Whip-Smart: Talkity Talk Talk Talk

Whip-Smart: Talkity Talk Talk Talk

This town and I don't get along
It's been that way from the start
I think it's time I broke her heart
Finest Hour, “Small Town Disease”

Recently I was talking to a new instant messenger friend from a neighboring town. We had both just recently graduated from university and had both moved back to our respective hometowns because we each had no idea what we wanted to do with all the years of education we had recently finished, me with my English major from UW-River Falls and he with his double major in psychology and neural science from a substantially more elite East Coast college. That evening we found ourselves doing what a lot of people who leave and then come back to their hometowns end up doing, namely talking about all the people we had left behind and were now socializing with again.


“I don’t know a lot of people that went to your high school,” he wrote to me. “Well my friend did date a guy I think from there. Super attractive, really, really, really hot.”


There was a pause.


“Oh,” he added, “he also has one ball.”


“I know who you are talking about,” I said, a little ashamed I remembered that bit of a gossip about a popular guy from my graduating class but couldn’t remember half the books I read in college. “He’s nice.”


“See I thought he was kind of a dick,” he typed back to me.


“Well the pretty ones can be,” I replied. “Pretty and mean, pretty and dumb, pretty and some derogatory term. God rarely gives out two positives.”


“But you can’t fault the pretty,” my acquaintance retorted.


“At least he has that,” I said.


“And the one ball.”
-----------

Don’t let all the degrees and prestige and general academic hoopla fool you. At their core, colleges are glorified small towns. Like any good small town, the inhabitants are bonded together through neighborly relations, none as important and frequent as gossip. Through all the haze of keg parties and stress of research papers and the cramming for finals, gossip formed a integral part of the social atmosphere for me as an undergraduate at UW-River Falls. With the benefit of the internet, you could trade details about who was doing what to whom over virtual picket fences and delight in the misfortunes of others. Was it totally immature and adolescent? Most definitely. But like Pop Rocks and Disney Channel movies, it was the glib immaturity of it all that made it so tantalizing.


When I left “Rumor Falls” in December and moved back to La Crosse, I had assumed that this gossip stuff would fall by the wayside like my six nights a week barhopping or my reading of anything that even had a hint of subtext, but alas I found myself reading Ernest Hemingway still and giving way to gossip. Except this gossip was gossip with a purpose, namely that snoopiness that comes out of a neurotic need to find all the information about a potential match.


“He’s an asshole,” Mark wrote to me in reference to his former flame Denton the bartender. “You know he fucked my ex-boyfriend while I was dating him.”


Okay, I’m fully aware that information gleaned from an ex-boyfriend is fraught with more not-so-hidden agendas than a talk show on Fox News but like people who watch Bill O’ Reilly, I was not looking fair and balanced news. I wanted some skewed information.


“And he hates women because he says that they are too emotional,” Mark said.


Before Mark could tell me that Denton kicked dogs or slapped nuns or popped his collars, I interjected and said, “He’s hung though isn’t he?”


“He’s hung but doesn’t know how to use it.”


“That’s a waste of a natural resource,” I said to Ridley the Rugby Player the next day, recounting my tale of Denton because developmentally I’m clearly a junior high mean girl.


“I can’t believe he hates women,” Ridley replied. “What gay guy hates women. That’s unnatural.”


“This is the same guy who invites me over for sex one evening and then a few weeks later says he was never attracted to me,” I answered. “And then he preceeds to bitch about how nobody is interested in him. He actually asked where my empthay was for him. I told him I was fresh out of empathy but had tons of bitter witticism.”


“Awesome,” Ridley replied.


“I seriously have bad taste in men,” I sighed. “Like Pam Anderson bad taste in men. I should’ve never got interested in somebody who is into philosophy. I mean, years of education just to be able to ask, ‘Why?’ about every fucking thing. That just screams project.”


That weekend, I decided to laze around as usual and dive into a marathon of Grey’s Anatomy. Mid-way through my marathon on my laptop, I struck up a conversation with the man who is the McNightmare to my Meredith: The Scot.


“Are you going out this weekend?” I asked him, pausing Meredith and Derek in one of their ten thousand scenes in the elevator of the lust.


“Thinking about it,” he replied. “Why don’t you call that guy, the 28-year-old?”


I had to give The Russian credit in his ability to make the simple act of saying somebody’s name the height of bitchiness.


“I’m sure he is out at the bars,” I said.


I thought back to a few months ago when the Russian had been propositioned for sex by Denton and then a few weeks ago when I had brought it up in the heat of conversation.


“Maybe you should go to the bars and get drunk and maybe the Russian won’t turn you down this time,” I said with the proper amount of indignant hissiness.


My mind quickly snapped back to the present.


“I hate this town,” I sighed to myself.


“I hate the internet,” Denton said to me a few days later.


In between grading papers at the university for his numerous classes and spending time bartending/hopping, Denton had apparently taken up looking up what people were saying about him and where better than one of those rate your professor websites. A bad review from one of the two people who had posted had gotten his newsboy cap all in a twist.


“He says that my class is super easy but I’m a bad teacher,” Denton bemoaned. “If my class is easy, doesn’t it mean I’m doing well at teaching? I always thought that I would be one of those lauded teachers. I guess that’s not going to happen.”


“One person gives you a bad review on a class you’ve never taught before and you’re dooming yourself to teacher hell,” I pointed out. “You’ve just started. Some people start off shaky and really do well as they refine themselves. Perfection can’t happen overnight, I don’t care what the cosmetic industry tries to say.”


“When did you become such an expert?” Denton testily asked.


“I’ve grown up in the university system,” I explained. “I’ve heard all those whispers of self-doubt and bitchy students commenting on stuff.”


The conversation cooled until I mentioned I was just finishing an Edith Wharton novel all about scandal and intrigue among the insular world of the rich in New York City.


“You know,” Denton said, “you can tell so much about a person by what they read. You’re romantic and overwrought. I’m intellectual and spare.”


“I’m overwrought because I like Wharton and Jane Austen?” I asked. “Is this because you hate women that you hate female authors? You always harp on it and your ex-boyfriend said that you do detest women for their emotionality.”


“You must find me awfully transparent,” Denton remarked.


As I sat there, giving way to every overwrought feeling in my hopeless romantic body, I slowly realized that in Denton’s small little world of teaching and drinking and slutting I could never find a home for myself that wouldn’t be an emotional slum. I had had this feeling before but this time with this man, I knew that it was time to move on a lot sooner.


“You know,” I said, “I find you to be a man who likes to be an asshole to people because if someone dislikes you, you’ll have that as a fallback. In that way, you’re not that different from the Russian in my eyes.”


So, admittedly, maybe this had less to do about gossip and more about my bad judgments when it comes to guys I like. In the small town of homosexuality, I was still setting my sights on brokedown fixer-uppers. Yet, like in every town, big or small, there is that great neighborhood where even the air smells just a little better. Even though, at the moment, I was in the dating equivalent of the projects, I know that eventually I’ll find my guy, that deluxe apartment in the sky if you will, that will make me the hottest topic of gossip this side of Brangelina vs. Vaughniston.


Okay maybe not that hot. I mean, I do value my privacy.


NEXT WEEK:
“You’d be so proud of me. I had a threeway!”
“Didn’t you feel like a rotisserie chicken during it?”


“He touched my boobs so I hit him in the balls.”


“Of course my parents didn’t take me to San Fransisco. They would’ve never seen me again.”


“He gave me a sip of his drink.”
“At this point, who hasn’t taken a metaphorical sip of his drink?”


“Who wants to bet on when birthday girl will swallow her own tongue?”

Whip-Smart: Post-Grad, Support System

Whip-Smart: Support System

"If you should ever leave me
Though life would still go on, believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would livin' do me
God only knows what I'd be without you"
Beach Boys, "God Only Knows"



There is nothing quite like those last few minutes of sleep before your alarm clock goes off. You can lay there, with your eyes shut and your mind closed off to the reality of the outside world. Unfortunately, the outside world starts seeping into your dreams and your tropical paradise and drinks served in coconuts by a barely clothed hottie are being interrupted by honking car horns, the clang of the next door neighbor’s chimes, and the slow dawning realization that this has all just been a dream.


I was coming to this very realization last Tuesday as I laid in my bed with a blue pillow over my face as I tried to desperately not to wake up but the clunking noise of nearby construction and the ear bleeding screeches of tweens walking to middle school had given me a one way ticket from my tropical paradise and back to freezing cold reality.


I turned off my alarm that had yet to go off, always a personal triumphant of sorts for me, and shuffled past the large painting of tiger eyes that hang across from my bed. When I bought it my senior year of high school, my mother said it was tacky. I paused for a brief moment and then told her that was the point.


My mother was never too keen on tackiness and that was why I was up earlier than usual, carrying a load of dirty laundry to the basement and finding my pinstriped dress pants I hadn’t worn since graduation a few months ago. So I yawned and loaded the washer with my clothes and put on my blue coat over my Pillsbury Doughboy pajamas and slipped on my black shoes and went outside to sneak a morning cigarette before my mother arrived in a whirl of slightly tactless suggestions and baked goods.


I watched the house across the street, Jack’s house, for any sort of activity but there was none yet. I guess you would call it morbid curiosity, me standing out there and smoking and wondering when the family was going to show up and how they were holding up and would it be disrespectful if they saw me to give them my sincere condolences while wearing my Pillsbury Doughboy pajamas. A car drove past and I flicked my cigarette into the alley.


As I went back into my house, I looked at Jack’s home again. The curtains were closed and it felt like even the house was in mourning. And it’s thoughts like that, about death and funerals and mourning, which can make a person not want to get out of bed.
-----
My mother arrived around ten in the morning with her purse in one hand and a green plastic bag covering an outfit in the other. She quickly hugged me and closed the door and sat down on the couch and started to polish one of her shoes. There was no pausing, just this one seamless motion that utterly amazed me in its gracefulness.


“You know,” she said, “when my father died when he was 61, I thought that he was far too young to die.” She picked up the shoe she was shining, grimaced a bit, added more polish, and then proceeded to shine and extol. “The very next year my grandfather died and he was in his eighties and I still thought he was too young to die.” She paused again, holding the shoe up in the air and letting the light reflected off the newly shined surface. “It’s amazing how the mind adjusts its thinking pattern. At some point, you realize that most lives that end at pretty much any age are lives cut short.”


“That’s true,” I said, nodding my head.


“How’s your father holding up?” she said, almost in a whisper as if he was lurking somewhere in the house and not at his office.


“Stoic as always,” I replied. “The only thing he has really said is that he thinks it’s appropriate that Jack’s funeral is on Valentine’s Day because he’s so loveable.”


She nodded her head and pulled out some tissue from her purse to dab some emerging tears from her eyes. She composed herself quickly, talking about how she needed something to eat before she took her medicine for her diabetes as I went back to doing my laundry.


While I did my laundry and listened to some tunes, my friend Carmen instant messaged me to discuss the Valentine’s Day card she had received from her supposed one true love. The card was sweet but not mushy and had apparently plucked all the right heart strings as she gushed about this seemingly perfect man who had sent her a perfect card. There was, though, one inescapable flaw about him.


“He’s in jail for selling cocaine,” she confessed. “But he is so nice and he was the one who was really supportive of me going back to school.”


“He sounded so good until the whole Scarface quality about him,” I wrote. “Maybe you can go visit him in the clink or something.”


“It’s like 3.5 hours away and they keep crazy visiting hours,” Carmen bemoaned.


“I was kidding,” I sighed.


“Well I wasn’t,” she said.


I laughed a bit and told her that I had to go do the rest of my laundry. But before I went, I sent Denton a message while he was signed off.


“I doubt a person who says love is a big no-no for him will like this,” I wrote, “but happy Valentine’s Day.”
------
We arrived at the funeral home at two in the afternoon. Jack’s son ushered us into the main area to look a photo memorial they had put together. We slowly walked past each picture. It was so odd for me to see Jack as a young man, a young man who played basketball at one time. I stared at the photos while my mother chatted with some of Jack’s relatives and my father swapped stories with people. And punctuating all of this were the occasional pounding noises coming from above. You see, the funeral home was having some construction work being done so through the course of the afternoon, greetings and conversations and speeches would be interrupted by a loud BAM or CLANG.


My mother and I found some seats as my father continued talking to Jack’s family. I looked at the little program about what was going to happen and so did my mother. We were both being dutifully silent when my mother decided to interrupt this moment of quiet reflection with a request or, more accurately, a demand.


“I know that your father wants to be buried in La Crosse but not me,” she said as we each remained looking down at our programs. “If you bury me in La Crosse, I will haunt you if it’s possible.”


“Any other requests?” I asked.


“If I die when you’re older I give you permission to cremate me,” she said. “And if you do, spread my ashes. I don’t want to spend eternity on somebody’s mantle.”


I had to admire my mother’s ability through her grief to still be able to micromanage.
-------
At 3, the service began. Jack’s grandson and daughter-in-law both gave stirring speeches about Jack. It was like drifting off in this collective daydream as we all closed our eyes and nodded our heads about how he had the best lawn in the neighborhood due to his aversion for leaves, how he was always helpful, and how he was the friendliest person. If I closed my eyes hard enough, I could still see him sitting at the edge of his garage with an empty lawn chair next to him and a small bowl of water. As his grandson noted, anybody that came by was more than welcomed to sit down with him and if they had a dog, the dog was always offered some water before they went on their way.


I opened my eyes and looked over to the chair next to me and saw the weeping face of one of Jack’s relatives as she nodded her head and then stood up and grabbed some tissues for herself from a plastic pink tissue box across from her. I looked at my parents and particularly my father, so reserved since he had found about Jack’s passing, slowly having tears coming down his face as the family mentioned him and thanked him for being such a good friend.


The preacher asked if anybody else had anything to say and my dad slowly rose from his seat and had his program rolled up in one hand. He talked about how Jack had given them tools when my parents first moved across the street and how they had hit it off from there.


“He was like an uncle and I am going to miss him,” he said, his body swaying a little bit. “And I consider myself an honorary member of his family.”


He sat down and pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his tears. When my mother offered him a tissue, he declined and said he was fine. He was stoic once again.
-----
That night we had family dinner and after the dishes were washed and put away, my mother decided to open her care package she had made for us before she knew she was going to be with us on Valentine’s Day. On the top of the box there were our names written inside of paper hearts and a big “Do Not Open Until the 14th” on top of it as well. My mother peeled back the tape on each side of the container and pulled off the red napkins she had used for color and concealment. And there they were: rows and rows of shortbread cookies in the shape of hearts with a few chocolate hearts tossed in as well.


“I probably shouldn’t have any of these things but this is Valentine’s Day so I am,” she said as she scooped up a couple and headed to the living room to watch TV with my father.


The next morning I went and checked to see if I had any greetings from Denton since my Facebook account was blissfully filled with happy Valentine's Day messages from Agatha, Duran, Margaret, Carmen and a whole host of other pals.


"I spent it, after all day at the U, having a beer alone and being in bed, alone, by 9 PM," Denton had written to me. "Yea, big, happy, V-Day."


I paused for a moment and then began typing. "I went to a funeral," I said. "I win."


I logged off shortly after that and put on some clothes and went outside not for a morning smoke but for a morning walk to look for jobs because sometimes you have to stop dreaming with the covers over your head and just live.

Whip-Smart: Post-Grad, This L.O.V.E., Part Two

Whip-Smart: This L.O.V.E., Part Two

“Ooooh mister wait until you see

What I'm gonna be

I've got a plan, a demand and it just began

And if you're right, you'll agree

Here's coming a better version of me”
Fiona Apple, “Better Version of Me”
There were many signs that my life had made a drastic change since moving back to La Crosse after graduating from River Falls but no moment quite summed up my change than recently standing in the kitchen with my mother as she instructed me in the preparation of a quick-and-easy meal. My mother had taken it on herself to enroll me in a cooking class with her being the teacher and me being her lone pupil. She had shown up to our home in La Crosse completely stocked with all the necessary ingredients, even wrapping two eggs in several sheets of Brawny in case we didn’t have eggs. Some people would call this going overboard but my mother being the kind of woman who would make a Bingo game out of her son’s middle name and distribute prizes for winning at his graduation party this was, in comparison, remarkably low key.

“Three tablespoons of rum,” my mother told me in a deadly serious tone of voice.

The irony of holding a bottle of Bacardi in my hand was not lost on me as a few months ago I would have been pouring rum down my throat while gliding around a packed bar. Now I was pouring it into a bowl to let some raisins to soak.

As I followed her instructions, my mother added, “Isn’t this fun?”

“Incredibly,” I replied dryly.

“And tomorrow,” she exclaimed, “we make meatloaf!”

I smiled a bit. As she turned around to check her recipe book, I threw back a quick swig of rum, proving you can take the person out of the bar scene but you can’t always take the bar scene out of the person.
-------------------

After many sporting events, commentators sit around with footage of the game and discuss in sometimes excruciating detail all the particulars of the even from the refereeing to the big plays to what’s ahead for both teams in the next games. In the game of dating, my friends and I often times, also in excruciating detail, discuss what happened on a date, everything from the choice of restaurant/bar to the moves made by each person to what’s ahead for both people on the next possible dates. What we lacked in objective footage and telestrators, we more than made up in detailed observations and neurotic nitpicking.


The day after my date thing with Denton I got a jubilant instant message from my friend Carmen, an easily excitable undergraduate who asked me how my date went. I confessed to her that it went well, whatever it was since I was not quite sure whether it had been a date or not in retrospect. Determined to figure this out, Carmen asked me to list off evidence to figure out this out.


On the date side, Denton had picked me up and had paid for my vodka sour at the bar. On the not a date side, when we got to his apartment he had made himself a snack of toast and sardines, one of the few foods that almost always preclude any sort of kissing after consumption. On the date side, he did immediately wash his mouth out to try to get the smell out and when he drove me home he put on my coat for me. On the not a date side, he didn’t try to kiss me goodnight or anything yet on the date side he expressed interest on seeing me again. As I finished writing all these details of the date to Carmen, I realized that I was now more confused than I had been to begin with and vowed to limit this type of Monday morning dating quarterbacking.
-----------

A few days later, I was working on my résumé when I got an instant message from Gavin about his boyfriend Austin. Since they had started dating, Gavin had slowly been able to adjust to some of Austin’s interests like his love of country music, his Republican political views, and had even briefly toyed with the idea of doing a sextape with him. Yet Gavin reached a breaking point where he felt he needed to stand up for himself before he drowned in a sea of cowboy hats and right wing beliefs.


His big stand came in the form of absolutely refusing to go to a Toby Keith concert. Admittedly not the most important issue to be making a stand about, but Gavin felt that this was his moment to make it clear that his Lil Kim/Mary J Blige loving self was not about to go to any concert where he’d hear about a boot in the ass. Yet his protest did have some shades of diplomacy.

“I mean, I did offer him 80 dollars to pay for the other ticket so he wouldn’t lose any money,” Gavin wrote. “And I tried to explain to him that if I went I’d get into some fight with some dumb redneck.”


“That’s lovely,” I typed back. “Random question, you’re not going through with the sextape are you?”


“No,” he replied. “It didn’t feel right.”


“Like going to a Toby Keith concert?” I added.


“Pretty much,” Gavin said. “He wanted me to be all excited that he was going to the concert and he’s still not happy I’m not going. He talks about how couples do stuff all the time that one person doesn’t enjoy but does for the benefit of the other.”


“Good point,” I remarked.


“But if you’re always sacrificing yourself for the benefit of the other you lose everything that makes you an individual and the reason why the other person was attracted to you,” Gavin continued.

“You’ll just have to find a happy medium between your American Eagle/ghetto music self and his Thank God I’m a Country Boy self,” I typed. “Which I guess would be Tim McGraw and Nelly’s song ‘Over and Over.’”
---------

My father sits in the family room. The shades are open. The television is on, tuned to CNN. He’s having his usual snack of peach yogurt. As I come passing through the room, he asks me if I want to watch the Super Bowl with him. At first I say something dismissive about it and keep walking.


“It’s sad that Jack is in the home,” he says in his soft-spoken voice as his eyes look over the television and across the street and look at the white house across from our home.


Jack is an elderly man that befriended my parents when they first moved to the neighborhood in the early ‘80s. When his wife died a decade or so ago, we had him over for dinner at least once a week; my father and Jack would sit around the table, having the identical conversation each week. Now Jack’s house for sale and he lives in a retirement home because he has Alzheimer’s. My father goes and visits him weekly, taking him on drives. With Jack in the home, my dad won’t have anybody to watch the game with.


“You know,” I say as I come back in the room. “I can’t possibly watch the Super Bowl without those mini pigs in a blanket. You should buy some crescent rolls and Lil Smokies.” I walk out the family room, pause and turn and come back in. “And Fanta. Orange Fanta.”
-------------

“Do you know when your people are gay?” Campbell typed to me.


Another person might’ve been offended by the political incorrectness of Campbell's question to me. I, on the other hand, knew that this was his stab at political correctness.


“I don’t really have radar for that,” I replied.


He told me that some guy had caught his eye and he was quite interested in him. Somehow I didn’t just log off from the conversation but instead sat and tried to advise him.


Campbell was usually his best caricature, all attitude and pouty indifference to everybody around him. Friend, foe, and a one time partner in pleasure, I vacillated between quiet admirations of his aesthetic qualities and loud admonishment of his ugly behavior. Yet, no matter how much I detested him, I always found myself trying to win his regard and it was a behavior I was trying to curb if only to stop the exasperated question from my friends.


“You gave him advice about his love life?” Gavin said, understandably perplexed.


“I know,” I said. “I’m retarded. I still watch The OC for God’s sake.” I paused for a moment. “If I knew how Denton felt, I’d be able to move forward.”

I stopped typing, rereading my statement. I scrunched up my nose in disgust at the codependency of it. I had for so long let my masochistic relationship with Campbell define me and now I was setting myself up to let my dealings with Denton do the same thing. I resolved right then to stop defining myself by the adjacent man but define myself through my own hopes, fears, and neurotic spaz attacks.
---------

Super Bowl Sunday and I was in the kitchen, rolling Lil Smokies in bits of crescent rolls as my dad sat in the family room, drinking a beer and watching the halftime show. It may not have been the quick-and-easy meal that my mother was trying to teach me to master, but at least I was making some sort of progress as I slid a tray into the oven. I washed my hands and stared out across the street at the “For Sale” sign on the front lawn of Jack’s little white house. I let out a sigh and went back to my mini pigs in a blanket preparation.


A philosopher once said, “To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” As I gathered up the fresh out of the oven snacks and joined my father in the family room, I determined that I was in the process of the next big leap, the next big reinvention of sorts. Though the old remnants of me would always be there, it was nice to welcome the new ideas, the new surroundings, and all the new possibilities of being in La Crosse. And there is nothing quite as intoxicating as the future.

Whip-Smart: Post-Grad, This L.O.V.E., Part One

Whip-Smart: This L.O.V.E., Part One


“If I could learn to love you, could you learn to love me?
Lust will only get us so far now.”
The Thrills, “The Irish Keep Gatecrashing”

A recent Thursday night, I went out to dinner with an old friend. While glancing over the menus we talked about who had gotten fat; over our entrees we talked about who had gotten gay; in between bites of our desserts we talked about who had gotten married, which pretty much included everybody we knew.


“Do you remember So-and-So?” my friend said as she sipped her water and flicked her long, golden locks over her shoulder.


I nodded my head in agreement. So-and-So had dated What’s-His-Face in college and ended up getting married a year or two after graduation, moving down South. My friend informed me that they had recently held a Hurricane Katrina fundraiser of sorts since So-and-So and What’s-His-Face had lost a large number of their personal possessions.


“I’d feel more sympathy for them if they hadn’t been so delayed on leaving because What’s-His-Face was dead-set on throwing a Hurricane Katrina party instead of packing their crap,” my friend said, scraping her fork around her plate for the last few tastes of apple pie.


“Whose mind works that when they hear the words ‘deadly hurricane a-coming’ they immediately think it’s time to secure a rental of a keg?” I asked.


“Who knows,” my friend said her in usual sing-song voice.

After dessert, we sat at the restaurant for another hour, trading sordid tales of our college experiences and laughing about all the things we remembered doing and all the things that our friends remembered for us.


“So you had a pretty good time in River Falls?” my friend asked, wiping away tears of laughter from underneath her eyes.


I paused for a moment. My mind raced through my four and a half years there. Images of keg parties, cramped dorm rooms, letters to the editor, UV lemonade liters, Mall of America trips, late nights at Boomer’s, early hung-over mornings at class, the Gay ‘90s, Anti-Valentine’s Day party at Agatha and Duran’s, break-ups, breakdowns, and the occasional breakthrough all collided together to form this one snapshot of my life of the past four and a half years.


I smiled. “Dear, you don’t know the half of it.
---------------
Gavin had been dating Austin, a gay cowboy of sorts, for about five months and things had been going splendidly well. After each of their weekends together, Gavin always came back with some salacious tale and the week following my return from River Falls after my birthday proved to be no different.


“Austin bought a cock ring,” Gavin wrote to me, his enthusiasm practically seeping out of his instant message window. He quickly added, “And some whipped cream.”


A man that could combine Gavin’s love of food and fucking was no less than a Prince Charming in his eyes.


“God, I need to take some medicine,” he said randomly. “My stomach hurts.”


“Maybe you got food poisoning from the whipped cream,” I offered.


“Maybe,” Gavin said, adding a winking smiley face. “You know what else Austin did?”


Without the assistance of inflection, I didn’t know whether this was going to be a good or bad thing so I decided to not make any “I wish I knew how to quit you” jokes.


“He asked me if I’d do a sextape with him,” Gavin continued.


“You wouldn’t go to a Toby Keith concert with him but you’ll make a sextape with him?” I typed.


Before Gavin could make a full response, I ask that question every friend is obligated to ask when a friend is about to do something like get a lover’s name tattooed on them or move in together or some other serious leap forward.


“Have you two even said you loved each other?” I asked.


“He did once,” Gavin replied, “but I just think it was one of those post-climax things.”


“Now you’re just gloating,” I interjected. “But seriously, shouldn’t you say you love him before Lights, Camera, KY?”

---------------
According to the Census Bureau’s American Housing Survey, 16 million families had a least one child over 18 living at home in 2003. In 2006, I added myself into that statistic as I moved back in with my father in our family home after graduating from The Farm.


Between searching for jobs and working on my résumé, I had become a twenty-something shut-in. Even my father was going out to the bars on Thursdays while I stayed in and watched Mischa Barton try to emote and make a face that meant serious and not constipated.


“You need to get out of the house,” Denton advised me.


He asked me if I had any plans and I told him that I’d just be settling in for some Saturday Night Live.


“Well you should come over here and watch it,” he suggested. “We could go out for a night cap and then watch SNL.”


“I think I just agreed to a date thing with that bartender guy,” I typed franticly to my River Falls friend/spiritual sister Carmen, in between searching for my other blue Converse and a suitable shirt. “I’m not a good date person. I do far better with emotionally self-destructive trysts.”


“I love how you overanalyze things just like me,” Carmen said. “You’ll do fine.”


With her last bits of encouragement, I headed out the door and went down the street to meet Denton. As I nervously smoked a Marlboro Light and waited for his car, I calmed myself with a little internal pep talk. He drove up in his and I stubbed out my cigarette. As I got in and we exchanged friendly greetings, I determined that if Gavin could consider getting his Paris Hilton on for love that I should at least allow myself the chance to enjoy a first date thing in the pursuit of l.o.v.e.

Whip-Smart: Last Call For Alcohol

"Best Laid Plans . . ."
When I was little, my mother would throw these huge birthday shindigs for me. She’d make cookies, buy cupcakes for my class at elementary school, bring a cake to my daycare for the kids, and turn our house into the candy-colored place of celebration. Her working woman guilt allowed me to gorge myself once a year on marble cake and ice cream. I figured if this was feminism in action, I would have to become a card-carrying member of National Organization for Women when I got older.


But eventually, I got too old for these parties. One can only act so excited by a musical number at Chuckie Cheese for so long. After awhile I just gave up having big fiestas for my birthday and instead had small, dignified dinners with my parents.


My 23rd birthday seemed like it was going to fall into that tradition. I was back in La Crosse after spending the holidays in Chicago with family and having graduated a few weeks prior from UW-RF. I was preparing to spend another birthday with just my parents and marble cake when my mother sent my father a message saying that she wanted us to come to her in Altoona for my birthday. With Altoona being just an hour away from River Falls, I decided this was the perfect occasion to have a wholly undignified birthday for the first time in years.



"What do you think about going to RF for my birthday?" I asked my friend "Meg", this compact little thing with a helium voice that grated on some people’s nerves but I always found to be one of her cutest attributes.



"I can do that," she said in her usual, chirpy manner. "I’ll just take time off Saturday morning so we can stay Friday night."



Being my mother’s child, I threw myself head first into planning things. Thankfully for me, my friends and I all had found a mutual addiction: Facebook. Through Facebook I was able to leave messages for Duran, Agatha, Julia, Julia’s roommate "Whitney", my friend "Margaret," Thad the Cad, my metro friends Pretty and Prettier, and anyone else I could think of.


But I should have known, whenever anything concerns a social event, myself, and my friends, drama always manages to get invited and even politely RSVPs.


"Hopefully Meg won’t flake out on you," Julia told me over the phone, her voice filled with melodramatic concern. "She does it all the time."


It was true. Meg ditched us as frequently Kevin Federline abandons illegitimate children so Julia’s concern wasn’t all that unwarranted.


I shook off my concerns over Meg and went back to my party planning. I talked to Denton the bartender while I was in a Facebook messaging break.


"Well happy birthday in advance," he wrote to me. "Have you talked to Nikolai recently?"


I grimaced. Nikolai aka The Undergraduate Formerly Known as The Russian and I hadn’t talked to each other all that much since I had drunkenly declared my love to him. Fortunately, it turned out he hadn’t been signed on at the time so that I had spared me some humiliation.



"No, he only likes to talk to me when he’s bored or needs someone to go out with," I replied.


"He’s kind of a user I guess," Denton said.


"He’s a vortex of fucked-up," I added. "A vortex you once propositioned for sex if I remember correctly."


"You’re never going to let me forget that," he typed back.


"Probably not," I said.


I paused for a moment.


"I have the worst taste in men," I stated.


"Well that’s not completely true," Denton said. "You like me or at least you did."


I rolled my eyes. "I’m intrigued by you. Watching the way you burn through relationships is like slowing down at the scene of a car accident."


"Love is a big no-no for me," he confessed, oblivious to the obviousness of his statement.


"I sensed this as well," I sighed. "Less love, more lubricant. I should probably go."


"Well happy birthday again," he said right before I logged off.


". . . Often Go Horribly Wrong"
A few days later, I was in the passenger seat of my father’s CR-V as he drove me to River Falls while the Pussycat Dolls’ played on the radio. This was not what was supposed to happen but I should have foreseen the fact that relying on Meg to drive up to River Falls on Friday the 13th wasn’t just tempting fate, it was giving fate a lapdance in the champagne room.


At six that evening, Meg gave my mother’s condo a phone call. Her voice was as high-pitch as ever.


"I’m sorry but I’m having car troubles," she said with perky lilt to her voice. "Can’t go to River Falls."


She spoke in such a jovial manner that it took a few seconds for me to register what she was saying and a few more moments for my anger to set in. She was flaking out again. Her car always managed to have troubles only when she was supposed to visit River Falls. Either she was lying all the time or her car was allergic to the small town.


"When did you find this out Meg?" I said, doing my best to channel all of the self-righteous indignation years of watching Designing Women had taught me.


"This morning before work," she said with a bit of a giggle.


"And you didn’t feel the need of calling and telling me this because?" I said, adding an actual Southern drawl to "because" to accentuate my anger. "I told you if you had any problems to call me and I could’ve figured something out."


"Well," she said, slowly and deliberately, "they don’t let us have cellphones at work and it was so early in the morning and couldn’t you just have Julia come down tomorrow and get you."


"People took off work for tonight Meg," I hissed.


She just let out a bemused sigh and went silent on her end of the phone. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Meg had always fashioned herself a Mid-Western version of Karen Walker from Will & Grace since they both had high-pitch voices, were incredibly self-absorbed, and merrily wallowed in social retardation.


After a few minutes more of awkward Laguna Beach-like stop/start conversation, I hung up the phone and started to dial my friends to tell them that I wasn’t coming to River Falls. I was just about to hear Julia’s voice when my father came in.


"I’m driving you to River Falls," he said as he put on his beige newsboy cap over the remaining sprouts of gray hair. "And make sure to put Meg on your shit list because that kind of behavior is unacceptable."


So that’s why I was in my Dad’s CR-V, listening to the Pussycat Dolls, trying to figure out what I was going to drink while out with friends and thanking God that my father considered flakiness a mortal sin.

"Now We Can Observe the Bar Slut In Her Natural Environment . . ."
"Quit trying to find better people to sit with," Agatha snapped playfully. "You’re not going to."


"You know I love to people watch," I replied.


Agatha, Duran, and myself sat at a little table in Bo’s, each of us enjoying our drinks. It wasn’t until I was there that I realized how much I missed the smell of cheap cologne, cigarettes, and fruity drinks all wafting around the place as Ram Jam’s "Black Betty" blares in the background and commercials for Dancing With The Star plays on the large television next to the popcorn machine.


"I spot a drunk girl," Agatha said giddily.


As Duran whipped his head back and forth, scanning the bar, I said, "Could you be a little less vague. Saying you see a drunk girl at a bar is like saying, ‘I spot a homo’ at the Oscars."


"She’s right over there," Agatha said, pointing across the bar to a tiny little thing of a female who kept swaying back and forth and throwing crumpled napkins at some guy with a faux hawk.


"I know her," I said with the kind of enthusiasm a normal person would’ve reserved for celebrating discovering the cure for the common cold or the day Santino is voted off of Project Runway. "That’s Crash Girl."


"She’s Crash Girl?" Duran said, staring intently at her.


It had been towards the end of the fall semester and I was busily trying to get through Moll Flanders when a commotion across the whole broke out. The couple across the hallway had been watching the movie Crash and things had been going smoothly until a large argument had erupted. There was screaming, yelling, and several accusations of racism hurled by the girl at her boyfriend as his roommate of color sat by in shock at the proceeding. The argument was resolved in a true, mature fashion with the boyfriend throwing her shoes out of his room, hitting my door with a resounding one-two knock, and the slamming of his door.


I sat in my room silently for a second. Then I got up and picked up the phone and dialed Agatha’s number. "I know a movie we just have to see now," I exclaimed.


We never saw Crash but the breakup due to Crash became the story of the weekend at Agatha’s home.


I sensed a little disappointment in Agatha’s and Duran’s faces since Crash Girl didn’t look like the Starting Over house, batshit crazy one imagined but you had to give her an A for effort as stumbled around the bar like a more fully-clothed Tara Reid.


My friend "Carmen" came breezing in a soft pink number, her black cell clipped to her zip-up hoodie and her purse slung on her shoulder, as we were watching a girl in a knit white floppy hat circulate with all the confidence that somebody wearing a floppy knit white hat shouldn’t have.


"Wow that is unfortunate," Carmen said before focusing her attention back on the table.


"Where’s Julia?"


"She’s sitting at the bar with some of her friends," I said, pointing her out. "Her psuedo-boyfriend Casper the Friendly Drunk is floating around here somewhere. I don’t think Whitney is going to make it. Her and Bobby were having one of their, how shall I put this, heated verbal discourses. It’s like I got a shitstorm pinata and all the prizes are tumbling out now."


The time spent at Bo’s turned into a blur of bons mots, UV Lemonade, and far too many cigarettes. The place was packed with people, a sea of message t-shirts, questionable accessories, and Razor cellphones. I had found myself back in my natural environment.

Whip-Smart: The Graduate

Whip-Smart: The Graduate

When you’re in college and about to graduate, your life can be consumed with announcements and it all can be taxing unless you have somebody who lives for it and I do - my mother.


“I want to make it clear about the ground rules for this,” I told her over brunch. “No speeches, no programs, no brouhaha over this.”


“Of course not,” she said, averting her eyes from me.


“I’m serious,” I said. “You put together a Power Point presentation for my high school graduation. My life flashing before my eyes by way of Microsoft technology.”


“Okay no presentations,” she said. “Just some bonding with family.”


“Then there better be booze at this,” I suggested. “I bond better with a buzz.”


And from one announcement to another, my friend Owen called to tell me all about his potential haircut that, to him, was the biggest news ever.


“It’s going to be like Jake Gyllenhaal’s,” he said.


“‘Bubble Boy’, ‘Jarhead’, or ‘Brokeback Mountain’ Gyllenhaal?” I asked.


“‘Brokeback Mountain’,” he scoffed.


“What’s with the sudden hair change?” I questioned. “You’ve always loved your hair. It’s your trademark like Elton John’s sunglasses or Paris Hilton’s vagina.”


“I wish you’d come to the MOA with me,” Owen said. “There are more gays in The Buckle than an audience at ‘Rent.’”


“Well be wary of any spontaneous dance numbers,” I advised. “Unless it’s from ‘Newsies’, then I give you my blessing.”


“Since you’re going back to La Crosse are you going back to The Russian?” Owen asked me, out of nowhere. “You two keep colliding together like it’s fate.”


“It’s not fate just the gravitational pull of his sadism and my masochism,” I replied.


“Well nothing like a little S&M to spice up a relationship,” Owen laughed.


The status of my relationship with The Russian wasn’t the only thing in flux.


“I’m scared the Cowboy and I are going to break up over break,” he told me. “I’m working all these hours and won’t get to visit him.”


“Are you scared that you’ll break up or are you scared of a future of actual happiness?” I replied.


“I am a bad person,” he sighed.


“You’re not a bad person,” I said. “You do realize that I’m going to write about this.”


“Of course,” he smirked. “That’s what I’m here for.”


“You’re here because you’re my main gay and don’t you forget it,” I replied.


Later that evening, I stopped fighting fate and talked to The Russian.


“You know I graduate soon,” I told him.


“Well prepare for hell then,” he replied. “I’m a realist, not an optimist. That’s my downfall.”


“Just that?” I playfully retorted.


“I’m sending you a song,” he quickly snapped.


“He sent me Macy Gray’s I ‘Try’,” I bemoaned a few minutes later. “And it could mean something or it could mean nothing.”


“Probably nothing,” Gavin assured me.


Saturday night, I went out with some friends and ended up getting more drunk than one of President Bush’s twin daughters. After getting home, I decided to send out some instant messages under the influence of one too many UV Lemonades and then promptly passed out.


The next morning I awoke, the smell of bar all around me, and saw my computer was still on. I closed all of the instant message windows still opened, most just filled with drunken announcements of how wicked awesome I am.


And then I stumbled on one last instant message window box, which took me a second to figure out what I had written. But when I did, I let out a shriek of horror.


“I love you Nikolai.”


I had drunkenly announced my love for The Russian.

Whip-Smart-Columns 9 and 10

Whip-Smart

"Always A Bridesmaid"
When you’re in a relationship, there is always that first rush of joy. The sky is bluer, the air is crisper, and everything seems to be saying that you and your love are perfect.


“The cowboy and I had a fight,” Gavin sighed.


For Gavin and the cowboy, the honeymoon was over. Ever since his surgery, Gavin and the cowboy had engaged in arguments over Gavin’s treatment for his back issues.


“He keeps telling me I should go to a chiropractor and I kept telling him that I don’t,” he continued. “He says it’s an unbiased opinion but I said it couldn’t be since his dad is a frickin’ chiropractor.”


“What is going on with you two?” I asked.


“It’s just that things aggravate me now,” Gavin replied. “Like how is this relationship going to work with me in Eau Claire and him in the Cities.”


“Sweetie,” I sighed, “it’s the Cities, not Beirut. You’ll figure it out.”


“I guess,” he replied.


And from a couple whose honeymoon had ended to a couple that had just booked theirs, I spent a recent evening with my friends Agatha and Duran as they went shopping for a bridesmaid dress for her sister.


“I am in hell,” Agatha sighed to me as she, Duran and myself went to the Mall of America. “Oh wait, I won’t be in official hell for another couple of miles.”


“So they just ran out of bridesmaid dresses?” I said, flicking my cigarette.


“They had me jump through all these hoops and they end up running out of the style,” she sighed.


I laughed a bit. Evidently, even if a bride tries to save herself for her wedding day there is still a high likelihood that she’ll still get screwed before the ceremony.


“I know the bridesmaid isn’t supposed to look better than the bride,” Agatha whispered to me as we searched through racks of dresses and held up a leopard print number, “but nobody deserves this.”


A couple hours later of shopping through dresses, Agatha finally stumbled upon a beautiful beaded gown.


“It looks good on the hanger but I don’t know if it’d look right on my sister,” she sighed. She paused for a moment, her eyes glancing over to Duran. “Duran Duran, you’re about the same size as my sister.”


“What?” he stammered.


Ten minutes later in a plush changing room, Duran proved just how much he loved Agatha by putting on the dress and slowly turning around on a stand.


“You,” he hissed at me, “be quiet.”


“I think it’s a cute outfit for my sister,” Agatha commented. “What do you think Jon?”


“It’s adorable,” I agreed. “I just don’t think Duran has the lady lumps to pull it off.”


And in Eau Claire, Gavin and the cowboy talked. Though, they didn’t resolve all of their problems, but they slowly started talking about them.


That’s the thing about relationships; where the honeymoon ends, the real relationship begins.
With a day of dress shopping and amateur drag out of the way, I settled in my dorm to listen to some music and got a pleasant message from Denton the bartender.


“Are you in La Crosse yet?” he asked.


“I will be soon,” I replied. “So what do you propose we do on our date?”


“I don’t care,” he replied. “I’m just interested in spending time with you.”


“Cool,” I replied.


“Whatever else happens,” he typed, “that’s just a bonus.”


After a long period of time of always being the bridesmaid and never the bride, I finally got the indecent proposal that I was looking for.


"Gobble, Gooble Whore"
Thanksgiving is all about traditions. My mother tries out one new recipe every year in her bid to be the other version of Martha Stewart. My father always says grace before dinner and our whole family doesn’t discuss the big pink elephant in the room - my column.


As I gorged myself on food during break, I was happy I had broken one of my holiday traditions: Russian-centered drama. Instead, this year I was determined to forge a new custom by going out on a date with Denton.


“I got drunk and propositioned The Russian for sex,” Denton told me a few days before our planned date.


“I’m sorry, what?” I stammered a bit, less angry and more confused.


“I just got really smashed and was horny and ran into him at the bars,” Denton continued. “He turned me down. He even said something to the effect of ‘Aren’t you going on a date with Jon’”.


“So let me just understand this,” my friend “Danny” said as we walked around my neighborhood the day before my date. “You had a thing with The Russian who had your dad for a class at the university and now this bartender guy, who is going to be teaching at the same university as your dad and was going to go out on a date with you, tried to get into The Russian’s pants?”


“Sounds like a fair assessment,” I laughed.


“You sure know how to pick them,” he giggled. “And didn’t he dump his last boyfriend by just not calling him?”


“Yeah,” I replied. “That was the same week he asked me out too. The longer we walk and talk, the harder it is for me to see his appeal.”


“Are you for real?” Gavin exclaimed the following day after I told him the story.


“Like I’d make up a story where The Russian comes out looking like a decent person?” I laughed.


“That’s true,” laughed Gavin. “Still going on the date?”


“I have no idea,” I replied. “I think I’ve spent so much time choosing the wrong guy, it’s become as traditional as cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving dinner.”


“Speaking of Thanksgiving dinner,” Gavin interjected, “The Cowboy actually wanted to spend Thanksgiving with me. I told him he should spend it with his family so he went home after we hung out for a bit and had sex. Without beer or Vicodin, let the record show that.”


“Failed relationship for me and the sexual escapades of a friend,” I smirked. “Those traditions still stand.”


That Saturday, I put on my first date best and stood in front of my bathroom mirror as the snow came down outside. There were neighborhood kids making snow angels as I was having a devil of a time trying to figure out what I was doing.


“So what time are you coming downtown?” Denton asked me. “I’m working tonight.”


“I can’t,” I replied. “I just can’t. I can’t go on a first date that’s going to be consisting of me trying to get face time with you in between you making people’s Long Islands.”


“You should come downtown,” he told me. “I’ve really been looking forward to it.”


“Denton,” I said with a little laugh. “Baby, it’s cold outside.”


Later that night, I met up with Danny to go on a walk around the neighborhood like we did every time I was home.


As we laughed and traded stories, it crystallized in my mind that though some traditions like bad relationships should be broken some others like family and friends are traditions for good reasons.

Whip-Smart: Episode 8-"Doctor, Doctor"

Whip-Smart: Episode 8-"Doctor, Doctor"
In life, there are certain things that should never be resuscitated-interest in acid wash jeans or Nick Carter's solo career for example-and then there are some things that just can't help but be brought back to life.


Though my friendship with Ridley the Rugby Player had seemingly flatlined, we recently got it out of its vegetative state. But while our friendship was going strong, Ridley's interest in rugby had apparently taken a turn for the worst.


"I quit my rugby team," he told me.


"That's too bad," I interjected.


"And I'm thinking about taking up extreme fighting," he continued.


"Couldn't you do something that isn't such a health risk?" I advised. "You know, like extreme sewing or extreme bread making?"


"Where's the adrenaline rush in that?" Ridley countered with a smirk.


And from one health risk to another, I decided to ask Ridley's diagnosis on my current bout of The Russian-itis.


"So are you two hitting it off again?" he asked.


"Oh who knows," I replied. "It's more like he hasn't pulled out any of his old tricks."


"Not to sound like an ass," Ridley began, "but does he have any new tricks?"


"Well now he's doing this nifty thing where he pretends like he's a human being with a working heart," I cracked. "But I do like this new guy, a bartender/philosophy teacher."


"Interesting combo," laughed Ridley. "You should totally clone him for me."


"I will if you make me some of your wheat bread for me," I replied.


"Sounds like a deal," Ridley nodded.


And from a clone deal to a surgical ordeal, my friend Gavin recently had surgery which definitely led to a cramp in his sex life with the cowboy due to the strict orders of Gavin to not be the recipient of the cowboy's affection for three weeks.


Yet Gavin, never one to be patient even he was one, found the antidote to this problem.


"I got the cowboy to bottom for the first time," he told me cheerfully.


"How did you manage to swing that one?" I asked.


"Beer and Vicodin," he giggled.


"Is that like the new millennium's wine and roses?" I laughed.


"But before that, he came down and took care of me after the surgery," he sighed. "And he was here for most of the day."


He paused for a moment.


"I'm so glad he visited, not just because of the sex, and I'm sad he left," Gavin said. "It's just that I now realize I really do like him."


"Oh that's precious," I smiled.


"I'm going to get some rest," Gavin said. "I;m sleepy , took a couple Vicodin before talking to you."


"You in pain?" I asked.


"Nope, just bored," he replied with a laugh.


I IM-ed The Russian to discuss our critical condition but before I could, he asked me a vital question:


"Why do you even talk to me?"


"I thought we were friends," I replied with a sigh.


There was this painful silence between us. I realized that trying to love a man who had the inoperable condition of being emotionally unavailable was another thing that didn’t need to be resuscitated. I pulled the plug on the one relationship I knew would take a lifetime of me supporting it to stay alive.


Later that night, as I danced with my friends in the middle of dance floor at The Library, I enjoyed myself more than before because I finally had clean bill of relationship health. And when that happens, the best thing to do is to dance and find a new, better person to play doctor with.

Whip-Smart: Episode 7-"I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost"

When I was 6-years-old, I made my mother sew together a devil costume. When I was 7, I made her buy me a Peter Pan outfit. By the time I was 16, I decided to buy my own costume in the form of a fake ID so I could go out to the bars as Alfonso Jones, a 21-year-old college student.


Flash forward to last Saturday, I found myself in costume again, this time as a metrosexual pussycat with pierced cat ears and a furry leopard print tie that took two Marilyn Monroes and a Tigger to properly tie. It was in the midst of my preparation for the Halloween costume party that my friend Owen gave me a call, having been spooked by a revelation about his now ex-boyfriend.


"My ex-boyfriend did porn," he bemoaned. "Just when I got over him someone decides to send me a copy of it." He paused. "I’m sending you a clip."


Two minutes later, I found myself seeing Owen’s boyfriend in a new, albeit poorly lit light.


"Do you think it’s really him?" he asked me.


"The whole leather mask thing kind of makes identification difficult," I sighed.


"I can’t believe he did porn," Owen sighed. "He didn’t even like getting his picture taken."


"Apparently he got over that in spades," I giggled. "Who knows, maybe this can be a whole new venture for him. I mean, his acting is a little wooden and he comes off stiff in front of the camera, but that might be a plus in the porn industry."


"You’re getting far too much enjoyment of this," Owen hissed. "This is going to haunt me forever."


Owen quickly logged off and then I found myself suddenly confronted by one of my own demons: The Russian


"How are you?" I asked as I adjusted my cars.


"The world sucks," he replied. "I’m depressed and I don’t want to talk to anybody about it."


"Well if you need to talk to somebody I’m here for you," I said to him before logging off and heading to the party.


A few hours and a game of UV lemonade pong later, I was out on the back porch of the costume party with my friend "Julia," telling her about The Russian.


"What bothers me the most about all of this is that I care at all about how he feels," I sighed.


"It’s like I need a Russian exorcism."


"We can do that as long as you promise not to puke green pea soup," she giggled.


"I can make you no promises," I laughed.


At the bars, surrounded by angels and devils and cowboys and other things that go hump in the night, I kept thinking about those ghoulish figures that continue to haunt all of our lives.


"A drink for each one of you," the bartender said to Julia and myself, pointing down to the end of the bar.


There he was, Julia’s ex. Apparently, I wasn’t the only being haunted.


"He’s like Casper but with a bar tab," I smirked, waving hello to him.


Several more drinks and more hours of dancing, include some sweet moves from a Napoleon Dynamite impersonator, I decided to drag my pussycat tail home.


Before I went to bed, I decided to log onto messenger to see who was online. I smiled when I saw a particular name lit up as bright as a Jack-O-Lantern.


"Hey there," I said.


"Hi," he replied. "How are you Jon?"


"I’m good," I answered.


And even without spells or a witches’ brew, I still somehow had managed to revive a seemingly dead relationship.


"How are you Mr. Ridley the Rugby Player?"

Whip-Smart: The College Years, Fall Session, 7-10

I Ain't Afraid of No Ghosts

When I was 6-years-old, I made my mother sew together a devil costume. When I was 7, I made her buy me a Peter Pan outfit. By the time I was 16, I decided to buy my own costume in the form of a fake ID so I could go out to the bars as Alfonso Jones, a 21-year-old college student.


Flash forward to last Saturday, I found myself in costume again, this time as a metrosexual pussycat with pierced cat ears and a furry leopard print tie that took two Marilyn Monroes and a Tigger to properly tie. It was in the midst of my preparation for the Halloween costume party that my friend Owen gave me a call, having been spooked by a revelation about his now ex-boyfriend.


"My ex-boyfriend did porn," he bemoaned. "Just when I got over him someone decides to send me a copy of it." He paused. "I'm sending you a clip."


Two minutes later, I found myself seeing Owen's boyfriend in a new, albeit poorly lit light.


"Do you think it's really him?" he asked me.


"The whole leather mask thing kind of makes identification difficult," I sighed.


"I can't believe he did porn," Owen sighed. "He didn't even like getting his picture taken."


"Apparently he got over that in spades," I giggled. "Who knows, maybe this can be a whole new venture for him. I mean, his acting is a little wooden and he comes off stiff in front of the camera, but that might be a plus in the porn industry."


"You're getting far too much enjoyment of this," Owen hissed. "This is going to haunt me forever."


Owen quickly logged off and then I found myself suddenly confronted by one of my own demons: The Russian


"How are you?" I asked as I adjusted my cars.


"The world sucks," he replied. "I'm depressed and I don't want to talk to anybody about it."


"Well if you need to talk to somebody I'm here for you," I said to him before logging off and heading to the party.


A few hours and a game of UV lemonade pong later, I was out on the back porch of the costume party with my friend "Julia," telling her about The Russian.


"What bothers me the most about all of this is that I care at all about how he feels," I sighed.


"It's like I need a Russian exorcism."


"We can do that as long as you promise not to puke green pea soup," she giggled.


"I can make you no promises," I laughed.


At the bars, surrounded by angels and devils and cowboys and other things that go hump in the night, I kept thinking about those ghoulish figures that continue to haunt all of our lives.


"A drink for each one of you," the bartender said to Julia and myself, pointing down to the end of the bar.


There he was, Julia's ex. Apparently, I wasn't the only being haunted.


"He's like Casper but with a bar tab," I smirked, waving hello to him.


Several more drinks and more hours of dancing, include some sweet moves from a Napoleon Dynamite impersonator, I decided to drag my pussycat tail home.


Before I went to bed, I decided to log onto messenger to see who was online. I smiled when I saw a particular name lit up as bright as a Jack-O-Lantern.


"Hey there," I said.


"Hi," he replied. "How are you Jon?"


"I'm good," I answered.


And even without spells or a witches’ brew, I still somehow had managed to revive a seemingly dead relationship.


"How are you Mr. Ridley the Rugby Player?"

Whip-Smart: Episode 8-"Doctor, Doctor"




In life, there are certain things that should never be resuscitated-interest in acid wash jeans or Nick Carter's solo career for example-and then there are some things that just can't help but be brought back to life.

Though my friendship with Ridley the Rugby Player had seemingly flatlined, we recently got it out of its vegetative state. But while our friendship was going strong, Ridley's interest in rugby had apparently taken a turn for the worst.

"I quit my rugby team," he told me.

"That's too bad," I interjected.


"And I'm thinking about taking up extreme fighting," he continued.

"Couldn't you do something that isn't such a health risk?" I advised. "You know, like extreme sewing or extreme bread making?"

"Where's the adrenaline rush in that?" Ridley countered.

And from one health risk to another, I decided to ask Ridley's diagnosis on my current bout of The Hot Fever.



"So are you two hitting it off again?" he asked.


"Oh who knows," I replied. "It's more like he hasn't pulled out any of his old tricks."


"Not to sound like an ass," Ridley began, "but does he have any new tricks?"


"Well now he's doing this nifty thing where he pretends like he's a human being with a working heart," I cracked. "But I do like this new guy, a bartender/philosophy teacher."

"Interesting combo," laughed Ridley. "You should totally clone him for me."

"I will if you make me some of your wheat bread for me," I replied.

"Sounds like a deal," Ridley nodded.

And from a clone deal to a surgical ordeal, my friend Gavin recently had surgery which definitely led to a cramp in his sex life with the cowboy due to the strict orders of Gavin to not be the recipient of the cowboy's affection for three weeks.

Yet Gavin, never one to be patient even he was one, found the antidote to this problem.

"I got the cowboy to bottom for the first time," he told me cheerfully.

"How did you manage to swing that one?" I asked.

"Beer and Vicodin," he giggled.

"Is that like the new millennium's wine and roses?" I laughed.

"But before that, he came down and took care of me after the surgery," he sighed. "And he was here for most of the day."

He paused for a moment.

"I'm so glad he visited, not just because of the sex, and I'm sad he left," Gavin said. "It's just that I now realize I really do like him."
"Oh that's precious," I smiled.

"I'm going to get some rest," Gavin said. "I'm sleepy , took a couple Vicodin before talking to you."

"You in pain?" I asked.

"Nope, just bored," he replied with a laugh.


I IM-ed The Scot to discuss our critical condition but before I could, he asked me a vital question:

"Why do you even talk to me?"

"I thought we were friends," I replied with a sigh.

There was this painful silence between us. I realized that trying to love a man who had the inoperable condition of being emotionally unavailable was another thing that didn’t need to be resuscitated. I pulled the plug on the one relationship I knew would take a lifetime of me supporting it to stay alive.


Later that night, as I danced with my friends in the middle of dance floor at The Library, I enjoyed myself more than before because I finally had clean bill of relationship health. And when that happens, the best thing to do is to dance and find a new, better person to play doctor with.

Always a Bridesmaid

When you’re in a relationship, there is always that first rush of joy. The sky is bluer, the air is crisper, and everything seems to be saying that you and your love are perfect.


“The cowboy and I had a fight,” Gavin sighed.


For Gavin and the cowboy, the honeymoon was over. Ever since his surgery, Gavin and the cowboy had engaged in arguments over Gavin’s treatment for his back issues.


“He keeps telling me I should go to a chiropractor and I kept telling him that I don’t,” he continued. “He says it’s an unbiased opinion but I said it couldn’t be since his dad is a frickin’ chiropractor.”


“What is going on with you two?” I asked.


“It’s just that things aggravate me now,” Gavin replied. “Like how is this relationship going to work with me in Eau Claire and him in the Cities.”


“Sweetie,” I sighed, “it’s the Cities, not Beirut. You’ll figure it out.”


“I guess,” he replied.


And from a couple whose honeymoon had ended to a couple that had just booked theirs, I spent a recent evening with my friends Agatha and Duran as they went shopping for a bridesmaid dress for her sister.


“I am in hell,” Agatha sighed to me as she, Duran and myself went to the Mall of America. “Oh wait, I won’t be in official hell for another couple of miles.”


“So they just ran out of bridesmaid dresses?” I said, flicking my cigarette.


“They had me jump through all these hoops and they end up running out of the style,” she sighed.


I laughed a bit. Evidently, even if a bride tries to save herself for her wedding day there is still a high likelihood that she’ll still get screwed before the ceremony.


“I know the bridesmaid isn’t supposed to look better than the bride,” Agatha whispered to me as we searched through racks of dresses and held up a leopard print number, “but nobody deserves this.”


A couple hours later of shopping through dresses, Agatha finally stumbled upon a beautiful beaded gown.


“It looks good on the hanger but I don’t know if it’d look right on my sister,” she sighed. She paused for a moment, her eyes glancing over to Duran. “Duran Duran, you’re about the same size as my sister.”


“What?” he stammered.


Ten minutes later in a plush changing room, Duran proved just how much he loved Agatha by putting on the dress and slowly turning around on a stand.


“You,” he hissed at me, “be quiet.”


“I think it’s a cute outfit for my sister,” Agatha commented. “What do you think Jon?”


“It’s adorable,” I agreed. “I just don’t think Duran has the boom boom pow to pull it off.”


And in Eau Claire, Gavin and the cowboy talked. Though, they didn’t resolve all of their problems, but they slowly started talking about them.


That’s the thing about relationships; where the honeymoon ends, the real relationship begins.
With a day of dress shopping and amateur drag out of the way, I settled in my dorm to listen to some music and got a pleasant message from Denton the bartender.


“Are you in La Crosse yet?” he asked.


“I will be soon,” I replied. “So what do you propose we do on our date?”


“I don’t care,” he replied. “I’m just interested in spending time with you.”


“Cool,” I replied.


“Whatever else happens,” he typed, “that’s just a bonus.”


After a long period of time of always being the bridesmaid and never the bride, I finally got the indecent proposal that I was looking for.


Happy Misgivings
Thanksgiving is all about traditions. My mother tries out one new recipe every year in her bid to be the other version of Martha Stewart. My father always says grace before dinner and our whole family doesn’t discuss the big pink elephant in the room - my column.


As I gorged myself on food during break, I was happy I had broken one of my holiday traditions: Hot Scot-centered drama. Instead, this year I was determined to forge a new custom by going out on a date with Denton.


“I got drunk and propositioned your Scotsman friend for sex,” Denton told me a few days before our planned date.


“I’m sorry, what?” I stammered a bit, less angry and more confused.


“I just got really smashed and was horny and ran into him at the bars,” Denton continued. “He turned me down. He even said something to the effect of ‘Aren’t you going on a date with Jon’”.


“So let me just understand this,” my friend Jeremy said as we walked around my neighborhood the day before my date. “You had a thing with him who had your dad for a class at the university and now this bartender guy, who is going to be teaching at the same university as your dad and was going to go out on a date with you, tried to get into his pants?”


“Sounds like a fair assessment,” I laughed.


“You sure know how to pick them,” he giggled. “And didn’t he dump his last boyfriend by just not calling him?”


“Yeah,” I replied. “That was the same week he asked me out too. The longer we walk and talk, the harder it is for me to see his appeal.”


“Are you for real?” Gavin exclaimed the following day after I told him the story.


“Like I’d make up a story where The Scot comes out looking like a decent person!"


“That’s true,” laughed Gavin. “Still going on the date?”


“I have no idea,” I replied. “I think I’ve spent so much time choosing the wrong guy, it’s become as traditional as cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving dinner.”


“Speaking of Thanksgiving dinner,” Gavin interjected, “The Cowboy actually wanted to spend Thanksgiving with me. I told him he should spend it with his family so he went home after we hung out for a bit and had sex. Without beer or Vicodin, let the record show that.”


“Failed relationship for me and the sexual escapades of a friend,” I smirked. “Those traditions still stand.”


That Saturday, I put on my first date best and stood in front of my bathroom mirror as the snow came down outside. There were neighborhood kids making snow angels as I was having a devil of a time trying to figure out what I was doing.


“So what time are you coming downtown?” Denton asked me. “I’m working tonight.”


“I can’t,” I replied. “I just can’t. I can’t go on a first date that’s going to be consisting of me trying to get face time with you in between you making people’s Long Islands.”


“You should come downtown,” he told me. “I’ve really been looking forward to it.”


“Denton,” I sighed. "It’s cold outside.”


Later that night, I met up with Jeremy to go on a walk around the neighborhood like we did every time I was home.


As we laughed and traded stories, it crystallized in my mind that though some traditions like bad relationships should be broken some others like family and friends are traditions for good reasons.


The Graduate

When you’re in college and about to graduate, your life can be consumed with announcements and it all can be taxing unless you have somebody who lives for it and I do - my mother.


“I want to make it clear about the ground rules for this,” I told her over brunch. “No speeches, no programs, no brouhaha over this.”


“Of course not,” she said, averting her eyes from me.


“I’m serious,” I said. “You put together a Power Point presentation for my high school graduation. My life flashing before my eyes by way of Microsoft technology.”


“Okay no presentations,” she said. “Just some bonding with family.”


“Then there better be booze at this,” I suggested. “I bond better with a buzz.”


And from one announcement to another, my friend Owen called to tell me all about his potential haircut that, to him, was the biggest news ever.


“It’s going to be like Jake Gyllenhaal’s,” he said.


“‘Bubble Boy’, ‘Jarhead’, or ‘Brokeback Mountain’ Gyllenhaal?” I asked.


“‘Brokeback Mountain’,” he scoffed.


“What’s with the sudden hair change?” I questioned. “You’ve always loved your hair. It’s your trademark like Elton John’s sunglasses or Paris Hilton’s vagina.”


“I wish you’d come to the MOA with me,” Owen said. “There are more gays in The Buckle than an audience at ‘Rent.’”


“Well be wary of any spontaneous dance numbers,” I advised. “Unless it’s from ‘Newsies’, then I give you my blessing.”


“Since you’re going back to La Crosse are you going back to The Scot?” Owen asked me, out of nowhere. “You two keep colliding together like it’s fate.”


“It’s not fate just the gravitational pull of his sadism and my masochism,” I replied.


“Well nothing like a little S&M to spice up a relationship,” Owen laughed.


The status of my relationship with The Scot wasn’t the only thing in flux.


“I’m scared the Cowboy and I are going to break up over break,” he told me. “I’m working all these hours and won’t get to visit him.”


“Are you scared that you’ll break up or are you scared of a future of actual happiness?” I replied.


“I am a bad person,” he sighed.


“You’re not a bad person,” I said. “You do realize that I’m going to write about this.”


“Of course,” he smirked. “That’s what I’m here for.”


“You’re here because you’re my main gay and don’t you forget it,” I replied.


Later that evening, I stopped fighting fate and talked to The Russian.


“You know I graduate soon,” I told him.


“Well prepare for hell then,” he replied. “I’m a realist, not an optimist. That’s my downfall.”


“Just that?” I playfully retorted.


“I’m sending you a song,” he quickly snapped.


“He sent me Macy Gray’s I ‘Try’,” I bemoaned a few minutes later. “And it could mean something or it could mean nothing.”


“Probably nothing,” Gavin assured me.


Saturday night, I went out with some friends and ended up getting more drunk than one of President Bush’s twin daughters. After getting home, I decided to send out some instant messages under the influence of one too many UV Lemonades and then promptly passed out.


The next morning I awoke, the smell of bar all around me, and saw my computer was still on. I closed all of the instant message windows still opened, most just filled with drunken announcements of how wicked awesome I am.


And then I stumbled on one last instant message window box, which took me a second to figure out what I had written. But when I did, I let out a shriek of horror.


“I love you Campbell.”


I had drunkenly announced my love for The Hot Scot.

Whip-Smart: The College Years, Fall Session 4-6

Whip-Smart

"Desperate Homos, Part 1"
Gavin's friend Marc Wilson was known by most of his social circle to be a very involved young man. He did community theater, had two jobs, and one particular evening, he was involved in the airing of some dirty laundry.


One recent evening, Marc found himself wedged between a shirtless gay couple. As they bumped and grinded to the beat, Marc couldn't help but wonder where he knew one of them from.


It was then that Marc flashed back to a previous Sunday at church. He had been dutifully in attendance when his father came up to him to introduce him to a new member who had recently gotten involved in his prayer circle.


"This is Jesse," Marc's father told him as he shook his hand. While they shook hands, another person came up and joined them. "Oh Marc, this is Jesse's wife Marcia and their new baby, Eva."


As Marc continued to dance with Jesse and Jesse's boyfriend, and watch them flirtatiously wink at one another, he quickly came to the conclusion that Jesus was not the only man involved in Jesse's life.


All the while on Spruce Street, another desperate homo was airing some emotional dirty laundry of his own.


"I think I like The Hot Scot," I confided to Gavin. "It's like we're stuck playing this romantic version of Clue; he broke my heart in La Crosse with a knife to my back."


"You've got to find somebody new to move on with," Gavin advised.


"I do like a new guy," I confessed. "His name is Denton and he's a bartender in La Crosse. We've been IM-ing each other for awhile, always flirty, and I met him at Oktoberfest last week."


It had been at the bars when I forced my way up to the bar to get a drink and he leaned over and whispered in my ear in a seductively low pitch voice.


"Are you the man from River Falls?" he said.


He leaned back as I smiled a bit. He was tall, thin, and boyishly charming with a brown newsboy cap on top of his head.


"And get this," I continued. "He plays the bagpipes and owns three kilts. Somehow, even though I'm gay, I still end up being a skirt chaser."


In the middle of my conversation with Gavin, I received an e-mail. When you're writing a gay dating column, you often times get promotional materials but what I received was most definitely a first.


"You know that there is gay porn called Desperate Husbands," I typed to Gavin.


"How is it?" he asked excitedly.


"For gay porn stars, they look remarkably less worn-out than Teri Hatcher," I replied. "But personally I'm holding out for Gay's Anatomy."


That evening, Denton sent me an IM so we could arrange a date when we could go out on one.


"You know you're much cuter in person," he said to me.


"I'm going to take that as a compliment," I replied. "I have a question for you; what exactly does one wear underneath a kilt?"


"You'll just have to go under there and see for yourself," he answered.


After Denton logged off, I continued chatting with some of my messenger mates including twenty-something Mark, a student at UW-La Crosse.


"What are you up to?" he asked me.


"Just finished talking to this guy named Denton," I replied.


"Oh really," he said. "I know him."


"Cool," I typed back.


"Yeah," Mark continued. "He's my boyfriend."


I sat back in my chair, stunned by this revelation, and could only say one thing:


"Oh Jonathan, what did you do?"


"Desperate Homos, Part 2"
My high school friend Brenda Mavo had been desperate to get married since she was a little girl and was always searching for a true relationship.


Unfortunately for Brenda, she only came in contact with liars. There was the psychology major that had lied about his criminal history, the art major that had lied about his bisexual tendencies, and the medical student that had lied about not having kids.


“I didn’t lie per se,” he shouted at her. “You just never asked.”


And at that moment, Brenda decided to do some lying of her own.


“Well it doesn’t matter,” she said. “The engagement’s off.”


“Not because of a little thing like a toddler?” he cried.


“No,” she smirked, “because I am a lesbian and didn’t realize it until I slept with you.”


There was a long pause before James said, “I’d love to watch sometimes.”


Brenda glared at him and stormed out of his apartment in a huff, realizing that not only was he a jerk but that it had been one of the few truthful things he had ever said to her.


And in River Falls, the truth was coming out of the closet.


“So Denton isn’t really my boyfriend,” Mark confessed. “We broke up last week. I just miss him so much and care for him and I just want him back so much.”


“Oh,” was the best response that I could come up with.


I was about to lie and say that I needed to reboot my computer when Mark decided to impart another piece of truth to me.


“He’s so busy preparing for the class he’s teaching at UW-La Crosse next semester,” he said.


“Shit!” I exclaimed with a thousand exclamation points.


“He’s going to be teaching at the same university as your dad?” Gavin asked the next day.


“They might even end up having offices in the same building,” I bemoaned. “First The Scot is a student of my dad’s and now Denton is going to be a colleague.”


“At least you’re trading up,” Gavin replied.


That evening, I decided that it was time to have a truthful, honest discussion with Denton.


“I talked to your ex-boyfriend Mark last night,” I said.


“And did you talk about me?” Denton asked.


“No,” I lied. Apparently, it was going to take a little time for my honesty to warm up. “Okay yes, we talked about you. Actually, he spent most of the time whining about missing you. It was sad since he seems really hurt.”


“That’s a weird place to be around.”


“Oh I wasn’t around the weird place,” I replied. “It wasn’t the suburbs of weird place. I was in downtown Weird Place on the corner of Awkward and Uncomfortable.”


“Well if you talk to him again tell him that I miss him and I’m sorry that it didn’t work out,” Denton replied.


“Do you want to get back with him?” I asked.


“Of course not,” Denton replied tersely. “Why?”


“I just need to know that you’re truly over him,” I said.


“I want to go on a date with you,” he replied. He added, “At the very least.”


“Honestly?” I asked.


“Honestly,” he answered.


Yes, a large majority of our lives can be spent telling lies. There are the lies that we tell to our friends. You don’t look fat in those jeans. There are the lies that we tell to our families. I really love your fiance. And then there are the lies that we tell ourselves. I’m over him. But somehow, through all the lying, sometimes, if we are exceptionally lucky, we stumble upon the truth.


Just An Old-Fashioned Sex Party
My friend "Owen" was the envy of most his hipster friends, getting invited to the most fabulous parties all over the Cities and living one of those delightfully scandalized lives that dreams and sex tapes are made of. He hadn't always been that way; I knew him when he could only afford thrift store clothes and pot, before he traded up to Guess jeans and coke. Anyway, Owen decided to pass along an invitation to one of his friends, yours truly.


"Do you want to go to a sex party?" he asked me. "A group of guys gather together, have some drinks and rotate partners."


"I don't even like the concept of speed dating let alone speed screwing," I countered.


"Come on," he hissed to me over the phone. "It's like a potluck dinner except you're the dish that gets passed around."


"You should totally go," my friend "Hank" said to me a few days later.


"Of course you would say yes to it," I replied.


Hank, in retrospect, wasn't the best sounding board for such matters. Before entering a monogamous relationship with his boyfriend Randy, Hank had been quite the veracious single; and even though he was happily together with Randy, he still found ways to see others.


"You spend your free time masturbating on a webcam for total strangers," I snickered. "Hell, a sex party would just be a fan club meeting."


"It'd be fun and you'd get material for your column," Hank persisted, undeterred. "Besides, you're single. You should be out, having fun."


"Fun is one thing," I interjected. "Being essentially compared to a casserole is another."


Still unsure about whether to RSVP yes to the party, I decided to survey some of my friends.


"Would you ever go to a sex party?" I asked to one of the most sexually-free people I knew, my main metro Thad the Cad.


"Excuse me?" he replied.


"It's not an invitation just a hypothetical question," I interjected.


"Are you going to go to one?" he asked.


"No," I said. "It was bad enough being chosen last in kickball in elementary school and we had all our clothes on."


"I would be scared of that as well," he replied.


There was a little pause as I thought of the number of hot girls and horribly misguided boys that hit on Thad on a weekly basis.


"You know," I laughed, "I almost believed that bit of humility."


The next night, I talked to Denton about the sex party.


"Why aren't you going?" he chided me. "It sounds interesting at the very least. You're probably too prudish."


"Could be," I agreed.


"Or maybe I'm just a nympho," he said. "But you know, good sex does abound."


"Is that so?" I replied.


He paused for a moment. "You'll just have to wait and see."


That night, I sent Owen an e-mail declining my sex party invite. Five minutes later, I got a phone call from him.


"The sex party is cancelled," he mournfully told me. "His neighbors complained when they found out."


"Aren't you going to fight for your right to sex party?" I chuckled.


"Please," he sighed, "I was only going because I wanted to stop thinking of my ex who I just split up with."


He sniffled a bit, finally pulling back the velvet rope in front of his party boy persona.


"But that's life," he sighed.


He then imparted one of the most astute observations about parties and dating I've heard in a long time:


"Lovers are like parties; there is always a better one somewhere that everybody is dying to get into."