The Gawker or The Gawkee?

Five years ago, Josh – my personal trainer/entertainer – warned me. He said “be ready, you’ll turn from a Gawker to a Gawkee.” His point was clear; he would turn me from a scrawny geek to a hot guy that would look like the love child of Takeshi Kaneshiro and Gerard Butler.

It was true. Before training with Josh, I was this scrawny guy with dorky glasses. Whenever I went to a gay bar, I would be the shy guy standing on the corner waiting for some compassionate geriatric to hit on me. I was the Gawker.

Occasionally, I’d get hit on by military guys who were on their home leave from Korea and wanted to get their fix of Kimchee on this side of the ocean. I wanted to scream “I’m not Korean, you quiff!” But the testosterone build-up was unbearable, so I succumbed. I became the Cio Cio San for the US Army 2nd infantry.

I wore sweater vests and button-down shirts so I looked less scrawny. My collection of pants were mostly pleated, a necessary tool to cover my non-existent tush. Even in the hottest day of the summer, I wore two undershirts in my desperate attempt to look a bit built.

I toyed with the idea of going twinky. Besides, the heroin chic look was somewhat fashionable at that time. I changed my mind after seeing how those twinks aged. They pruned, shriveled, and became geezers. Besides, the type of guys who dug twinks usually looked like Jeffrey Dahmer.

After three years of personal training and $3000 worth of protein shakes, I became somewhat chiseled. I can feel the DL brothers at my gym mentally hump my legs whenever I flex my arms. After doing a lot of power squats, my ass can nicely fill a low rise Rock & Republic jeans. My transformation was completed by Dr. Yuri, a Russian trained dermatologist who believed in industrial-grade treatments.

Along with the physical transformation, my career took an upturn. After two grueling years in business school and long hours in investment banking, I landed a cushy job in the elusive world of LBO funds. I began to have a nice disposable income.

Consequently, my position in the pecking order of homo society changed. Whenever I went out to bars, I hopped from one circle to another. I learned the skills of exchanging air kisses and brief (but pointed) pleasantries. I flaired smart quips that I heard at places like Kudeta, Therapy and The Abbey. I started to hang out with the beautiful crowd. People gawked me; I became the Gawkee.

I got invited to parties with gay appropriate themes. Last year alone, there were at least three parties with colors as the theme (Lavender and Pink were the faves). I attended fund raising parties for gay causes, ranging from Stop Fugly Gay Abuse to Eradicate Gay Lisps.

Being a gawkee was fun until you realized that you were still a gawker at another setting. A friend who worked for a major agency in Hollywood took me as his plus one to an “industry” party. The judeo-homo crowd led by David Geffen was there. So were the aging divas and the flock of Ashton/Ashley clones.

There I was, a plus one at a Hollywood power party. Everyone seemed to be more connected, more powerful, and more beautiful than me. The low was unbearable; I left after a queeny skankerella said that my watch, which was a college graduation gift from my parents, was tacky.

At the end, it was a humbling experience. I closed my power-broker practice. I resorted to keeping genuine friends despite of status and looks. Just like Buddha, I have found my homo inner peace…

Evanston!

I live in the burb. I know... New acquiantances would never think that I do. They asked how it could be. My fashion sense is so avant-garde it needs its own name; no way it comes from the burb!

Truth to the matter, I live in Evanston, a leafy northern suburb of Chicago. This is a town on the shore of Lake Michigan, where Northwestern University is located. On a nice day, its lovely parks are filled with jocks playing rugby and peeping tom homos with camouflage outfits and telephoto lenses.

The town's social structure is nicely stratified. Its ghetto is notorious for the drive-by shootings and 24-hour Currency Exchanges. One mile away, illegal immigrant workers cultivate Louis XIV-style gardens on lakeshore mansions. Half of the high school graduating class goes to prestigious universities for a four-year journey filled with Cliff Notes and date rapes. The other half goes to flip burgers at local McDonalds.

The most obvious clash of personalities occurs right in front of my house at an 18-screen movie theater. It's so luxurious The Chicago Magazine voted it as the best movie theater in Chicagoland. On a typical Saturday night, soccer moms in their LR3s drop off their teenage kids. Ten feet away, queens from the neighboring gay ghetto sashay down the sidewalk in their lilac Hollister shirts and Capri pants.

Even the movie theater is split to cater to the dichotomy of characters. Half of the screens plays exciting cinematic breakthroughs like “40 Year-Old Virgin” while the other half plays artsy-fartsy flicks like “Eat, Drink, Man, Woman.”

Charlton Heston, the most iconic Evanstonian and Northwestern Alum, also presents a conflicting image. He is the president of the NRA, the gun-touting extension of the Republican Party. He did so after making a comfortable living starring in movies such as Planet of the Apes, Of Human Bondage, The Private War of Major Bensen, and Agony and Ecstasy. Is he a straight-laced Republican? Baloney! He made homo-erotic movies about privates, ecstasy, apes, and bondages. Ooh yees, he's gaay.

Evanston is apparently the destination of choice for upwardly mobile gay men who have coupled up with either men or women. My gym is filled with them. While the straight and gay guys typically work out from 6pm to 7pm, our down low brothers flock the steam room at around 8pm. It would be a sociologist's dream to study DL brothers exchanging subdued flirtations in the locker room.

Janette, my trusty fagnet, and I share the same favorite pastime activity. We love sitting on my patio on a Sunday morning. With cocktails in our hands, we would count the number of gay dads that passed the street in front of us. Sometime they would stroll the street with their cute adopted Chinese daughters. The whole scene was totally Ellen (before Anne turned straight). If Log Cabin Republican needed to pick a place to do a photo-shoot for their promo, they should do it here.

I love Evanston!

Pictures are courtesy of:

Two rugby players and a hiney - Mayhem RFC

Century movie theater - Fehlman LaBarre

Charlton Heston touting a gun - NRA

Charlton Heston in a leather daddy vest - MGM

Four guys in the shower - Kings Cross RFC

Quirks, Pet Peeves, Fetishes

Brad is handsome.
Brad is a Baker Scholar.
Brad runs the Eurobond desk at Morgan Stanley.
Brad spends Sunday night doing the eagle spread at a dungeon in Hell’s Kitchen.

Does that sound familiar? Successful men with peculiarities that are such a contrast to their day time personalities. Superficially, you can’t see them, but when you’re close enough to a guy to do a daily sphincter-squeeze on his dick, you’ll know their dirt.

I have a fair share of dating men with peculiarities. They range from cutesy to weird. An ex always asked me to scratch his back before falling asleep. Once I heard the snore, I stopped the scratching and put on my ear plugs. I initially thought that was cute until I realized scratching his back will make him fall asleep... every time and every where. I ended up recommending a narcolepsy specialist to him.

The weird one came unexpectedly. I met Robert, a nice corporate executive, at a party. He was a cute polyglot who enjoyed Neo-Romantic composers. The first time I stayed over at his place, I woke up to a breakfast in bed. The second time around, I woke up to a DeWalt toolbox. He wasn’t gonna show me his power drill. The toolbox was filled with vintage sex toys that he wanted us to try. I am not against sex toys, but vintage? Puhleez! Vintage, just like Steve Madden shoes, is soo last year!

To be fair, the cases above are extreme examples. Most of the peculiarities that I’ve seen are very mild, more like pet peeves. My friend Bob can’t fall asleep unless he has had a bowl of Lucky Charms with milk. Frank gets antsy if someone forgets to close the toilet lid.

What about me?

GiantSquid had 12 years of Catholic schooling.
GiantSquid applies Purell after shaking hands with strangers.
GiantSquid turns loose when exposed to sexy legs (yum..)
GiantSquid goes through five facial moisturizing steps everynight.

Mr. Big

Every single gal in Manhattan or gay man everywhere has a proverbial Mr. Big. He’s that handsome guy who turned anti-aging cream and self-help books into billion-dollar businesses.

I am no exception. I met my Mr. Big at a coffee shop. He was cute, but most importantly, he responded to my blatant stare with a big pepsodent smile. So I came to him and initiated conversation.

He turned out to be a technologist at one of the local Fortune 100 companies. As he talked about himself, one by one I checked my short list of "must haves."

Have a job, check!

cute smile, check!

Speak without dangling modifiers, check!

With drinks in our hands (his: black coffee, mine: green tea he bought for me), we left the cafe and took a long walk by the lake. We talked about diverse topics; from Sartre to quantum physics to gag-free beejers. We ended our unofficial first date with a respectable handshake and an agreement to see each other again. I felt confident that we’d move to the suburb to raise our adopted Chinese babies.

He came to my house for a second date and yet another round of great conversation. I playfully touched the mango-sized bicep that popped out everytime he flexed his arm. Whenever appropriate, I did the nonchalant hair tosses. Barring humping his hot legs, I essentially used all mating calls known to homo sapiens.

Eventually the time to say good night arrived. At the door he leaned forward and we kissed…

And it felt awkward!

I felt like I was kissing my finance professor. I ghastly pulled back while he did the same thing. He looked confused, mumbled something and left.

Apparently there's a saturation point to cerebral flirting. Thomas Dolby in his one-hit wonder song "She Blinded Me with Science" might talk about his weird infatuation with a cerebral girl. But then again, look at Thomas Dolby. I think he'd just be lucky if anyone would go out with him

It was official. We were not destined to be lovers... maybe friends. The images of raising Xiu Xiu, our imaginary adopted Chinese baby, was slowly replaced by images of Beavis and Butthead saying “Duuuude heeh hehheeh heehheh” to each other.

We were incommunicado for a month. Until one day... I received a phone call from him.

“Hey (GiantSquid), this is (Mr. Big). How are ya?”

Just like that, great conversation ensued. But this time around, we knew that we were destined to be friends.

A couple of years forward, I can proudly claim that I have a healthy platonic relationship with Mr. Big. We continued to amaze each other with our quirks. We took cooking classes together. I, the ESL guy, kicked his white ass in Scrabble all the time. Just the other day, he begged me to write about him on my blog.

Other than my constant nagging to see his allegedly 10” endowment, we have never gotten physical with each other. Even I have to admit that my nagging was driven by a clinical curiosity and not a sexual one.

For Mr. Big… friends forever :-)

The Thorn Birds

Is it me? Or is it not me? The last two guys who went out with me were Catholic Priests. The fact that many priests are gay is not new to me. Even one great philosopher -- Margaret Cho -- once said that the Pope is a big 'mo, considering he wears a cape and lives in a mansion filled with antiques and single men.

But the question remains. Why me? Am I the reincarnation of Mary Magdalene? Do I look like I need to be saved? Am I a priest magnet?

The first guy in my line-up approached me at a party and made small talk. From a mutual friend, I knew all along that he was a priest. I didn't shrug him off. The temptation to seduce a priest -- just like what Meggie Cleary did in The Thorn Birds -- overcame my rational self. He had a hairy chest, which made the job easier.

We dated for three weeks until I realized this guy was a playah! He was celibate for a good decade. I guessed the testosterone build-up turned him into a horny date machine. I learned that he was dating at least one other guy while dating me. He's in his sexual prime... a decade late!

The second guy left the seminary because he got bored jerking off to himself in front of the mirror. I'm kidding. He left after learning that many gay priests sleep with men because they interpret that the vow of celibacy only applies to a “marriage,” hence a heterosexual relationship.

D'oh!

What about sticking a dick into a butt, aka. buttloving? Isn't there a whole chapter in the bible banning it? That was the second guy's point. He's from the "taking-it-all" school of thoughts. In addition to taking all of my dick in his mouth, he also believes that one should not pick and choose what the priesthood dictates.

In my view, being a Catholic Priest is just an attribute. It's no different if he were a fireman, a CPA, or a porn star. It's just a job with its own pluses and minuses. I wasn't engulfed with guilt when I frenched a priest.

After the first guy, I realized that I don't think I can date priests. The fact that they're priests didn't bother me.

So, why then?

It's the brunch thing. I can't date anyone who has to work during brunch hours on Sundays.

Janette and Kate

One thought-provoking quip from Bravo’s brilliant gay reality show Boy Meets Boy was “a gay boy usually has a lady friend that’s closer to him than anyone else.”

Faghag, fagnet, or fruitfly has been in existence since the Renaissance era. Even Michelangelo – the second most influential gay man in western civilization, after Clay Aiken – had a hag. Her name was Vittoria Colonna. She’s a hag in true sense; providing Michelangelo with a companionship, ideas for his arts, and make-up tips.

In my case, I have two: Janette and Kate.

Janette is a hot, sassy, thirty-year old woman. We met because she’s dating my neighbor, Mike. Whenever she's in public, she’d turn heads. It’s an anthropological field-trip to observe salivating men checking out Janette as we walk together at a suburban mall. I can feel the remnant of simian genes in these men, urging them to bang their chests and swoop Janette up to the nearest cave.

Kate is a cute, sweet, girl-next-door blonde with enviable boobs. She just turned twenty-eight. As a grad student, she’s full of ideas and cerebral charm. While Janette and I talk about booties, Kate and I banter about the Myers Brigg’s profiles of our respective, potential husbands.

There are platonic attractions between us. One time Kate told me that she would seduce me if I were straight. She even said that she would have an affair with me if I were a married straight guy. I told her that it won't work because her plumbing is all wrong and her chest is too busty. She laughed; then this strong woman tickled me until I almost peed in my pants.

Let’s regress a bit. Why do gay men find consolation in straight chicks?

One posit talks about the similarity between gay men and straight women in taking a dick into a bodily orifice. But that theory was shot down by a total top friend who just celebrated his fifth anniversary with his hag. This brotha won’t take it anywhere. He’s the giver and the pitcher. Yet he has never gone to a single counseling session with his hag.

Another posit talks about the unwritten non-compete agreement between gay men and straight chicks. Just think about it: gay men and straight chicks target different market segments (gay vs straight men, respectively) but we offer the same products (gag-free beejers, kegel tease, and fabulous dinner parties). Any marketing strategist would know that such a situation would result in an alliance. Just look at United Airlines forming Star Alliance with a number of obscure foreign airliners.

After a while, I gave up micro-analyzing my comfortable relationships with Janette and Kate. The foundation of our relationships is neither our sexual similarities nor our marketing strategy. It’s because we share the same experiences of going crazy over a guy, being hurt by a boyfriend, and making the hard decision to let go an asshole with whom we’ve shared our mind, heart, and precious booty time.