NYC Redux – The Drive

So, this past weekend I took a slightly impromptu trip to NYC (Brooklyn specifically) to visit my good friend Jessica. We met during a weekend I spent in D.C. for the Chips Quinn Scholars Program and then we also interned together at The News Journal during the summer of 2006, the best summer of my life. And she was part of the reason it was so great.

Apparently, not many people were aware of my being gone. I didn’t even tell my parents until a couple days before I left. I planned to go a couple weeks ago, I just had this sudden urge to be out of Columbus. I’ve been living alone in this city for well over a year and it’s become suffocating. And slightly disappointing seeing as NYC is where I really want to be living and working.  I just really needed a break from Ohio. And though it cost more then I’d planned, it was well worth it.

As with any adventure I encounter there was lots of drama, particularly on the trip from Ohio to Brooklyn. 

I seem to be  a glutton for punishment as I decided I was going to drive the eight hours to Brooklyn. My thinking was that since I’d driven to Florida before and several times to NYC and Wilmington, D.E. to visit friends I was used to it. This should be a breeze, I thought. Well, I thought wrong. 

I didn’t think about the fact that I hadn’t driven such a long distance since 2007, so my road trip driving tolerance isn”t were it used to be. Let’s just say though it was less then $100 to drive there and back (a plane ticket is about twice that) I may opt for a plane ride next time.

So, here’s the tale of my heralding 12-hour trek to Brooklyn.

The plan was to leave in the morning before 10 a.m. so I’d get there in ample time for a possible Thursday night out on the town. However, instead of my alarm, I woke up to a call from Jessica at 11 a.m. after oversleeping. Why I thought I could break my cycle of 12 p.m. wakeup calls, I have no idea. I didn’t end up hitting the road til after 1 p.m. Which should have put me in Brooklyn at about 9 p.m. Things, however, didn’t quite work out that way.

This may be a TMI moment but for some odd reason my bladder wouldn’t last longer then 2 hours, which may have been due to the case of Red Bull I downed while on the road. The first eight hours were fairly smooth, despite my small bladder, it wasn’t until I hit New York that things went south, fast.

Somehow when I was crossing over into Manhattan at around 10 p.m. I missed a turn and spent a good 45 minutes circling the block trying to find the road I was supposed to be on. This became increasingly difficult as it was a Thursday night in Manhattan. The streets were pretty packed and traffic was a bitch and a half. I saw a pizza place with a sign that said “the best pizza in SoHo,” so that’s where I assumed I was.

Quick note: When my phone was stolen earlier this year (check out this blog post for that explanation) I decided to temporarily replace it with a Revol phone until my finances were in order, and then I’d sign a contract and get a phone through Verizon. That was six months ago. And for those familiar with Revol you’re aware the coverage area is a joke. My phone pretty much only gets service in major cities in the tri-state area, which doesn’t include New York. So, pretty much after I hit the Ohio state line I had no cell service.

So, yeah, I’m driving around SoHo, lost, with no cell phone service. Slightly in panic mode, I stop at a BP gas station and try to use a pay phone, but for some odd reason the call to Jessica won’t go through. I jump back in my car circle the block a few more times and see a 24-hour parking garage that I park in. My thinking was, ‘I’ll just park the car here and hail a cab, who will know where they’re going.’ I grab a handful of change and a stuff it in my pocket just in case I find a pay phone that works.

So, apparently the whole cabs-don’t-stop-for-black-men-in-NYC stereotype is true because I couldn’t stop a cab to save my life. And of course the various groups of drunken, dolled up blondies across the street were getting cabs with no problems at all. The cabs probably weren’t stopping seeing as I was wearing black sweat pants and a black t-shirt and the keys/change combo in my pocket was making me sound like a homeless man jiggling a cup for donations every time I took a step. I looked like I’d just stepped out of a YMCA shelter. So, I ditched the change in a nearby trashcan and made my way up and down the street trying to hail a cab for about an hour. It’s after 11 p.m. by this time mind you.

A cab finally stops near me to drop a couple off and I pounce. The driver, after noticeably rolling his eyes, refuses to drive me to Brooklyn. It’s too far away, he tells me. This is when I begin to cry. He does try to give me directions in his broken accent, but I understand nothing and walk dejectedly back to my car, where I have to pay $12 to retrieve it!

I ask the man who’s working the garage if there is a phone I could use. He of course wouldn’t let me use the company one, only a janky payphone that hung on the wall outside the cashier office. I checked my pockets change. “Goddamit!” I actually yelled this out loud. This drew several suspicious glances from the garage workers around me. I, of course, had thrown away the change that was embarrassingly jiggling in my pocket, and I now, of course, needed change for the payphone.

I went across the street to Walgreens to get change. This actually worked out well because I needed to purchase facial cleanser. (I had forgotten mine and it’s a crucial part of my morning routine.) While in Walgreens I learn that I am not in SoHo at all, but in, what an employee referred to as, “downtown, downtown.” I go back to the pay phone at the garage and, again, the call won’t go through. I’m assuming at this point that cell phones can’t be reached from pay phones. (Is this some sort of common knowledge I’m unaware of?!?)

In a last ditch effort I ask the garage worker I originally talked to for directions and he tells me I need to find the Manhattan Bridge, and tells me how to get there. I hop in my car and follow his directions to this bridge. After crossing it I see a street I recognize from my Google Maps directions. I begin crying again, this time from joy. I finally find Jessica’s apartment. It is now 1 a.m. What time did I leave my apartment in Ohio again? Yeah, that’s right, 1 p.m. It took me nearly 12 hours to make an 8-hour trip to NYC!

(Part 2, “NYC Redux - Food and Friends,” coming soon.)

Until next time,

~D.A. Steward

The weekend that nearly killed me…

 

The date of the below occurrences is over a month ago, but it has taken me that long to get over them and be able to write about them coherently. Yes, it was that bad.

Lamar’s birthday was Aug. 3, which was a Monday, so to celebrate he had myself and my cousin, Cristyn, come stay with him for the weekend prior. We arrived at Lamar and Dusti’s (Lamar’s ex/roommate/best friend) on Thursday for a cookout and cocktails.

Now, let me know stop here to tell you that for the past month Lamar had been raving about his 25th birthday and how he was going to do drag and make a big production out of it. He made Cristyn and I promise that we’d both spend the weekend with him. Little did I know that doing so would be detrimental to my health.

So, like I said, we got there Thursday for a cookout and some light—that later turned into heavy—drinking. I have to admit, Thursday night was fun. It was just the four of us, and we stayed up late pigging out on grilled hotdogs, chicken and hamburgers and sipping on cheap vodka mixed with Hawaiian Punch. I was slap happy drunk. Dante was mostly on the DL that night.

Friday was much of the same, drinking and friends. We did some pre-partying with Brian (a friend of Lamar’s that I’ve gotten to know) and his “straight” friend Mike. Brian is a spirited, “shuga mamma,” especially when drunk, who brings life to any party. A self-proclaimed fashionista, he typically has men stopping in their tracks just from his fierce runway-inspired assembles.

Mike was a friend whom we’d never met. (But he bears mentioning because he becomes an important part of the story later.) Like Brian, he’s rather slim, but sexually androgynous, with a pretty smile. Story was that Mike was joining Brian for his “last hurrah” that weekend before he headed off to California for grad school Monday.

After a few shots and a cocktail (or two) we piled into the car and headed out to the Short North (Columbus’ gay, I mean, arts district, lol).

First stop: Liquid (a mostly lesbo bar that has amazing music). Lamar wanted to dance and knew that I wasn’t into the “twink fest” that usually takes place over at gay clubs Level and Union. I started the group off with a round of drinks and a round of shots (I had just gotten paid) after which we hit the dance floor.

Being slightly sloshed from the pre-partying, the dancing wasn’t exactly “So, You Think You Can Dance” caliber. I do remember at one point Brian started a Soul Train line in the middle of dance floor. After a smoking trip to the patio, we soon tired of Liquid and made our exit. Due to my lowered inhibitions, Lamar convinced me to make a stop at Level before we took our drunk-man’s hunger to Steak ‘n’ Shake.

Friday night was mostly uneventful where drama is concerned, but I wanted to convey the drinking pattern that was forming. Saturday and Sunday are where things get interesting.

So, I wake up Saturday afternoon with a slight hangover. Nothing a tall glass of water and some Ibuprofen doesn’t cure. However, Lamar decides that 2 p.m. is the time to start taking shots of tequila. After, nearly puking the Steak ‘n’ Shake from the night before, Cristyn and I get dressed and head out for a pre-planned trip to Huntington Park to watch the Clippers baseball game with my father and the rest of our family. We down a few beers at the game, which is rained out early, and head back to Lamar’s.

Upon arrival, Lamar is buried under our friend Robert’s massive collection of makeup and beauty utensils. Robert is another friend met though Lamar. Skinny but feisty, Robert is an adorable makeup artist currently working his way up the corporate ladder at Express, who’s a blast to hang out with.

Dusti is simultaneously making drinks and getting ready to go out. He hands us a couple shot when we come through the door. I soon entered tipsy-ville, and Dante began to emerge. Dante’s first order of business: chasing Dusti (who’s wearing only briefs and a t-shirt) around with his camera.

Brian and Mike soon joined the group and the drinking intensified. Lamar also decided to model his varying states of transformation into Sheryl Peaches Delaney. (Refer to attached photos.) A few hours later, after Ms. Delaney was finally ready, we headed out the door to Union. We get there and of course Lamar is a big hit. I began snapping photos immediately.

(This is when the details become a bit hazy.)

I do remember heading outside and setting up shop at a table near the bar, upon which there was a flyer left by someone with the title “The Steps to Salvation.” After a hilarious round of jokes about gays and religion, Cristyn she was going to “save” everyone at the bar and began reading the sermon to surrounding bar patrons. We soon decide to leave for Level.

Level is just a couple blocks down the street and I somehow decide that it’s a good idea to channel Naomi Campbell and began sashaying down the street. It goes without saying that Dante had completely taken over.

(Disclaimer: It was at this point that I woke up on Lamar and Dust’s coach. The rest of Saturday was dictated to me by several sources as I do not remember any of the following taking place.)

Apparently upon entering Level I became a social butterfly. Camille, a bubbly and beautiful friend of Brian’s, soon joined us and we proceeded to drink with her and a few friends she’d brought with her. I was told one of her friends, a cute youngin’ named Kris, became a target of Dante’s. There were many pictures taken of us together with Camille that I have no recollection of.

But, Kris apparently wasn’t what I was looking for because I’m told that I decided to make out with Mike. Yes, the “straight” dude that came with Brian. It appears that Mike was “making his rounds” because I laterdiscovered that he also made out with Cristyn. There are pictures of Mike and I together that I also have no recollection of.

I was also told that we headed back to Union after Level, (another detail I have no recollection of) where we had a few more drinks and posed for a few more pics before heading home. I passed out in the back seat of Dusti’s car and upon arriving at the house was shown to the coach, where I decided to completely disrobe. At which point the rest of the clan took a trip to Arby’s for sustenance. This was approximately 4 a.m.

My eyes shot open six hours later to a pounding a headache. I sat up and let out a loud moan of agonizing pain. A few minutes later Lamar surfaced, surprised that I had woken up before him (to which I was equally surprised). He made some clever quip about my antics the preceding night, and when I gave him a blank stare of ignorance he eagerly plopped on the couch beside me to rehash every embarrassing detail.

After downing about four pain pills I crashed for another few hours before waking to the realization that I had a story due that evening, and there were plans to go out, again. Over the next few hours, still in severe hangover mode, I quickly pumped out a narrative that, after reading it the next day, just so happens to be one of the best stories I’ve written this year. It seems that hangovers are my muse. How lovely. (Check out the story here.)

While I was on the phone and writing at the same time Lamar began to set the mood around me for another early pre-party. And handed me a double shot of tequila. It was 4:43 p.m. I defiantly refused, but cave after he threatens suicide. Don’t be too quick to judge it was the only liquor I ended up having that night.

Sundays nights at Union are $1-draft night, which was the plan for the evening seeing as by that point we’d all blown through much of our bank accounts. Because of my deadline I decided to meet the others there much later, and I also hoped it would keep me from drinking as much. The $1 drafts were enticing but I only had two. I was very proud of myself. However, I can’t say the same for the others.

By the time I got there Cristyn and Lamar were pretty toasted and Cristyn’s mother, Caroline, had joined them after a drunk dial from Cristyn inviting her out. Dusti had to work in the morning, so once I arrived he decided to leave and pass the designated driver duties over to me.

Here’s a short list of the events that followed:

• Lamar proceeded to flirt (very loudly) with every man in the room.
• Cristyn and Lamar stood on a raised platform on the balcony and, in front of everyone, began to dance provocatively with each another.
• At one point I muttered under my breath, “Drunk people are so annoying,” to which they both gave me an accusing death glare and replied loudly, “We know!”
• An interesting conversation started with a bartender (who had started cleaning up around, trying to single for us to leave) about weather the bar hires or not based on a person’s weight.
• Cristyn and Lamar unsuccessfully tried to carry each other back to the car, at which point I intervened and unsuccessfully tried to carry them both on my own.

Another trip to Steak ‘n’ Shake lead us back to the house and the end of the weekend that nearly killed me, for various reasons.

I could’ve died from alcohol poisoning, Brian killing me for making out with his date, the heart attack that could’ve ensued because of all the greasy fast food we were consuming, or Cristyn and Lamar’s shenanigans nearly making me crazy enough to drive the car off a ledge.

The next day I vowed never to drink again. Well, we all know that didn’t exactly stick.

Until next time,

~D.A. Steward

Rock Steady

Sometimes it’s the simple things that mean so much.

Not much has happened with my love life since my last post, but my life life seams to constantly be on the move, so I thought I’d pump some juice back into the Dwayne/Dante blog with this update.

The self-help kick I was on had led me to scrutinizing my friendships and caused quite a bit of strife, some necessary, some not so much. I’m happy to say that those friendships have been mended. Though I do regret the way I approached the “Friend Inventory,” I think in the end it was helpful in getting my feelings and concerns out in the open so they could be worked on.

I’m also still on the volunteering kick. I’ve been helping out at the Kaleidoscope Youth Center and the Columbus Aids Task Force for a little over a month now and I’m actually really loving it.

KYC has seen an influx of students since school started and, though many of them have behavior issues, I feel like I’m really helping. Most of the kids are black males, which makes sense considering modern social constructs. Gay black males are more likely to be considered outcasts in their community, thus causing the need of a place to “get away,” so to speak. At least that’s been my experience.

I had a pretty deep conversation with some of the boys about coming out to their parents. One kid actually asked me if he should tell his parents, and seemed very interested and invested in my answer. I definitely felt a strong sense of responsibility in making sure I was imparting some sort of “wisdom.” I simply told him my coming-out story and advised him to do what he thought was right for him. It definitely hits you that you’re a “grown up” when a 16-year-old teenager looks at you with pleading eyes, begging you to tell them what to do. It was definitely intense.

Everyday, however, isn’t like what I’ve described above. We mostly play pool, or some kind of group game, facilitate some discussion or just appear available. On one particularly crowded night, an impromptu vogue-off started with about 20+ kids, it was pretty entertaining to watch.

At CATF I’ve finally finished training and have started administering HIV tests on my own. I’m really loving the atmosphere at this place. The other counselors are super nice and accessible. Sometimes the clients can be a bit interesting. I had my first positive the other day and it was total drama. The person who came in lied and told me they didn’t know they were positive when they’d actually known for five years. I thought I was changing this person’s life by telling them they had HIV. That definitely wasn’t the case. I’m definitely not looking forward to the moment when I do have to impart that information on an unsuspecting individual.

It’s actually really cool that this place even exists though. They offer free HIV tests every Tuesday (3:30 pm. to 7:30 p.m.) and Wednesday (11 a.m. to 2 p.m.), and sometimes they also offer free STD testing for chlamydia, syphilis and gonorrhea. KNOW YOUR STATUS! Yes, I said it, lol.

I’ve learned so much from being there. I’m starting to feel like a walking public service announcement. I met my friend Lamar’s new boyfriend the other day and I just started spouting off all this safe sex and HIV information like I was some med school professor. I have to say, I was pretty pleased with myself, lol.

As many of you already know, I’ve moved, again. The landlords at my previous complex were, for lack of a better word, douche-bags. My apartment flooded twice, my water heater exploded, the stove was falling apart, and they lost one of my rent checks. It was time to go. I love the apartment I’m in now. It’s a little farther north then I’d like, but it’s a two bedroom and much more spacious. I’ve turned the second room into an office, which I’m loving. I feel like I’m all growed up now, lol. The complex also has a fitness center (the one at the old place had been shut down due to vandalism), tennis courts, and two swimming pools. I’m movin’ on up! lol

On the work front everything is going well. I’m working like crazy, but it’s not too bad. I’m still working at Waldenbooks part time (this recession is a bitch!) and I still have my job with Metromix.com (for now). I have this constant fear that they’re going to give me the axe at any moment. Journalists are loosing their jobs by the handfuls all over the country, why wouldn’t I be next? So, with that being said, to help me keep my job, help us get are page view numbers up by perusing my articles on the regular at Columbus.Metroimx.com! lol

On the love life front, like I said early there’s not much to report. I have noticed, though, that my love life is developing a pattern. I start dating, find a guy I like, then after two weeks he does something disappointing, however, I keep him around because there are many other things about him that I like. I then start dating other people, find two more that I want to keep around, then they too become disappointing, but I also keep them around because they attain a vital characteristics that I find attractive. A couple more may become added to list in the same fashion.

After a few months of juggling, and waiting for one of them to become the man of my dreams I become annoyed and disillusioned with the entire male population and decide to swear off men, or “take a break from dating.” Four months or so goes by and I begin to crave the intimacy and attention I gave up, and the process starts all over again.

I realized this when I was telling a few friends about the guys I was dating and how they weren’t measuring up and how I was ready to take a dating break. To which one replied, “Didn’t you say that right before you met J—– (my ex)?” I had no rebuttal.

I keep finding men who are interested in me and we have chemistry on some level but when the time comes they don’t seem interested in taking that final plunge towards partners-ville.

Half of my friends tell me it’s because I’m looking and most people fall into relationships with someone when they really weren’t looking for it. While others tell me I’m not putting myself out there enough, and I’m too picky. Maybe I’m just not partner material? Or maybe I’m not attractive enough to be someone’s “one and only.” (Comment at will below.)

Life may not be perfect where the love life is concerned, but I’ve hit a nice steady stride in the rest of my life that I’m enjoying. It’s the first time I think I’ve felt genuinely happy with every aspect of my life, despite being single. Well, except for money, I could always use a little more of that, lol.

I know this post is starting to run long, so I’m going to end this one here. Another blog will be posted shortly detailing events from the weekend that nearly killed me. It’s a must-read ladies and gentlemen, lol.

~D.A. Steward

What if Martin Luther King Jr. was gay?

I’ve often wondered, what if Martin Luther King had been gay?

What if after “Protestants and Catholics” he’d added “gay men and straight men?”

What if during that meeting with Johnson he’d mentioned Bayard Rustin?

What if he’d ever mentioned Bayard Rustin?

Told the world one of his best friends was gay?

And that he’d known all along?

And this gay man planned that famous march?

The march that broke the camel’s back?

A march that led to the beginning of our social freedom?

The march that led to Obama?

What if one of MLK’s adulterous affairs had been with a man?

What if they all had been?

What if Coretta had been Carl?

Or Cassius?

Or Calvin?

Would the black world still look on us with disdain?

Would the black church still “rebuke them demons?”

Would black leaders still show contempt when the gay rights movement is compared to the Civil Rights Movement?

Would they be “different?”

What makes the gay rights movement “different,” “less than,” “intolerable,” “disgusting,” “unnecessary?”

Is it because we choose?

Choose a lifestyle that attracts discrimination, bigotry, hate?

Are black rights better then the rights of Mexicans, Asians, the disabled?

Does slavery make our movement better?

Souldn’t it make it worse?

Do the many years of gay persecution not matter?

Stoning during Biblical times?

Beheading during the Middle Ages?

Imprisonment during the Renaissance?

Cop bashing since the ’20s? 

Civilian bashing since forever?

Does everyone have to go through 300 years of persecution to deserve simple freedoms?

Aren’t we supposed to learn from history, instead of repeat it?

Aren’t we all heading towards the same goal?

Tolerance?

Equality?

Acceptance?

~D.A. Steward

A change gon come…

I believe it’s a simple law of physics that if something is causing you constant pain the natural response is to do whatever possible to ease or extract it completely. At the end of this post please let me know if this conclusion is off base.

Sam Cooke definitely knew what he was talking about when he uttered the immortal words, “A change gon come.” Change seems to be the only constant in my life lately. Good and bad.

My apartment flooded for the second time in 6 months, and I decided I had to move out, but I luckily found an amazing two-bedroom apartment in my price range that’s twice as amazing. I had to stop volunteering at Stonewall because it conflicted with my work schedule, but then started training at the Kaleidoscope Youth Center and Columbus AIDS Task Force, which I’m very excited about. My current apartment complex also lost my rent check, my sister and I came to a head and she abruptly moved out and my family is dealing with a pretty serious crisis that’s threatening to tear us apart. I’ve completely failed where my diet is concerned. (Them McDonalds double cheeseburgers are hella tempting! Lol) Lastly, when I think I’m never going to get over my ex, a old flame returns, and it may even work this time. These are just a few examples…from the past month.

Another major change, and the reason for this post, is in the structure of my friendships.

SIDE NOTE: As you know I’ve been on the self help kick. It’s actually been helping quite a bit. Though, I can’t seem to get my eating habits under control, I’ve completely purged my life of toxic dating habits (taking on Ms. Clarkson’s mantra, “I do not hook up”). I’ve restructured my social life, meeting people through volunteer work instead of online and at bars. The body image issues haven’t exactly waned, but it’s no longer an obsession. I’m not exactly fine with the way I look, but I no longer care what others think about the way I look.

Anywho, through the suggestions of the self help books and my own personal revelations I’ve realized that I’m done with keeping toxic influences in my life. Please answer this in the comments below: If a friend treats you like shit, are they really your friend? I recently cut off two people, who I’ve been friends with for quite some time, cold turkey. Cutting off a friend, especially after knowing them for 10 years, is ten times more difficult then any breakup I’ve experienced.

The response from my other friends has actually been supportive, but I can’t seem to not think myself vicious. Mostly because I’m thinking about doing the same to two more friends. I won’t go into too much detail seeing as this post has already been bathed with enough melodrama. Just know I’ve felt slighted by these two for quite some time and have even mentioned it on various occasions to no avail. Which brings me to the question I need most help with, am I surrounded by toxic influences or do the toxins lie within?

Comment away……

Until next time.

~D.A. Steward

Perspective

 

***NOTE: I wrote this a couple months ago, but was embarrased to put it up, for reasons you’ll understand after reading it. But after looking it over again I realized this wasn’t a bad piece of writing. So, per usual, at my expense…enjoy. 

“So, the girl says to her mother, ‘A boy tried to stick his tricycle in my garage so I took his wheels!”

The table of “friends” I’m with bursts into laughter. I fiend a giggle while unnoticeably rolling my eyes. I didn’t understand why Lamar had to tell that same joke to every person he met. I excuse myself and head to the bar for a refill. I’m on my second Long Island iced tea and I’m still not feeling a thing. I can’t believe I’ve built up a tolerance already. I so don’t have the money for this. At the bar I flag down Roxy, my favorite lezbo bartender. She makes my drinks just like I like my men, tall and hard.

“Hey babe,” she yells over the noise with a smile.

“Hey hon,” I say leaning over the bar to give her a peck on the cheek. “It’s crazy in here isn’t it!”

“Tell me about it,” she says with a frown. “I’ll be with you in a minute, you want another Long Island?”

“You know it.”

She sends a wink my way and heads to the other side of the bar to finish another group’s round of shots. I climb atop the barstool leaning next to me. I didn’t mind waiting. Any excuse to steal away from Lamar’s caddy and annoying group of friends was fine with me. I was only tagging along for an excuse to get out of the house anyway, working from home isn’t exactly all it’s cracked up to be.

A few moments later Roxy returns with my drink and I head back out to the patio where the boys are sitting, now starting a discussion about their latest sex-capades. Just as I’m about to sit down I unfortunately notice a familiar face. I try to quickly swing my head down toward the table. Damn it! He saw me. I put on a fake smile as my ex-boyfriend walks over to say hello.

“Hey Dwayne, I didn’t expect to run into you here, how are you doing!?” he says cheerfully drunk while leaning in for a hug.

I lean back and slightly push him away. “Hello J—–,” I say removing all emotion from my tone.

“So, it’s like that.”

“Yes,” this time with a smirk. “It’s like that.”

“Who is this Dwayne?” Lamar chimes in.

“This is J—–.”

“Oh,” Lamar grunts, knowing our history. “You really got the nerve to come over here and speak to us?!”

“Cool it, Lamar,” I say in a loud whisper.

“Look, I just came over here to say hi. It’s been a while and I’ve missed you,” J—– says.

“I’m sure you have,” I reply. “Well, you’ve said hello, now you can leave.”

He starts to turn away, but then whips back around.

“You know what Dwayne?” he says raising his voice slightly.

This could get interesting. “What J—–?” I reply leaning back smugly.

“I don’t know what you’re fucking problem is. You put me on blast on your stank blog and I’m in the wrong for wanting to be nice and say hi? If anything you should be apologizing to me.” The dull roar begins to subside as people start starring at the forming conflict.

I stand up so I’m at his level. “Excuse me? You want me to apologize to you. I do believe you were the one who played me and then dumped me on Valentines Day. I could care less what the fuck you think about my blog.”

Not only has the patio become dead quit at this point, but the bar’s patrons are now backing away into a circle around us, as if we were about to break into dance.

Lamar makes a futile attempt to calm us down. “Guys, maybe you shouldn’t do this here.”

“You were moving way to fast and you know it, don’t blame me because it didn’t work out. I already apologized for all that,” J—– says.

“Oh wow, you apologized, that makes it so much better,” I say. “And how dare you say I was moving too fast. You were the one who said you were in love with me after we had only been together for two weeks!”

“Yeah, because I knew that’s want you wanted to hear. You were the one who kept talking about how much you wanted to be in love.”

“You broke up with me because I wouldn’t say I loved you back! Then two months later I finally tell you that I love you, and you bail!”

At this point we’re pretty much screaming at each other. Out of the corner of my eye I see the patio bartender head inside, probably to get security.

“And don’t give me that bullshit about you choosing the church over me. You went off with that Troy dude from your job,” I say.

“You’re so fucking crazy paranoid dude,” he says mocking the way I said dude.

“Don’t lie to me, I overhead you talking to him on the phone while you were at my house. To which you said I was being paranoid and then got the nerve to get mad at me for being jealous. You, of all people, know that I’m not that stupid. And about the blog, writing is how I handle shit, but you don’t know that because all you think or care about is yourself.

“Whatever Dwayne, you weren’t in love, you just wanted to be in love. You’re a lovesick immature puppy who’s confused.”

“Don’t even get me started on which one of us is confused,” I say scoffing. “You just can’t face you mommy and let her and the rest of your wacked out family know that she raised a faggot.”

He reaches back and slaps me and I stumble to the side. The crowd sends off a collective gasp. As I gain my balance a small stream of blood runs over my lip. I turn to face him, my eyes filling with rage.

“You feel better now! You feel like a fucking man now!” I scream getting in his face and pushing him back with my chest. “Go ahead, hit me again! Make mommy and god proud.”

“I’m sorry.” He hangs his head and steps back. “We didn’t love each other, it was all a fake fairy tale.”

I snap my head back in his direction. “I never lied to you.” I turn my head and violently spit blood on the concrete. The patio bartender and a bouncer break though the crowd.

“I’m gonna have to ask you guys to leave,” he says gesturing toward the exit.

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night,” I say taking a couple steps back to our table. I grab the more then half full Long Island and down the rest of it. “Goodbye guys. I’ll call you later Lamar.”

“Bye Dwayne,” he barely whispers in shock at my participation in the scene that just unfolded.

I head toward the exit brushing past J—– in the process. A few steps past him I turn around. “Next time you see me when we’re out, do us both a favor and keep on walking.”

–

I wake up in a cold sweat. The clock reads 5:17. I sit up moaning in mental anguish.

Shit, one fucking Myspace message after two months of not speaking and my dreams run fucking wild.

I drop back into my pillow. Why can’t I get over this loser!? A smile stretches across my face as I head back to sleep. Well, at least I’m 15 pounds lighter.

Ugh, if only that were enough.

Until next time,

D.A. Steward

The (Song) Of My Life…

No More Mr. Nice Guy (D&D Reconstruction Update 1)

***DISCLAIMER: I’m a bit a tipsy, so please forgive the many grammatical errors that I’m sure will appear below.

I’m beginning to realize that many of my emotional and social shortcomings are in part due to my unflailing devotion to my career. I’ve done nothing since third grade but try to become a journalist and I believe it’s doing a doozey on my psychosis.

For instance, it can somewhat explain my unrealistic expectations concerning love. I’ve gone about my love life much like I’ve gone about my reporting career. It’s highly (and sometimes unrealistically) believed that if you pay your dues in small newspapers doing the daily grind at the bottom you’ll eventually rise to the top. Well, when it comes to love I’ve always thought if you put in the work then you’ll get a big payoff, which for me has always been that elusive perfect life partner. However, as we all know, it doesn’t always work out that way.

Another mitched metaphor, and the reason for this blog, is the belief in never burning bridges. In journalism it’s all about networking, appear nice and cordial and accommodating to everyone you work with because you never know when they’ll be in a position to help you out with a job or referral in the future.  And this pretty much works well in the world of mass media. When I meet a journalist for the firs time, I just spend enough time with them and realize that through six degrees of separation it likely we’re someway connected.

However, I’ve mistakenly applied this rule, to the ‘nth degree, to my daily life; completely upending my life and schedule for the appeasement of others, sometime to the determent of myself and my personal beliefs. (Any of my fellow journalist out there, please comment if you’ve experienced any of this or the above.)

I’ve been reading this book, “Mr. Right is Out There: The Gay Man’s Guide to Finding and Maintaining Love,” and, of course, in order to love someone else you must love yourself, so there’s a complete chapter on how to love yourself. Anyway, a part of that chapter says that in order to love yourself you must respect yourself by setting boundaries with the friends you have and refusing to be taken advantage of. Something I haven’t been very good at.

It’s time for some new rules (that some may consider harsh) in hopes to change this pattern.

1. Each time a favor is asked of me I’ll be going through my memory rolodex to see if that favor (or one of equal inconvenience) has been reciprocated in the past. (Please feel free to provide one if my memory fails me.)
2. If it infringes on my work time it’s a no. Just because I work from home doesn’t me I’m anyone’s designated chauffer, butler, child care provider, etc.
3. If you live more then 20 minutes away from my home and though I’ve made the drive an insurmountable amount of times to your place of residence and I can count on my two hands the number of times you’ve come to my place, I’ll be declining the invitation. But will gladly recommend that I host you at my apartment.
4. If I’ve been nothing but the perfect host to you at my home (and everyone knows I’m freaking Martha Stewart when it comes to hospitality) and you treat me like some red-headed stepchild at your place, I will be declining the invitation.
5. Sex in my apartment from this point on will be reserved for myself and the person lucky enough to be joining me.
6. Don’t ask to borrow my car, my insurance doesn’t cover you.
7. Do not ask me to be DD if you never have or never plan to drag my drunk ass home.
8. Most importantly, this list isn’t all inclusive and may grow/change at my discretion.

In conclusion, before leaving a comment detailing how rude and ridiculously childish this blog is, try to make a detailed list of at least 10 unsolicited (meaning you didn’t offer I imposed) favors I’ve asked of you. If you can’t then my point has been proven. And don’t tempt me, because details are my life and I will rise to the challenge of doubling your list.

Lastly, beware, the bitch has been unleashed.

Until next time,

D.A. Steward

Bleeding In Love

Oh, how quickly the tides change...

My life it seems has always transpired along a series of highs and lows. Either is everything going wonderfully or I’m in the midst of some calamity, be it physically, mentally, financially or emotionally. There’s never a middle ground.

 Thirty days ago I had a boyfriend, a disposable income, a hoppin’ social life, tons of friends I spent time with on the regular and a job I was increasingly falling in love with. Now I no longer have a boyfriend, I’m facing eviction, an emptied checking account due to a massive decrease in hours at both my jobs, a dwindling list of companions I see every couple of months, the threat of unemployment every week because I happen to be trained in a disappearing craft and I now seem to harbor an overall since of defeat.

You begin to notice the signs of depression when you alone have eaten an entire cheesecake in less then a week.

Though my situation may be bleak I still recognize that it could always be worse. I, at least for the moment, still have a job, unlike many others. (Shout out to Julia. I know you’ll land on your feet soon hon! You’re too brilliant not too.) So, I won’t bore you with the details of the list above, except for the continuing disaster that has become my love life, for which this blog has specifically become a sounding board for.

As many of you know I’ve been dating someone pretty seriously for the past two months. (We’ll simply refer to him as Mr. J.). J. is a 24-year-old recent OSU grad currently working as a telephone receptionist for a major banking conglomerate. He’s a bit of a Jesus freak (attending church every Sunday, and often tried to “lead me back to the alter,” as he’d call it), however, I must admit his conviction was more attractive then annoying, and his sassy attitude and confident demeanor tempered his church boy persona. He’s tall, he’s gorgeous. He was perfect.

We met online, per usual, right before New Year’s and hit it off right away. A few dates later we were cuddling on my couch on the regular and planning vacations to Atlanta’s Pride celebrations this summer, and making reservations for Valentine’s Day. However there was one problem. Though, I was indeed falling for Mr. J., he had already fell for me, and hard, or so he’d say.

Only two weeks after our first in-person date J. had already said those three precious words. I was taken utterly aback. Could you really be in love with someone after a couple weeks? I told him I cared for him deeply but I wasn’t ready to take that next step. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to love him I just didn’t know how to. J. is the 11th guy I’ve dated, but the first person I’ve ever saw myself being with for the long run, more then a man-of-the-moment.

After two more weeks of dating bliss, late nights out, later mornings in, cuddling, passionate kisses and intimate embraces, one night while spooning to a movie that was watching us more then we were watching it, he said those three words again and I hesitated. Next thing I know the he turns cold and we end up sleeping in different rooms. The next morning I was accused of “playing with his feelings” and he decided that it be better off if we ended things. Just as I was falling for him, I was dumped.

So, I did what any (wo)man scorned would do, I cried into the shoulders of my best friends and went on a weekend drinking spree (one of the most fun weekends of my life, btw, lol). Anywho, the next day J. came to his senses and begged me to come back, claiming he knew he’d made a mistake the minute he got out of the car. And against my better judgment I took him back, but warned him that he was on probation.

So, a few more weeks pass and we become closer then ever, I start to believe that this is it, it’s finally happening, I’ve found him. Stupid me.

The night before Valentine’s Day he brings me a huge homemade cheesecake he’s made himself, a stuffed animal and chocolates, and for my gift I’m planning to take him to Brio, his favorite restaurant, the next day. I’ve made reservations and everything. This is also the night were I finally get up the nerve to say those three words. And I actually meant them. I had fallen, even harder then he had, now that I think about it. We then spend all night in each others embrace. (I’ll spare you the details.) Though picturesque, my fairytale came crashing to a burning halt less then 24 hours later.

The next day J. calls and cancels dinner, saying he’s too tired from our all-night romp and wanted to just catch a late movie and do another night in, which I’m actually totally cool with. It was my first time having a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day, we could’ve spent it with my parents, at church and I would’ve been thrilled. Anywho, J. never shows. No call. Nothing. I begin blowing up his phone, hysterical, thinking he’s dead. A week goes by, he still hasn’t even as much as Myspaced me. I’ve become resigned to fact that my heart has been broken, but still need some sort of closure. What did I do wrong for him to disappear on me? So, I get up the nerve to call him. The conversation has been dictated below:

“Ring”

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello?” I reply in a bit of shock.

Long pause. I panic. I wasn’t expecting him to answer. I had my speech written out and everything. Yes, it’s pathetic, I know.

“You there?” He asked.

“Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting you to answer.”

Longer, more awkward pause.

“So, do you want to explain why I haven’t heard from you in a week, and why you stood me up on Valentine’s Day?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really have an explanation, no one deserves to have that happen to them,” he says in a complete deadpanned tone, with the TV droning in the background. “I knew what I did was awful and I was scared to call you the next day and then after a while realized you’d probably not want to be with me anymore anyway so…” He trails off.

“I see,” is all I can muster. This conversation isn’t going at all liked I planned. “You do realize that I can no longer be with someone who is capable of doing what you did.”

“Yeah, I know, I wouldn’t want to be with me either.”

“So, I guess this is goodbye then.” I stutter. “I guess all there’s left to say is that I’m sorry it’s ending this way. I thought we really had something special.”

“It’s a lot deeper then you think.”

“Okay? Well, you said you didn’t want to explain, so I really don’t have much to go off of. What does ‘a lot deeper’ mean?”

“It has a lot to do with the way we were each raised,” he begins. “We just come from very different backgrounds.”

“What does that mean? You mean our church backgrounds?”

“Yeah.”

“So, you stopped talking to me because I don’t go to church?” My voice raises a bit as I finally find my backbone.

“No, it’s has nothing to do with you, it’s all me,” he counters.

“Oh I see, you stopped talking to me because you were in a gay relationship while in the church.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This dude is breaking up with me because he thinks he isn’t gay!? Bullshit! (If you met him you’d agree)

“So, are you saying you really didn’t love me?”

“You didn’t really love me either.”

This answer pushes me over the edge.

“Uh, yes I did,” I said raising my voice.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I’m not going to argue with you J,” I practically yell. “I loved you. Very much, I might add. But if it makes you sleep better at night, please, be my guest and believe that lie.”

“Whatever.”

“‘Whatever,’” I say holding back tears. “After all this, all I get is a ‘whatever.’ That’s fine. Well, like I said, this is goodbye. Goodbye J.”

He begins to stutter a response but I hang up the phone.

Once again I find myself in emotional ruin over a guy I’ve only been with a few months. Eleven strike outs in three years is a bit much. It’s time something changed. It’s time everything changed. It’s time I stop trying to find fulfillment in men and start finding fulfillment within myself, in every aspect of my life. It’s time I stop eating like I’m 12 and dating like I’m 16. It’s time I grew up.

Instead of spending another weekend crying I decided to enact these changes right away. I called up the local LGBT center, Stonewall Columbus, and submitted a volunteer application. They are responsible for the enormous Pride Festival here every summer and are offer a ton of AIDS awareness and youth mentoring programs. Surrounding myself in a more positive and selfless LGBT atmosphere sounded like a good first step.

I’m also changing my diet and…wait for it…staring to work out. Ahh! Lol. As many of you know my fridge is usually filled with frozen pizzas, bologna and microwavable buffalo wings. I started this low-fat diet thingy, ordered some cookbooks off Amazon.com, and bought some Tae Bo DVDs. Though every muscle in my body is aching, they’re actually pretty fun.

I’ve also jumped on the self-help band wagon (I know, I know). I purchased a few gay-specific self-help books. Maybe some new-fangled psychiatrist will have a better approach to the gay love life. (You’re also welcome to supply your own psychiatric evaluations in the comments section below, lol.)

Yes, I know this all sounds a bit over-ambitious, but I’m going for it. Maybe if it works I can be on one of those Tae Bo infomercials with my “before” and “after” photos or get a book deal and start a spinoff franchise called “Dude, He’s Just Not That Into You,” with LGBT-speciftic diet and love advice. The possibilities are endless! Lol. (Please note the sarcasm in that last statement.) I’ll be sure to keep you all posted on my progress. I’m sure you’ll be dying to see those sexy “after” photos, lol.

Anywho, here’s to a life changed for the better. Hopefully.

Until next time,

~D.A. Steward

Anatomy of a Mugging Pt. 2

DISCLAIMER: This is a TRUE story. The names have not been changed.

 

“Cristyn!” I screamed as I hit the concrete floor.

 

A black cloth glove around the first punch barely registered but the second sent a shockwave from my chin to my temple. I fell to the floor where one tries to kick me in the stomach but fails, his foot landing on my cushioned thigh. The other succeeds where his delinquent comrade fails planting one right in the ribs. I moan in agony.

 

“Give me your keys, bitch! Give me your keys!”

 

“Okay, okay. Just don’t hurt me.” I pulled the keys out of my coat pocket. As they headed for the car I headed for the door.

 

I banged on the front door, realized it was unlocked, pushed through, slammed the door and locked it behind me. My aunt, Caroline, is sitting in a cushioned chair watching TV.

 

“Dwayne, what’s going on!?! What’s wrong!?”

 

“I was just mugged and they stole my car,” was all I could mutter.

 

“Here! Here! Take the phone! Call the police!”

 

I stumbled to dial the three numbers. It took three tries. “I don’t think this is working.” I pause take a deep breath. This time turning the phone on before dialing. All the while chaos ensuing behind me as Cristyn and her brother, Josiah are clued in to what’s going on.

 

“911, What’s your emergency?”

 

“I was just mugged and my car was stolen.”

 

“Where are you located sir.”

 

“I’m at 674…um…apartment ‘B’…um” I turned to Caroline. “What’s the address here?”

 

“674 Morrill…”

 

The dispatcher plows ahead before she can relate the full address. “Tell me what happened. What did they look like?”

 

“They…” My mind had gone blank. The shock has finally caught up with me and erased my memory, like some sick Freudian defense mechanism. My mind had become a jumbled mess.

 

“There were two no four .Two guys beat me up and they took my keys and ran off. I don’t remember what they looked like they were wearing black hoodies.”

 

“You don’t know what they look like,” said the dispatcher with a hint of sarcasm.

 

“No, not really. There were four guys.”

 

“I thought you said there were only two.”

 

“There was four at the beginning, two left and the other two beat me up,” I stammered, my hands shaking. “They took my keys.”

 

“Did they take your car?”

 

“I’m not sure, I didn’t stop to watch them take my car. I ran into the house. But I’m assuming since they have my keys, they have my car.” The dispatcher was beginning to test my nerves.

 

“So you don’t know if they took your car or not?”

 

“They took my car!”

 

“Sir, please calm down. I’m trying to help you.”

 

“I need a police officer. Did you get the address?”

 

“Yes, you’re on the landline so we got you at 674 Morrill Dr. Apt. B.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“We’ll have someone dispatched over right away.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

I hung up the phone still in a bit of a daze and all of a sudden remembered that I’d been punched earlier.  A delayed panic set in.

 

“Oh shit, I forgot I was bleeding. I need to go to the restroom.”

 

In the bathroom I mended the puffy lip. The sting in my ribs had subsided signifying no permanent damage. I looked in the mirror and notice the damage. Suddenly I felt a thousand pounds heavier as the weight of the situation set in. I sat atop the toilet seat starring out into space, overhearing Cristyn as she relayed the night’s events to our cousin David.

 

The night whirled through my head like a distorted Merry-Go-Round in a Stephen King novel. A knock at the back door brought things back into focus as the officers walked me through the evening once again. They scribbled the details into their notebooks and headed out the door.

 

Fifteen minutes later, while “crashing” from the night’s events, a wave of fear and disgust came over me. All you had to do was roll up your window and keep on driving. As my head lay between my legs wondering if my insurance would even blink at covering this monstrosity of an evening, one of the officers returned.

 

“We think we may have found your car.”

 

My heart skipped a beat.

 

I followed him around to “the scene of the crime” and stuffed myself into the back of their cop car. A three second drive around the corner and my car is diagonally parked on the curb with keys still sitting in the ignition. The contents of the glove compartment were strewn about the seat and floor. The officer assured me they were just quickly looking for money before noticing cop lights up ahead and ditching the car. I couldn’t help but wonder if they hadn’t taken a letter baring my address and were headed there at the very moment to lie in wait for my return to finish the job.

 

After the cop handed over my keys I sped out of the complex and straight back to my apartment. By this time it was 4 a.m. and sleeping became impossible as an irrational paranoia set it. Each nightmare was the same. Two of the guys are standing outside my bedroom window while the other two come at me from inside the house.

 

After a sleepless night I headed to work at 9 a.m. after which I headed to my parents cushy suburban household, a place where I knew I could sleep without fear.

 

Though I may have lost my phone at least I still have my car. Why it took this harlding and painful experience for me to realize that talking to strangers in a questionable neighborhood after midnight isn’t a good idea, I’ll never know. Maybe tragic is just how I operate.

 

Until next time,

 

~D.A. Steward