Off again

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.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

Have a Fourth.

I am going camping this weekend. I know, great timing,huh? You'd figure I'd want to spend some time inside, since my time is running out on my place. Oh well, the outdoors will do me good. Plus I got a sweet tent on super sale from Target last year and it keeps taunting me in the box. I almost set it up in my living room. I'm real glad I didn't. Oh, and Urban Bella, do you still think a guy that admits to almost putting a tent in his living room can still mack the ladies online? I think not.

Anyway, here's what I think everyone else will be doing:

Madison-Screwing a married chick or plotting to screw one.

Gorthos-Playing D&D and having Sat as the scheduled sex night. He's Canadian, anyway, so he doesn't count.

Lorelia-Marathon "Road Head" weekend

Kate-Something fun with a really hot guy.

Jelly-Drinking/Hungover, Drinking/Hungover. Then something proverbial.

MA-Dreaming about Vespas and splashing about in a lake.

Jenni-watching Pulp Fiction, Driving her convertible and vibing starbucks guys

Independentgrl-Dreaming about vegas

Nic-Going to a concert and taking her shoes off

UB-Going to some expensive L.A. supper club, getting drunk and harassing stars.

Retro-Banging the "pay for gay" Redken Boys (I'm wishing this on you)

Libby-Doing something so her daughter will remember this fourth forever.

Intelligentsia-Canadian, probably having beers with Gorthos.

Meg-Kicking it with MA having the bikini splashing party (In my mind it is much more innocent than it sounds. There's a sunset and everything)

Salty-Doing tequila body shots with someone fabulous

Claven-At the beach, rereading Clinton's memoirs and wearing a hula skirt.

Liz-Going to Chicago and getting drunk with friends. Perhaps kisses another girl.

Rachel-Something dirty in a car.

Have a good weekend.

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King of the Road

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.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

On the road to Vegas, Friday 6/23, Mojave desert.

I’m selfish at times. Selfish with my experiences, selfish with my life. Because when I don’t have to share my life with others, I am released. It frees me to do the things I've always wanted to do--things like being alone.

I’m not a loner by trade or some antisocial jackass. But there are some experiental times in my life where I just don’t want to be around anyone else. Driving to Vegas is one of those times.

As romantic as a rag-top trip across the open desert seems, the reality can be quite different. It is a sallow time if you are not in the right frame of mind. It is an endless expanse of dirt, rocks and Joshua trees juxtaposed by severe roadside attractions. Swingers summed up the trip to Vegas best, full steam in the beginning and a slow roll to the end. It’s true, that’s why most people fly. And that’s why I am driving.

With someone riding shotgun, I would be on their schedule as much as my own. I’d have to listen to their music, take part in their conversation and stop for a piss when they needed a piss break. Being on your own lets you turn left when you should turn right, crank up some Laura Branigan without the need to explain yourself and stop for no other reason than to look around and daydream. Driving alone let’s you be yourself, in your purest and most adventurous form.

The road between the two cities is generally a straight shot for most Angelinos in escape--the 10 E to the 15N. In between are a handful of illegitimate cities, distanced to your kidneys. So instead of keeping pace with the thousands of others on the main freeways, I decided to break from convention and take the back roads. A convertible at 80 mph gets old real fast. It is an endurance test. A test of the romantic vs. the dogmatic. A test of desert winds and desert heat. That’s why I chose another path. A slower, more recreational path to hedonism.

The desert is littered with ill-fated communities. There is the “old road” which is Route 66. When the freeway was built, the old road traffic dropped off and all the businesses became unsustainable. Their relics still stand as modern-day reminders of the fickleness of our society. As depressing as this sounds to some, it is quite the opposite for me. It is a Havana sunset.

The high desert is also meth lab central. It is home to a portable civilization. A disenfranchised group who dwell at society’s edge. They are hidden among the rocks, roadside stands and miles of dirt road. Their lives are as different from yours and mine as lives can be. They are an alien world fuelled by ephedrine.

I made my escape, armed with my desert playlist(Doors, U2, Van, Dead, etc.), plenty of water and a dog-earred map. I ended up getting caught up on Friday, so I left later in the afternoon. I cranked up the music, plugged in my radar detector (circa 1990) and got on the road to nowhere.

I drove for a few hours and stopped for a piss outside Mojave. Along the way, I had passed testing facilities, Edwards AFB and the Mojave airport, things you never see on the main road. The levels of recluse grow exponentially with every passing mile away from LA. First you see the 200K new houses, then the 100K. After an hour of driving you come upon trailer parks, run-down motels and junk yards. I got gas and started on the road again. Then I saw something that made me stop in my tracks, and completely changed my plans for Friday night.

It was a sign that read “Rooms to Let”

Maybe it was the sweet desert air or a call from the late Roger miller, but I figured, what the hell. It’s getting hot outside and I could use a break. I pulled up to an old man standing outside the wooden fence that separated dirt from more dirt. He was without a car and just had a blue suitcase with him.

“You waiting for someone?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Gotcha, are they out of rooms?”

“Nope, got plenty, I don’t need a ride, if you’re asking. Not now, anyway.”

“Ok, thanks,” I said now seeing how he misread the subtext. I got out of the car and walked toward the desk.

“If you wait a few hours, they drop their price,” he shouted at me as I was walking away.

“What’s that?” I said, less as a question and more as a response.

“They drop the prices every hour that they don’t sell the room,” he said, ”I’m waiting until 9 or so. They’re about 15 then.”

I walked back toward him.

“15 bucks for a room, I could swing that.”

I realized the irony of that statement as I looked at my dusty Porsche in the corner.

“But that’s 3 hours away, what are you doing until then?”

“Just sitting here. It’s starting to cool down. I’ve got a nice shady spot.”

“How bout I buy you a beer, what’s the place over there.”

“Bunch of fags there,” he said.

“Ah, so a gay bar? Anything else around?” I said, slightly taken back by his brashness.

“Not a gay bar, just fags. Goddamn faggots.”

Now I was reading his subtext. He obviously had a storied history with the people in that bar and expressed himself in the only way he knew, to challenge their sexuality.

“But there is a truck stop over there if you want to grab a bite,” he said pointing.

“Sure.”

So we walked in the desert splitting desert blooms and diesel fumes. We had pancakes and he shared his flask. I didn’t ask much about him, because I don’t think he wanted me to know. I was cool with that. He just told stories, and I listened. I asked him if I could get a picture with him, and he flatly responded, “no.”

After about an hour or so, we walked back to the spot. The sun was setting, not just on the day, but on my partner’s days. He was old and crotchety, but he survived where others have not. Take away the job, the road or whatever else was stolen from this guy, he still lives with Brylcream pride. For that, I thought, he deserved a break.

“I’m going in, you waiting here?” I said, walking towards the manager’s office.

“You go.”

I went to the manager’s office and got a room for two nights, $20/night. And in the strange world of desert motels, I stumbled upon a not-so-hidden discovery. They sold alcohol at the front desk, either legally or illegally. I grabbed a $20 bottle of Jack and got a key with 3b on it. I stepped inside the room and took a long, fruitful piss. I looked around the room. There was a faint smell of wet rust and pinesol. The rooms were paneled in a way that probably created a boutique feel in its heyday.

I put the bottle on the bed and walked out the door. There was Frank, just sitting there, patiently waiting to save $5.

“Hey Frank, wake up,” I said as I threw him the keys. “There’s a little something on the bed for you, too.”

He smiled, but never said thanks. By now, we were both pretty good at reading between each other’s lines.

I got in the car as the sun began to set on a mystical day and dialed the phone.

"Rob, where the fuck are you? Did you break down”

“Uh, sort of. I’ll be there in two hours or so.”

“Ok, you better because we’re getting ready for dinner now and I need to get your name on the list for later and…”

I held up to phone to the desert and hit the gas.

“Later Tracy,” I said, without waiting for a response.

I was on the road again, crossing the last bastion of sand between me and the crown jewel. I was awake, alive and ready to test out these wings.


Special thanks to the delicious Daniel for his help in the safe return of my cowboy hat.

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Siddhartha

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.
Mission Three: Live without the security of four walls.

A great man once said Rob Lowe’s missions are “living, breathing, sizzling, shedding, humping, lusty animals.” Well, maybe it wasn’t a great man, but someone said it. And that’s good enough for me.

I love advice. And the reason I love it is because I get an outside perspective that keeps my thoughts alive and moving forward. I especially liked the comment from Libby that reminded me, and I’m paraphrashing: Just because you blogged it doesn’t mean you have to do it. It made me think.

Yesterday, I found many people focusing on the gambling part of my mission. Makes sense, since it was the most salacious detail. I went back and reread my post and I realized I wasn’t doing well in making my point. Truthfully, as over-the-top as it seems, the 10K bet was conceived as an afterthought. Retro was right, it did have something to do with Vegas clouding my vision. Maybe it was the lights, the glitz or the manner in which cash was worshipped, but I slipped into a place where I wanted to escape and fit in at the same time.

I choose my missions based on my state of mind. It is a reaction to the sunset of the previous mission, in much the same way as the fictional Siddhartha. For the first mission, I wanted to do something CelebRob would never do. And I think I did. Prior to hooking up with both those ladies in a month, I had only been sexually active with nine women in my life. As the light was fading from that mission, I felt I was getting too focused on sex. To be intimate with two women in one month was a bit overwhelming, given my past sexual history.

So I decided to try to be less macho by living the gay lifestyle in Mission Two. The fallout from that was I found myself getting caught up in the world of materialism, between my over-indulgent gay friends and my bourgeois parents. For me, the path of excess did not lead to the palace of wisdom. It lead to the palace of confusion.

For Mission 3, I decided to just get rid of the car, abandon the apartment for a month, and walk the earth, just like Kane or Jules. I wanted to experience things and make the material world immaterial to my happiness. To see if I could live without a four-walled security blanket.

I needed to take some time to live below my means, since for so long I was living beyond it.

The $10K bet was meant to be my final “Fuck You” to the almighty dollar. To prove that although I needed it to survive, I didn’t need it to live. It was me lording myself over the elusive dollar that has become a universal flashpoint for wars, murders and the slow death of people in search of it. I would assert my power over money, rather than allow it to assert its power over me. It was to become an ancillary player in my grand musical.

I’m not a communist or socialist, rather I’m trying to focus on what brings people together, rather than divides them. Because there are things like love, family, friendship, compassion and sex that we can share in life, regardless of our socio-economic status. Happiness can still be found without money. The day will still turn to night without money. People will still fall in love without money. People will still die without it. Money, by far is society’s most divisive mechanism, yet it can be society’s least necessary.

Initially, burning the $10K in a wild and indulgent flash seemed right. Truthfully, it still does, but for other reasons that I initially thought. I just didn’t want to make this seem like a publicity stunt, so that part of my mission will be rethought. I wasn’t in the right place to make that decision, and once I am I can revisit the idea on a more personal and involved basis. Now, if I get to that spiritual cliff, where money is not all that important, I may go to Vegas and bet it all. But, that will be a personal part of the mission that I probably will not share. But I will share the most important parts of the journey, and all the discoveries associated with them.

Yes, at the end of this month, Rob Lowe could be lighting cigars with $20's, or maybe not. But I don’t really thing that will have any bearing on our time spent together. Because I think we all connect is ways that don’t require cash. We connect in ways that only require that we be human.

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Rob Lowe where did you go?

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.
Mission Three: To come.

Yesterday was an interesting day. Not good, interesting. It was bad, interesting. Actually, it sucked.

The future of Rob Lowe Can You Go? was held together by a strand on Monday. There were some events that happened this weekend with friends of the Ex who were given the site. It got back to the Ex's husband, and let's just say he was not too pleased. Through a "handler" I was told to dump the site, and any references to a certain somebody. I layed low yesterday and contacted my legal counsel (Derek), who advised me to "Just take the fuckin' shit down, Rob."

But that was really not the answer I wanted. And after much thought and a second round with Derek, he advised me to "not make any further references to that particular relationship in the future, and remove all inferences regardless of ambiguity that would the provide a path to the identity of said relationship." Anyway, it was something like that. Some fucking legalese I kind of wrote down. That's Derek in work mode. He vocabulary grows considerably when he's wearing a tie.

So, I am keeping the site, but am following his advice. My Vegas trip will not include any events that would get my ass kicked or sued by her husband. It's cool, though. That shit was boring anyway. Also, they have a family, so I decided to take the high road and not cause any strain on that relationship. That is such a small part of who I am anyway, we all won't miss much.

Mission 3
I'm not a betting man. At least I didn't used to be. Now, things have changed a bit. Seems I'm getting a bit riskier in my old age about who I see, what I say and how close to the fire I put myself. I also learned some things last month that help put my life in perspective, with my parents and my lifestyle.

Now, as my 30th birthday encroaches on my consciousness, I am looking to go out with a bang. That's why I am trying to raise money for something big. I have arranged a sublet of my apartment beginning July 5th. I was actually able to split it between two groups, so I get $1500 each, more than I planned. I'm also planning to get rid of my car. Since it was a graduation present, I talked to Derek about buying it for cheap and having him give dad's/his old car to my sister. It's a trickle-down thing. He will be out this month, and will probably drive it back or something.

So, now that I am selling my car, subleting my apartment, does that mean I am leaving the country for Thai Ladyboys? Not exactly. I want to see how much money I can raise/save this month and bet it all on one spin of the Roulette wheel in Vegas. Oh, and it will be on my 30th birthday, to the second of my birth, with no friends or family around. Just me.

I tried to see this weekend where I can bet that high, but ended up just getting drunk, instead. I'll check online, I guess. Oh, I'm planning to do a minimum of $10,000, but I don't think it will be a nice round figure. I'll go as high as I can. If I win big, I will walk away, get a suite, perhaps a call girl or two and live it up higher than I ever have. If I lose, I will spend my 30th birthday on a bus back to LA. But it's a risk I'm willing to take.

How will I get along without a car and a place to stay? Who fucking knows. I will have my car for a few weeks until Derek comes out, but that doesn't help me with a place. I plan on making it a fun experience, mooching off friends, staying in the sublet until they kick me out, living outside. Who fucking knows? I just don't want to spend any money on rent. I want to live as inexpensively as possible, and blow all my savings in one lustful moment. It will be grand.

Thanks for your patience with me. I'm back.

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Off To See The Wizard

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.
Mission Three: Closer than you think.

It is one of the most vacuous places in the world. The land where skin and night intersect with copious grandeur. Where lives are lost and misguided dreams are fortified. It is the city of loss. It is Las Vegas.

My thoughts are white with anticipation. I need this decadence. I need to be carried away. To have my near-thoughtful mind eclipsed by thoughtless and brilliantly lit imagery. To travel snake-like through the denizens of slot pullers, free drink in hand, watching their dreams float away as effortlessly as their cash.

I’m driving out tomorrow. I had a flight but cancelled it. I have a feeling that my relationship with my car may be coming to a close, and I wanted to take one last sunset ride through the desert together.

Unfortunately, by choosing the Zen highway, I will be miss out on one of life’s most fragrant moments, the Southwest Flight to Vegas. It is filled with an amazing array of near-blooming ladies of the night and the stripper scent that accompanies them. They fly in on Friday, out on Sunday. Within the confines of this unusual flying city there is a Mardi Gras mood that cannot be topped. It is a brilliant. Its jubilance can only truly be understood by the stark contrast on the Sunday morning flight back. An hour-long pilgrimage, filled with plastic tits and soured dreams.

But I need more than an hour to put things in perspective after leaving Las Vegas. Time to piece together the weekend, lost clothing and superficial reality. Besides, I’d rather say goodbye to an old friend, with the top down, hot wind blowing in my beard and Van Morrison riding shotgun than be filled with the saddened seminal scent of Sunday air travel.

The idea of Barstow has never seemed sexier to me than at this moment.

The sophomoric side to my personality would have to say the "most awesome" thing about Vegas is not the gambling or the beautiful woman. It's being able to drink on the street. There is a secular beauty in that simple act that this male beast finds exhilarating--Walking up the strip with beer-in-hand, warm desert air caressing my sunburn. That is a visceral moment that will flash before my eyes upon death. It is mystical and satisfying.

I have an idea of what my next mission will be, and am hoping this trip will solidify that belief. I expect this weekend to be as transitory as it is sensual. Vegas will play a big part in the countdown to my 30th birthday. I have a friend's bachelor party in July and I damn well might even go back again for my own fiesta.

See you on Monday, hopefully with some good stories about women I hopefully will "fall in love with" (don't worry, it won't be with the ex). Until then, here’s a clue to my next mission.

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Strange Days

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.
Mission Three: To come.

I am staring at the calendar on the wall. June, already. Almost, July. I breathe. I sigh. I want. I want the summer to last forever. I want the days to always be longer, the sun to always feel warm and sexy on my arms. My life to always feel like it does in summer. Like it does right now. I am staring at the calendar on the wall. My birthday is almost here, a shared 24 hours with an equally epic event. Because on July 31, I will do more than simply cross the threshold into my thirties. I will cross the threshold into matrimony. On that day I will share vows, drink milk and pledge my love to the woman who always hides her face.

I wake up, perplexed and actinic from the light. The calendar is still there, just like in the dream. Briefly, I wonder if this is a dream within a dream. That would be terrible.

The calendar is real. I can touch it. It is smooth and cool. But, the date circled only says “Birthday,” not “Wedding” as it did minutes or years ago. This was not a dream within a dream. It was a dream within a staggered reality. Even worse.

After a minute and a glass of water, the dream seemed as silly and distant as my life has been recently. I don’t think on my wedding day I will “milk cows in the morning so my guests can have milk to drink.” But the mind works in often strange and unannounced ways. The rules change inside there. Sometimes they foreshadow, sometimes they awaken. Sometimes they milk. But whatever the experience, I give my dreams the same credence as I do my reality. Asleep or awake, when my being speaks, I listen. Sometimes, I do so merely to forget.

The self-diagnosis for this was simple, maybe even beneath me. I’ve interpreted far more deep and disturbing dreams—sex, beatings, balloon animals, Madison. This one was farm-club quality by comparison, even without the cows.

So here’s my interpretation: I will turn 30 in a little over a month. If I got married on that day, I would still end up behind in life. I see my friends around me getting married, having kids, having lives. I’m not jealous, but I am worried that I have a lot of catching up to do. Aunts, uncles, friends, sisters all ask the same question. Mothers, fathers, friends, neighbors all hope for the same thing, a structured path through life.

But times have changed, and life was much different for our parents. That I can qualify. But when I see these life stage enumerations happening to my own generation I start to wonder, am I missing the boat? Or even worse, have I missed it?

Marriage is not in my near future. I can’t even see myself getting laid anytime soon. I need to clean up the whole internal homestead before I am comfortable inviting someone else in. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the last two months, the unorthodox cleanup of years of toxic buildup. I’m using a Dixie cup to pick up a lake of sludge, yet I’m happy with the subtle progress.

Which leads me to my next question: Have I ever been in love? Yes. But not in the conventional way. Not in the “making sacrifices” or “sandwich night” or “meeting your parents” kind of way. Because, for most of my life, love and sex have been the same force. For me, love is a physical and emotional rush that is as momentary as it is impactful. At the moment of release, I am in love with the woman in my grasp. She is my bride, my lover, my soulmate dressed in sweat. But minutes later she is a woman. Ordinary and indelicate. Unpronounceable. She is a woman behind the DMV counter. A detached woman, if for no other reason than the emotional distance I have readily created.

I would walk away from every girl I have had sex with, the instant afterward. And in some cases, I have. But that doesn’t take away from my feelings for her minutes before, when there was nothing else in my life but her skin, her smell, her shirt on the floor. And me.

I’m just trying to make that instant longer. Then, maybe, I will be in love. Then I will find what I’m looking for. Then I will be me, and she will be “her.” To stretch that instant to a minute, a day, a week, a lifetime is all I can hope to accomplish in the near term. And I know it sounds like empty platitudes, but maybe I just need to right person to do that. To steer, guide and pre-empt. To stop the hands of time, yet deliver them in the process.

But I haven’t found her yet. And I won’t until I find myself.

I was watching Six Feet Under last night on TiVo. It was sad. Not the subject matter, but how my feelings have changed about the show. When I found out this would be the last season, I was bummed and immediately went into detachment mode. I was waiting in the DMV line, once again.

The first episode, I felt unfulfilled. But, It would probably get better next week. It didn’t. And now I keep wondering how much of this is self-imposed. Have I narrowed my focus and heightened my critical eye because I see the end? I haven’t even watched the third episode, but already I feel like the guy staying with his girlfriend only because it’s the last few months of senior year. A milestone will come that will let him off the hook for his indifference. He is kind and evil. He strings her along, he slips her away.

So, I will probably do the same with the show. As it ebbs toward its downward spiral, I will watch with the silent grace of indifference. I will participate in this feeling and hopefully learn from it. Hopefully learn from all of this. Because 30 is right around the corner. It is my graduation into a new sphere of reality. A new set of expectations and hardships. Thirty is almost here. I can’t fucking wait.

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Unintentially Grounded

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.
Mission Three: To come.

My friend’s dad in Pennsylvania was not a poet, a seer or a thinker. But he was everyman, and his advice and sublime framework from which it was cast, put things in perspective for anyone within ear’s shot. One thought in particular lives freely within my mind, firmly ensconced in my being.

“You can’t take your car into the Beef and Brew.”

For those of you who didn’t grow up in the sticks, I will gladly interpret: You can have a nice car, but from inside a dark bar, it won’t help you get chicks. To me, he was preaching to the choir. I had a shitty car back then, and welcomed any comments that put me on an equal playing field with the guys in the Firebirds (Northeast PA, remember).

When I moved west, it was a different story. I realized maybe that philosophy only applied to places where Beef and Brews existed. Maybe it was more colloquial than metaphorical. Because in LA, you still can’t bring your car inside, but you can valet it, front and center, for all the world to see. And that for many is half the battle to getting your dick wet in this town.

After I graduated college, I became the proud owner of a year-old silver Porsche Boxster. It arrived as an unexpected and completely over-the-top present from my parents. I was counting on a fine writing instrument, at best. But everything comes with a price.

This vehicle was not to say “Thanks, son” or “Congraduation, Rob.” In fact, it wasn’t even a gift to me. Rather, it was a sinister present my parents gave to themselves. A self-congratulatory slap on the back to let people know they could pull it off. It was also a point of contention used to keep me in PA after graduation. They worried about me having the car in the “big city” and “carjacking” was mentioned at least a dozen times in the brief few weeks I was home. They also were kind enough to note that registration and insurance were “much cheaper” in Pennsylvania. It became a geographic ball and chain, complete with red leather seats. But, fuck if I cared. I was in my early 20’s and dreams of long blonde hair, fake tits and in-car fellatio swirled in my under-developed head.

I was young and shallow back then, so naturally this car came as a welcome reprieve to my previous ride, a white Oldsmo-buick that carted my ass since high school. Minutes after accepting this “gift” the OB became a distant and fatigued memory. I didn’t care about driving up the coast with the top down. I didn’t care about the engine, suspension or insurance (which I had to pay). All I cared about was one thing: How could this car get me laid?

Driving around had made me feel bad ass. European cars are like a drug. The more you get the more you want. My car was fun and fast, but after a year I wanted a 911, funner and faster. If I pulled up next to one, I would look the other way or pretend to adjust the stereo. I was the younger, slower sister with her top down. I was entry level and someone called my bluff.

I think both cars had a lot to do with who I was and what I have become. I went from the Denny’s parking lot to Puff Daddy’s. I felt like a guy who won the lottery.

But now, after these last two months I find myself looking at things differently and maybe thinking I don’t need a sophisticated piece of sheet metal to make me feel good about myself or help me get laid. Contrary to popular belief, there is a substitute for Porsche, and I am slowly finding it.

I went in for routine maintenance last Thursday and dropped off the car. I went to a bar close by and waited for a friend to pick me up. My phone rang. There was a “problem” with my car. Count on about “$3500 minimum for other repairs,” the voice told me. Oh, and they would have to keep it, possibly through the weekend.

So, here I was, faced with a dilemma. First of all, how the fuck was I going to pay for this shit, and second, could I survive without a car for a few days in the car capital of the world? The answers were “who knows” and “no.” I was living beyond my means, and now that dreaded realization hit me like a wet mop.

First, I tried to get a loaner. Sorry, but they could give me the name of a local car-rental agency. Thanks.

So I walked over and stood in line. Behind the counter was a slight and disaffected woman who I began to screw in my imagination. She was good. I minimized that thought and opened a new internal window. I began scanning the car diagrams, comparing Hyundai’s to Chevy’s, when it came to me. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe I needed to go back to my roots, back to the Oldsmo-buick days, even if it was only for a brief period. I needed to see if that driver still existed and what he thinks about the person I have become. I took stock and pointed to the cheapest thing on the menu. Hyundai it was. And no on the extra insurance, baby. I may have gotten screwed at the dealer, but everyone knows not to take the insurance. By the way, I like your eyebrows, can I have your number?

I drove the white Hyundai around for a few days. It was great. I was invisible and invincible at the same time. No one was gonna carjack me in this shit, mom. I reveled in its simplicity. I felt strong, compassionate, banal. I was persevering with one of the worst automobiles on the road, and it was quite splendid.

It was tough to give it back. This car made sense. The gas mileage was great, my insurance would be cheaper and I could probably get it from one of these places for a fucking song. And if I really was as confident as I thought, then I didn’t need a fucking Porsche. Right?

Hell, the fact is, I’ve never gotten laid because of my car. I’ve never even gotten blown in, around or because of it. And in the world of Porsche drivers, I am at the near-bottom of the barrel, only above those who drive an automatic. Maybe it's time for a wake up call and a trip to eBay motors.

By the way, you can’t take your car into the Beef and Brew. In case you were wondering.

Anybody want to buy a Porsche?

Read the Rest

Overature. Candlelight.

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.
Mission Three: To come.

I chose a path this weekend. It was violent, headstrong and colorful. Palms, shallow breath, silence all lead to the path of fruit. The path of beautiful renaissance.

The path to masturbatory elegance.

I awoke Friday from a month of self-serving silence. A month of misunderstanding and abstained restraint. At face value, the fact that I committed this Catholic sin may seem a bit superfluous. But in fact, it was a key behind-the-scenes player in last month’s mission. You see, I was experiencing a challenge within a challenge. A deprivation within a decadence. I would not masturbate until Mission #2 was over. And for the record, I didn’t.

What was the impetus? Well, about two weeks into the challenge I realized I hadn’t masturbated since I began this mission. Hmmm, I’m not a Madison chronic masturbator, but two weeks is a long time for me to be away from my one-man vacation. So, instead of just bee lining for the Crabtree & Evelyn, I wondered if there was a force greater than my Maxim not arriving that would subconsciously send me to this divested retreat. Nothing came to mind. But as I opened the bottle and let the brilliant wafts of lavender take over the room, I paused once again. There was a reason for this. I needed to wait.

So I slept on it, the sock close by, should I attain a suitable midnight resolution. The next morning, understanding arrived.

As much as I was only holding myself to a gay lifestyle in the challenge, masturbating to a woman seemed contrary to my cause. I already said no sex with a lady, and thought this was fell into the same logical cadence. Worse off, I rationalized that if I did masturbate, to be true to my mission, I would have to masturbate to a guy. That could cause permanent scarring to my already delible state-of-mind.

The lines got less distinct the more I tried to convince myself about lifestyle vs. sex. Masturbation, in my head, fell firmly in-between. It was the Gaza strip of pleasure, and it would have to stay unoccupied by my hand until I figured this whole thing out. At that point, it seemed like more of a hassle than anything.

I never really talked about it because it was not integral to my understanding. And, I could see that denial eclipsing the overall message of the mission. This was not a Seinfeld episode, and I didn’t want to treat it as such. Looking back, it seemed a bit overboard. But, I was already halfway there when I raised the yellow flag and figured it couldn’t hurt. Besides, I could save on linens.

And when the night of nights arrived, it was worth the wait. No awkward build-up, no performance anxiety. It was just me and an old friend in a familiar scene. It was basic and wholesome. The seed of my loin was once again a familiar sight. My back ached with satisfaction. I knew every part by heart.

And as I lay there, discovering my ceiling’s subtle imperfections, I sadly realized that this would probably be the highlight of my weekend. But one I would have to keep to myself. I couldn’t really see me answering “Amazing time masturbating,” to “How was your weekend, Rob?” But then again, I’ve done a lot of things I probably never imagined. And more are yet to come.

On with the show.

Read the Rest

Yellow

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.

In my under-nourished, substance-abused and disproportionate state, a single word ushered in the synapse necessary to jumpstart my brain. A single color helped me see what my mind had concealed. Daniel could have saved all his talk about Kamikaze shots, lost cowboy hats and my apparent run-in with a dumpster. But late night war stories aside, the detailed disarray was unnecessary. He could have simply cut to the chase. Cut to the word.

Yellow.

“You’ve got to remember your girlfriend in the yellow sundress,” were Daniel’s exact words.

They stopped me in my tracks. The blood rushed to my head like a five-minute headstand. It was an aching feeling, yet one that sent situational impulses to my already abused vessel. Not now, I thought. Now now.

We grabbed a bagel, coffee and two waters. It was the comfort food I needed for this slow journey back in time. But as I saw my reflection in a storefront, I went back further than last night. I went back to the emotion. Back to the core of this feeling. I was in college.

I went through a period of rebellion after leaving my parent’s house and heading west for school. One that I am not particularly proud of. But, like everyone, there is a good side and the bad side to me, separated merely by relevant degrees.

So now, my mind was back at homecoming weekend. I was trying to seduce a girl who was more interested in pot than me. Luckily, I was a stoner back then and didn’t care. We drove back to my dorm room, and on the way back I clipped another car. Merely. Barely. Not even my fault. But given the circumstances, I killed the lights and took off. The other car took off as well, so I imagine that driver was in a similar fix.

I dumped my car and didn’t even survey the damage. We walked back to the apartment party, and nothing ever happened with the girl. The next day, I found myself in my dorm room, naked. Alone. I hoped I didn’t walk home that way, but I couldn’t find my clothes. Weird.

I kept my car off campus, so I went to the lot to look for it. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t remember where it was. I walked to my fraternity house to get ready for the float. I was Prince Charming because the band uniform looked best on me, at least that was the running commentary. I was a pasty faced prince, reminiscent of the dark ages where royalty carried a vaguely urine-esque smell.

A pre-puke hot flash brought me back to the parade. I needed my mind back and its help to drum up the willpower to not heave in this crowd. It would no doubt hit at least a dozen people if I did. I beat it and breathed. A split second later I was feeling oddly errant. I wondered, if I puked here, how many people would that sexually excite? My thoughts were selfish and beleagured. I needed to go home.

“Yea, we had to save you, I totally thought you would remember that. You were pissed at us. You called Jeff (Arkansas) a cock-blocker. Well, he definitely ‘cock blocked’ you,” Daniel said, making quote signs with his hands.

I rubbed my beard and took a swig of water. I was beginning to return to my former self physically, but mentally I was sitting squarely in abandon. My mind raced through the events. Then I played them back again, more slowly.

I went briefly back into college again. I remembered the last time I grew a beard was when I was on that float in college. Maybe beards are bad luck for me.

Someone else was rubbing my beard last night. It was that girl. Yellow girl. We sat at the bar, talking about her job at some food packaging company near Sacramento. She seemed to really like me. And after about a halffhour or three hours (this is where things got foggy), there began a more physical side to the conversation. She would touch my shoulder and laugh. I would move the hair out of her face. I forgot I was on a mission. I forgot I was not on a date.

But the weird part, as she was moving in for the kiss as a natural progression to the events, something clicked. I realized this was a man, or as my Thai friend verbally conjugates, “Lady Boy.” Even weirder, the realization did not cause me pause. Not because I was attracted at that point, but because I wanted to see what it was like. Getting my head around the gender-bending gay subset was difficult. I could not understand why men dress like Paris Hilton, and others find attraction there.

The kiss was a kiss. Nothing I’m proud of, but nothing I’m ashamed of either. It wasn’t a tongue wrestling match, but it wasn’t a tight-lipped “Everybody Loves Raymond” goodnight kiss either. It was somewhere in between. And, it honestly wasn’t bad. She kissed like all the other girls I knew, but that’s the only frame of reference I could rely upon. And in the end, it was merely a kiss, but only after I neatly compartmentalized the event in my head. Because, even early in the month, as a straight man in gay disguise, I could understand my attraction to the cross-dressers, transsexuals and general assortment of gender benders. It was what I knew. Blonde hair, long legs, great “tits.” Those attributes navigated me back to the hetero highway. Back to Maxim.

There was a moment. I call it the "eye pause." It’s that split second that is as real in life as it is in cinema. The moment when two people gaze at each other just before a star-crossed kiss. Whether the people are married to other people, or in this case a straight guy and a gender bender, it always plays the same. It’s the reflective stare before a life-changing sexual event. Sometimes that pause breaks the moment, but in this case, it charged it. Good conscience did not take over and lines of sexuality began to melt. It was my moment to stop, look and listen. I did, and I crossed the road.

Arkansas saved me from anything else, whether it was by jealousy or friendship. He did for me what I did for him.

I think I've had enough.

Read the Rest

The soft parade

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.

Sunday 10:45 a.m., Daniel’s place, West Hollywood.

This morning I was awakened by the manic pulse of Erasure. But it wasn’t coming from the kitchen, it was coming from my phone. I answered “Chains of love” after about the 12th measure.

“Rob Lowe, you were a bad boy last night,” said a sing-songy phone voice. It was Daniel.

“Uh, huh,” I said, without thought.

“Still in bed, are we?”

“He’s still in bed,” he said away from the phone. “Well, thank Jesus you are alive, have you thrown-up yet?”

“No.”

“You should. That will make you feel better. Then come meet us by Hancock, uh, on the north side.”

“I’m not going,” I said, haphazardly trying to replay the late night events in my head.

“Rob, you need to see this, really. It is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Gotta go, call me on my cell when you get here. It’s a madhouse,” he said building to a witchlike crescendo.

"I think I lost my cell," I said into the phone. Wait, no it's in my hand. This was going to be some morning.

Silence. Painful silence. The silence of lost recollection.

There would be no Van Morrison this morning. There would be no breakfast. I was alone in Daniel’s place, mentally pacing the steps to the bathroom. At least seven.

I had to piss. That was a good sign. If had awoken feeling refreshed, I would have started feeling around for wet spots. Thank heaven for small favors. I made it through both drunken nights without ruining Daniel’s expensive sleeping apparatus.

I needed to leave, so I forced myself up and made the nine paces to the bathroom. Gay men destroy bathrooms, I thought as I looked for my toothbrush. I grabbed the nearest one, not caring whose it was. I looked at the person in the mirror, but he didn’t smile back. He was sullen and drawn, completely oblivious to any and all. The weekend had taken its toll.

I knew I couldn’t fucking miss the parade. Daniel was right. I needed to move forward, with or without Van. I drank cold coffee that was sitting half done on the breakfast bar. My need for coffee eclipsed any and all shame. I looked for more. None. Out the door.

I made my way toward Daniel and his friends. On a different weekend, I would have looked odd, even by West Hollywood standards. The sloppy beard, short-shorts, frizzed-out hair. I was crazy. But thankfully, there were 400,000 spectators and about 20,000 participants that looked even crazier. I became lost in the bizarro fold.

I arrived on the corner of Hancock and Santa Monica. I was trying to remember what side of the street he was on. Blank. I stood there and watched the spectacle. It was happening on the sidelines as much as it was on the parade route. Everywhere you looked there was decadence. Pure, lovely decadence. And I was part of it.

Did I wear my cowboy hat last night? That was my favorite hat. I hope I didn’t lose it. I looked over and saw someone that seemed familiar. He looked at me, looking at him. I think I gave him the creeps. I was hoping it was not someone I knew, not because I was wearing denim short-shorts and nothing else, but because I was a gay hooker. One willing to trade a pull on the pipe for a suck on the cock. I was dirty.

“Bobby,” someone said, “You look fabulous. I hear you’ve got your own show,” a drag queen who seemed more like a fan than a friend, yelped.

“Yes, it’s very exciting,” he said, sullenly in a ‘I’m too good for you, but thank you for noticing me. Excuse me everyone, please notice me’ type of voice. That happens a lot out here. Especially with the half-stars reality TV has created.

I overheard the name, “Anna Nicole,” as the conversation continued. I realized it was Bobby Trendy. I erased him from my head as quickly as he entered. I was manic enough.

Then I scanned the crowd. I have this weird knack for spotting people I recognize, and I turned it up to find Daniel. I did see the gay latino kid from My So Called Life. I guess he was gay in real life. Hmm, I scoffed. Some actor. I felt like someone just told me Leonardo was really retarded.

I finally got a visual on Daniel. But my pacing was about a yard a minute. I lost count how many times my penis got rubbed along the way, either by accident or accidentally on purpose. How dirty are these boys? Go feel up the ‘gay for pay’ guys at the Redken booth. Leave the hungover prostitute junkie alone. Can’t you see this hair?

I finally made it, sweaty and pale. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re here,” he said mini-clapping. He dropped his hands and his jaw, “Oh dear, you look like death. We tried to get you up, but you were snoozing away.”

Then a grin overtook his face.

“Do you have any money? “ I said, without emotion. “I can’t find my wallet and need some food.”

He just stood there and elbowed his friend Harris. They both looked at me and smiled.

“What,” I said, not wanting the games.

They both smiled again, swallowing their cheeks, awaiting some sign of remembrance.

“What," I said again, elevating my timbor to provide more meaning.

Daniel dropped his head sideways for dramatic effect. Like he needed it.

“You really don’t remember, do you.”

“Remember what?”

“Well it’s no fun if you don’t remember. Follow me, I’ll tell you while we get you something to eat, do you want some of this?” he said handing me a water bottle, “poor boy.”

I reached out for the bottle.

“One sec,” he said pulling it back. He cupped his hand full of water, and hand-coiffed my lid.

“That hair was bothering me,” he said.

We both started walking to get some food.

“Rob,” he said with a smile on his face, “About last night…”

“I’m never having you read my blog again,” I said.

Read the Rest

Heart of Glass

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 afternoon, West Hollywood park

Irony shadowed us. Perched vampire-like outside Gay Pride's Country Music “Jamboree,” it beckoned for a sign. But I would not hasten its admission to what had become a rarefied tent. I would not provide a rolled eye, a quiet smile, a glib cue that said, “Come in.” No, irony would have to stay put for now. I wanted to keep its toilings as distant from Arkansas as possible. Because, my time with him would be pure, open and engaged. He was not merely a subject to me anymore. And, not even two-stepping at the gayest event of the year would grant irony an entrance.

Knowing Arkansas’ reticence to participate in this overall event, I thought we’d be wallflowers inside the country music tent. That he would bob his head to the music and I would scope out and place Paris Hilton tranny look-alikes in the order that I would screw them, theoretically. But plans change. Sometimes immediately.

“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing my hand with a childlike fury. There was a “get me out of here” immediacy that was peppered with beads of sweat. The dance lessons weren’t for another hour or so, but that didn’t stop Arkansas. He pulled me onto the dance floor with a frankness I had yet to witness.

“I can teach you,” he said, slightly out of breath.

I believed he could.

We began to dance to the music. He counted steps and told me to follow. I spent the rest of the time looking at his feet, then mine. Then, his again. I looked around to see what other people were doing. It was apparent, they were just having fun. And so were we.

Arkansas and I were sharing more than just a dance, we were sharing something more monumental. He told me about his long process of self-forgiveness that is still going on to this day. Of his eight-year old daughter who one day will know the reason behind her parent’s divorce. The internal dialogue that brought him to this event, to this day, to this moment. It was the reason that he gave up his marriage, his friends and his former life. The realization that he was gay occurred two years after the wedding. Then he was stuck with a decision, one that would forever alter his life.

But coming out was both the hardest and happiest moment in his life. For once, he felt free. But that freedom soon turn to guilt and self-loathing from all the nuclear fallout. He wanted to be just like everybody else. And in every way except the one he yearned for, he was.

“You know, Rob, I’ve never felt more like a man, until I was in the true embrace of another,” he said, out of nowhere. The sheer poetic style and dramatic pacing pushed the words beyond poignant for me. The moment, alongside the fond remembrance of my first “sit-down” blowjob, will forever be stylized in my head. Ahh, Jenny Frazier.

As different as Arkansas and I seemed to be, we were similar by equal degrees. Growing up, I always felt like I had two selves, an outer shell and inner being. And most times they did not benevolantly conform. I felt the same for Arkansas. He married in the shell, yet dreamed from inside.

But as different as our current shells, me in my cowboy hat, he in Mervyn’s most salient brand, we shared the same central form, separated only by who we like to fuck.

As I danced the day away, dodged drunken pick-up attempts and exploited myself as Arkansas’ “trophy” wife, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was living the gay lifestyle all along.

The sun set on a miraculous day of alcohol-influenced self-discovery, but the yang had yet to come. The flamboyant, decadent and highly superficial balance was about to be ushered in by Debbie Harry's night rhythms. We walked over to Daniel and his friends, and back into the confusing part of Arkansas' world.

“Hey, you like 80’s music,” I said to Arkansas, snapping him out of it.

He smiled, knowing full well what I was doing.

“Why, you want to talk about it or something,” he said mockingly.

“Na, I just thought-,” I said, playing along with his query string.

“Let’s do this, sex tape,” Arkansas said as started to dance.

“This time, you follow.”

Read the Rest

G. Day

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 9:30 a.m., Daniel’s place, West Hollywood.

My flame burned hard and long last night. I felt like I was back in college, living in Roman excess with my testosterone-fueled and habitually imbibed fraternity brothers. But in this updated (and much more fabulous adaptation), almost everyone in the room seemed as if they were pulled from the pages of the International Male Catalog. And, as memory serves, I never did lemon body shots with the guys at school.

I love mornings, even hungover ones. That’s the great thing about Daniel’s friends; they are just as fun and chatty in the morning as they are in the evening. I slept on this giant futon like thing last night, kind of like the ones at Skybar. It was comfortable, chic, modern (and probably expensive). Thank God I didn’t pee on it.

I was awakened by a true ally of my mornings, Van Morrison. I’ve crawled out of bed many days inspired by his soulful musings. Once again, he beckoned my forward movement. I walked out to the breakfast bar, slowly. The way you do when the events of last night’s drunken rampage have become a blur.

“Hey you, look it’s the living dead everyone, HE’S ALIVE,” Daniel screamed, very animatedly.

He was wearing a pink and white kimono-type robe with matching silk boxer briefs that exposed half his cheeks. Hand embroidered on the front was the tactful scripting, “happy cunt.” It was wrong, even by Daniel's standards.

“I knew Van would wake you up, it’s Astral weeks,” he said, now singing in the spatula, “Ohhh, ohh sweet thing.” It wasn’t even the right song, but I appreciated the sentiment.

“I’m serving up morning love,” he said pointing to the stove. It was quite a spread with fresh fruit, eggs, toast and, seemingly in my honor, bacon.

“Oh Rob, I made some bacon for you, just the way you like it,” he said smiling.

This is why I don’t let friends read my blog. It is sometimes used against me. I grabbed an apple in retaliation.

I sat down next to Arkansas. He was wearing a boar or something from his home state on his shirt and bad 80’s jam shorts. There was no irony to this man. He was the most flat-faced and un-fab of the bunch. He was also the most interesting, in a less-than-extravagant sort of way. I like the underdog, so I saddled up.

Arkansas is what I have affectionately termed as “Bugle Boy Gay.” He has horrible fashion and doesn’t care much about gay culture of any sort. What connects him? He simply likes to put it in other guys. He just goes through the motions to get there. Cool by me. It was readily apparant his participation in this weekend’s events seemed tertiary. I’m sure he’d much rather be hanging out in Kohl’s than here. Then again, it's much easier to score some oral at pride than it is in the men's sportswear department.

Arkansas kindly helped me recollect the events of last night. I made a mental note: If I plan on writing about my adventures, I better fucking remember them. Anyway, as he recalled, we got drunk at the house until about 1:00, went to some club that Arkansas did not know the name of, walked Santa Monica Blvd. and went to another more mellow bar. Then went to a party and "Tim the Spinner" fell in the hot tub, cut his arm and hooked up with the party host. The rest of us came home, partied until about 4 and passed out.

“Then we Sharpied your ass,” Arkansas said.

“What?”

“Check your ass, we Sharpied it.”

I pulled them down, but couldn’t see anything.

“Go to the mirror.”

I walked over, dropped trou and saw the names of 6 or 7 of my “weekend housemates” on my ass. It was my 21st birthday all over again. The room erupted with frenzied laughter.

I ate breakfast, assembled my thoughts and took a shower. The names would not loofah off. Daniel had kindly arranged my outfit on the bed. I was given a pair of Jean shorts that were cut so high the white pockets shown through, a cowboy hat (model’s own) and sandals (model’s own). Judging by the cut, I imagined this look was best completed without underwear. I obliged.

“Oh, you found your outfit, perfect,” Daniel said, "Oh, and you're freeballing. I didn't even have to tell you. See, you're learning."

He walked over to me with something in his hand.

“Here is the piece de resistance,” he said as he flashed a rainbow temporary tattoo. I was instructed to put it above my left nipple. I obliged again. Daniel was wearing a white bra with an embroidered shirt (unbuttoned) over it. He fucking owned that look. It was effortless. Arkansas changed into a t-shirt with “Sideout” printed on the front. His look was effortless as well.

We walked over by West Hollywood Park, where the performances took place. Debbie Harry was playing sometime at night, but there were other acts all day. I grabbed a beer and sat down. Everyone else split off. Arkansas took a seat.

“I wish I had a buck for every swan dress I’ve seen today. Gay’s love the Bjork, huh?” I joked.

“Uh, uh huh,” he said, completely oblivious. I realized I couldn’t make fashion jokes with Arkansas, because as gays go, he was the biggest fashion joke of them all. But I loved him nonetheless. You don’t do body shots with people you dislike. At least, I don't.

It was obvious that Arkansas was more comfortable hiding in the straight world than being out in the gay one. Maybe that's why he gravitated toward me, because I represented that world to some extent. I felt a bit of sympathy towards his plight. He was extradited by the mainstream culture for his love of man ass, but he didn’t quite fit in to the gay world either. Or at least the gay world that places like West Hollywood have come to represent. I think everyone else in the house was oblivious to this fact. To them he was "mellow." To me, he was the misunderstood college roommate on his annual journey to the gay holy land.

“Want to walk around?” he asked.

“Sure.”

We made our way through the crowd.

“Sex Tape, you like country music?” he asked, offhandedly.

“Not particularly, why?”

“Yea, no one really does out here. I just thought with the cowboy hat and you being from a small town, you might, but that’s cool.”

“Do you want to talk about country music or something?” I asked.

“Oh, no no. They just have a country music pavilion here, and I was going to head over there. I usually go by myself, but just figured-"

“Fuck, they have country music here?” I thought, “At a gay pride festival? This I gotta see."

“I’m there,” I said excitedly.

Arkansas smiled.

“Let me grab a schedule and we can go,” he said, “Sometimes they have 2 step lessons.”

So I was off on another spiritual fork. Another journey inside a journey. Because, on this fine day, I was doing more than just two-stepping with Arkansas. I was making a lifelong friend as well.

Read the Rest

There's no place like homo

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.

This weekend, I slept with a dozen men. A dozen near-perfect, sweet-smelling prom queens. Their bodies were strewn across floors, beds, stairs--all in various states of capacity as well as undress. I was immersed in the Mecca of gay culture. It was Gay Pride Weekend in Los Angeles.

Late Friday night, I drove to Daniel’s place in West Hollywood with my sleeping bag, toothbrush and nothing else but the clothes on my back. He and his friends had planned on giving me a makeover. I was to wear his clothes, use his hair products and go deep into the gay lifestyle, all weekend long.

“Fags are the ultimate test,” Daniel said on the phone, beforehand “You’ve fooled the breeders, let’s see if you can fool Mississippi.”

I had no idea what he meant.

Daniel’s place served as a flop house for gay boys from across the country. Over the course of the weekend, there were hundreds of people that came through his doors. It was like a gay prom, gay marriage and gay birth all in one intoxicatingly gay weekend. It was a release, a feeling of belongingness. This was social upheaval with feathered boas striking down bible-belt convention.

Friday night, I arrived around 11 or so. Daniel opened the door.

“Fabulous, you’re here.”

“I thought you were having the party tomorrow night," I asked.

“Oh, these are just 50 of my closest friends, now get your bitchy ass in here, Sex Tape, Everybody, Sex Tape’s here.”

Oh no, they seemed too happy to see me. Something didn’t feel right. And he was calling me Sex Tape. I forgot he game me that nickname.

“Come, come, come,” Daniel said as he ushered me into the door and down the hallway with a strange cream drink spilling all over the floor. He was visibly intoxicated.

“Have a seat, we have to see how Pennsylvania has wreaked havoc on that body of yours, off with the shirt,” he said.

I think Daniel has requested me to remove my shirt on at least 15 different occasions this month, so it has become second nature to me. Off it came.

“Oh, Lord, I hate you sex tape,” he said sliding a finger across my chest. You’re almost as smooth as the day you got waxed. I had another appointment just in case, but you won’t need it.”

Others began to filter in the room, as if Liberace had just been awakened from the dead to play Stardust.

“Everyone, this is sex tape, uh excuse me, Rob,” he said as about five guys per minute entered the room.

“He’s the one I told you about, look at how perfect his abs are. Don’t you fucking hate him?”

I got up and shook hands with a few guys. They were a good mix of race, size and overall handsomeness. My spider senses were tingling. Something was up.

“We were just looking at your blog,” his friend from Arkansas said, “You’re fucked up, Rob Lowe,” he said giggling with a gay/southern lisp.

“You fucking told them,” I said to Daniel.

He smiled.

I had asked him to keep my straightness to himself. Shit, we had talked about this. I would test my powers against his friends gaydar. It was a diving plan, but I guess it wasn't meant to be. The social experiment I was planning on them, was being planned on me.

“Yea Rob, we went to 'Plan B.' You’re our Ken for the weekend. Sorry.”

“What exactly does that mean, beyond the obvious?” I asked.

“Well, you’re our hot little straight boy that we play dress up on, just like when we were kids. And then we unleash you at pride," he said smiling, "You're anatomically correct, right?”

The tide had turned. Not only did I avail myself to Daniel to change me as he saw fit, I also had opened myself up to gay guys from Mississippi and Ohio. Some of which were leather dudes. There was too much of a cross-section. I was about to become gay by committee. This would no doubt end in fashion disaster. Even a straight guy could see that coming.

“That beard has got to go, he looks like a bear, and his skin looks so good on the back and chest. We need people to see the face,” said one, entering the room.

“I like that he looks like a bear. Like Brad Pitt,” said another.

“People,” Daniel said while making strange gay hand movements that could only be achieved by years of practice, ”nothing gets chopped, sliced, diced, nipped or tucked from this boy without the expressed written consent of yours truly, got it?”

Everyone smiled.

“Now keep your hands off,” he said. I’ll give you a say...Maybe on the footwear.”

"Ooh, the Brunos," said Tim the Spinner.

"Zip," Daniel declared with hand across mouth gay authority.

So Daniel had established his dominance. I was happy about that. I trust him more than the rest of these guys. He knows what’s best for Rob Lowe, and I'm not sure if Bruno Magli fits that bill.

“Now, shoo,” he said as he wisped them out of the room with his hand.

As the crowd began to filter back to their body shots and Donna Summer, I realized one thing. These guys didn’t want to just to make me over. They wanted to try and turn me. It was the old frat boy/lesbian conversion fantasy. Except this time I was the fantasy to be converted. Because, I was more than just Daniel’s hot straight friend, I was a novelty notch. Can’t anything ever be simple, I thought as a light bronzer was applied to my face?

“Close your eyes,” Daniel said, as he wiped around my face with a stained makeup sponge.

I closed my eyes. And I clicked my heels. But now, there was no turning back.

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Free to say what I want, any old time.

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.

I tend to dwell on shit. My family, my life, the fact that my little brother has two inches on me. But reflection only goes so far in this world. That’s why I have been forcing myself to take action. To explore the great unknown. I was a pretty boring mother fucker before I started this blog. And at times, I still am. Today, being one of those times.

I thought I would break narrative and take a moment to reflect on my current state-of-mind. There have been some inspired comments filled with insight, structure and support. They allow me to go places I might not explore under my own pretense. They remind me that although these are missions, I do have certain responsibilities to myself and others. They remind me that I am as much human as I am guinea pig.

Over the past few weeks, I have secured a gainful respect for the gay lifestyle. Reliving the coming out days has made me very self-reflective. My main goal for this time with my parents was to not desensitize a serious situation by being haphazard in my efforts. But rather, to see where something like this would take me. Because, when I was in the heart of the coming out circus with my parents, I couldn’t help to think about the people who do this out of necessity. Sure, their parents probably didn’t try to convert them with porn and golf, but family dysfunction aside, they didn’t have the caveat in my possession. I wasn’t gay.

By being able to relive and document my experiences here, I have been able to get through a trying period, relatively intact. I weed through the pain to find the humor. That is the beauty of self-publishing. It is a natural course to non-obscured self-expression.

But, I have no intention of allowing anyone to come between the words in my head and the words on the page. For Christ’s sake, how often do you get to say exactly what is on your mind? How often are you allowed the courage to talk about your fears, to talk about your blogcrushes, to talk about your laundry? How often do you get to live life through words?

Personally speaking, if anyone wants mine, they need to come here to get them. Because my words are free. They are personal. They are real.

They are my life.

And words like these do not belong next to a Chanel ad or a table of contents. They do not deserve to be slayed by the ill-gotten hand of an editor looking to paint a picture that is less dreary, less reflective. Less fucking offensive. It’s a brave new world of non-commercial expressionism, and bloggers are leading the way.

Let’s get the fuck out of here and do some laundry, eat some chinese and tell the world every dreary and God-awful detail. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a blogcrush to attend to.

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Over the rainbow

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, 9 p.m. East Coast Time, Lowe Household.

I opened a door last night and invited my parents into a place both unfamiliar and sexual. And now, I am faced with the aching realization that I may never get that door to close. Because, regardless of the fallout from this whole 'coming out mess,' the path to my sexuality has been clearly marked. I fear that my parents’ speculation will lead them back to this place for life.

I needed some air. To remove myself from this present state of derelict consciousness. So, naturally I chose Northeast Pennsylvania’s best gay bar, the Silhouette Lounge as the source of my revitalization effort. It was a bit of a drive, but since this would probably be my only visit to a gay bar in PA, I wanted it to be memorable.

Walking out the door, I saw my brother look up from the TV.

“Where you off to?” He asked.

“Grabbing a beer,” I offered, fleetingly.

“Sweet,” he said, jumping up with his socked feet.

“..at a gay bar,” I finished, in a hushed tone.

He stopped in his tracks, and a grin overtook his face.

“Think there’ll be lesbians?” he said, as visions of Stuff Magazine bounced through his head.

“Can’t guarantee it, but maybe.”

“Fuck it,” he said, “let me grab my shoes. But if one of those dudes tries something, I’m fucking out of there.”

I smiled, imagining this night.

“And I’m not parking my car there, you’re fucking driving. Take dad’s truck. No one knows that.”

I grabbed the keys to my dad’s old Jeep and we headed out into the unknown.

Being in a gay bar in Northeastern Pennsylvania with my brother was the last thing I had imagined doing. Life is amazing like that. Fluid with random possibilities.

About an hour later, after getting lost, we arrived at the bar. Derek seemed a bit nervous, but he casually grabbed a stool. The bar itself was an east coast version of The Friendship, except this was decorated like a fraternity basement. Glossy black paint, strange organic horns and reflective walls juxtaposed the motif. But the artistic focal point was a Renoir-inspired oil painting with a man in Speedos. It was strangely pagan, yet justified.

“Have you ever been to one of these,” he said, looking around.

“A few,“ I replied, unenthusiastically. I was taking it all in.

“What are we supposed to do?” he said, taking a drink.

“Exactly what you’re doing, bitch,” I said motioning to his beer.

“You don’t have to be a dick about it, Rob,” he said. I could tell Derek was completely out of his element. His personality took a back seat to his apprehension.

I bumped his shoulder and he followed my focus.

“Is that what you were looking for?" I said, fixed on several menacingly large ladies wearing Dockers and cable-knit sweaters.

“Uh,” he said, taking a drink, disgustedly. Lesbian reality is a difficult pill to swallow.

Derek’s glance was fixed on the mirror in front of him, afraid to make eye contact with anyone but himself. But I had to hand it to him. He was the last person I expected to play my reindeer games.

“Are you bummed about today?” he said in a way that almost seemed sincere.

I looked into his eyes, anticipating the punch line. When it didn’t arrive, I opened up, slowly. These conversations come few and far between in my household.

“Yea, I mean it was stupid to come out,” I offered up.

“No shit,” he said.

“You can still tell the truth. They’ll be pissed, but-“

“No way, I can’t do that. “

“Whatever, it’s your choice.”

“I mean, I think I can get out of it. No doubt mom and dad are going to question me forever. The fact that they already thought I was gay seemed a bit freaky. You swear you didn’t tip them off?”

“Rob,” he said, not wanting to have to answer this again.

“Ok, fine. Sorry. I mean, if I told them the truth, I would be a monster. If I didn’t, the worst that would happen is they have a gay son. But, I think Mom and dad are so deep in fucking denial that I can get by with bi-curious. I can live with that label for a few years.”

Derek laughed. “Beer us,” he said to the bartender.

“I’m just figuring out timing. Dad gave me a few ‘outs’ today to this whole mess, but I promised Tracy that I would not bite so quickly. She didn’t want my actions to set gays back years in my parent’s head. It’s not a switch that you turn on and off. You don’t cure gayness with porn or golf. She hates that I’m doing this, but wanted me to finish up with a bit of integrity. She’s right. I don’t need to enable mom and dad’s thinking. And if that means I am bi-curious or confused, as they put it, this is not the weekend to admit it."

“That takes some sack, Rob, really, I didn’t think you had it in you."

“Neither did I,” I responded.

“By the way, have you fucked her yet?”

“Huh? Who?”

“Tracy. She totally wants to you to stick her.”

“Naa, that’s kind of my thing with her. Not sticking her.”

“But, Rob, she’s hot. When I visit can I have a go?”

“Derek, I doubt she’d be interested. But she is friends with Heather Graham, want a word in?”

“Really, with Heather Graham?”

“Na, dude,” I said. “Just fucking with you.”

“Dick.”

“Sorry,” I offered. “I’ll see if she can set you up with someone when you come out, but you've got to be chill.”

“All right, dude,I will, thanks.”

“You know, Rob, the other night you were pretty hung up on mom and dad thinking you were a queer. It was pretty funny to me. Ok, so here's the thing, you’re a pretty smart guy.--way fucking smarter than me. Well, I was waiting for you to 'get it,' but it seems like you haven’t.”

I looked at him extremely confused.

“You jackass, mom and dad didn’t think you were gay. They didn’t fucking ‘out’ you. They had to save face. Worse than having their kid come out as a fag, is them not discovering it. That's even a bigger failure in their eyes. Not knowing one of their kids liked boys, I mean, except for Shan.”

“Yea, I get that part.”

“Ok, so dad keeps touch points on us all. For you, as a gay guy, he had your faggot Persian roommate and that veggie thing, whatever. If you came out as a terrorist, he would have brought up the trash can we burned in middle school. As a drug addict, he would've said he knew because he found pot in your jacket in 11th grade. You see. It doesn’t matter what you come out as, dad will always be a step ahead.”

“Hmm,” was all I could muster. It made sense. It actually made sense. It was a bit of closure to a strange chapter in my life. I felt vindicated. Sure, I would have attached myself to any half-assed theory as to why my parents didn’t really think I was gay. But this seemed feasible. God, my parents are fucked up.

“Thanks,” I said.

“By the way, Rob, I’m an Underdog 9.”

I looked at him and smiled.

“Hey, I still think your blog is stupid, but that measuring article was funny. Make sure you print that, about me being a nine.”

“Don’t you worry, Derek. The world will know of your considerable endowement.”

And so we stepped away from the rainbow for a while. We were simply two brothers in a bar, having drinks and starting what seemed to be a new chapter in our relationship. My coming out was coming to a close, and so was my time in Pennsylvania. There would be no more talk about my sexual identity for the rest of the weekend. I wouldn’t have it. Instead, I would simply be a son and a brother.

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The Soft Caress

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, 1:45 p.m. East Coast Time, Lowe Household.

I may be out of the closet with my parents, but I am certainly not out of the woods with them. Tracy had some sound advice, but the onus of getting out of this fucking mess rests squarely on my shoulders.

But at least I have a plan. A resolution that would please all parties involved. Because, at this point, my parents and I both want the same thing--Rob Lowe to be straight.

I walked to the living room and my dad was reading the paper. He looked up at me and flashed a reserved smile.

“Hey, Rob, have a seat,” he said, pointing to an armchair.

“Where’s mom?”

“Oh, she’s around,” he said, casually.

As aloof as my dad’s answer would seem to the common observer, the real message went unspoken. My dad wanted alone time.

“Rob, you’ve had a pretty easy childhood, wouldn’t you agree?” He asked.

“I guess.”

“Your mom and I did everything to make sure you had the best education, the best childhood experiences, a comfortable lifestyle. You were smart and many things came naturally to you. You never really had to work at school or sports, did you?”

“I suppose.”

“Me, I had none of that. I had to work for everything. Now, I am not bitter about it, but I am blessed. Blessed that I could provide a proper household for my wife and kids. I worked ever since I was eight, Rob, sweeping hair at my dad’s shop. I was never really good at sports or school. But I tried anyway. And I tried hard. Eventually I got good at school, because I busted my ass. I worked through an ivy league scholarship, I worked through law school and I worked to build a successful firm. It wasn’t easy for me, but I did it. And I am proud of my role in this my family.”

I had no idea where this was going.

"You know why I’m a good lawyer, Rob? You know why people put their trust in me? Because I understand them. Because when I would sit at my dad’s shop, I would listen. Listen to how all these blue collar guys spoke to each other. I would listen to their problems and figure out solutions, in terms they could understand. Of course, I never shared them. I was a kid for God's sake. But I gained a skill, one that has lasted me a lifetime. A skill that has put a roof over your head, and clothes on your back."

“Uh, huh,” I said, confused. Like a good lawyer, he read my face and moved beyond the banal.

“Rob, let me get back on point,” he said.

I finally realized, my dad had me on my stand.

“What I’m trying to say is that you never really had to work at life. You're a good looking, smart kid and life is easy for you. But, if you tried to work on this little sexual identity crisis you’re having, I’m sure you could pull through it. And it is just a crisis. You are not gay, you are not bi-sexual. You are a confused 29-year-old that is experiencing his first crisis. And he doesn't know hot to make himself snap out of it.”

I was a little surprised by my dad's aggressive tactic. He went beyond convincing me I was bi, and began to put a "sexual identity crisis" wrapper on it. Brilliant casework, dad.

“Dad, I don’t know.”

“Let me be frank. When was the last time you were with a woman, romantically?”

“I’m not sure if I really feel comfortable with this line of questioning, counselor,” I said, half-joking, but with a point nonetheless. My parents and I communicate best in unspoken terms.

“Maybe, you just need a good woman to jumpstart the system. Every now and then your mother and I have to take steps to keep things 'fresh' in the bedroom. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just who we are as creatures. We need variety."

“Dad-" I said, slightly unnerved.

"Rob, If you haven't been with a woman in a while, sometimes you forget the soft caress, the beautiful skin and breasts. You can't find that beauty in a man, sexually or otherwise-"

“Dad-" I said, more forcible. He dialed it back, and smiled empathetically.

"Rob, I know this is probably the last conversation you want to have with your family, but that’s why I asked your mother to step out for a moment. So we could discuss things man-to-man."

My father cleared his throat.

"Rob, I’ve got some things I'd like you to look at. They are adult films. They are in the TV armoire upstairs, but you can take them out and bring them to the study if you feel more comfortable. Regardless, I’d like you to privately view them."

I looked at my father, more confused than I had been in my entire life. Was my dad just telling me to watch porn? The same fucking porn he and my mom watch before they screw to "spice things up?" Does my father think porn will cure "gayness?" My God, this was wrong on so many fucking levels.

“Just hear me out. Have a look at them. And when you’re done, let’s talk while things are fresh. I got a 3:30 tee time for us," he said, smiling at my embarrassment.

I walked upstairs to my parent’s room. I was in a bit of a fog. Every time I think I have them figured out, they throw me for a loop. My childhood wasn’t fucking easy. It was full of crazy shit like this. Not sexual, but strange theoretical cause/effect relationships that have no real-world value. My dad was right about one thing, I definitely would have to work at this. That's for damn sure.

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