my very broken relationship of nearly a decade. As opposed to hiding them off to one side, or even the basement to save myself the embarrassment, I simply plowed a path that led to the kitchen and a separate path that went to the hallway. I tidied up the living room and bathroom to the absolute best of my abilities and sprayed the whole place down with the scent of Clean Cotton from the nearest bottle of Febreeze I could find. Clearly, there was no shame in my game...But there sure as shit should have been. I mean really, Clean Cotton and Cardboard mazes...that was my idea of a good damn time.
All day long, I had been busy making the courtesy break-up announcement to my friends and family. I made phone call after phone call about how "this was best," and "we're both better off." It is so obligatory that you make these statements for the tourists, letting them know you will be just fine. In truth and retrospect, I think I said the phrase "I'm fine" so many times in that day, that I'm not even sure they sounded like words anymore, but there you have it. My newfound freedom was as boring as it was rewarding.
Meanwhile, Trevor had been sleeping in all day as he hadn't arrived home until nearly five in the morning the previous evening. During last night's drive home, he had called me to tell me that he enjoyed the evening immensely, although it was a little weird making out with me in a short Red Riding Hood outfit and a wig. I sat in my dark living room and daydreamed about what my life was going to become in a few short hours: officially single, starting from scratch, and the left-over hangover from things I never wanted, like a mortgage. On the flip-side of my thoughts, however, there were the new, hopeful images that danced through my head. There was new beginnings with limitless potential. Looking back, I think it was the merest of possibility of potentially becoming happy that aided my survival the most.
That evening, Trevor made his way over to 803 W. Corrington Avenue for what would be our first night together. It was decided that we would have a quiet evening in, aka...having the dirty dirty! I was as nervous as a virgin in Cell Block E. The usual thoughts ran through my head: Was my breath ok, was the bedroom clean, where should I put the animals so they couldn't watch the sex occur...things of that nature. We settled in on the couch where we watched "13 Going On 30." I think I heard about 10 minutes of that movie over the screaming that was going on in my head. On my left shoulder there was a little devil Britney Spears dressed in her Red Pleather "Oops!...I did it again" outfit, screaming DO IT! DO IT! On my right shoulder was my British grandmother quipping about Tea, Tarts, And Whores....
As Jennifer Garner reverted back to a thirteen year old, Trevor made his move.
"I'm tired. I should get going soon."
AACK! Absolutely not! There was no way that he was going to dictate the outcome of the will he-won't he diyad.
"You could stay here if you want."
"Oh-kay"
Somehow, knowing him now the way I do, he totally dictated that outcome. Sneaky Bastard.
So, I fed the dogs, kicked the cats out of the bedroom, and we retired to the bed for the evening festivities to commence. Here' s where our tale gets a little R-Rated, so grab your Vodka and put the kiddies to bed...Being that I had been in a sexless relationship for the past 14 months, I had forgotten some of the necessities to getting down. I know what you're thinking: condoms, handcuffs, naughty dice...But alas, no. My oversight was the largest of them all. It had never once occurred to me to ask the one essential question that every gay should automatically ask upon introduction: Are you a Top or a Bottom?
Everyone knows that every gay man has a natural preference to the topping or the bottoming roles. Me, I had always been partial to the latter, as with my previous lover it was quickest way to get the whole "sex" ordeal overwith; thirty seconds of my life wasted, but at least it wasn't a whole minute. (Remove the shocked looks from your faces...we've all thought it...) Because of this very clear preference, any gay relationship can be over before it begins if this is not addressed. But how do you bring it up? Sure you could just ask, but then you run the risk of laying there awkwardly waiting for him to put his clothes back on and leave. So I did what any self-respecting lady would do. I dodged the bullet by telling him I wasn't a big ho and couldn't have sex with him the first night he stayed with me!
Phew! That was smooth, like pumice. Ok, so clearly I panicked, but the reality is I really liked him and I didn't want to be just another trick in a sad episode of "Queer As Folk." I wanted to be the main character in my own story.. Up until now, I'd garnered a supporting actor award, but I was over it. I wanted to trust Trevor, but more than that, I wanted him to trust me. After a few more attempts at getting lucky, Trevor went to sleep.
The next night, however, would not go to my favor. You see, as sweet as all this was, I was dying to sleep with him as much as he was me, and soon the lines of who's going to top and who's going to bottom became blurred. Blurred to the point that neither of us gave a damn and we both assumed the natural roles that were were inclined to assume, and let me tell you something honey...It was some good shagging. And for every on out there who thinks they can guess who's who in the relationship...You are wrong.
Trevor was perfect. He was sensitive and smart, witty and subtle, solid and whole. He was exactly everything that I was looking for, even before I started my hunt. In a word of total description, he was a man.
It was time that I closed my eyes, plugged my nosed, and jumped off of a very large cliff. I was tired of being afraid of being happy, of not having other people's approval, of being what I thought would make everybody think I was better than I was. I wanted to start being me. So I did it. I leapt, screaming "GERONIMO!" And I haven't regretted it since. PS. the fall was hard and the landing hurt like hell, but I've never been better.
As for Trevor and I, we haven't slept apart since that first night, and I'm betting we never will.
So, if this were a trashy romance novel, we'd be nearing page 185. Yes, the sex act between me and my new endeavor was getting ready to bounce into reality. The only problem with the bounce here was that I did not want to seem easy, but being a tease was just as unappealing. You see, it had been quite sometime since I had last dated someone before I slept with them. Seven years to be exact. So, as you can imagine I was torn. On the one hand, I didn't want him to lose interest in me for not sleeping with him. On the other hand, I didn't want him to lose interest in me because I had slept with him too soon. Clearly all of this sex nonsense was to be caught in a very small window of opportunity; a balancing act between too long and too short - much like other aspects of the gay sex.
The date is November 1st, 2009 and it is planned that Trevor will be coming over to my house to spend the evening with me. Bear in mind, that Bob and I had officially ended the relationship and my house was beginning to fill up with cardboard boxes encasing the remnants of my very broken relationship of nearly a decade. As opposed to hiding them off to one side, or even the basement to save myself the embarrassment, I simply plowed a path that led to the kitchen and a separate path that went to the hallway. I tidied up the living room and bathroom to the absolute best of my abilities and sprayed the whole place down with the scent of Clean Cotton from the nearest bottle of Febreeze I could find. Clearly, there was no shame in my game...But there sure as shit should have been. I mean really, Clean Cotton and Cardboard mazes...that was my idea of a good damn time.
All day long, I had been busy making the courtesy break-up announcement to my friends and family. I made phone call after phone call about how "this was best," and "we're both better off." It is so obligatory that you make these statements for the tourists, letting them know you will be just fine. In truth and retrospect, I think I said the phrase "I'm fine" so many times in that day, that I'm not even sure they sounded like words anymore, but there you have it. My newfound freedom was as boring as it was rewarding.
Meanwhile, Trevor had been sleeping in all day as he hadn't arrived home until nearly five in the morning the previous evening. During last night's drive home, he had called me to tell me that he enjoyed the evening immensely, although it was a little weird making out with me in a short Red Riding Hood outfit and a wig. I sat in my dark living room and daydreamed about what my life was going to become in a few short hours: officially single, starting from scratch, and the left-over hangover from things I never wanted, like a mortgage. On the flip-side of my thoughts, however, there were the new, hopeful images that danced through my head. There was new beginnings with limitless potential. Looking back, I think it was the merest of possibility of potentially becoming happy that aided my survival the most.
That evening, Trevor made his way over to 803 W. Corrington Avenue for what would be our first night together. It was decided that we would have a quiet evening in, aka...having the dirty dirty! I was as nervous as a virgin in Cell Block E. The usual thoughts ran through my head: Was my breath ok, was the bedroom clean, where should I put the animals so they couldn't watch the sex occur...things of that nature. We settled in on the couch where we watched "13 Going On 30." I think I heard about 10 minutes of that movie over the screaming that was going on in my head. On my left shoulder there was a little devil Britney Spears dressed in her Red Pleather "Oops!...I did it again" outfit, screaming DO IT! DO IT! On my right shoulder was my British grandmother quipping about Tea, Tarts, And Whores....
As Jennifer Garner reverted back to a thirteen year old, Trevor made his move.
"I'm tired. I should get going soon."
AACK! Absolutely not! There was no way that he was going to dictate the outcome of the will he-won't he diyad.
"You could stay here if you want."
"Oh-kay"
Somehow, knowing him now the way I do, he totally dictated that outcome. Sneaky Bastard.
So, I fed the dogs, kicked the cats out of the bedroom, and we retired to the bed for the evening festivities to commence. Here' s where our tale gets a little R-Rated, so grab your Vodka and put the kiddies to bed...Being that I had been in a sexless relationship for the past 14 months, I had forgotten some of the necessities to getting down. I know what you're thinking: condoms, handcuffs, naughty dice...But alas, no. My oversight was the largest of them all. It had never once occurred to me to ask the one essential question that every gay should automatically ask upon introduction: Are you a Top or a Bottom?
Everyone knows that every gay man has a natural preference to the topping or the bottoming roles. Me, I had always been partial to the latter, as with my previous lover it was quickest way to get the whole "sex" ordeal overwith; thirty seconds of my life wasted, but at least it wasn't a whole minute. (Remove the shocked looks from your faces...we've all thought it...) Because of this very clear preference, any gay relationship can be over before it begins if this is not addressed. But how do you bring it up? Sure you could just ask, but then you run the risk of laying there awkwardly waiting for him to put his clothes back on and leave. So I did what any self-respecting lady would do. I dodged the bullet by telling him I wasn't a big ho and couldn't have sex with him the first night he stayed with me!
Phew! That was smooth, like pumice. Ok, so clearly I panicked, but the reality is I really liked him and I didn't want to be just another trick in a sad episode of "Queer As Folk." I wanted to be the main character in my own story.. Up until now, I'd garnered a supporting actor award, but I was over it. I wanted to trust Trevor, but more than that, I wanted him to trust me. After a few more attempts at getting lucky, Trevor went to sleep.
The next night, however, would not go to my favor. You see, as sweet as all this was, I was dying to sleep with him as much as he was me, and soon the lines of who's going to top and who's going to bottom became blurred. Blurred to the point that neither of us gave a damn and we both assumed the natural roles that were were inclined to assume, and let me tell you something honey...It was some good shagging. And for every on out there who thinks they can guess who's who in the relationship...You are wrong.
Trevor was perfect. He was sensitive and smart, witty and subtle, solid and whole. He was exactly everything that I was looking for, even before I started my hunt. In a word of total description, he was a man.
It was time that I closed my eyes, plugged my nosed, and jumped off of a very large cliff. I was tired of being afraid of being happy, of not having other people's approval, of being what I thought would make everybody think I was better than I was. I wanted to start being me. So I did it. I leapt, screaming "GERONIMO!" And I haven't regretted it since. PS. the fall was hard and the landing hurt like hell, but I've never been better.
As for Trevor and I, we haven't slept apart since that first night, and I'm betting we never will.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Miss-Adventure of Li'l Red Riding Ho
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, our B-T-B was caught off-guard by his stunning announcement of being "scary and damaged." He was really knocked out of his size 10.5 Pradas when his new bachelor was willing to become a bachelor-no-more, sealing the deal with an orchestral kiss...
If there was one thing that our Bridezilla knew how to do, it was plan ahead. After the devastating mistake of not grabbing the phone number upon our first meeting, I was not going to allow Trevor the opportunity of making different plans with another gentleman. I had, at the end of our previous evening together, fortified our next rendez-vous with an invitation to Club Diesel for the next evening's Halloween party. Let us never forget that I have a long history of doing Halloween big and in style. And by big and in style, I mean in Drag. In the past ten years, I had gone as Britney Spears, Marilyn Monroe, Supergirl, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Batgirl, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, Daphne from Scooby Doo, and a couple of other ladies of luxury. This year's chosen outfit was: Little Red Riding Ho...The slutty version of a childhood fairy tale character.
Let it be known, I have never half-assed a drag experience. We're talking beautiful wigs, shaved legs, and boyshort underwear from Victoria' s Secret that I ironed on hot pink letter to spell out "SLUT" on the ass...The process of getting ready took at least two full hours. Three, if I'd be taking smoke breaks at regular intervals, which I was. Here, however, is where our night gets a little tricky. I generally do a group theme for this special occasion, and this year was to be no different. You see, my friends and I were all going as storybook characters: there was "slutty miss muffet", with a rather large tuffet I might add. We also had Hansel and Gretel, so on and so forth they went. My Ex and I were still, to a degree, involved at this point. Bob was the "Hansel" of the group going, his best friend was "Gretel."
A bit of backstory is required for our tale to continue: For the previous seven years Bob and I had a difficult-at-best relationship. On my end, the frustrations were many, including and at times most certainly limited to, Gretel. I had a long standing suspicion the Hansel and Gretel had hooked up in the duration of my seven years with Bob. Though it was never confirmed, in the end it wasn't denied either. So, being forced to spend my favorite holiday, amongst other gay festivities, with the pair of them was not only mind-numbingly dull, but also extremely irritating. This occasion, however, it was welcome. You see, Gretel provided me the one essential tool that I was going to need if my ex and my new were going to be in the same gay bar on the same gay night: a distraction. Yes! Gretel was going to have to distract Hansel, Muffet, and the rest of the storybook crew long enough for me to bounce back and forth like a godforsaken beachball...in a wig...
So, let us start this festive day at 2:00pm. I was still dressed in standard gay male civilian clothes headed to a then-popular, now-closed restaurant by the name of Po' Boys...Not nearly as trashtastic as it sounds, I promise you. We were going to be throwing back a few drinks with a few of Bob's closest friends, err... co-workers; my former boss and co-workers to be exact. Let me set the record straight. I very much enjoyed the company of my former mates. They were fun gals who knew how to party the right way: get as smashed as possible in the shortest amount of time, say inappropriate things to all the right people, do daring and explicit actions to gain awestruck reactions, and go home by 7pm to pass out for the evening. Yes ladies and gentlemen, they were middle-aged.
While I was at Po'Boys enjoying the nonsense of these ladies in their natural habitat, I decided that I would have a few beverages to get the day started as well...5 BudLights and two Red-Headed-Sluts later, I found myself lit up like a Mirrorball at Studio 54. Now, anyone who has ever witnessed the beauty that is me intoxicated can attest: the very small communication filter that I have normally, begins to disintegrate at an alarming rate. Today wouldn't be out of the ordinary. As I witnessed the tragedies that were unfolding before me, I started hearing comments like, "If thish big bitch hugs me one mo' time, Ima gonn' take my fisht and bonk that bitch on the head." It was only after everyone turned and looked at me that I realized I had made the comment. And that I was slurring at 5pm. Clearly the night was off to one hell of a start. At this, Bob decided it was time to head back to my house so I could begin the getting ready ritual that would land us at an ETA of 9:00 pm to Sparky's.
Once I was home, I started the transformation of gay man to slutty fairy tale chick. On schedule, about two hours later the guests began to congregate. Gretel and Muppet had arrived donning their costumes and cheery dispostitions. With that, I started drinking. Heavily. Before we could go, I had to clip in a weave for Muffet so she didn't look like Dykes-Gone-Tuffet 2008. As I held the human hair attachments in one hand, smashing and clipping them into the back of her head with the other, I continued to partake of yet another alcoholic beverage: my nightly Pinot Grigio consumption was well under way.
With the last swallow of the bottle finished, we grabbed our baskets, cameras, and cigarettes and flew out the door across the street. Carrie D was also partaking of the festivities, as she, her girlfriend, roommate, and some other friends were getting ready for their Halloween showing as well. A couple of pictures, a couple of beers, and a couple of bongs, we were off once again. This time we were on our way to Sparky's for some pre-Diesel excitement.
Sparky's is always a sight to behold as there is a very unusual mix of clientele that gathers at this particular locale. Now, Peoria has its' beautiful homes and neighborhoods with beautiful views and beautiful lawns. Sparky's was smack-dab in the middle of just the opposite. Let's see. To the left, is the bar that has had 4 shootings in two years, to the right you have the bar where my friends were held-up at gunpoint in the rear, and across the street you have the local Ministries services that will tow your car should you park in their lot after 9 pm. Class, with a capital ASS, but nonetheless, it is where all the gays commune prior to the ride down the hill for more debautchery. We had everything. There was the spiderwebs strewn across the ceiling, drag queens doing "I Put A Spell On You" and then there was me, socializing amongst my acquaintances, gathering compliments on my fabulous choice of costume.
After about an hour of playing nice with the potpourri of people, I retreated to the bathroom to reapply, piss, and text Trevor inconspicuously. It had been nearly a whole day since I had spoken to him so I wanted to ensure that he would still be making an appearance.
HEY. WHAT TIME WILL YOU BE AT DIESEL?
> ALREADY HERE. WHERE'S YOU?
(BANG! BANG! BANG!) "Hurry up, Red. A bitch has to urinate!"
One of our drag queens was obviously tired of waiting for me to unoccupy the bathroom so her own urination could commence. I took it upon myself to politely respond, "Ok, Bitch! Hold on to your Gold L'Amy Stillettos!" I exited at my leisure as I quickly texted Trevor back.
BE THERE IN A SEC
> OKIE DOKIE
As we hadn't been at this establishment very long, I needed a reason to get my group to vacate and head down to Diesel without looking like there was an agenda. As a fairly logical person, I generally do not find myself looking for signs. However, on this night, I received a spiritual cue that was unmistakeable. Just as I was beginning to frantically search for an excuse to leave, my good friend Troy began fighting with his on again, off again beau. While I wasn't overly involved in the situation, what I can tell you is this...A shiny, glimmer flew passed my head and the next thing I know there was a shattering sound immediately to my right. It seems the beau of my Troy had had enough and hurled a shot glass across the room that managed to catch Troy across the temple. The glass then shattered all over Troy, the vending machine, and the ground. You may be asking yourself how this was a sign. Well, Troy and beau were escorted out of the bar. Carrie D was his ride, leaving with him and the rest of my party wanted to follow her downtown. Not proof enough? Here's the kicker...Troy was less than 3 feet away from me when a full shot glass collided with his skull, and not a single drop of liquor splattered on my cape, my basket, or my toule...God wanted me to meet Trevor that evening and still look fabulous! See, it was a sign. Best of all, I didn't have to concoct an excuse to depart the lovely bar known as Sparky's. It happened all on its' own.
This is where the story gets interesting. Trevor knew that I'd be dressed as Li'l Red. What he didn't know was that Bob would be with me, along with the rest of my usual entourage. Upon entering the dance club, Muffet and I immediately walked on the dance floor and began to "dance it out." We wanted to get lost in the music and in the upcoming hours, we both knew that there was definitely going to be some pent up energy. Li'l Miss Muffet had know about Trevor from the moment that the tryst began. She had been there for all of the sordid details of my affairs and was well-aware that it was her mission to keep Bob and Trevor as far away from one another as possible. Not only did she accept her mission, she ensured its success. After about 15 minutes of dancing it out, Trevor texted me once again.
> I SEE YOU.
WHERE?
> AT THE BAR.
Sure enough, he was sitting at the bar with a lady sailor. I sauntered up and greeted them both. Trevor had come as a fratboy, which really ment that he magic-markered some greek letter on a white tee shirt and threw on some jeans. Amanda, who I'd come to find was another breed of faggis haggis from his repertoir, was a delightful lady full of witty jokes and vodka. She and I got along marvelously. We all talked for about twenty minutes before heading out to the back porch for the remainder of the evening.
We'd all been having a solid conversation when the need for renewed drinks occurred. We went inside to order new ones when the twin, Taylor, back from school, walked in the bar. Seeing that the twins would be occupied with one another for at least ten minutes, I took my opportunity to hijack myself back out to the deck where Muffet, Gretel, and the rest of the crew were stationed. As expected, Gretel was keeping Bob so busy in conversation, he hadn't had time to notice the twins that were occupying my attention. With that, I checked into a boring conversation about shaved chests, the latest A*Teens CD, and Muffet's pseudo-crush on a local lesbian. After a few ridiculously cheap excuses, I left the group and made my way down twenty feet to where Trevor, Taylor, Amanda, and a new friend, Katie were chatting.
Making sure to keep one eye on Trevor and one eye on Bob, I was driving myself a bit batty. I had to come up with a way to get one of the two parties out of there...ASAP...It hit me: Muffet was the key! I grabbed her tuffet and dragged her down to meet the boys and their hags. After a quick and stifled introduction, I sequestered her into the bar where I told her she was hungry. She told Bob this information and that in-turn made Hansel and Gretel hungry. From that would spawn a trip to the local Steak-n-Shake for some late night snacking. Being a marionette puppeteer was simply exhausting. Another quick coat of lip plumper in the mirror and I ran back to Trevor to watch the masterpiece unfold. It was like organized crime, or gay theatre, whatever.
As my plan went down, all was unfolding completely as expected, until the snag. After all, what's being gay without some dramatic snag in the fishnets? It might have been the liquor that was slowing my synapses here, but it, in my scheming, had never occurred to me that Bob would expect me to leave with him, as I had arrived with him. DAMN!
I saw his head begin to turn looking for the disappearing red cape. I took off the cape, threw it in my basket and bolted into the bar in hopes that he'd simply forget I'd been with them at all. Because that never works, he found me and informed me that we were leaving. That was it. At this request, my satin hand gloves came off.
"Just go. You're hungry. I'm not. Nor am I nearly drunk enough to leave with you!"
Harsh. I admit that now. Looking back on the evening, it could have probably played out a lot more smoothly, albeit less story worthy, had I pre-planned some of the nights events. Po'Boys liquors were however, catching up with me and the shear exhaustion of being a tennis ball caught between the two was winding me down.
With that awful display in front of a bar full of queens savoring the taste of a public outburst, Hansel, Gretel, and Miss Muffet found their way to the nearest trough for some late night munching.
As the night wore on, 2am hit and I was waiting for my opportunity to make out with Trevor. It came in the form of an invitation to drive me home. I stumbled out to his shiny red pick-up truck and directed his vehicle to my house. We parked out front and the making out commenced. Now, bare in mind, to the casual observer, this was simply the "hot-n-heavy" going on between a fratboy and a slutty college girl. The reality was that a newly-gay hot boy was making out with the self-proclaimed queen of Peoria, in drag. It never dawned on my that my SLUT-Emblazened panties could, at any moment, be caught down around my knees as Bob had yet to arrive home. Luckily, I had fate on my side. You see, I lived across the street from one of the foremost after-hours party throwers in all of Peoria. It wasn't unusual to see random people making out in trucks outside of our house, which is what Bob must have thought when he arrived home and went to bed.
With our final kiss goodnight, I got out of the truck and bid him farewell, just like in the fairy tales...Sort of...
Here is where the mood of our story goes a little dark: the next day, I informed Bob that it was completely over with no hope of a reconciliation. He said he knew that it was coming, and asked me who I was leaving him for. I told him I was leaving him for me. And that's the truth. I was. The reality was that I had broken up with Bob in my heart a long time ago. It wasn't his fault. It was mine. To his credit, he was exactly the same person that he was when we had begun dating all those years ago. I was not. I had changed. Somewhere between bottles of Pinot Grigio and tabs of EXTASY, I had discovered a real life person who wasn't long for this world if he continued on this path. Never for a second did I jump from one relationship to the next. I cannot allow anyone to think this as it is not true. Trevor was not the cause, not even the catalyst, for my break up. He was simply a gift for doing what was right. Right for me, and right for Bob. I picked myself up off of the dirty floor of which I had been living. I brushed the dirt from my clothes, and I reached for the hand rail that had always been there for me to pull myself up out of these depths that I had fallen in so many years ago. The light that greeted me upon my realization was bright and harsh and unforgiving. It needed to be. It needed to be the hardest thing I'd ever done. If it were easy then it would not have been momentous, or even memorable. That was the day I stood on my own two feet. I realize, now, how unfortunate that was for Bob, how sad it must have been to be sacrificed so that I could get better. But I couldn't die for him to live. In the end, he is better off without me. And I am better off without the person I became with him, because of him. For the life we shared together, I say thank you. But mostly I say goodbye.
After it was over, I stepped out onto my porch. I inhaled the exceptionally warm November morning air, and I thought to myself: Finally... I can breathe.
If there was one thing that our Bridezilla knew how to do, it was plan ahead. After the devastating mistake of not grabbing the phone number upon our first meeting, I was not going to allow Trevor the opportunity of making different plans with another gentleman. I had, at the end of our previous evening together, fortified our next rendez-vous with an invitation to Club Diesel for the next evening's Halloween party. Let us never forget that I have a long history of doing Halloween big and in style. And by big and in style, I mean in Drag. In the past ten years, I had gone as Britney Spears, Marilyn Monroe, Supergirl, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Batgirl, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, Daphne from Scooby Doo, and a couple of other ladies of luxury. This year's chosen outfit was: Little Red Riding Ho...The slutty version of a childhood fairy tale character.
Let it be known, I have never half-assed a drag experience. We're talking beautiful wigs, shaved legs, and boyshort underwear from Victoria' s Secret that I ironed on hot pink letter to spell out "SLUT" on the ass...The process of getting ready took at least two full hours. Three, if I'd be taking smoke breaks at regular intervals, which I was. Here, however, is where our night gets a little tricky. I generally do a group theme for this special occasion, and this year was to be no different. You see, my friends and I were all going as storybook characters: there was "slutty miss muffet", with a rather large tuffet I might add. We also had Hansel and Gretel, so on and so forth they went. My Ex and I were still, to a degree, involved at this point. Bob was the "Hansel" of the group going, his best friend was "Gretel."
A bit of backstory is required for our tale to continue: For the previous seven years Bob and I had a difficult-at-best relationship. On my end, the frustrations were many, including and at times most certainly limited to, Gretel. I had a long standing suspicion the Hansel and Gretel had hooked up in the duration of my seven years with Bob. Though it was never confirmed, in the end it wasn't denied either. So, being forced to spend my favorite holiday, amongst other gay festivities, with the pair of them was not only mind-numbingly dull, but also extremely irritating. This occasion, however, it was welcome. You see, Gretel provided me the one essential tool that I was going to need if my ex and my new were going to be in the same gay bar on the same gay night: a distraction. Yes! Gretel was going to have to distract Hansel, Muffet, and the rest of the storybook crew long enough for me to bounce back and forth like a godforsaken beachball...in a wig...
So, let us start this festive day at 2:00pm. I was still dressed in standard gay male civilian clothes headed to a then-popular, now-closed restaurant by the name of Po' Boys...Not nearly as trashtastic as it sounds, I promise you. We were going to be throwing back a few drinks with a few of Bob's closest friends, err... co-workers; my former boss and co-workers to be exact. Let me set the record straight. I very much enjoyed the company of my former mates. They were fun gals who knew how to party the right way: get as smashed as possible in the shortest amount of time, say inappropriate things to all the right people, do daring and explicit actions to gain awestruck reactions, and go home by 7pm to pass out for the evening. Yes ladies and gentlemen, they were middle-aged.
While I was at Po'Boys enjoying the nonsense of these ladies in their natural habitat, I decided that I would have a few beverages to get the day started as well...5 BudLights and two Red-Headed-Sluts later, I found myself lit up like a Mirrorball at Studio 54. Now, anyone who has ever witnessed the beauty that is me intoxicated can attest: the very small communication filter that I have normally, begins to disintegrate at an alarming rate. Today wouldn't be out of the ordinary. As I witnessed the tragedies that were unfolding before me, I started hearing comments like, "If thish big bitch hugs me one mo' time, Ima gonn' take my fisht and bonk that bitch on the head." It was only after everyone turned and looked at me that I realized I had made the comment. And that I was slurring at 5pm. Clearly the night was off to one hell of a start. At this, Bob decided it was time to head back to my house so I could begin the getting ready ritual that would land us at an ETA of 9:00 pm to Sparky's.
Once I was home, I started the transformation of gay man to slutty fairy tale chick. On schedule, about two hours later the guests began to congregate. Gretel and Muppet had arrived donning their costumes and cheery dispostitions. With that, I started drinking. Heavily. Before we could go, I had to clip in a weave for Muffet so she didn't look like Dykes-Gone-Tuffet 2008. As I held the human hair attachments in one hand, smashing and clipping them into the back of her head with the other, I continued to partake of yet another alcoholic beverage: my nightly Pinot Grigio consumption was well under way.
With the last swallow of the bottle finished, we grabbed our baskets, cameras, and cigarettes and flew out the door across the street. Carrie D was also partaking of the festivities, as she, her girlfriend, roommate, and some other friends were getting ready for their Halloween showing as well. A couple of pictures, a couple of beers, and a couple of bongs, we were off once again. This time we were on our way to Sparky's for some pre-Diesel excitement.
Sparky's is always a sight to behold as there is a very unusual mix of clientele that gathers at this particular locale. Now, Peoria has its' beautiful homes and neighborhoods with beautiful views and beautiful lawns. Sparky's was smack-dab in the middle of just the opposite. Let's see. To the left, is the bar that has had 4 shootings in two years, to the right you have the bar where my friends were held-up at gunpoint in the rear, and across the street you have the local Ministries services that will tow your car should you park in their lot after 9 pm. Class, with a capital ASS, but nonetheless, it is where all the gays commune prior to the ride down the hill for more debautchery. We had everything. There was the spiderwebs strewn across the ceiling, drag queens doing "I Put A Spell On You" and then there was me, socializing amongst my acquaintances, gathering compliments on my fabulous choice of costume.
After about an hour of playing nice with the potpourri of people, I retreated to the bathroom to reapply, piss, and text Trevor inconspicuously. It had been nearly a whole day since I had spoken to him so I wanted to ensure that he would still be making an appearance.
HEY. WHAT TIME WILL YOU BE AT DIESEL?
> ALREADY HERE. WHERE'S YOU?
(BANG! BANG! BANG!) "Hurry up, Red. A bitch has to urinate!"
One of our drag queens was obviously tired of waiting for me to unoccupy the bathroom so her own urination could commence. I took it upon myself to politely respond, "Ok, Bitch! Hold on to your Gold L'Amy Stillettos!" I exited at my leisure as I quickly texted Trevor back.
BE THERE IN A SEC
> OKIE DOKIE
As we hadn't been at this establishment very long, I needed a reason to get my group to vacate and head down to Diesel without looking like there was an agenda. As a fairly logical person, I generally do not find myself looking for signs. However, on this night, I received a spiritual cue that was unmistakeable. Just as I was beginning to frantically search for an excuse to leave, my good friend Troy began fighting with his on again, off again beau. While I wasn't overly involved in the situation, what I can tell you is this...A shiny, glimmer flew passed my head and the next thing I know there was a shattering sound immediately to my right. It seems the beau of my Troy had had enough and hurled a shot glass across the room that managed to catch Troy across the temple. The glass then shattered all over Troy, the vending machine, and the ground. You may be asking yourself how this was a sign. Well, Troy and beau were escorted out of the bar. Carrie D was his ride, leaving with him and the rest of my party wanted to follow her downtown. Not proof enough? Here's the kicker...Troy was less than 3 feet away from me when a full shot glass collided with his skull, and not a single drop of liquor splattered on my cape, my basket, or my toule...God wanted me to meet Trevor that evening and still look fabulous! See, it was a sign. Best of all, I didn't have to concoct an excuse to depart the lovely bar known as Sparky's. It happened all on its' own.
This is where the story gets interesting. Trevor knew that I'd be dressed as Li'l Red. What he didn't know was that Bob would be with me, along with the rest of my usual entourage. Upon entering the dance club, Muffet and I immediately walked on the dance floor and began to "dance it out." We wanted to get lost in the music and in the upcoming hours, we both knew that there was definitely going to be some pent up energy. Li'l Miss Muffet had know about Trevor from the moment that the tryst began. She had been there for all of the sordid details of my affairs and was well-aware that it was her mission to keep Bob and Trevor as far away from one another as possible. Not only did she accept her mission, she ensured its success. After about 15 minutes of dancing it out, Trevor texted me once again.
> I SEE YOU.
WHERE?
> AT THE BAR.
Sure enough, he was sitting at the bar with a lady sailor. I sauntered up and greeted them both. Trevor had come as a fratboy, which really ment that he magic-markered some greek letter on a white tee shirt and threw on some jeans. Amanda, who I'd come to find was another breed of faggis haggis from his repertoir, was a delightful lady full of witty jokes and vodka. She and I got along marvelously. We all talked for about twenty minutes before heading out to the back porch for the remainder of the evening.
We'd all been having a solid conversation when the need for renewed drinks occurred. We went inside to order new ones when the twin, Taylor, back from school, walked in the bar. Seeing that the twins would be occupied with one another for at least ten minutes, I took my opportunity to hijack myself back out to the deck where Muffet, Gretel, and the rest of the crew were stationed. As expected, Gretel was keeping Bob so busy in conversation, he hadn't had time to notice the twins that were occupying my attention. With that, I checked into a boring conversation about shaved chests, the latest A*Teens CD, and Muffet's pseudo-crush on a local lesbian. After a few ridiculously cheap excuses, I left the group and made my way down twenty feet to where Trevor, Taylor, Amanda, and a new friend, Katie were chatting.
Making sure to keep one eye on Trevor and one eye on Bob, I was driving myself a bit batty. I had to come up with a way to get one of the two parties out of there...ASAP...It hit me: Muffet was the key! I grabbed her tuffet and dragged her down to meet the boys and their hags. After a quick and stifled introduction, I sequestered her into the bar where I told her she was hungry. She told Bob this information and that in-turn made Hansel and Gretel hungry. From that would spawn a trip to the local Steak-n-Shake for some late night snacking. Being a marionette puppeteer was simply exhausting. Another quick coat of lip plumper in the mirror and I ran back to Trevor to watch the masterpiece unfold. It was like organized crime, or gay theatre, whatever.
As my plan went down, all was unfolding completely as expected, until the snag. After all, what's being gay without some dramatic snag in the fishnets? It might have been the liquor that was slowing my synapses here, but it, in my scheming, had never occurred to me that Bob would expect me to leave with him, as I had arrived with him. DAMN!
I saw his head begin to turn looking for the disappearing red cape. I took off the cape, threw it in my basket and bolted into the bar in hopes that he'd simply forget I'd been with them at all. Because that never works, he found me and informed me that we were leaving. That was it. At this request, my satin hand gloves came off.
"Just go. You're hungry. I'm not. Nor am I nearly drunk enough to leave with you!"
Harsh. I admit that now. Looking back on the evening, it could have probably played out a lot more smoothly, albeit less story worthy, had I pre-planned some of the nights events. Po'Boys liquors were however, catching up with me and the shear exhaustion of being a tennis ball caught between the two was winding me down.
With that awful display in front of a bar full of queens savoring the taste of a public outburst, Hansel, Gretel, and Miss Muffet found their way to the nearest trough for some late night munching.
As the night wore on, 2am hit and I was waiting for my opportunity to make out with Trevor. It came in the form of an invitation to drive me home. I stumbled out to his shiny red pick-up truck and directed his vehicle to my house. We parked out front and the making out commenced. Now, bare in mind, to the casual observer, this was simply the "hot-n-heavy" going on between a fratboy and a slutty college girl. The reality was that a newly-gay hot boy was making out with the self-proclaimed queen of Peoria, in drag. It never dawned on my that my SLUT-Emblazened panties could, at any moment, be caught down around my knees as Bob had yet to arrive home. Luckily, I had fate on my side. You see, I lived across the street from one of the foremost after-hours party throwers in all of Peoria. It wasn't unusual to see random people making out in trucks outside of our house, which is what Bob must have thought when he arrived home and went to bed.
With our final kiss goodnight, I got out of the truck and bid him farewell, just like in the fairy tales...Sort of...
Here is where the mood of our story goes a little dark: the next day, I informed Bob that it was completely over with no hope of a reconciliation. He said he knew that it was coming, and asked me who I was leaving him for. I told him I was leaving him for me. And that's the truth. I was. The reality was that I had broken up with Bob in my heart a long time ago. It wasn't his fault. It was mine. To his credit, he was exactly the same person that he was when we had begun dating all those years ago. I was not. I had changed. Somewhere between bottles of Pinot Grigio and tabs of EXTASY, I had discovered a real life person who wasn't long for this world if he continued on this path. Never for a second did I jump from one relationship to the next. I cannot allow anyone to think this as it is not true. Trevor was not the cause, not even the catalyst, for my break up. He was simply a gift for doing what was right. Right for me, and right for Bob. I picked myself up off of the dirty floor of which I had been living. I brushed the dirt from my clothes, and I reached for the hand rail that had always been there for me to pull myself up out of these depths that I had fallen in so many years ago. The light that greeted me upon my realization was bright and harsh and unforgiving. It needed to be. It needed to be the hardest thing I'd ever done. If it were easy then it would not have been momentous, or even memorable. That was the day I stood on my own two feet. I realize, now, how unfortunate that was for Bob, how sad it must have been to be sacrificed so that I could get better. But I couldn't die for him to live. In the end, he is better off without me. And I am better off without the person I became with him, because of him. For the life we shared together, I say thank you. But mostly I say goodbye.
After it was over, I stepped out onto my porch. I inhaled the exceptionally warm November morning air, and I thought to myself: Finally... I can breathe.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
A Lady Doesn't Kiss and Tell...Good Thing I'm a Queen...
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, our future bride found himself with a new dilemma. In the aftermath of many, many tequila shooters, a kiss shared with a beautiful man, and a newly forming concussion, it seems our bridezilla had forgotten the one essential rule to dating: get a phone number before you coyly disappear into the smoky bar.
The next morning I had a raging hangover. It was the kind of hangover where you make false promises to God, whether you believe in Him or not. After hours of water, Ibuprofen, and Marlboro Lights 100's in a box, I found myself wishing that I had the good foresight to grab a pen and paper the previous evening so that I might be able to capture the phone number of this gentlemen. As it turns out, I did not. Instead, I retreated to the bar in hopes of him desperately seeking me out for a midnight tryst. Yes, coyness has never been my strength. And let's be realistic for second: what the hell was I thinking trying to be coy? What am I, a sixteen year old school girl looking for her first time with her soccer coach behind the school gym while the marching band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In"? I mean really. Why on Earth did I employ such a childish tactic?
The lesson was clearly learned the next day as I called about thirty-five homosexuals that infest the Peoria area. You see, as it turns out, Trevor was what one might classify as a "new gay" and not a single one of the Diesel Club Kids that I knew had any idea of whom I was speaking. I tried all manners of description. Everything from pierced lip to glasses, and it seemed nothing was going to get me his number. So, in the grand old tradition of faggotry, I turned to the Internet a surfed him out. To my surprise, I found him with little difficulty.
I searched through the rooms of gay.com looking for the screen name which I had been stalking for the past six months. Let us not forget that I had had to overcome some major idiocy to get this ball rolling, and for it to be well-received by the object of my affection; there was the drug-induced introduction, the awkward online conversations, for God's sake there was "nothin no g!" Now was not the time to go losing this prize fish off my line. A fishing metaphor? Seriously?
After a couple of days scouring the rooms, I finally found him. It was the following Tuesday evening. He was online while he was at Bradley working on a class assignment. As he had been there for hours, he had gotten bored and begun to divert his attention to the Internet for a late evening break.
HEY YOU. I TOLD YOU I WAS GOING TO KISS YOU THEN GO INTO THE BAR AND YOU DIDN'T FOLLOW ME.
> I DID.
NO YOU DID NOT.
> I DID TOO. I LOOKED FOR YOU AND YOU WERE GONE SO I LEFT.
SHUT UP!
After a few minutes of this back and forth nonsense, it was determined that he had, in fact, followed me in, but that I had picked that moment to retreat to the bathroom, to sooth the pain of one of the local lesbians having a bad evening. A lesbian having a bad night at the bar. That's a shocker. So we chatted for a while, ending with a date invitation. Sort of. He invited me to bring him coffee and a cigarette to Bradley while he worked. I was a little unnerved at his audacity and a little intrigued that he thought I'd bring it. Clearly, he had zero idea that he had just made out with Queen of Peoria. So I employed my sixteen year old coyness again and refused the invitation, but I did promise to meet him online again the next evening.
Just as I was about to sign off:
HEY! WAIT! WHAT'S YOUR NUMBER?
And with seven keystrokes I was in possession of a new means with which to converse with Trevor.
The next day the text messaging began and the same style of invitation to me occurred again. The refusal was also to be in sequel form, but like any good story there was a twist. I turned around and asked him to join me at Diesel for an evening out, and to my luck, he agreed. At around eleven o'clock that night, he met me for what would now be considered our first date.
Let me start by saying there were absolutely no frills on this date. It was a basic meet and greet. I found out about his very large tight knit family, and he discovered my love for Britney Spears. We both liked Mexican food and Margaritas were amongst our favorite alcoholic beverages. In total, the date lasted about an hour. Just long enough for me to become even more self-conscious, thereby becoming even more smitten than I already was. The next evening we decided we'd meet again. Only this time, he'd be armed. Yes, ladies and gents, he would be bringing his hag. Now, to the casual observer, one could say that this was a nice pleasant way to integrate our circles. To any self-respecting mo, however, this was a test. It was pass or fail, no gray areas. When a gay man, new to the community or not, brings his hag along for a date he is clearly interested, but looking for any fault that you might have to not only be pointed out but dissected into original parts.
I did not make a good first impression. In my defense, I had just run out of new contact lenses, and I think I look terrible in glasses. So I prettied myself up and I headed down to Diesel in nothing. Now, my eyesight isn't terrible in daylight, but in a smoky murky bar, its a little dodgy. So I walked in, past the people sitting at the bar and out to the back porch. He wasn't there. I had purposefully been a little late, so as not to seem so eager. So, either he had stood me up, or he was being fashionably late, and if he was trying to be late, I was going to be pissed for stealing my idea. I whipped out my phone and furiously began T9 wording his ass to find out where he was:
IM HERE. WHERE R U?
>AT THE BAR.
NO U ARNT. I WAS JUST THERE.
>U WALKED PAST ME.
Fanfuckintastic. In my sightlessness, I had totally flown past him and his hag without so much as a wink, nod, or hello.
SRRY. BE THERE IN A SEC.
I walked back in and greeted them. Peggy was the hag's name and we all had a good laugh over the carelessness I displayed for not wearing some eyewear, and we watched something that resembled a rather sad drag show. Amidst the recreation of some hideous Beyonce' song, something fantastic happened. We had, for the first time, good conversation that came with ease. We laughed. We talked. We judged unfortunate souls. It was by and by, the best date ever. Hag, notwithstanding.
Once again in my desperate attempt to not seem so eager, I bid them farewell and told him to call me the next day. I downed my V&C and flew out onto Main St. I had been outside of the bar for about two seconds when the texting for me to come back began. Finally, coyness had paid off...
But, I resisted. I got in my car and immediately went to Carrie D's house to tell the tale of what I had, until this point, been concealing. As I reminisced with her about the the past week, Trevor continued his texting pursuit.
> COME BACK. I DIDN'T GIVE YOU MY GIFT.
WHAT GIFT?
> I'M NOT TELLING.
TELL ME!
> COME AND GET IT.
It was two o'clock in the morning. There was no way that I was going to be pathetic and go back to the bar...alone...Then it hit me. Enlist Carrie D and Troy to come back to the bar with me for three important reasons: 1. I would look popular. 2. I would be armed with my hag and let's face it, hag on hag warfare was the only way to play the game, and 3. I would collect my gift.
So, newly armed with friends and confidence we hopped in the Carrie D's Jeep and headed down to the bar listening to Kelis' "Milkshake" on the radio. Once there, we walked in to find Trevor and Peggy still sitting at the bar where they'd been left. I hadn't told him I was returning, and I knew from the expression on his face that the surprise was worth it. We got more intoxicated, throwing back Capt'n-N-Coke and V&C's, laughing hysterically and making fun of the moronic things people do when they think no one is watching...especially in a dark bar. All was perfect, until the one thing that could ruin any night occurred: the "ugly lights" lit up our cove. You know the lights. Those harsh, not-fluorescent, but almost lights that reveal all of the leftovers from the evening. Every wrinkle, every gapped tooth, every dirty fingernail would now be shown. Luckily enough that wasn't the case. Up until this point, you see, I had not seen Trevor by the light of day. But, he passed inspection with flying colors. Right around the time his passing of inspection occurred, it dawned on me. HE HAD YET TO SEE ME IN THE LIGHT OF DAY! EEK!
I quickly ushered him out of the bar and back to his truck for what I would envision to be a quick farewell.
How wrong I was.
He unlocked his doors and told me he was going to give me his gift. It wasn't nearly as dirty as it sounds. He leaned in to give me a sweet little kiss. Right as our lips were about to meet, I throw my hand in the air and say "Wait! I'm scary and damaged!" In the tradition of self-sabotage, here I was pouring out all of this bile all over a perfect evening. He looked shocked in that this-bitch-is-crazy sort of way, but he must have rationalized that he was stronger than my need to accurately self-fulfill my prophecy, because he smiled, leaned in kissed me, and said, "It's ok. I like scary and damaged."
This time I heard the orchestra stringing and the trumpets blowing. I got out of his truck, made a date with him on Halloween, and drove, for the second time that evening, home.
That was the moment it happened. That was the moment I realized that I was in love...
The next morning I had a raging hangover. It was the kind of hangover where you make false promises to God, whether you believe in Him or not. After hours of water, Ibuprofen, and Marlboro Lights 100's in a box, I found myself wishing that I had the good foresight to grab a pen and paper the previous evening so that I might be able to capture the phone number of this gentlemen. As it turns out, I did not. Instead, I retreated to the bar in hopes of him desperately seeking me out for a midnight tryst. Yes, coyness has never been my strength. And let's be realistic for second: what the hell was I thinking trying to be coy? What am I, a sixteen year old school girl looking for her first time with her soccer coach behind the school gym while the marching band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In"? I mean really. Why on Earth did I employ such a childish tactic?
The lesson was clearly learned the next day as I called about thirty-five homosexuals that infest the Peoria area. You see, as it turns out, Trevor was what one might classify as a "new gay" and not a single one of the Diesel Club Kids that I knew had any idea of whom I was speaking. I tried all manners of description. Everything from pierced lip to glasses, and it seemed nothing was going to get me his number. So, in the grand old tradition of faggotry, I turned to the Internet a surfed him out. To my surprise, I found him with little difficulty.
I searched through the rooms of gay.com looking for the screen name which I had been stalking for the past six months. Let us not forget that I had had to overcome some major idiocy to get this ball rolling, and for it to be well-received by the object of my affection; there was the drug-induced introduction, the awkward online conversations, for God's sake there was "nothin no g!" Now was not the time to go losing this prize fish off my line. A fishing metaphor? Seriously?
After a couple of days scouring the rooms, I finally found him. It was the following Tuesday evening. He was online while he was at Bradley working on a class assignment. As he had been there for hours, he had gotten bored and begun to divert his attention to the Internet for a late evening break.
HEY YOU. I TOLD YOU I WAS GOING TO KISS YOU THEN GO INTO THE BAR AND YOU DIDN'T FOLLOW ME.
> I DID.
NO YOU DID NOT.
> I DID TOO. I LOOKED FOR YOU AND YOU WERE GONE SO I LEFT.
SHUT UP!
After a few minutes of this back and forth nonsense, it was determined that he had, in fact, followed me in, but that I had picked that moment to retreat to the bathroom, to sooth the pain of one of the local lesbians having a bad evening. A lesbian having a bad night at the bar. That's a shocker. So we chatted for a while, ending with a date invitation. Sort of. He invited me to bring him coffee and a cigarette to Bradley while he worked. I was a little unnerved at his audacity and a little intrigued that he thought I'd bring it. Clearly, he had zero idea that he had just made out with Queen of Peoria. So I employed my sixteen year old coyness again and refused the invitation, but I did promise to meet him online again the next evening.
Just as I was about to sign off:
HEY! WAIT! WHAT'S YOUR NUMBER?
And with seven keystrokes I was in possession of a new means with which to converse with Trevor.
The next day the text messaging began and the same style of invitation to me occurred again. The refusal was also to be in sequel form, but like any good story there was a twist. I turned around and asked him to join me at Diesel for an evening out, and to my luck, he agreed. At around eleven o'clock that night, he met me for what would now be considered our first date.
Let me start by saying there were absolutely no frills on this date. It was a basic meet and greet. I found out about his very large tight knit family, and he discovered my love for Britney Spears. We both liked Mexican food and Margaritas were amongst our favorite alcoholic beverages. In total, the date lasted about an hour. Just long enough for me to become even more self-conscious, thereby becoming even more smitten than I already was. The next evening we decided we'd meet again. Only this time, he'd be armed. Yes, ladies and gents, he would be bringing his hag. Now, to the casual observer, one could say that this was a nice pleasant way to integrate our circles. To any self-respecting mo, however, this was a test. It was pass or fail, no gray areas. When a gay man, new to the community or not, brings his hag along for a date he is clearly interested, but looking for any fault that you might have to not only be pointed out but dissected into original parts.
I did not make a good first impression. In my defense, I had just run out of new contact lenses, and I think I look terrible in glasses. So I prettied myself up and I headed down to Diesel in nothing. Now, my eyesight isn't terrible in daylight, but in a smoky murky bar, its a little dodgy. So I walked in, past the people sitting at the bar and out to the back porch. He wasn't there. I had purposefully been a little late, so as not to seem so eager. So, either he had stood me up, or he was being fashionably late, and if he was trying to be late, I was going to be pissed for stealing my idea. I whipped out my phone and furiously began T9 wording his ass to find out where he was:
IM HERE. WHERE R U?
>AT THE BAR.
NO U ARNT. I WAS JUST THERE.
>U WALKED PAST ME.
Fanfuckintastic. In my sightlessness, I had totally flown past him and his hag without so much as a wink, nod, or hello.
SRRY. BE THERE IN A SEC.
I walked back in and greeted them. Peggy was the hag's name and we all had a good laugh over the carelessness I displayed for not wearing some eyewear, and we watched something that resembled a rather sad drag show. Amidst the recreation of some hideous Beyonce' song, something fantastic happened. We had, for the first time, good conversation that came with ease. We laughed. We talked. We judged unfortunate souls. It was by and by, the best date ever. Hag, notwithstanding.
Once again in my desperate attempt to not seem so eager, I bid them farewell and told him to call me the next day. I downed my V&C and flew out onto Main St. I had been outside of the bar for about two seconds when the texting for me to come back began. Finally, coyness had paid off...
But, I resisted. I got in my car and immediately went to Carrie D's house to tell the tale of what I had, until this point, been concealing. As I reminisced with her about the the past week, Trevor continued his texting pursuit.
> COME BACK. I DIDN'T GIVE YOU MY GIFT.
WHAT GIFT?
> I'M NOT TELLING.
TELL ME!
> COME AND GET IT.
It was two o'clock in the morning. There was no way that I was going to be pathetic and go back to the bar...alone...Then it hit me. Enlist Carrie D and Troy to come back to the bar with me for three important reasons: 1. I would look popular. 2. I would be armed with my hag and let's face it, hag on hag warfare was the only way to play the game, and 3. I would collect my gift.
So, newly armed with friends and confidence we hopped in the Carrie D's Jeep and headed down to the bar listening to Kelis' "Milkshake" on the radio. Once there, we walked in to find Trevor and Peggy still sitting at the bar where they'd been left. I hadn't told him I was returning, and I knew from the expression on his face that the surprise was worth it. We got more intoxicated, throwing back Capt'n-N-Coke and V&C's, laughing hysterically and making fun of the moronic things people do when they think no one is watching...especially in a dark bar. All was perfect, until the one thing that could ruin any night occurred: the "ugly lights" lit up our cove. You know the lights. Those harsh, not-fluorescent, but almost lights that reveal all of the leftovers from the evening. Every wrinkle, every gapped tooth, every dirty fingernail would now be shown. Luckily enough that wasn't the case. Up until this point, you see, I had not seen Trevor by the light of day. But, he passed inspection with flying colors. Right around the time his passing of inspection occurred, it dawned on me. HE HAD YET TO SEE ME IN THE LIGHT OF DAY! EEK!
I quickly ushered him out of the bar and back to his truck for what I would envision to be a quick farewell.
How wrong I was.
He unlocked his doors and told me he was going to give me his gift. It wasn't nearly as dirty as it sounds. He leaned in to give me a sweet little kiss. Right as our lips were about to meet, I throw my hand in the air and say "Wait! I'm scary and damaged!" In the tradition of self-sabotage, here I was pouring out all of this bile all over a perfect evening. He looked shocked in that this-bitch-is-crazy sort of way, but he must have rationalized that he was stronger than my need to accurately self-fulfill my prophecy, because he smiled, leaned in kissed me, and said, "It's ok. I like scary and damaged."
This time I heard the orchestra stringing and the trumpets blowing. I got out of his truck, made a date with him on Halloween, and drove, for the second time that evening, home.
That was the moment it happened. That was the moment I realized that I was in love...
Friday, July 10, 2009
Someday My Prince Will Come
I do not believe in fairytales. I believe in fairies and I believe in tales, but in my mind, neither the twain shall meet. So imagine my surprise when Trevor actually rescued me from distress, thus beginning the ride of my life.
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, we saw a good-time gay meet the man he would eventually call husband. Through a haze of smoky air, the shiny discoball-esque lighting, and the blurred vision from the aftermath of drugs, he saunterred, slumped, and embarrassed himself in front of the twin hotties. In the next chapter, we see the chase. First, let me not lead you to think for a second, that there was any remarkable gesture on my part to get Trevor to notice me. Perhaps a little tomfoolery, a little trickery if you will. But, grand gestures are for a man, and let there be no mistake here: I am a fucking lady...Er, sort of...
Two months or so after the initial contact, I was perusing the lush and plentiful garden of gays that congregated to their local server in search of quickies, so-called relationships, and my favorite: "friends" on www.gay.com. After watching the mindless banter betweeen "bb4life" and "jockcock69" for ten minutes or so, I began clicking on the screennames to view the mini-profiles of the men in the "Peoria-Bloomington" chatroom. About a third of the way down there was charming young fellow with the screenname EIUstudent who looked vaguely familiar. I brought up the full profile and EUREKA! Well, actually it was more like CHARLESTON! At any rate I had found Taylor. He was attending Eastern Illinois University and had just begun his final year there. Now, mind you, Taylor wasn't the subject of my dreams, but he was close enough and if I were a betting man, and let's face it, I am, I knew that he, if persuaded properly, could provide me with some clues as to how I might find the other one.
So, I clicked on my chat icon and said,
HEY
To which I received nothing in return. Ok, Ok, this one was a princess so clearly it was going to take more than a quick schmooze.
HI. I REMEMBER YOU. YOUR FAVE COLOR IS GREEN.
This illicited a bit more of a response:
LOL.
Clearly I was dying here. Normally, I would have just bellied up and asked for the screenname of the twin, but I felt like this might be more of a sensitive topic. I mean really, how would it look for me to be like "Hey, your twin brother is hot, can I get his screenname?" I knew that would land me face-down-ass-up in the hunt for Twin Two. So, I did what I loathe the most. I small-talked. After spending much time with Taylor since this initial contact, I have learned that he hates small talk as much as I do...I should have just asked for the name and been done with it. Instead, I carried on the charade of coyness. Amidst the coy parade, it dawns on me that they might be talking online to each other as we typed. So I began to search for the other one's picture in the list of chatters. Sure enough, I found him. trevClay1985, had at some point in my conversation with Twin One, logged on. That was all it took:
IS YOUR BROTHER ON HERE TOO?
>YES
TREVCLAY1985?
>THAT'S HIM.
COOL. HAVE A GOOD NIGHT.
(New window open for Trevor's conversation now)
HHEY. (I'm fairly certain i misspelled the first word of our introduction so not only do I look like a drug addict without a clue, but now I also look like an illiterrate dumbass) REMEMBER ME?
>YES. WHAT'S UP'?
So he finally gives me the opportunity to make my move. To really jump on that train. To finally seal the deal with my extreme coolness. My response:
NOTHIN.
Nothin? Seriously? Seriously! My fricking response was Nothin. No g. Forever in his mind I am going to be "nothin no g" the loser who scouted him out through his twin who has inevitably told him about my lame ass chat with him. Luckily, as fate would have it, my nightly debautchery was about to begin as Carrie D, a friend, lesbian, and premier faghag, had just texted me "Going to Sparks. Get here now." With that I bid both twins farewell and went to begin the nights festivities.
As pathetic as this sounds, let me tell you that it was only the tip of the pathetic iceburg. I would have five or six more conversations like this with Trevor before the night of our second encounter. This night is where the tale truly begins.
October 24, 2008 I went out to our local gay dive. We, and by we I mean me, were drinking heavily. Carrie D and I had decided it was going to be a Tequila night, though it was not Monday. So it started: Shot after shot, laugh after laugh, judgement after judgement. Unbeknownst to me, Trevor would be located on the back porch smoking cigarettes and drinking Capt'n-n-Coke. I sidled up to the bar and ordered two Tequila Shooters. As the total came to $7.50, I grabbed a ten dollar bill out of my pocket. Of course, nothing can go smoothly in my world, so I dropped my cash. Paper money, being paper, did what it does: it flutters and floats. It did that up against the base of the bar. I bent over to pick it up and stood back up: WHAM! BLACKOUT!
It seems that I had concussed myself by slamming the back of my head into the corner lip of the bar. As opposed to going to the hospital like a normal individual, I slammed my shooter and stumbled out onto the back porch for some air, and by air I mean Marlboro Ultra Light. I tripped up the stairs and fell right onto a bench and a boy. That boy was Trevor Thompson. I literally fell in his lap. We chitchatted a bit about nothing. Keep in mind this is a little fuzzy as I was not only three sheets to the wind, but now I was also concussed. Here is what I do remember. I told him that I was going to kiss him and that I was going into the bar. I told him I really hoped he would follow.
I did it.
I kissed him. I didn't hear orchestras stringing, or bells ringing, but I did know that I just kissed the one person in the world that I should be kissing. It wasn't magical. It was quite the opposite. It was real. It was the tender, soul-reaching kiss that you can't describe, but will spend the rest of your life trying to. It was in a word: perfect. And, it hurt to stop. But it did.
As promised, I got up, tripped back into the bar and immediately went to the bathroom. After I emerged, I couldn't find him. I checked out back. I looked inside and he was no where. So, I left. I went home. At that moment, I wasn't lonely anymore. I was saved. And he didn't even know it. So, as I said, I don't believe in fairytales, but the tale told by this fairy about that night is absolutely true. That was the day my prince came and rescued me.
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, we saw a good-time gay meet the man he would eventually call husband. Through a haze of smoky air, the shiny discoball-esque lighting, and the blurred vision from the aftermath of drugs, he saunterred, slumped, and embarrassed himself in front of the twin hotties. In the next chapter, we see the chase. First, let me not lead you to think for a second, that there was any remarkable gesture on my part to get Trevor to notice me. Perhaps a little tomfoolery, a little trickery if you will. But, grand gestures are for a man, and let there be no mistake here: I am a fucking lady...Er, sort of...
Two months or so after the initial contact, I was perusing the lush and plentiful garden of gays that congregated to their local server in search of quickies, so-called relationships, and my favorite: "friends" on www.gay.com. After watching the mindless banter betweeen "bb4life" and "jockcock69" for ten minutes or so, I began clicking on the screennames to view the mini-profiles of the men in the "Peoria-Bloomington" chatroom. About a third of the way down there was charming young fellow with the screenname EIUstudent who looked vaguely familiar. I brought up the full profile and EUREKA! Well, actually it was more like CHARLESTON! At any rate I had found Taylor. He was attending Eastern Illinois University and had just begun his final year there. Now, mind you, Taylor wasn't the subject of my dreams, but he was close enough and if I were a betting man, and let's face it, I am, I knew that he, if persuaded properly, could provide me with some clues as to how I might find the other one.
So, I clicked on my chat icon and said,
HEY
To which I received nothing in return. Ok, Ok, this one was a princess so clearly it was going to take more than a quick schmooze.
HI. I REMEMBER YOU. YOUR FAVE COLOR IS GREEN.
This illicited a bit more of a response:
LOL.
Clearly I was dying here. Normally, I would have just bellied up and asked for the screenname of the twin, but I felt like this might be more of a sensitive topic. I mean really, how would it look for me to be like "Hey, your twin brother is hot, can I get his screenname?" I knew that would land me face-down-ass-up in the hunt for Twin Two. So, I did what I loathe the most. I small-talked. After spending much time with Taylor since this initial contact, I have learned that he hates small talk as much as I do...I should have just asked for the name and been done with it. Instead, I carried on the charade of coyness. Amidst the coy parade, it dawns on me that they might be talking online to each other as we typed. So I began to search for the other one's picture in the list of chatters. Sure enough, I found him. trevClay1985, had at some point in my conversation with Twin One, logged on. That was all it took:
IS YOUR BROTHER ON HERE TOO?
>YES
TREVCLAY1985?
>THAT'S HIM.
COOL. HAVE A GOOD NIGHT.
(New window open for Trevor's conversation now)
HHEY. (I'm fairly certain i misspelled the first word of our introduction so not only do I look like a drug addict without a clue, but now I also look like an illiterrate dumbass) REMEMBER ME?
>YES. WHAT'S UP'?
So he finally gives me the opportunity to make my move. To really jump on that train. To finally seal the deal with my extreme coolness. My response:
NOTHIN.
Nothin? Seriously? Seriously! My fricking response was Nothin. No g. Forever in his mind I am going to be "nothin no g" the loser who scouted him out through his twin who has inevitably told him about my lame ass chat with him. Luckily, as fate would have it, my nightly debautchery was about to begin as Carrie D, a friend, lesbian, and premier faghag, had just texted me "Going to Sparks. Get here now." With that I bid both twins farewell and went to begin the nights festivities.
As pathetic as this sounds, let me tell you that it was only the tip of the pathetic iceburg. I would have five or six more conversations like this with Trevor before the night of our second encounter. This night is where the tale truly begins.
October 24, 2008 I went out to our local gay dive. We, and by we I mean me, were drinking heavily. Carrie D and I had decided it was going to be a Tequila night, though it was not Monday. So it started: Shot after shot, laugh after laugh, judgement after judgement. Unbeknownst to me, Trevor would be located on the back porch smoking cigarettes and drinking Capt'n-n-Coke. I sidled up to the bar and ordered two Tequila Shooters. As the total came to $7.50, I grabbed a ten dollar bill out of my pocket. Of course, nothing can go smoothly in my world, so I dropped my cash. Paper money, being paper, did what it does: it flutters and floats. It did that up against the base of the bar. I bent over to pick it up and stood back up: WHAM! BLACKOUT!
It seems that I had concussed myself by slamming the back of my head into the corner lip of the bar. As opposed to going to the hospital like a normal individual, I slammed my shooter and stumbled out onto the back porch for some air, and by air I mean Marlboro Ultra Light. I tripped up the stairs and fell right onto a bench and a boy. That boy was Trevor Thompson. I literally fell in his lap. We chitchatted a bit about nothing. Keep in mind this is a little fuzzy as I was not only three sheets to the wind, but now I was also concussed. Here is what I do remember. I told him that I was going to kiss him and that I was going into the bar. I told him I really hoped he would follow.
I did it.
I kissed him. I didn't hear orchestras stringing, or bells ringing, but I did know that I just kissed the one person in the world that I should be kissing. It wasn't magical. It was quite the opposite. It was real. It was the tender, soul-reaching kiss that you can't describe, but will spend the rest of your life trying to. It was in a word: perfect. And, it hurt to stop. But it did.
As promised, I got up, tripped back into the bar and immediately went to the bathroom. After I emerged, I couldn't find him. I checked out back. I looked inside and he was no where. So, I left. I went home. At that moment, I wasn't lonely anymore. I was saved. And he didn't even know it. So, as I said, I don't believe in fairytales, but the tale told by this fairy about that night is absolutely true. That was the day my prince came and rescued me.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Beginning of CJ McBridezilla...
First and foremost, let me just state that I am normally a logical, well-rounded individual. I would also like to go on record having said that this is entirely the fault of one Mr. Trevor Clayton Thompson. I liked my little world. I loved going out at-will with my friends, slinking off to unseen nooks and crannies at the local gay bar to make out with some random, albeit hot boy whose name would never be of any importance in my life. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was a fag, and I loved it. After-hours parties across the street until 7am, Britney Spears club-edit-remixes, self-proclaimed titles like the Queen of Peoria, and oh, the drugs: Extasy, Pot, Cocaine, Oh My!
Ok, so not all parts of my life were fagtastic. Perhaps, not even half of my life was as perfect as I wanted everyone to believe. The truth? I was circling the drain. In the giant tub of life, someone had pulled the stopper and I was being pulled under at a rate to which no one could stop me. This is not the stuff I'm proud of, mind you, but it is absolutely pertinent to the story of my, "Bridezilla Becoming."
It starts with an X. And also an EX. In June of 2008, I was living the life of a desperate housewife by day, and by night, my inner-Britney shown through. In the AM, I would get dressed in my Optical-best attire. I would slump into work anywhere between 8:00 and 8:15 and begin the tasks of customer service, employee dispute resolutions, and rearranging fantastic frames for purchase. Between the period of 4:00 to 4:30, I would then venture home. As my then boyfriend and I hadn't had sex in 11 months, I would retire to the Internet world of amateur porn. Don't get me wrong, I never placated my urges to porn. That's is a HUGE GAY CLICHE'. I did, however, enjoy the knowledge that at least somebody was getting it regular. Besides, most of those clips were funny on a level I can't even make up.
After an hour or two of the old Xtube, I would feed the dog, and watch episodes of "The Golden Girls" or "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" from my DVD collection. About 7:30, the dreaded ex would arrive home to entice me with the same on-schedule-every-week-meal for my enjoyment. Mondays, we'd have fettucini alfredo while watching DVR'd episodes of "Desperate Housewives". Tuesdays would be a homebake by Betty Crocker while we were entertained by "American Idol", and then for the results show on Wednesday there would be hamburgers. Thursdays over "Bones" and "Grey's Anatomy", we'd feast on Tyson pre-made chicken patties. Fridays would land me with some macaroni and cheese, Saturday's would be pizza and Sundays was a mystery...We'll call it ThrellerSurprise. Needless to say, I would also find myself at the bottom of 1.5 litres of Pinot Grigio for $4.99 from the local Wal*Mart. Uncorked, straight out of the bottle. I am a classy Girl.
Once the charade of my television-pinot-macaroni coma subsided, I would get the get-up-and-go. You see, I also had a schedule. for which the EX was not responsible, nor involved. The people changed, but the locations and themes were always the same. For instance, there was Tequila Mondays, Two-dollar-titty tuesdays at the local, world-famous strip club, and a low-key Crusen's night on Wednesday. Thursdays were Drag Night, followed by Gayla nights on Fridays. Saturdays were a sin-sespool culminating at the arrival to Diesel, the gay night club. Sundays were a day to sleep off the week.
Let me be very clear here. I never once hid my sadness or insecurities from my friends. I pride myself on my self-awareness and so I never once slipped into the dillusions that what I was doing was right, nice, or even OK. But, with sadness, I also developed a great apathy for the feelings of others. My ex was not even a blip on my radar any longer. He was, at best, inconsequential. For this, I do apologize to him, though something tells me he won't be following this blog.
So one Saturday night in June, My friends and I decide that a little Extasy enhancement would be a fun endeavor. So we partake of pills, and head down to one of the three gaybars from my hometown. After an hour or so, I am dancing around, mingling, and rubbing against everything that was bolted down to the sticky floor, when I see two ridiculously good-looking boys sitting at a table. In true gay tradition, they were sitting there silently judging the hordes of queens, bears, jocks, fratboys, and fatgirl faghags moving through the crowd. Now as I was, in a word, wasted, I was having a two problems. The first was an over-abundance of drunk courage, and second, that I couldn't tell whether the ridiculously good-looking boys were actually one boy that I was seeing double of due to my intoxication, or I was looking at twins.
The latter would be true.
So, me being me on X, I saunter up to the twins, plant my ass on the barstool, and ask the worst question in the history of pickup lines..."So, If I smack him, will you feel it?" Yes ladies and gentlemen, that's my A-game. The rest of the night goes down from there...Although, I did learn that the twins shared a favorite color, green. Oh, and that their names were Trevor and Taylor.
That was it. Trevor would become the object of my affections for the next five months, unbeknownst to him. That night would mark the day I would be destined to become this mess of a Bridezilla who in the words of Jason Mraz is "lucky to be in love with my best friend."
Ok, so not all parts of my life were fagtastic. Perhaps, not even half of my life was as perfect as I wanted everyone to believe. The truth? I was circling the drain. In the giant tub of life, someone had pulled the stopper and I was being pulled under at a rate to which no one could stop me. This is not the stuff I'm proud of, mind you, but it is absolutely pertinent to the story of my, "Bridezilla Becoming."
It starts with an X. And also an EX. In June of 2008, I was living the life of a desperate housewife by day, and by night, my inner-Britney shown through. In the AM, I would get dressed in my Optical-best attire. I would slump into work anywhere between 8:00 and 8:15 and begin the tasks of customer service, employee dispute resolutions, and rearranging fantastic frames for purchase. Between the period of 4:00 to 4:30, I would then venture home. As my then boyfriend and I hadn't had sex in 11 months, I would retire to the Internet world of amateur porn. Don't get me wrong, I never placated my urges to porn. That's is a HUGE GAY CLICHE'. I did, however, enjoy the knowledge that at least somebody was getting it regular. Besides, most of those clips were funny on a level I can't even make up.
After an hour or two of the old Xtube, I would feed the dog, and watch episodes of "The Golden Girls" or "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" from my DVD collection. About 7:30, the dreaded ex would arrive home to entice me with the same on-schedule-every-week-meal for my enjoyment. Mondays, we'd have fettucini alfredo while watching DVR'd episodes of "Desperate Housewives". Tuesdays would be a homebake by Betty Crocker while we were entertained by "American Idol", and then for the results show on Wednesday there would be hamburgers. Thursdays over "Bones" and "Grey's Anatomy", we'd feast on Tyson pre-made chicken patties. Fridays would land me with some macaroni and cheese, Saturday's would be pizza and Sundays was a mystery...We'll call it ThrellerSurprise. Needless to say, I would also find myself at the bottom of 1.5 litres of Pinot Grigio for $4.99 from the local Wal*Mart. Uncorked, straight out of the bottle. I am a classy Girl.
Once the charade of my television-pinot-macaroni coma subsided, I would get the get-up-and-go. You see, I also had a schedule. for which the EX was not responsible, nor involved. The people changed, but the locations and themes were always the same. For instance, there was Tequila Mondays, Two-dollar-titty tuesdays at the local, world-famous strip club, and a low-key Crusen's night on Wednesday. Thursdays were Drag Night, followed by Gayla nights on Fridays. Saturdays were a sin-sespool culminating at the arrival to Diesel, the gay night club. Sundays were a day to sleep off the week.
Let me be very clear here. I never once hid my sadness or insecurities from my friends. I pride myself on my self-awareness and so I never once slipped into the dillusions that what I was doing was right, nice, or even OK. But, with sadness, I also developed a great apathy for the feelings of others. My ex was not even a blip on my radar any longer. He was, at best, inconsequential. For this, I do apologize to him, though something tells me he won't be following this blog.
So one Saturday night in June, My friends and I decide that a little Extasy enhancement would be a fun endeavor. So we partake of pills, and head down to one of the three gaybars from my hometown. After an hour or so, I am dancing around, mingling, and rubbing against everything that was bolted down to the sticky floor, when I see two ridiculously good-looking boys sitting at a table. In true gay tradition, they were sitting there silently judging the hordes of queens, bears, jocks, fratboys, and fatgirl faghags moving through the crowd. Now as I was, in a word, wasted, I was having a two problems. The first was an over-abundance of drunk courage, and second, that I couldn't tell whether the ridiculously good-looking boys were actually one boy that I was seeing double of due to my intoxication, or I was looking at twins.
The latter would be true.
So, me being me on X, I saunter up to the twins, plant my ass on the barstool, and ask the worst question in the history of pickup lines..."So, If I smack him, will you feel it?" Yes ladies and gentlemen, that's my A-game. The rest of the night goes down from there...Although, I did learn that the twins shared a favorite color, green. Oh, and that their names were Trevor and Taylor.
That was it. Trevor would become the object of my affections for the next five months, unbeknownst to him. That night would mark the day I would be destined to become this mess of a Bridezilla who in the words of Jason Mraz is "lucky to be in love with my best friend."
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