Searching for a needle in a Gaystack!

They say the top five most stressful things in life is Divorce, Changing Jobs, Loosing your Job, Death of a loved one and Moving house. In recent weeks I have endured one of the five and is about to live through another. Having changed jobs, husband and I are now house hunting. This is a daunting prospect as having to deal with real estate agents is not one of my favourite pastimes. The last time we ventured into the treacherous property wilderness where estate agents behave like ruthless predators was 8 years ago. So how much have changed since?

The decision to upgrade to a bigger property was due to multiple reasons. We have outgrown our apartment which now seems claustrophobic and our possessions threaten to have our living space burst at its foundations. Our neighbours are starting to annoy the hell out of me; one in particular is an old woman who is raising her grand daughter’s child. Both are loud, irritating and their voices cuts through me the same why nails on a blackboard does. What makes it worse is the fact that the old woman has a speech impediment and she sounds like a parrot with a sore throat and I have fantasised many times how one of my three cats would attack and mortally wound her.

This same neighbour also interferes with our water pressure. Imagine being in the shower and all of a sudden your hot water’s pressure drops and a pleasant warm shower turns into a freezing nightmare or the alternative of being boiled to death when the cold water’s pressure drops. You see every time I take a shower she decides to do the same and then it turns into the battle of who is going to freeze or cook the other. It’s a war where neither she nor I are willing to back down – just call us the Israel and Palestine of our apartment complex. We hate each other even though we have never spoken; we have no interest in resolving our issues and as long as the other lives there the battle will continue.

Now having decided to acquire a bigger property meant that we spend a lot of time on the internet searching for the perfect house. Our previous experience has taught us that if you leave it up to an estate agent you will end up seeing lots of places you hate. Even though the internet is the perfect tool for this, at the end of the day you still have to contact the estate agent and that’s when the trouble starts. In my experience you get three types of estate agents: The Professional, the Con-artist & the Borderline Criminal. The Professional agent will honestly pitch the property to you in a realistic manner and take note of your requirements and will not waste your time. The Con-artist will lie to you; conceal all the faults in the house, over sell and under deliver. The Borderline Criminal is the dangerous one, the agent that will lie, commit fraud and even break the law to sell you something that, in all likelihood, you will regret later and do all of this for the commission that probably was inflated by them.

When dealing with estate agents you absolutely have to be armed with the translation key to their very special language. Yes it is English but the true meaning of the adjectives they use when describing a house you will not find in the normal thesaurus. When a house is described as cosy it means it’s small. Rustic means it needs work. Good security implies the property is situated in a crime ridden area. Close to schools and major roads means there are lots of noise pollution. Friendly neighbours mean no privacy. Low maintenance garden means there is no lawn or garden to speak off. My favourite one is when you find something major that’s broken at a property how hasty the words “we can always work that into the contract” flies out of an agent’s mouth; whether that really means that it will be fixed I am yet to discover.

Real estate agents are also good readers of body language and well skilled in all forms of manipulation. The really good ones do it with such ease that detecting their manipulation can be virtually impossible. When an estate agent is bad at this I have found it both amusing and pathetic. After learning that husband and I were married the last agent saw this as an opportunity by telling us that she loves gay people. All of a sudden her daughter is a lesbian; her uncle is “a gay”; she has many gay friends, “really don’t mind gay people” and she even goes to gay pride and gay clubs. My first thought was “my god this woman is more active in the gay community than I am”. However after reviewing this bizarre incident I came to the conclusion that she was lying. For one, if she had so many gay friends her make-up would have been applied better (an autumn complexion should never attempt to use make-up meant for a summer complexion). Secondly, her hair would have been properly styled and one of her queers would have told her that if you have thinning hair don’t put gel in it or try to tease it. Lastly, if she had gay friends she would have known that we do not like to be referred too as “a gay”. I didn’t like her, she read us all wrong and her attempt at manipulation failed miserably. She reminded me Scrat the squirrel from the movie Ice Age – not only was she not entertaining, her nervousness emanated from her pursuit of her commission and not an acorn!

House hunting is hard work. Every time we find something we like something happens and we get our hearts broken. Both husband and I are quite pedantic about many things which make the search for the perfect property all the more difficult. We both have different requirements and finding that one place that suits both of us is like searching for a needle in a gaystack. In the last 8 years not much seems to have changed when dealing with real estate agents, apart from the fact that their level of desperation has increased due to the recession. I firmly believe our perfect home is out there; maybe a “fairy-god-mother” real estate agent will find it for us – let’s hope for some gay magic!

Till next time!

Gay KKK Member

Dear Facebook why don't you love me no more?

Dear Facebook

It’s with great heart ache that I discovered last night in all your cyber wisdom you decided to disable my account. This is now the 3rd time you wanted to break up with me. The 3rd time you refuse to talk to me or explain why.

Why don’t you love me anymore? Did I not love you enough? Did I not spend enough time with you; introduce you to enough of my friends? Did I not link to you enough in my blog posts? WHY…. OH Why…. why…. why…

How am I supposed to maintain my elaborate Gay Terrorist Network without my Facebook profile? How am I supposed to mobilize the masses to convert the unsuspecting public into homosexual loving freaks? How am I supposed to go about my daily cyber life without your blue screen minimized on my electronic life portal? How am I supposed to know when my friends birthdays are, what events I am supposed to go to or check the weather forecast in the morning before I go to work? Facebook, how will I know what my friends are doing, see their embarrassing drunken photos or be notified of their relationship statuses? The cruelty of your break-up leaves me feeling sad & alone. My bandwidth empty…

Yes it’s true, I admit I have been poked by many people and I admit, sometimes I poked back and enjoyed it. This put aside, I have always been a loyal friend. I always accepted friend request only from people with real profile pictures up to the point of almost reaching your 5000 limit – a limit you say is there for my own protection. Is it my fault my superior brain and startling good looks attracts people I don’t even know to my profile. Facebook, please don’t discriminate against me or be angry because I am a Gorgeous Gay Genius. If my popularity is the problem and too many people comment on my status alerts or add me as a friend - I am sorry! Don’t hate me because I am popular!

Facebook without you I am lost; a ship without sails adrift in a vast ocean of unfamiliar social networking platforms some of which I have forgotten my password. The Internet seems dull without you as I surf the Net directionless with a morbid apathy. Facebook you are always in the back of my mind - you are still my homepage! As I wipe away the tears from my now colourless cheeks, and blow my regret into my drenched tissue the ache for your return overwhelms me.

We have been through so much together. Facebook, do you remember all the good times we had? The late nights playing scrabble, all the laughs we had watching funny videos, you tagging me in albums and all the witty banter on my Blog Fan Page. Do you remember that time just after I started my first group how excited we were when we reached our first 1000 member mile stone? Good times… Happier times…

Facebook I don’t know what went wrong and please don’t come with that “It’s not you it’s my Terms of Service” crap. If you have found some other user more APPEALING, then…ah… (...this is hard...) JUST TELL ME! I probably will not understand but I will reply cordially with an annoyed toned e-mail.

Facebook, I hope we can work things out. I would hate for us to part ways like this. So many unresolved issues, so much heart aches. Are we really going to through our 2 year relationship away like yesterday's trash!?! Did I mean nothing to you? Dare I ask... am I yesterday's trash??? I guess I was but 1 of 200 million, a number, an e-mail, a password to you...

I miss you Facebook and I know you will miss me too, please take me back.

With all my Love!

Pierre

Facebook Manners And You

Sex Education

Oprah Winfrey recently caused controversy with a show she did about how mothers should talk to their daughters about sex. Apparently 3 members of the public complained to the South African Broadcasting Complaints Commission sighting that the show was sexually explicit and inappropriate. Naturally, after this news broke I just had to see what the fuss was about. After watching the episode I must admit I too was a bit flustered. This made me to wonder, is sex education still taboo due to parents being too embarrassed to talk to their children about sex & are we in denial about children needing more information about sex?
The “Bird & the Bees” talk, I suspect, may be the one conversation parents absolutely dread (apart from when your child tells you he/she is gay of course). The questions what is a vagina; what is a penis; and where do babies come from could cause any parent to briefly hyperventilate. After watching the Oprah show I am sure the level of dread increased exponentially as Dr Laura Burman also encouraged mothers to talk to their daughters about masturbation and vibrators. Oh my!

After listening to what Dr Burman said I was shocked as I tried to imagine myself in the millions of mothers’ shoes who watched the show and could just picture their facial expressions as it may have been very similar to mine – my dropped jaw only closed after I switched off the television. However, after digesting the information I came to the conclusion that she did have a point, all be it a point that at first maybe difficult to accept and comes with potential embarrassment to the parent. I think the central point she tried to make was that parents should arm their children with the appropriate information about sex to help their children be better equipped, more comfortable with their sexuality and approach and view sex in a healthy and responsible manner. Certain issues that she raised will be met with great resistance as I do not imagine many parents eagerly wanting to talk to their children about the “G” spot, masturbation, sex toys and alternatives to vaginal intercourse.

Not being a parent myself I most certainly can’t debate this issue with any authority. However, I can reflect on my own sex education I received as a child as well as that of my friends. My sex education from my parents was limited to a little book entitled “What a boy should know”. At the age of 12 this book was unceremoniously handed to me by my father. No discussions were engaged in either before or after me reading the book. The book clinically described in writing and with drawings what to expect during puberty and what sex was. Honestly, this was of little help to me as I had no intention of going anywhere near a vagina! The only useful part of the book was the description of the correct use of condoms. Notably the “gay sex” was not included (not even as an annexure) in the book and this was left to my own imagination and later trail & error.
The issue of masturbation was never adequately covered but yet the phenomena of “wet dreams” were included in my little puberty handbook. The absence of thoroughly dealing with the topic of masturbation caused me for the longest time, during puberty, to think masturbation was wrong or even a sin. To make matters worse, I also firmly believed every time I masturbated my dead ancestors could be watching. For some queer reason masturbation was an act one was made to feel guilty about, as not a single person ever told me or any of my friends this was normal and natural. Instead I remember hearing that if you masturbate too often you will grow hair on the palms of your hands.
Many of my female friends also described that their sex education was limited to either a video or book given to them by their parents. The one commonality I could identify was that we all had a similar emotive reaction the first time all our pubescent hormones came to fruition: The first time I ejaculated and the first time some of my female friends had their period we all thought we were either dying or had some embarrassing illness! The books and the videos did mention this would happen but when it does it still comes as a shock. For my female friends their first “monthly curse” (as some refer to it) did necessitate them telling a parent as tampons or pads were required, as for me I didn’t go running to either parent. I just waited, did it again and when the same thing happened I had a “aha moment” (as Oprah would say) as I faintly remembered the little book did mention something about ejaculation and now I knew what that meant.
When it came to sex what I learned was not at all as what was described in my little sex education booklet for obvious reasons. As mentioned before, there was no homosexual section and much needed “details” were left for own discovery. One would think sex is easy, comes naturally and you would get it right the first time around. That just was not true in my case! When I lost my virginity it was an absolute disaster of epic proportion as neither I nor my boyfriend (both being relatively young) knew what we were doing. We knew about condoms but didn’t know about a key component (KY) or any of the other relevant and very important “details”. So my introduction into the world of sex was a thrusting of thighs & pelvises, sweat, careful aiming, pain, embarrassment and a very anticlimactic orgasm – it was not romantic, I didn’t feel the earth move and my whole body wasn’t quivering with carnal pleasure! In retrospect it was the worst sex I ever had! Only as time passed and my sex education was supplemented by knowledge my friends had acquired through their own trails & errors did I come into my own sexually – so to speak!

Even though the Oprah show was controversial I do think the message the show conveyed was an extremely important one. Prepubescent and pubescent children should be educated about sex, they should be adequately informed and equipped to help them exercise the right choices and be confident in their own sexuality. Good sex education saves lifes as we life in a time where the threat of HIV & AIDS are real. A friend recently told me that the problem with children today is that they no longer want to play with toys rather opting to “play” with each other instead. It’s a scary thought to think children as young as 13 are already engaging in sexual acts and by the age of 16 some young people no longer are virgins.
I have a lot of respect for parents as bringing up a child is heart stopping hard work and therefore I’m grateful to only have godchildren. Thinking about your own sex education as a child and your own sexual experiences how much different would your experiences and choices have been had you had more knowledge? What a difference do you think imparting this knowledge would make on the children of today contemplating having sex? I think this is what the true intention of the Oprah Show was – asking yourself some difficult questions and sometimes finding equally difficult answers.

Till next time.

Karen Taylor - Miss Harper and Sex Education

I’ve got the Swine Flu!

First there was the Bird Flu and the world was in a panic, having also forever changed my view of birds. Now there is the Swine Flu, and yet again fears of a pandemic are rife. Never in a million years did I think I would contract this disease – a disease associated with pigs! Being well on my way to a full recovery I am happy to report that I have not grown a pig tail or developed an irresistible attraction to mud. I have however been coughing and sneezing my way through a very uncomfortable few days looking like Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer.
Having been at a conference for the better part of last week I developed flu like symptoms earlier in the week. At first I thought it may just be allergies (sometimes I should life in a plastic bubble as I am allergic to dust, grass, pollen, feathers and list goes on). It started with a runny nose, progressed to a severe head ache, sore throat, muscle pain and then the coughing started. By Friday morning I could not get out of bed, feeling like death warmed up. I remembered joking about maybe having Swine Flu earlier in the week, but by this time the joked seemed less hilarious and more of an ominous punishment. Later, on Friday morning my Dr confirmed I indeed had the Swine Flu and I was advised to inform my colleagues to consult with a Dr if they present with symptoms. The phone call to my boss was met with a nervous chuckle. At first he was slightly shocked but having a mature sense of humor he made a dietary comment suggesting I eat a lot of bacon, drink plenty of fluids and get some bed rest.
Armed with Tamiflu, antibiotics and assortment of other medicine I returned home. Upon seeing the small pharmacy I had in hand my housekeeper asked me what was wrong. I told her I had swine flu. She paused, frowned then shrugged her shoulders and said “At least it’s better than having Aids!” and continued washing the dishes. The warmth and empathy emanating from her was absolutely palpable as she has the bedside manner of an undertaker. I made my way to the bedroom feeling very sorry for myself as only a sick gay man can do, got into my pj’s and crawled into bed. The next few days passed in a medicated haze with chills, fever, slight nausea and persistent coughing. Husband handling sick people with much greater ease than I do was the perfect nurse, all he needed was the cute outfit. At least his empathy was genuine and his chicken soup delicious but it reminded me of Bird Flu.
Having been immobilized for last few days I had a lot of time to think. I wondered where all these queer diseases come from, and how they are given their names. I guess it’s been made easy -Bird Flu is derived from birds and Swine flue from pigs. Both diseases being quite exotic, quite contagious and now infamous but yet their names do not reflect how they will make you feel. Not having had Bird Flu I shall not comment on it, but having had Swine flu I feel obliged to rename it to appropriately describe what the patient can expect. Taking into account how dreadful I felt the last couple of days, on account of this flu, I feel it appropriate to rename it the “Spewing Wheezing Intolerable Nauseating Evil Flu” – SWINE for short!
Swine Flu being as contagious as it is, I was left to retrace my steps to determine where I contracted it. The only conclusion I could reach is that this pig flu was given to me by some swine at a restaurant the previous weekend. My husband is quite lucky that I was away during the time I was infectious otherwise in all probability he would have contracted it as well. It would have been a rather unpleasant domestic situation had we both been ill. Our cats probably would have gone into a panic as their only source of food would have been bedridden.
Recovering from the Swine Flu and can honestly say I do not recommend it. I am quite fortunate that I only had a mild case I didn’t need to be to go to the “Germ Factory” (aka hospital). In all honesty I must admit Swine Flu is unpleasant but it’s not as bad as people think - it’s basically flu on steroids! If you look after yourself and go to the Dr in time it pretty much is non-lethal. You will feel like road kill but within a week you will be back on your feet again, with fond memories of having survived the Swine Flu, being a statistic and making sure if anyone coughs or sneezes near you to run away screaming while searching your bag for disinfectant.

Till next time.

Elvira Kurt at the Just For Laughs Comedy Festival in Montreal .

Conference Drama!

Most of us have attended a conference at one time or another. As most of us who have attended a few knows it is always held at some extravagant resort, hotel or lodge. The scenery and activities soul purpose is to convince you that you are having fun and distract you from the brain numbing presentations you have to sit through while trying to stay awake. Usually conferences keeps you busy during the day and during the evenings you are free to do as you please; if you are attending with a fun crowd the evenings makes up for the dreary day. The conference I attended was not your usual kind and from the start I should have known I was in for a long couple days. On the day were due to arrive at the conference venue we were delayed for about 2 hours due to a luggage crisis. As luck would have it I was not the only one of the group who the term “traveling lite” meaning seems to elude. We struggled to get all our equipment and luggage into the vehicles we were due to travel in. After much deliberation & intelligent negotiation by those of us with more than 1 piece of luggage and who refused to leave any luggage behind, we agreed to use an extra vehicle. Still all the vehicles were packed to capacity not leaving much room for a comfortable ride.
On route we made up some time. Closer to our destination we stopped to refuel. This should have been a 10 minute stop that turned into yet another hour delay. Apparently 1 of the staff at the fuel station did not see the big red letters on the fuel cap that read “DIESEL ONLY” and decided to full the 1 vehicle up with unleaded petrol. Now, I admit not knowing much about cars, but I do know that this should never happen. Luckily the driver saw this before starting the engine otherwise it could have been a very expensive repair. The driver, bless his soul, has a very clam demeanor. He was the only person there that was not threatening the poor fuel station assistant with grievous bodily harm. Eventually the car was towed into town, the fuel tank drained and a major disaster averted. As the car was being towed the rest of us decided to proceed to the conference venue that was said to be only 20 minutes away. As we left the fuel station everything seemed to be back on track. Little did we know that all 3 remaining vehicles entered different coordinates into their GPS’s. The vehicle I was travelling in was the only one with the correct coordinates but we were following the convoy. When our GPS lady told us to turn left the convoy turned right. After a few times of this happening I started to smell a rat but kept quiet. 20 minutes turned into an hour. Eventually it got dark and we were on a treacherous dirt road in the middle of nowhere – We were lost! We re-grouped reconfirmed the GPS coordinates, confirming ours was right and set off again. In the dark of night we made it through the bushes of the "African Wilderness" and realized we took a 3 hour unscheduled off-road-detour. We arrived at the conference facility 6 hours behind schedule, all very tired, annoyed, and covert in dust. This was not a pleasant trip! Luckily it was a 5 star resort and the rooms were spectacular and the staff very friendly, understanding and helpful. We all unpacked, and headed off for supper after which we were due to have a short meeting that turned into a 3 hour lecture. This was a brief glimpse of what was to be ahead for the next few days. We started working at 8am sharp each day until 11pm, with a few breaks for food and much needed smoke breaks. I soon realized I was there with workaholics who had no intention of having fun and would work 23 hours a day had it not been for a few people that started to fall asleep shortly after 10:30pm on the dot every evening. Being such a small group sitting around a conference table with our laptops playing computer games also was not an option as at least 4 people at a time had a full view of your laptop screen. There also was no Internet connection. Hence some people dozing off!
Apart from working long hours the venue also seemed to have wanted to fatten us up. They served us what felt like a 100 mouth watering platters of snacks each day. At first the food was delicious but after day 2 I started to feel like the Marshmallow man, and by day 3 the mere sight of a savory or sweat platters of food made me cringe and eventually I lost my appetite. I am convinced all of us who attended to conference returned home a good few pounds frumpier.
On the last day of the conference I had reached the point of exhaustion where if I opened up my mouth it would be to utter either sarcasms or grunts. My body had reached its capacity of taking in information, cocktail party like snack platters and friendly resort staff asking me if I had slept while they fully knew I only had a few hours of sleep. As the last few hours were ticking away I was monitoring the pending end on my laptop clock with my mind fully focused on returning home. When the final presentation was done I felt the same way as I did while in school when the last bell of the school day rang, I could smell my freedom! The return home was uneventful – this time we all had the correct GPS coordinates, no cars had to be towed and we all returned safely back home, all tired, all a few pounds heavier and all more informed.

Having been to a few conferences I must say this one may have been one of my least favorites. Maybe it’s because it still is too fresh in my memory. Who knows maybe in a few months from now I will have a good chuckle about all the preceding drama. It was like no other conference I have ever attended. No one got drunk and disorderly, no person gambled away their money, there were no one nightstands (that I know off) and we actually worked which probably is how it should be. I got to know some of colleagues better, gained more respect for their work ethic and realized I can put in a couple of 20 hour work days if I have to, but it’s not preferred!

Till next time.

Margaret Cho - These Christian Groups Have Lost Their Minds

Sex Tape Scandal!

Paris Hilton has one. Pamela Anderson also has one so does Lindsay Lohan. Kim Kardashian, I believe, purposefully leaked hers to the media. Yes they all have had their sex tape scandals; it seems you’re not quite famous until your sex-escapades are immortalized on film and ends up on the Internet. Charlie Sheen has also even been rumoured to have taken photos of his wiener. Couples filming themselves while having sex or taking naked pictures of them seem to have become a trend in yet another of the plethora erotic fetishes. Making your own home pornographic movie for your secret erotic pleasure is one thing, but once it ends up on the Internet or in malevolent hands you can be in for a nasty & embarrassing surprise. This let me to wonder, why do people like filming themselves engaging in sexual acts? Is there a hidden exhibitionist in us or is it the thrill factor of having done something naughty captured on film?
Let’s be honest at one point in all our lives we have considered taking a few sexy pictures of ourselves and/or of our partners. With the emergence of new technologies like mobile phones with camera’s it has been made so much easier. Whether you have actually done so I hope will remain your secret. A friend of mine recently had his mobile phone stolen. This in itself is traumatic but what made this crime worse is the fact that he had taken some raunchy pictures and videos of himself engaging in unmentionable acts with his former boyfriend. All these pictures and videos were stored on his phone memory. Imagine the thief’s surprise when scrolling down to the media files on the stolen phone and discovering in graphic detail exactly what “gay sex” entails. After this unfortunate discovery 1 of 2 things may happen: 1) The phone could be discarded in utter disgust; or 2) The entrepreneur in the thief could whisper to him “Blackmail the former owner or sell the pictures and videos to a porn site”. In any event both outcomes will leave my friend tainted and he’s justifiably been having sleepless nights. I don’t know which is worse, being caught masturbating by your mother or having a thieve glare at pornographic pictures of you – luckily neither has ever happened to me!
While in High School a former friend one day showed me what he had discovered whilst rummaging through his parents’ closet. In a well hidden unassuming shoe box he discovered Polaroid photo’s of his mother in sexy lingerie in various erotic poses and photo’s of his dad in special undergarments. No child wants to imagine their parents having sex and I, for one, would not want to see sexy pictures of my parents nor would I show them to a friend if they had. Admittedly when I was showed the photos I was quite disturbed at both what I saw and the mere fact that it was being showed to me; suffice to say that friendship died a quiet death. I can just imagine the embarrassment his parents would suffer had they known that their kinky erotic photo montage was being exhibited by their own child to pubescent teens. As if private kinky photos and home made sex videos aren’t enough there actually are people that willingly expose themselves on the Internet. There are special websites where you can upload explicit videos and photos of yourself for the world to see; you can create a profile and have voyeurs subscribe to your daily sexual exploits. Whether these individuals are trying to break into the porn industry or do it purely as an exhibitionist outlet is a mystery to me. They may be better advised to audition at a porn studio and actually earn an income from it.
I was once approached to act in a porn movie, not that the word “acting” accurately describes what was to be expected of me. I was 18 years of age and probably looked very naive. A dodgy looking man pitched the idea to me in a gay club and his main selling point was that it would pay well, would only be one day and I would get to have sex with sexy young guys like me (the flattery angle is always a good marketing tool). If I recall correctly the movie was to be called “African Adventure or Out in Africa”. Naturally, being a broke student at the time, I briefly entertained the idea walking around with the guy’s business card in my bag for a couple of days. Luckily, I made the wise decision not to take him up on his offer. In retrospect, I am very grateful I didn’t make my porn debut - imagine how different my life would have turned out if I had.
Many of our friends have taken sexy pictures of themselves and partners as part of spicing up their sex lives and as an erotic and new form of foreplay that unlike the traditional version leaves one with a lasting memento. Personally it’s my views that if it contributes to improving the health of your sex life and keeps the passion in your relationship then click away, just make sure the erotic mementos are safely locked away and out of reach of your children, thieves and the Internet.

The sex tape mystery may not have been solved by me, but it sure makes for interesting debate over a few drinks with liberal friends. Whether people take naked pictures and make sex videos to spice up their sex lives, to satisfy some exhibitionist need or just simply to push themselves beyond the boundaries of their own sexual inhibitions, this form of sexual fetish have landed many people in embarrassing situations when these private products falls into the wrong hands. Luckily, I do not foresee any sex tape scandal in my near future. If there had to be one I find solace in the fact that I’m not famous and the fall out would be minimal.

Till next time.

Margaret Cho - Gay males vs straight males

Strike a Pose!

With the much anticipated unveiling of what could be the next biggest trend in men’s hair fashion (the “V” cut) I participated in my 2nd only photo shoot in my 32 years on this planet. Not being an oil painting nor being very photogenic the prelude to this big day, I was frantically trying to shed a extra few pounds as they say the camera adds 10 pounds and I was consumed with nervous tension (after all this face wasn't made for television and is more suited for radio or the print media). So I was left with the gnawing question– will I be able to play model for a day or will I crack under the pressure inflicting the same destructive force on the camera lens and photographer?

My 1st photo shoot was for my attempted television debut on the 1st ever Big Brother South Africa. This was many years ago but the memory of that Sunday afternoon is still vivid. The photo shoot was done on a couple of locations and I distinctly remember feeling increasingly foolish striking poses while the unsuspecting public were staring at this hive of activity, probably wondering who the hell I was not knowing that they may soon see me on television 24 hours a day for 3 months. I remember that the camera scared me and made me feel self-conscious about all parts of my body I perceived as being imperfect. I always hated my noose and therefore I found seeing profile pictures of me more frightening than watching the Exorcist on the big screen. The photo shoot went well and I was pleasantly surprised with the end result, but unfortunately the final decision by the producers of Big Brother excluded me from potential fame and knowing me also probable embarrassment. Like my husband says, sometimes you just can take me anywhere with my chronic “foot-mouth-disease”.

With the final countdown to the latest photo shoot I was making my way through peak hour traffic I came to the realization that what ever happens I must at all cost just relax and try having fun. Arriving at the shoot the atmosphere was relaxed. The skilled make up artist managed to artistically cover up my stress pimple that like Mt St Helens’ Volcano was threatening to erupt over night. She also managed to conceal all the nicks I had inflicted on myself with the previous morning’s shaving or rather carving disaster. My stylist who also happened to be the photographer did his magic with my hair and the signature “V” cut was perfected. I was ready for my close up! This would be my 1st shoot in a studio and it’s quite different from a location shoot. Everything appeared more confined and controlled. Unlike Naomi Campbell I was no diva and no personal assistants or housekeepers were harmed as there were none, besides I can’t afford throwing my phone at anyone or finance defending an assault law suit.

As the shoot started I was admittedly nervous in front of the camera. Having grown more mature since my last photo shoot, I have come to accept certain parts of my body that has become a good part frumpier than my Big Brother stint. A few well needed shots of social lubricant (aka strong liquor) relaxed me and the shoot progressed nicely. I am no natural therefore certain instructions on poses I found peculiar. Being said to manipulate your body into a position that feels totally unnatural, tilt your head in ways you have never done before and relax your lips was not something I was used to do. At one point having to keep a certain pose for up to a minute I could feel my leg muscles starting to shake, and I gained a lot more respect for professional models. Even though it felt queer posing in such precarious positions on camera it looked completely natural and hid all the little physical flaws and most importantly the much hated double chin. What more can a gay guy ask for!

Several wardrobe changes, themes and what felt like hundreds of photos later I actually started enjoying myself and my intense fear of the camera seemed like a distant memory. The other consolation was that if something didn’t look right at least there was the ultimate savior in the form of PHOTOSHOP! As my confidence grew adventurousness set in and the boundaries and inhibitions I had of what I was willing to do in front of the camera abated – I was now less concerned of showing a double chin and more focused on having fun even at the expense of looking like an absolute idiot. My husband was there for moral support and in certain photo’s a hand, an arm and a partial shot of his face can be seen. At the end of the day the creativity, confidence and freedom the photographer showed was contagious and it ended up being a very enjoyable experience.

Having survived my 2nd photo shoot I must admit that the experience was an eye opener. From being nervous of embarrassing myself I managed to cross a psychological barrier that prevented me from venturing beyond certain boundaries of being in total control of my outward appearance and entrusting my body to another person’s creative vision. The experience was scary, fun and at the end of the day very liberating. One thing is certain I am no professional model and the run ways of Paris and Milan will not grace my feet any time soon but having spend 4 hours in front of the camera I gained a new found confidence and my phobia of being photographed and having a Naomi Campbell epic breakdown was completely unfounded. This Diva is still utterly tame and harmless and the general public is safe for now.

Till next time.

HEDDA LETTUCE COVERS LADY GAGA'S POKER FACE

Pet Peeves

Life can be filled with small annoyances that some of us bear with greater ease than others. Having spoken to some of my more neurotic friends I have come to realize that one’s pet peeves can shed light on one’s own idiosyncrasies. This let me to wonder what my pet peeves say about me.

One of my pet peeves is having to stand in a queue - I absolutely despise it! It’s worsened when I am standing in front of Chatter Box or a Moaner. When standing in a queue I am usually not in the mood for idle conversation and chatty people tend to find me rude as all my responses are limited to one word answers until they eventually leave me alone. The moaners who vocalize how staff is moving at a glacial speed, are incompetent and how this delay will adversely affect the rest of the busy schedules also makes my blood boil. Complaining has never and will never speed up any queue and the only assured effect is the frustration of those around you. Many a time I had the urge to turn around and smack such people behind the head and tell them to shut the hell up! But alas I never have.

Another of my pet peeves is punctuality. I absolutely hate being late and get really irritated when other people seemingly find it impossible to tell time. In South Africa this phenomena is know as “African Time”. The “African Time Syndrome” spans across all age, race and gender groups. One of my friends is a prime example of someone afflicted with this syndrome– she has never been on time for anything not even to her own birth being 3 weeks late! Whenever you invite to her a party or dinner you have to deceive her by telling her the shindig starts 90 minutes earlier than the actual time - even then she can be up to 30 minutes late. As the years passed we have come to accept this as one of her quirks. We have now made peace with the fact she has an incurable aversion toward punctuality and her wrist watch is purely an accessory.
Telemarketers are one of life’s annoyances that drive me nuts and bring out the bitch in me. The best way to deal with a persistent telemarketer, I have found, is to be firm, stand your ground and make sure you start every conversation with “If you are selling anything I am hanging up”. If this doesn’t deter them your next course of action is to ask the marketer 2 questions: “Are you rich?” and if the answer is No followed by “Then how the hell do you expect to make me rich!” This usually works with all insurance or wealth brokers. Your last and only recourse with all other forms of telemarketers is to ask whether what they are selling is “Free”. This usually throws them of balance. I have also found asking them what’s in it for them also causes mass confusion. When ever I am in a good mood I also enjoy teasing them. Inevitably I would be asked whether I am married and I find great satisfaction correcting them when they make reference to my “wife”. At this point the marketer usually is uneasy and I being an opportunist worsen their discomfort by interrogating their views regarding gay rights in Africa & the Middle East. As a result very few remember why they phoned me and the conversation is usually short lived.
There’s nothing more comforting in winter than standing in a warm shower after a long day but sometimes water pressure issues has caused me mini heart attacks. My husband has the nasty habit of flushing the toilet while I am enjoying a relaxing shower. As the cold water wash over me and my body goes into a cringing shock I am instantly taken back to my christening: Wearing a white dress and having a old man throwing cold water over my head while I am screaming my lungs out in my mother’s arms! I know my husband doesn’t do this on purpose, but I do – it’s my benevolent revenge! As I hear his high pitched shrieks echo from the bathroom I always wonder whether I made my point.

Being stuck in traffic and road works are near the top of my pet peeve list; worse than the above are the last of my pet peeves - “Sunday afternoon cruisers” and the “Purple dye club”. The “Sunday afternoon cruisers” are those individuals that think the speed limit is a recommendation and always tend to drive much slower than is suggested. They also don’t seem to understand the concept of keeping their car in their own lane and drive with an observable lack of urgency or courtesy.

The “Purple Dye club” are all our older drivers, the ones that should not be allowed behind any steering weal but instead should be driven by a designated driver from their retirement village. You can spot the “Purple Dye club” a mile away; they are the ones whose cars are crawling down the road with the driver barely visible with only a pair of heavy duty spectacles peaking over the steering weal which they cling to it for dear life with a noticeable anxiety. They are the drivers that always have freedom of way and it’s their god given right as your elder to cut you off. Very few know how to operate their indicators or understand the purpose of all the mirrors on their cars. Their reaction time is well over 1 minute and it takes them 10 minutes to manoeuvre their cars into a parking space plus an additional 10 minutes to enter and/or exit their vehicles. Once I waited almost 20 minutes for grandma & grandpa to get into their car and exit their parking space at a shopping mall. This is one of my little habits that exasperate my husband – I’d rather wait 20 minutes for a prime parking space than having to walk 100 meters.

If I had to list and explain all my pet peeves I could write a book thicker than War & Peace. Not everyone share similar irritations in life and I have also come to realize how easy it is to become immune to others. What my pet peeves say about me I am not sure as being able to examine one self objectively is nearly impossible. However, queues, punctuality, telemarketers, water pressure & bad drivers will remain high on my list of top pet peeves.

Till next time.

Funny Granny

The Testosterone Club

The ever elusive inner circle of the “all boys club” has always seemed quite inaccessible to me. However, in recent weeks, I have become privy to this enigmatic phenomenon. What I found was that being one of the boys aka “testosterone club” is not all it’s cracked up to be, and I’d much rather prefer the company of my fag hags and fellow queers.
Since a young age I never quite fit into what is referred to as gender appropriate behaviour for a heterosexual boy. My 1st kindergarten report card, which my nostalgic mother kept, was proof of this. The report card read that I was developing as normal, my speech, vocabulary and eye-hand-coordination was above average. However, the teachers noticed my refusal to play with gender appropriate toys and the absence of same gender friends. The fact that I kept the company of the opposite sex when it came to play time was of concern and my parents were advised to encourage me to befriend other boys. Little did they know what the consequences of that would be! The last straw was an incident when we were made to play dress up. I had 3 choices of costumes: A Cow Boy, a Clown or a Witch. Naturally, I choose the Witch to the great disillusionment of my teachers. The resulting photo which I proudly presented to my mom left her unimpressed, little worried and the next day I had a "play date" with the neighbour’s rambunctious boy – a friendship that was uneasy and brief.
When it came to high school, my parents had the brilliant idea of sending me to a very prestigious all-boy school in an effort to butch me up. It didn’t have the desired effect in fact it was quite the opposite. In high school I did make male friends but never found myself a member of any “all boys club” but rather stayed on the periphery of popularity and complete social acceptance rather opting to associate myself with the outcasts and rebels as they were my kind off people – the minority group of non-conformists with as strong sense of individuality. Instead of reinforcing heterosexual male values and behavioural patterns, I instead burst out of the proverbial closet at age 16 proclaiming my sexual orientation to the great dismay of my school and family. I started my own elitist “all-boys club”. The club was so elitist it only had 1 member – me!
So when, in the last few weeks, I was accepted into another elitist “all boys club” I thought this would be my chance at redemption and finally being able to decipher the mystery that is heterosexual male bonding. At 1st it was moderately exciting but I soon grew bored as I realized I had very little in common with this group of men: I don’t like sports; I have no desire to understand sports and I have no yearning to talk about women’s boobs and asses, cars, golf or hunting. I found myself in conversations watching their lips move but only hearing white noise, as I zoned out thinking about what I was going to cook for supper or when my next Botox treatment was. The only thing we had in common were a penis and even that commonality would fade into obscurity as our choice of usage conflicted. I found their bonding ritual queer and their topical conversations tedious, not even the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol could blur the dichotomy that is our lifestyles and interests.
When I had to participate in a fairly large scale move as part of the boys last week, I had an epiphany. The move was well organized, timed and executed with military precision. The only flaw in their well laid plan would be my role. As the “gay guy” in the group I presumed I would have a supervisory task (god forbid they would expect me to do any heavy lifting!) As fate would have it, they didn’t make any distinctions between members and therefore I would not receive any “special treatment”. I was to put in the same physical effort as all the other men – oh the horror! As I hauled my first 4 boxes up 3 flights of stairs being a member of the boys club seemed less and less appealing. This fairy wasn’t having fun anymore! I kept thinking to myself gays would pay people to do the heavy lifting for us as we would hire staff – it’s called job creation! Not wanting to disturb the peace I kept my mouth shut! After 3 hours of physical torture my ordeal was finally over. The move was finished and so was my membership to this club. Gay men and straight men can get along just fine, but personally I felt I over stayed my welcome in their testosterone filled world and desperately wanted to submerge myself back into my natural gay habitat doing gay things with gay people and talk about gay stuff. My final and appropriate salute to this “all boys club” was with the downing a few beers as I left their world shortly after chased with a margarita back in my natural gay biosphere.

The “all boys club” is a phenomenon that has been with us for centuries. Having infiltrated one such group and having been part of their bonding, activities and private discourse, I must say I found it less exciting than I anticipated. Straight guy’s interests, at times, seemed odd, boring and taxing. Being a member of the "testosterone club" definitely wasn’t one of the highlights of my social calendar. I wonder how straight men would fare spending a couple of weeks with their gay counterparts. Would our activities bore them as much as theirs did me? Would they actually enjoy some of the frivolous gay banter and reckless abandon of stereotypical male activities? This would be a challenge I would like to see.

Till next time.

So You're Having a Gay Baby!
Gay Comedian Jonny McGovern's 3 Dollar Bill featuring Murray Hill

Abnormal Load

A conversation with a friend regarding how often in our lives we are confronted with everyday objects that has some kind of sexual and/or erotic overtone had me looking at my environment with greater attentiveness. I was amazed to find how many phallic and/or priapic symbols we are surrounded with, from fruit, trees, plants and appliances to the ultimate of phallic objects – the modest Tow Bar.
For quite some time I have thought the tow bar resembled the male organ in its erect form. On closer inspection the comparison is undeniable. When I first become aware of this, every time I saw one I would utter a disguised giggle! One day in peak traffic my husband asked me why I was giggling. On explanation, he frowned, turned to me and said “You’re just weird”. However, it did prick his interest and soon I caught him looking at tow bars in a similar fashion. A couple of weeks later, upon seeing a particularly over sized one he agreed by saying “Ah, now I see where you are coming from” followed by a flustered and embarrassed chuckle.

Many car owners buy their vehicles without a tow bars and they have to pick one themselves. On doing some research on the Internet on this piece of innocuous equipment I soon learned that there are quite a variety to choose from; all serving a particular purpose and your choice should be based on what you intend to tow and the type of car you own. Once you have determined the purpose, you are then faced with a choice of a multitude of different shapes and sizes.
Being a man, or rather a gay man, how do you think my choice will be influenced? Will I go for bigger is better? Will I base my choice or the girth, length, shape or curve? Subconsciously, I must admit, that I would make my decision based on my perceived perfect shaped phallus. I can just imagine standing in a motor shop staring at a display wall of tow bars, rubbing my chin deep in thought trying to pick out the perfect one. All the while the sales person not understanding why this is such a complex decision and god forbid me actually handling one while vocalizing sounds like “Hmmm… ahhhh….” Or asking my husband “Honey, what do you think? Is this one too big… is that one too small…”

When straight men choose tow bars I can’t help but wonder how their decision process works. When faced with a tapestry of choices has it ever crossed their mind that they are actually choosing a penis like accessory that they are going to attach to the derriere of their cars? Do they subconsciously realize that their choice may reflect their view of their own masculinity? When it comes to straight males I have observed penis envy on the road many times. I have also observed the more over sized the tow bar the more timid the man. So when it comes to choosing a tow bar, by straight guys, my question is: Do they opt for a fantastic improvement, a true reflection or a more practical version of their own manhood? AND if they know what I know would it influence their choice?

When speaking to a friend, this morning, she was quite enthralled and embarrassed when I raised this issue, so much so that she said she would have to call me back. I am still waiting… Which brings me to my next point – how do women pick their tow bars? Would it be a choice made purely based on practicality or would the subliminal sexual reference of the object in anyway play a role? With tow bars on female’s cars I’ve noticed that lesbians tend to be more practical, opting for the more stubby sturdy ones and straight women being very much indistinguishable from their male counterparts. The latter being the fact that, I believe, their husbands or boyfriends made the decision for them – imposing their masculinity onto their wives or girlfriends. So it would be quite a treat to watch a straight couple go “tow bar shopping” and observing their method of negotiating a compromise and seeing their final choice – the phallus they both agree on!
In South Africa with its citizen loving their sport they have taken their devotion of a famous team one step too far. The Blue Bulls (a renowned rugby team) has gained another symbol fans can use to identify themselves with. Apart from the T-shirts, flags, caps, and stickers they have now also attained the famous “blue bull testicles” that you can attach to their tow bar. So if there were any doubt that the tow bar is a phallic symbol, the attachment of bull testicles to it has now banished any reservation. Personally I think it’s tacky, the tow bar is penis like already and attaching balls to it is just too much – even for a gay man! It’s way too camp and vulgar!

My car does not have a tow bar at present as I have no need for one – I do not plan on towing any abnormal loads any time soon. I also do not plan to attach blue bull testicles to my car as I prefer my car remaining androgynous and I have no desire to butch or femme up my car. I know I may have ruined tow bars for some forever, and for that I do apologize, it is but just one subtle erotic symbol that we live with and I am sure if you take a closer look around you many more will emerge.

Till next time.

Gay Comedian Jonny McGovern's 3 Dollar Bill- Good Cop/Gay Cop

Michael Jackson – Death of a Misunderstood Icon

Memorial group invitations on Facebook were my first notification that Michael Jackson had died and the news was later confirmed via CNN. Having never really been a huge fan of Michael the news did come as muttered shock. Whether you loved him or hated him, one thing can not be denied – on 25 June 2009 the world lost a Pop Icon! His death had me wondering – How did he die? Was it natural causes ,a heart attack, painkiller overdose or did all the plastic surgeries he had finally caused his death? There remain so many questions not only about his death but also about his life…
Not being an expert on Michael Jackson I can only air my opinion. We first saw him emerge into fame as very attractive young black man, who as his career progresses slowly transformed in front our eyes into an alien like white female caricature like person. As his music evolved so did his appearance and as his fame grew he became more of a recluse. In my opinion, he was a very lonely, deeply misunderstood and a broken person. He never seemed quite satisfied with his life and over compensated for what he yearned for by material possessions and what he did not like about himself he opted to fix through surgery. He is even described as the text book case example for a psychiatric disorder called Body Dysmorphic Disorder (a disorder in which the affected person is excessively concerned about and preoccupied by an imagined or minor defect in his or her physical features, in some cases correcting these features through surgery). Michael Jackson did not by any means have a normal childhood. Since a very young age he was in the lime light which effectively deprived him of the experience normal children would have. Therefore, it should not come as surprise that in his adult live he surrounded himself possessions and symbols reflecting any child’s fantasy – his Neverland Range for example! His preoccupation with children could also be viewed as his need to regress back to his lost childhood. All this brought much unwanted and negative publicity to him; being charged with alleged sexual abuse of young boys. Charges he was never found guilty off. Many people still believes in his guilt and that he only got acquitted due to his fame and fortune. We will never know the truth as it now will go with him to his grave. Personally, I always wondered whether he was indeed a predator disguised as a philanthropist or just a deeply misunderstood person with a child like innocent ignorance.
The delusional aspect of Michael Jackson’s always fascinated me. He never admitted to having all the extensive surgeries he had, even though it was blatantly obvious. His nose took on a life of it’s own with many fearing, in recent years, that one day it will fall off. Some even speculated that his noose had been replaced with a prosthetic due the fact that the nasal area was so severely damaged that there was no tissue or bone left to restore. This made me wonder how the paramedics tried to resuscitate him when they found him at his home. Did his facial alteration in any away complicate their work in their attempt to revive him?

Having altered his appearance so dramatically over the years and with all the complication as a result, I often asked myself, when he looked at himself in the mirror without make up, some of the prosthetics he was said to use, what did he think? In his mind did he achieve his aesthetic goal or had he transformed himself into a monster? In the last year he must have had time to reflect on his past and career as he was preparing for his come back; I am sure he must have been proud of his achievements and quite saddened at how he nearly lost everything. If he did not pass away his come back would have been a success due to all his devoted fans, but would his status as King of Pop ever again have been reestablished?
No matter how queer Michael Jackson’s life may have appeared to us, who didn’t know him, one thing is undeniable – the contribution he made to the music industry was invaluable, lasting and like many icons before him his legacy will live on! Many of us may have judged him, rightfully or wrongfully so, for erring when it came to his appearance, the choices he made, his flamboyant and sometimes bizarre behavior and relationships he forged with children, his marriages to Lisa Marie Presley and Debbie Rowe and the way he choose to raise his 3 children. Michael Jackson’s life was by no means an ideal example for anyone, but not having walked in his shoes in death he should be respected and remembered for his contribution and his legacy he leaves behind, and not for his perceived mistakes. My condolences go out to his family, friends, children and loyal fans. He shall be truly missed. My wish is that his children will have a normal and safe life and one day, when they reach adulthood, be able to look back at their father’s life and proud of him.

Till next time.

Michael Jackson - Thriller live (1987)