Naked

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54)and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.

Saturday, May 28, 2005, 12:30 a.m. East Coast Time, Lowe Household.

I am holed up in the upstairs study (my former bedroom) and have been living a suspended reality for most of the morning. Last night, I puked. Several times. Several, several times.I would have forgotten it, but I seem to be wearing a smidge of a onion blossom on my beard. Oh, and some on my shorts. Wait, the floor too.

I looked around the study. It was familiar, yet foreign. My dresser used to be right where that desk and computer are. I got my first "stand up" blow job in that corner. I closed my eyes again. The ceiling fan used to look like crayolas, even in high school. Now, it looks like palm blades. I am delirious with drunk sleep.

I get hot when I drink and usually end up disrobing. I don’t even know I’m doing it at times, I just happen to wake up naked. I hate the morning light too. My room used to be as dark as a cave, but now there are giant windows and skylights and palm blades taunting me.

I tried to recollect some of the events of last night. Let's see, first I came out. Uh, don't remember much of the bar. Do remember walking upstairs instead of going to the guest room. I didn’t feel like being downstairs. I needed a familiar sleep.

“Hey, dude, you ok in there?” Derek said knocking on the door.

“Come in.” I said, hearing my mouth open like velco.

Derek walked in and stopped in his tracks.

“Dude, you’re fucking naked,” he said as he hurried to the bathroom to grab a towel, “here cover up, I don’t need to see that shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you sniffing your underwear, perv?”

“Na dude, just trying to block out the light,” I said as I lifted my boxers from my eyes.

"Rob, uh, what happened to your chest? Do you shave your fucking chest?"

"Na, I wax it. I mean, I waxed it, once," I said, wiping a slow hand across my chest.

"Rob, are you really gay, cause that's a pretty gay thing to do. What the fuck?"

"Let's talk about it later. Can you close those?" I said, motioning to the window.

Derek walked over to draw the drapes.

“Thanks,” I said.

"I tried to read your blog thing. It's pretty stupid. Who reads that shit? It's not even funny," he said.

"I can't talk about this now," I said in a tone he understood.

“Are you ok? I mean, you’ve got puke all over you and the leather couch. Dad's gonna be pissed. You're so lucky you didn't heave in my car."

"Dad's car," I muttered.

"Here, let me get you some water,” he said, in a more brotherly tone.

I sat up and peeled myself from the leather couch. I felt like a fruit roll-up being ripped away from the plastic. I walked to the bathroom.

“Dude, watch out!” Derek said as I almost clam shelled the puke with my foot.

“I’ll clean it,” I mumbled.

“I’ll get it, fool. Just get yourself together, jump in the fucking shower or something. Mom keeps asking about you. She’s worried.”

I turned on the shower. It provided a momentary escape. As I lathered up I realized that I needed to spin a bit of damage control. And what better person to handle it than someone who does that shit for a living, my friend Tracy.

I got out of the shower and called her. I explained what happened and after five minutes of bitching at me for being such a lousy son, she offered some advice that she thought could save the relationship with my parents without admitting the lie. And it just might work.