One Times

I have decided that many of our stories are better told in a concise manner. I call these stories “One Times.”

Here’s an example (this should also help clear up any questions about Brian’s comment on Marna in my cast posting):

One time, Marna was getting car jacked when she discovered that she knew the guy, so they had a big laugh and she gave him a ride home.

Meet the Cast

Because Brian and I often refer to people our readers may not know, I thought it would be a good idea to list some of the people we knew in Austin and give a short description of each of them. Brian, I hope, will help complete this list.

(Brian’s comments are in italic)

Here you go:

Allen—our protagonist
Amy—Allen’s first friend at UT, took German with Allen and Frank
April—Allen’s friend from high school, often visited Austin
Aunt Ronnie (aka Rita)—Brian’s mother and Allen’s great-aunt, enjoys the drink
Baby Bump—a minor acquaintance from the bars, enjoyed the cocaine
Ben—Brian’s step-father, hated Allen (deceased)
Black Alan—one of Marna’s friends, got butt raped in jail
Black Brian—one of Marna’s G boyfriends, beat her up while Allen ran
Brian—our antagonist
Christine—Brian’s friend from work, often had liquid lunch with Allen, enjoyed drunk dialing
Christopher (aka Toddler #1)—Brian’s first toddler, lived with Allen and Brian when they first moved into 2314 Montclaire
Coke Can, The—random guy Allen slept with, his name says it all
Dan—one of Frank’s boyfriends, wet the bed nightly
Daniel—Brian’s step-brother, rode the H-train (deceased)
David—Allen’s friend from art class, had 45-year-old boyfriend
Davida—an ingénue, gender fluent
Frank (La Cabesa)—one of Allen’s first and best friends at UT, was Mexican but looked Asian, had giant head
Gun-Totin-White-Momma—Richard’s mother. Always republican. Always baptist. The kind of baptist that believes that all fags go to hell. God gave her a gay son who could make anybody laugh, a sucessul lesbian dughter, and a straight son who was always getting thrown in jail. Oh, and a nice hand-gun for her purse.
Gigantic Butt Boy—a minor acquaintance from UT and the bars, had world’s largest ass. You forgot the substantial and ever-present butt-crack sweat stain. Plus the innocent bystanders who were knocked to the ground by his ass when he moved from point A to point B at a crowded party. He never looked back.
Helen—Daniel’s wife
Jasmine—Frank’s friend from San Antonio, stripped under the name Heather
Jaymee—guy Allen worshipped from afar while in Austin, Allen slept with him after he moved back to Arkansas during a trip back to Austin, plays on a gay softball team
Jean Jean Despot Queen—Allen’s lesbian friend from UT
Jennifer—fag hag supreme and yearbook diva, Allen met her after leaving Austin, has a giant mole that has a mole on it
Jenniflower—Allen’s friend from high school, often visited Austin
John—Brian’s father, the cheapest man alive
Jonathan—Allen’s current boyfriend of six years, turns the world on with his smile. Unless you leave dirty dishes in the sink. Makes Allen vacuum the bedspread on the daily.
J.T.—Frank’s roommate
Judy—Brian’s step-mother, votes Republican
Kevin—Brian’s best friend. Never wants the bubbles to stop.
Kerry—a cheerleader Brian slept with
Kevin—one of Marna’s G boyfriends, taught Allen how to drive high
Mapplethorpe (aka Crackers)—Allen’s cat, stolen by Sara Hickman (we think)
Marna—Allen’s J.A.P. fag hag and drug buddy, couldn’t get enough black cock. Has a no-expiration-date get-out-of-car-jacking-free card.
Matt—Brian’s husband, hates Allen
Meghan—Allen’s friend since the third grade, often visited Austin, a modern drunkard
Meme (aka Aunt Bunny)—Allen’s grandmother and Brian’s aunt (deceased)
Metasexual, The—some creepy friend of Brian
Midget, The—a professor at Baylor Allen dated, was four feet tall
Neighboret—Allen and Brian’s next-door neighbor, was a witch
Peter—Brian’s friend. Kevin’s boyfriend. Needs to put it a little more often.
Richard—One of Brian’s best friends. Baptist fag. Lots of issues due to his gun-totin-white-momma and yet.. whenever Brian felt down he would go to lunch with Richard and by the end of the meal, all was good with the world again.
Ron—one of Frank’s boyfriends, conned Frank out of $36 thousand
Sara Hickman—a singer, lived in a unit of the townhouse on Montclaire
Sherry—Allen’s mother, enjoys booze and pills
Smoke-Out—Marna’s friend, drove her car off a cliff for the insurance money
Spanish Tony—lived with Allen and Brian after a failed suicide attempt, had tiny penis
Steve—Allen’s father, has the patience of Job
T.J.—dated Allen, broke towel rack in shower on Montclaire Street while getting his ass pounded
Tonya I’m On Ya—Allen’s only friend from high school who attended UT
Tracy—Allen’s sister, has world’s largest hair
Treva Jean—Christopher’s mother, local celebrity
Troy (aka Quasimodo)—dated Allen, was deformed
Wounded Kitty, The—stray cat Allen and Brian fed, had a constant, oozing wound

“Go Fish,” Coming Out and Toddler #1

My friend Jennifer has a favorite saying: “Fags tend to lie.”

My father has a favorite saying: “Never let the truth interfere with a good story.”

I like a good story, and I am a fag. But as a general rule, I only lie when telling a story for one of two reasons: the story would be too long otherwise or the story embarrasses me.

When I retell my coming out to Brian story, I change it for both of these reasons.

Here’s the true story and then some:

The University of Texas sends its acceptance letters to out-of-state students last, so I didn’t know for sure I would get in until my parents received a letter from UT while I was in Europe in July following my senior year. I called home from London, and my mom told me about the letter. I knew I wanted to move to Austin, but I didn’t have a place to stay. It just so happened that Brian and Aunt Ronnie were visiting my parents at the time. Brian was about to buy a house, and I’m sure at Aunt Ronnie’s prodding, he suggested that I move in with him. The only problem was that I didn’t know Brian. I had only met him once or twice before. The only thing I really knew about him was that he was a dirty fag. He hadn’t told me, but I had met his “friend,” Glenn. I had done the math.

When I moved to Austin, I stayed with Aunt Ronnie and her aged husband, Ben (there will be much more about him in future postings, I’m sure). One night, Aunt Ronnie said that Brian was coming over and wanted to take me to a movie so we could get to know each other. Brian showed up with Christopher. With the exception of some problematic teeth, a little baby fat and loafers without socks, Christopher was the cutest gay boy I had ever seen. We headed to Dobie Theater.

It seems important to note that I was a rube from Arkansas who had never seen an independent movie and had never told anyone I was gay. Hell, I didn’t even know anyone who was openly gay. Brian took me to see “Go Fish.” It was in black and white. It was independent. It was about lesbians. I cannot even remember a single scene in the movie. There was too much degeneracy to take in.

As we waited in the lobby for Christopher, who had seen another movie, Brian and I chatted it up until Christopher joined us. I was so dazed behind all the lesbianism that I cannot even recall who had said, “We’re gay. Are you gay?”

This is where the story I normally tell veers from the truth. I say that I said I was, came out and lived happily ever after, but it was a little more complicated than that.

I don’t remember what I said exactly, but I remember avoiding the question. Brian and Christopher didn’t let it go. They took me to Area 52, an eighteen-and-up gay bar the trendy loved for its twinks and cocaine.

We were standing out back, which is odd because I didn’t smoke at the time, when Brian said, “You like porn, right? When you watch porn, do you look at the guys or the girls?”

I replied, “Both,” a statement that embarrasses me more than anything I have ever said in my life. I wanted to have it both ways, a common coming-out stage many gay men go through (like Elton John). Vagina scared me. It scared me a lot, but not as much as being a fag.

It gets blurry from this point on. I can’t remember if it was hours or days before I told Brian the truth.

When we finally moved in, Christopher came with us. Christopher was the first in a string of toddlers Brian brought home, but he was my favorite. One of the others infested our house with crabs, and as a child, another toddler had to ride his bike with khakis and a button-up shirt on so as to not embarrass the family in front of the neighborhood. I can’t even remember their names, but I remember Christopher.

By the time we moved into the house on Montclaire, Brian had pretty much used up Christopher, but was too nice to tell him to fuck off. I loved Christopher because he was an entering freshman at UT and actually knew the campus, so he could show me around and help me with the Herculean task of figuring out what the hell I was supposed to do to register. Brian worked 20 hours a day, and I hadn’t met any friends yet. Christopher was my only companion. In fact, I vaguely remember having a crush on him.

Christopher soon began getting in the way of Brian getting laid, so he had to go. It was a slow, torturous process for Brian, and I made things even worse by humming “What Can You Say When a Love Affair Is Over” under by breath when they would discuss their relationship.

Brian had grown the nuts to somehow get Christopher to only stay at our house four or five times a week. It was still pathetic, and something had to be done. I seized the opportunity when we were having new slate floors installed. Brian and I were in my car leaving the house when Christopher showed up. I leaned out my window and said, “The workmen come tomorrow, and we have to give them a key. I’m going to need yours.”

It was over.

Jonathan and I were in Dallas soon after we met, and I picked up one of those gay-porn-disguised-as-art photography books. Flipping through, I discovered a picture of Christopher and showed it to Jonathan. As Always, Jonathan didn’t care. Christopher had lost the baby fat, gotten his teeth fixed and—most importantly—lost the loafers, but it was him. I’m sure of it.

I thought about how much he had changed, how he looked so good he probably wouldn’t give Brian or me the time of day. I thought about how his mom took him to three preachers and a physiologist when he came out. I thought about the time he took me to her house when she needed him to light the pilot light on the water heater. I thought about sitting on his bed looking at photo albums. I thought about the photo of him with his prom date—another guy.

It’s hard enough for boys to take other boys to prom today, even when their mothers aren’t cunt bitch whores, so most of all, I thought that little toddler had balls.

A Quick Note on QVC Before I Address Toddler #1

I am about to take a nap in my Alabama hotel room, and I will finish Brian’s Dobie Theater story when I wake up. Before I slip into a deep sleep, I want to get something off my chest.

In future postings, I will address my QVC addiction and how I would wake up Brian when I was high to make him watch it with me. I am sure I will discuss the time they were selling Barney videos that allowed you to send in a photo of your child to be placed on a character in the movie and how my friend Jean tried to convince them to use my picture and ignore their no-one-under-the-age-of-twelve rule by saying, “But he’s retarded. I mean REALLY retarded.” 

But I have more important QVC information to convey. David Venable, the obviously gay QVC host with the most artificial voice I have ever heard, is hung like a government bull. I have pointed this out to Jonathan several times, and he, too, was amazed. As I write this, I am watching him hock Kansas City steaks and am certain he is seconds away from knocking over a platter with his gigantic basket accentuated nicely in his tight khakis.

I am, by no means, a size queen, but I would consider buying a mail-order steak if he’d give me a quick look-see at his huge balls.

Toddler #1 Gives It All Away

Allen – Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is what I remember.

Soon after Allen moved in, Chris (Toddler #1) and I took him to see a bad lesbian movie named “Go Fish” at Dobie Theater. The only good part of the movie came when all the lesbians were laying on the floor, shot from above. The black lesbian kept going on and on about how she loved the honey pot. She just loved that honey. Mmm mm mmm. It almost made pussy appetizing when you looked at it that way. Not sexy mind you, but at least good tasting.

Anyway, after the movie the three of us were standing in the hallway near the exit to the street. For some reason I think there was a photo booth nearby. I had been trying to not make a big deal out of the fact that I was gay. I had not yet come out and literally told Allen. I figured it was pretty damn obvious. He’d met Glen (my ex before Chris) before he’d moved to Texas. And then he shows up in Texas and I’m carting around an 18-year-old, bambi-eyed, sex toy. I felt like if I said it, he’d be forced to tell me he was gay, and I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable so soon after moving in.

Yes, I was playing it cool. And it’s not like I wasn’t pretty sure Allen was gay. This was a boy who had preformed Madonna’s Vogue for his high school talent show, in full drag, and with back-up singers. Then, for the awards ceremony he changed into a different gown. As if that didn’t take the fucking cake, his mother showed up at the family reunion in DC afterwards with the video and showed it to us all with complete pride and apparently no clue.

“Wow,” I said, when the video was over, “he did an amazing job.”

I had wanted to ask if he’d received death threats afterwards. It was an Arkansas high school after all. But that would have meant acknowledging to the family that there was something a little queer about the whole thing and we were all pretending that it was the most normal thing in the world for a male high-school junior to do a flawless drag performance. So instead I said: “Let’s watch it again.”

So back to the hall in Dobie where we were milling around after the movie. Chris turns to Allen and says “Brian and I are gay Allen. Are you gay?”

Chris’ mom was a TV news reporter named Treva Jean. Her job was to get to the bottom of a story in a very short 30-second segment. As you can imagine, they were not subtle people.

The Corners of My Mind

When my cousin Allen moved in with me and started college, he didn’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or watch nearly enough gay porn. He was basically an overweight eagle scout with very bad hair. By the time he graduated and left, four short years later, his head was shaved, he had a disgusting cigarette addiction, he attended most classes high out of his mind, and he was butt-crack skinny.

I can do the same for you, but unless you’re family, I charge by the hour.

Damn those were good times. There’s nowhere else I’d rather go for vacation.

What’s in a Name?

In September of 1994, Brian bought a townhouse on Montclaire Street in Austin. After a month of living with Aunt Ronnie and Ben, I moved in with him. A bright-eyed, eighteen-year-old freshman at the University of Texas, newly out and fresh from a small town in Arkansas, I hadn’t been exposed to much. I had enough trouble adapting to Brian’s lifestyle of debauchery, so imagine my shock when I discovered that our neighbors were witches—bisexual witches, who were planning to paint an astrological chart on the wall behind their unit and had crazy, headboard-banging sex that would wake me up at three in the morning.

The first time I met the witches, two women and one man, I was standing in the fenced-in area behind our unit. Neighboret, as we called her, approached me. Brian gave her the name, a combination of her given name, Margaret, and neighbor. Anyway, Neighboret wanted to warn me that she and her roommates were putting together a little ceremony for the weekend. I was warned that a drum would be beating and that, if it became too loud for me to tolerate, I was more than welcome to request that they knock it off. There was only one stipulation: I was only to talk to those wearing black robes.

I made plans to return to Arkansas for the weekend.

Over the next several months, Neighboret, her roommates and I became rather close. Because the truck the three shared had broken down, they relied on me to take them to the grocery store. The four of us would load up into my Grand Am and head to the HEB on Oltorf. When we returned home, Neighboret would make me dinner and send me home with a baggie full of gingerbread men.

On the weekends, Neighboret and her coven would get together and take Ecstasy. They would knock on our front door, drag me next door and make me hug and rub on them. They told me that I was the best neighbor in the world and that they liked me a lot more than they liked Brian.

It was during one of these hug fests that my phone rang. Even though there was a brick wall dividing our units, the phone—an Epson that took more abuse than any phone should ever have to, including being submerged in the bathtub—was so loud it might as well have been ringing inside their unit. As soon as it began to ring, the entire coven began chanting, “Fruit phone. Fruit phone.” Neighboret then revealed to me that they could always hear our phone ring and that they had begun calling it the fruit phone, a reference, of course, to the fags who owned it.

I am not too sure how long Neighboret and her roommates lived next to us. The astrological chart was never completed. I remember Sara Hickman, a singer who moved into a unit on the other side of Neighboret, reporting their truck as a nuisance to the city and it disappearing one day. I think the male witch (or is it warlock?) had a son in Florida, and he wanted to move closer to him. All I know is that one day they were all gone and two heterosexual guys moved in and ruined it all.

It’s sad, you know. It has been eight years since I left Austin. I have a great job, a great boyfriend, and a great life in Little Rock, but I know it will never be as good as it was in Austin, getting stoned all day, making fun of Brian’s boyfriends and waiting for Neighboret to call me on the fruit phone and ask me to drive her to the HEB.

Gingerbread hasn’t tasted as sweet since.