Church

The church I once attended--and I attribute much of my growth to that church--had placed a mark on me. Given the members' stance on gay-related issues and the poor reaction I got from a selected group of members to whom I actually came out, I left. I spent years volunteering at that church, and a lot of people knew me. (Or at least the me I chose to share.) But when I finally decided to stop supressing my sexuality and actually deal with it, I had no safe place to go. My plan was not to come out in a flaming gay-affirming blaze of glory, but to at least say a very small set of my fellow church-goers, "I struggle with my sexuality. It is part of me and my journey. I do not know if it is right or wrong or changable or anything. I just need help. Would you walk with me through this pretty depressing and dark area for me right now? Would you help me ask the questions and process the answers?"

But after one or two pretty bad reactions, I bolted. I was told that I would have to submit to several men in the church and have them hold me to a very high accountability level for my feelings. (Mind you, at this point, I had not done anything that would even remotely be considered acting out.) That was odd, because previously I had asked three official office-holding leaders of that church to be a mentor to me; each of them met with me twice, and there was no more mentoring or discipleship. Until, that is, I said the GAY word, at which time the warning sirens sounded. I was told pretty much everyone under the sun was going to know about me and I would be removed from all volunteering and I would have to meet weekly with these three older guys, etc, etc, etc. I found myself actually pitying the people at that church, because they essentially overreacted, not knowing themselves how to deal with someone who is gay.

I went home and cried myself to sleep. I asked the empty space in my apartment where I was supposed to turn, when my church could not (or would not) care for me. I remembered all those conversations with people--mostly youth--about their pain. The son who told me his dad did not love him; the child who closed his bedroom door to drown out his parents' daily fight; the kid who slept on my couch during a winter storm because he had just been kicked out of his house. I had cared for them; now who would care for me?

The one place that was supposed to be safe.

It was not.

And so I left.

I left and went somewhere else for church. I wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere but "there." It has been years since I quietly left that church, and to this day very few people know the pain I left with. I cringe to even think about going back. And weighing most heavily on me: I have a great deal of anger toward the people "there."

I don't want to be angry, but I also know I cannot go back. It just hurts too much. My opinions of churches changed quite dramatically during that episode, and I am only beginning to unpack my feelings. I have not landed at a perfect church, and I do not know that I would be affirmed by my current church as a gay man. But I have found some grace, some love, someplace to be real, even if only with a very few people.

Churches are odd like this: Getting hurt is painful in a rotten way. Learning to be vulnerable is similarly painful, but somehow leads to beauty. My journey continues, learning how to do the latter without the former.

Thank you, bloggers

I just wanted to drop a little note to say Thanks to all those who stop by here and think of me or leave a note or whatever.

I seem to have stablized just a bit, and managed to get in touch with some long-lost friends with whom I really shared my hurting heart and I feel much better. And I am working toward some professional help with my depression.

There's a pattern here: I get stuck and the pain gets bad enough that I reach out to people. Then I try to be strong and resolute on my own and I get stuck by myself once again. Someday I'll learn.

So thanks, friends. It pretty much blows my mind that people I have never met (and may never meet) stop by my little piece of cyberspace to show their care.

Stuck

I guess I killed my own blog. Or at least I let it die.

I feel like one of those kids who begged and pleaded and groveled for a goldfish and promised to take care of it and love it and feed it daily and clean the tank and

and

and

...then it dies.

It hasn't been for lack of things to write about that I have been away. My mind is clipping right along sorting through every imaginable thing to think about. The thought process I am dealing with now goes more like this: Perhaps if I just resign myself to my plain existence where I eat, sleep and work, then I will no longer be disappointed in myself. Quit trying to make sense of it. Quit trying to work it out. Quit hurting other people. Just quit.

It is a dismal feeling, but one I cannot stuff back into the tube from which it escaped. And for better or worse, I am growing ever more OK with the idea of just eeking out an existence rather than truly living.

I read other blogs, and I am so excited for what I see there. For guys working this out, and getting better, and learning more about themselves. I am not so sure I am making similar progress, and that gets me down all the more.

I spent a *lot* of time alone now, a *lot*. I spent my birthday alone; I spent Easter alone. And as much as I know some of your are pounding your hand against your mouse shouting, "Then get out and meet some people and do something about it," I also know that being around other people really wears me out. I'm an introvert to the core.

So for now I'm stuck. I hope it passes; I really do. But for now, I'm just plain stuck.

Googling

Apparently because of this post from August 2007, my blog shows up on the first page Google results for image searches on the word Chippendales. That's about as famous as I have ever been. How funny that my newfound bit of fame is tied to the Chippendales.


How long as it been since you Googled yourself? Admit it, everyone does it. I tried about two weeks ago, and I could not find myself. Honestly!! How poetically humorous! Someone with some fame, or at least enough fame to have his own website, shares my name, so most Google searches result in several links for him. As for my blogging screenname, there's the NBC show Journeyman, which I actually have never watched. Perhaps everyone wants to share my name.

God of the Impossible

Hopefully, I’ll be back for a little bit now. Hopefully. The journey got a little crazy there for a while, and I actually expect a few more hiccups shortly. But for the meantime, I am back. Sorry I was gone so long, almost as long as the wait on hold when I need service on my cable TV.

I declare myself to be a Christian, but I’m not so sure any more. Yes, I believe there is a God. And yes, I believe I am not God. For which you should all be thankful. I cannot even keep my own life in order; I don’t want to be in charge of all of humanity. Not today, anyhow. I spend almost no time reading the Bible. I pray, but it is half-hearted at best, and even then usually at the request of someone else. I go to church…sometimes…but less recently. Does God even want me anymore? I certainly haven’t given Him the time of day lately. Of course, I doubt God needs me to give him the time, as if he is a pedestrian racing down the sidewalk without a watch. Time spent with God is not all that important to me.

It has created a crisis of faith for me, because I know how to be compliant. I know what is expected of me. The Sunday school answers roll off my tongue, as do the happy little sayings that Christians are supposed to put on the changeable sign out front and say in church and to each other. You know...

“Seven days without prayer makes one weak.”

“God never promised an easy journey.”

“What a service. God really showed up.”

Let me back up. I know some people who say those things and have a heart of honesty and genuine care for the people in their lives which they love. I hope not to be mocking Christianity with this post. For me right now, however, those phrases seem disingenuous for me to be using. I really do not think I have followed Christ very well lately, nor have I earned the right to say such things.

I have stayed away from God because I figure I am a colossal disappointment in his eyes, and if I back away, then he won’t have to push me away. I can spare God the trouble. Besides, a lot of television preachers (and for as distant as I feel from God, I sure watch a lot of television preachers) say things like, “God can’t use you if you aren’t speaking to him,” or “God cannot hear your prayer if you are sinning.” I wonder if anyone told Paul that while he was killing Christians. Next thing you know, God blinded him, talked to him, and set him on course to be the writer of a significant portion of the New Testament.

Perhaps part of why I have walked away is because I am scared of what God might expect of me. Buried deep deep down in me is this sense that talking with God will require me to do or be something impossible, something I will most likely fail at. God will ask the impossible of me. Oh, I know what comes here: Another catchy church phrase about how God specializes in the impossible or that God will not give me more than I can handle. I get it. I really do. But if God asks the impossible of me, and I cannot do it, then how could he possibly be happy with me?

Could God ask me to give more money? Maybe to watch more television ministries if preachers in fancy buildings who say God wants my money. Perhaps I will have to come out as gay. Or become accountable to some people in my church. Or be straight.

I already feel like a disappointment to most everyone around me, God included. Why would I want to try something else and fail at that too? Why would I want God even more mad at me? According to a lot of folks, God already burns in anger over my physical attraction to guys. Then fine, He can just be mad. He can boo me just like the evangelicals boo John McCain. At least then I will not be living under the illusion that I follow him anymore or fit into the expected mold of some of his most fervant followers.

I’m scared. Scared of God. Scared of the impossible. For all my attempts at authenticity here on this blog, I am no longer authentic before God. Based on what I have witnessed of some of his followers, I’m not so sure I care. And that frightens me all the more.

Tales From the Journey

Hello friends.

I know there's been a break in the action here at my blog. It's going to last just a bit longer. But I should be back soon with more tales from the journey.

Grace and peace, my friends.

A Year That is NEW

New Years may just be my favorite holiday, perhaps because it is among the most frivolous. New Years marks an arbitrary passage of one year into the next, and that’s about it. A change in the calendar. A lengthy day of college football. An attempt to remember to sign checks with the right date. (But does anyone really use checks anymore?) Anyone who uses a calendar—and I think that is just about everyone—participates. It’s an “all play.” We all get a fresh start.

Last year, I happened to be walking around my town on New Years Eve. There were people everywhere, impeccably dressed to the nines, ready to party and dance. I guess I had no idea so many drop-dead gorgeous people went out in expensive clothes clubbing all night for New Years. My New Years had tended to involve cocktail weenies from a crock-pot, some Pepsi in a plastic cup and a few friends watching Dick Clark--and now Ryan Seacrest--drop the ball in New York.

Three years ago, I spent New Years alone. I honestly just sat in my tiny apartment and watched the ball on my little TV, not wanting to face anything or anybody. As 2004 ended, I was really coming aware of being gay. I felt so alone, so flawed, so toxic that I did not want to see or do anyone. I still stayed up ‘til midnight; I saw 2005 come in on 13 inches of TV, alone, laying a borrowed couch. And even in my extreme sorrow and depression, I found hope in a New Year, a new set of days which hopefully meant something good.

There is something really hopeful about New Years. It gives everyone the opportunity to close out a less-than-ideal year and start in on a new one. No one gets exempted from New Years, though it seems each person has his or her own way to observe this passage of time. For some, there’s a great celebration of the wonderful things that happened in 2007 and keep building.

For someone else, there is the chance to start over. When the calendar flips from 12/31 to 1/1, we are back at the beginning. There will be another January 1 and another January 2. There will be a new February 1 and April 13 and July 29 and November 11 and December 25. There is something very fresh and new and even unknown.

So I toast you all, fellow journeyers. Happy New Year.

(Oh yeah, and if anyone needs to get me a late Christmas present, here’s an idea…)

A Merry Little Christmas

Here comes Christmas 2007, and I just might survive it this year.

Christmas—and the entire holiday season for that matter—drives me up a wall every year. First off, the weather starts to deteriorate. I realize this is not Christmas’s fault, but I dislike the cooler weather that comes with the season. Second, the days get shorter and shorter. I go to work in the dark; I come home in the dark. It’s depressing, and I mean that quite literally. Although today, the 22nd of December, is one of my most hopeful days of the year because the light pendulum finally starts swinging toward longer days beginning today.

This year, I became completely baffled by how some Christian organizations deal with Christmas. I guess there’s a war on Christmas, and Christians across the country are now called to defend Christmas. Huh? I missed the part of the Bible where the followers of Christ were instructed to defend days. I am no expert here, and I’m too lazy to look it up, but didn’t Christians essentially hi-jack a winter solstice festival and attach the birth of Jesus to it? Shouldn’t the folks whose more earthy holiday got overrun be boycotting or protesting the Christians for taking it away?

Even more strange to me, there is supposedly some connection between a business using the word Christmas in its advertising and whether Christians should shop there. What’s with assigning public pressure or praise on retailers like Kohl’s or Lowe’s or Old Navy for the presence or absence of the word Christmas in the Sunday sale flyer? I do not care if Target uses the words Christmas or holiday or anything else. I do care if Bath & Body Works is selling great-smelling candles at a discount or if I can find a great deal on fleeces. Otherwise, not so much. The spiritual health of my community or country or even the individual citizens therein should not rest on how a department store advertises. AND IF IT DOES…then things are worse than I had thought. And now this week, now that Christmas is very much here, the same people who want to see Christmas advertising now say that we’ve let Christmas get too materialistic. But you just spent the last month demanding that Christmas be materialistic.

If anything, I would love to see all the stores advertise holiday sales rather than Christmas events. That would allow me and my Christian brothers and sisters to reclaim the Christmas moment to remember a very humble beginning of the mystery of God becoming a fragile person. I dislike how a small baby born to an unlikely virgin in a Middle Eastern barn has become attached to a multi-month-long marathon of stress, shopping and overeating. Give me a Christmas of small wonder and peaceful moments and leave the commercialization of the season be a holiday.

It is in the quiet between all the parties and food and gifts and shopping and crock pots and parades and candy canes where I find God. I find him saying, “Journeyman, in your quiet, you honor me. I know you are down. I know you struggle to keep up with the season, and you get confused by all the crazyness of this time of year. I know you hurt because you have unanswered questions and being with family and friends is really hard, even moreso now. But I am here. I came.”

Each time I hear this song, I stop and listen. I am reminded that even if my Christmas doesn’t look like anyone else’s, even if it is little or gay or merry troubled or light or golden or muddled, it still is Christmas. He came.



My friends, please...Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.

Still Here

"Hey Everyone," the writer said, wondering if anyone was really left now that he has virtually abandoned his own blog.

I'm still around. Thankfully, I have made a couple steps forward. I have also been churning some ideas lately for some new blog posts, which I hope will materialize soon.

In any case, stay well folks, and treat yourself well.

Sending Up A Flag

It's been bad lately. Really bad. I want to surrender.

I would guess I have some form of Seasonal Affective Disorder, since I get really cranky and depressed each year as the days get shorter. Or perhaps I am just allergic to cold and snow, which would be a bad thing considering where I live. For the past six weeks, it has taken all my energy to get out of bed in the morning, show up for work and eat.

My self-esteem is back in the crapper. That statement, of course, presumes that my self-esteem must have left the crapper at some point. Given what I know about me, I just truly cannot imagine why anyone would think anything of me. Even on Thanksgiving, I pulled back from virtually everyone I know, because I would rather not tarnish anyone's Thanksgiving with my toxic presence. If I had my choice, I would hang out at home quietly today alone, hands occupied by some leftover ham pizza and a TV remote.

This pointless essay about self-pity could go on and on. Enough!! I will spare you the whole thing; you all know how the rest goes anyway. At this moment, this early moment on Thanksgiving morning, I am thankful for this group of people who have come by here looking for me. This band of men and women I have never met who kept asking where I had gone. I'm still trudging. Perhaps someday I can trade my white flag of surrender for a flag of pride. But not yet.

Pictures

I've been thinking about pictures today. In fact, I put pictures in my blog posts more often than not. Today, I think I'll just leave them out, as if their absense drives part of my message.

Over the past few days, I have looked at some beautiful pictures of men. Oh man, beau-ti-ful!! This thing called the Internet connects millions of people at a moment's notice, and allows us to communicate in ways that boggle my mind at times. But it also brings pictures with it. Lots of pictures.

I'm not always certain what to do with my browsing of pictures. I'll honestly tell you that I find G-rated photos probably more appealing than the full out XXX version. I want to see someone's face, to see their smile and their eyes and their demeanor, if that's even possible to capture with a picture. (Can you photoshop something as vague as demeanor into a picture??)

So I'm left with this uneasy feeling as to what to do with pictures. Some friends of mine tell me I'm way way way too hard on myself about looking at "those kinds" of pictures of guys. And I am quite hard on myself, because I don't know that it's something God would want me to do. They tell me that most people look at those kinds of pictures. And I wonder if that really is true.

Then I think about what goes through my mind when I look at these pictures. It typically is not, "Boy, I'd like to do all sorts of things to that guy." I don't regularly get the stirring down below. Instead, I find myself appreciating the beauty I see in the male form. And I hear in my head all those things I heard my straight college friends say about straight pictures, about how God created the female body and it should be enjoyed. I do not question that so much, but I know that I personally have all those thoughts about dudes and images of dudes. Strangely, it gives me a small amount of comfort to know that while the object of my interests may be different from a majority of society, that the feelings that accompany those ideas are quite similar.

So what do I do with the pictures? Even the ones on my computer screen right now? Eliminate them? Enjoy them? Moderate them? Censor them? Thus ends my really odd ramble cleverly disguised as a blog post.

Take care, good friends. Enjoy your weekend.

Coming Out Day, 2007

Happy Coming Out Day, everyone.

Once again, I find myself uncertain what to do with this day. I'm really glad organizations like the Human Rights Campaign put together a Coming Out Day. It does create an opening for people like me to come out, or at least to assess where I am and where I am going with respect to being a publically out gay man.

(I even saw a rainbow this morning, as my work publically recognized Coming Out Day. I'm not so sure the people here would all affirm me, but it is reassuring to have a job at a place which recognizes and celebrates days like today.)

Like last year, I still find the Coming Out process a little awkward and unnecessary. It's not that I think I should live in the closet. Spend about two minutes here or at a bunch of other blogs and you'll see how much pain and anguish that causes. It's more that I have no earthly idea why I need to have this awkward conversation that may or may not go well to express to someone else that I find guys attractive.

Recently, I spent some time with some friends from the past who I haven't yet discussed Coming Out with. I wanted to tell them--or at least some of them--but I found myself wondering how to start the conversation and/or what to say when it happens. Again, it isn't that I'm requesting advice here, but more that I don't know why it has to be such a big deal. They didn't pull me aside to tell me they like the opposite gender. Likewise, they didn't sit me down to explain how they like Coke more than Pepsi or why they use their left hand instead of their right. They are my friends; my friends that I love and who love me. BIG DEAL if you have some this trait or that. Yet society has almost placed this obligation onto GLBT people to Come Out, as if we should be pre-identified or something. Rant over: Really folks, I find today to be more of a celebration than an obligation, and I'm not as sour on it as it appears. I'm just sharing, and perhaps even longing for a new day. A day when I am out of the closet. A day when "Coming Out Day" isn't an annual event assigned to particular spot on the calendar. A day when "Coming Out Day" isn't as necessary as simply Being Day.

To reassure you that I find Coming Out Day to be a positive, let me share something else than happened today. A thing called PRIDE. Honestly, today, for the first time that I can honestly recall, I wondered what my life could look like if I was PROUD and comfortable with who I am. I thought about Coming Out, and joining so many other gays who have broken down the obstacles for me. I want to be associated with people like Nate Berkus, the interior designer from Oprah.

Or Dale Levitski, the self-proclaimed big gay chef from Top Chef. Dude, you are so funny, and I sure was pulling for you, especially after you declared that the "queer eye guys have nothing on me." Thanks for coming back to cooking, and in so doing, thanks for giving us a chance to know who you are and what you're about.

Or Chad Allen, who I distinctly remember finding extremely cute during Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, and who has wrestled with and found peace with the dual identities of gay and Christian. Thanks for raising money for AIDS research, and for doing so shirtless, Chad!!

And there is one other group of people with whom I want to be grouped. They are people that I probably have never met, and may never. They are people who stop by here and check in from time to time. They are authentically on their own journey, figuring things out along the way and encouraging the rest of us to keep on trudging. To guys like Steve and Warren on the shores of Lake Superior and Dave in Cleveland over on Lake Erie, thanks. And Peterson--who to my knowledge doesn't live on one of the Great Lakes--your unique humor and the form in which you deliver it is amazing, and your blog profound. You all kept me going by lifting me up, and by letting me read your stories in the "Blogosphere." (I realize naming a couple people in a blog entry is dangerous because I risk leaving other people out. Just go check out some of the blogs in the right column. There's some great reading and profound wisdom just one click away.)

I'm not sure I will come out to anyone today. At one point, I had even considered making today the day I threw back the veil of anonymity on this blog by posting my name and picture on it, but I can't do it just yet. As for the future, we'll see how things go. But just considering being out, however that ends up looking for me, is starting to sound pretty good.

Dark Closet

This morning, I opened a closet door (a literal one, not a figurative one), flipped on the light switch, and after a little burst of blue light and a quiet puffing sound, the light bulb went out.

I tried to select clothes as well as I could in the dark. I'm already challenged enough in this department, and certainly didn't get any fashion sense when the gay card was issued to me. I wish Tim Gunn or the Queer Eye guys would stop by and help me out.

And it dawned on me like a light bulb (a figurative one, not a literal one) that it's dark inside this closet. Hmmmmmmm......

Calming Down

I got myself calmed down a bit from the last post. It wasn't easy or pretty, and I spent the better part of a weekend wandering through the valley of loneliness. And I got some good sleep, which for me is often is 80% of feeling better. That said, I am really quite happy to have gotten that blog spot written, because those were feelings and ideas I have been fighting with for a long time but hadn't been able to actually put to words until last week.

My counselor and I had a long talk about these feelings, and after a time she encouraged me to hang in there, and to work on focusing on those times when I truly am content and happy. I am beginning to realize that I am a pretty good guy, for the most part, who happens to find men attractive. And some of the temptations and struggles I face are quite similar to any other guy, but they manifest themselves differently and have different objects of desire.

I am praying for the day when I can be proud of myself. I'm awaiting the time when I can think of myself as a guy who likes guys and not collapse in shame. And honestly, I'm getting there. It's not as bad as it used to be. Life is a journey, right? And I am the Journeyman, right?

Thanks to everyone who reads and writes comments. You each put such thought and wisdom into what you leave here for me to read, and I am floored that some of you would write to someone who you haven't met (probably), and who hasn't revealed himself yet.

Take care, my friends.

I'm just wondering when things start getting better, or when the questioning stops, or when the uncertainty evaporates.

Without fanfare, or an outline, or even a sense of where this post will end up, here are my thoughts today.

There have been several times over the past few weeks that I have questioned everything.

Maybe I'm not even gay. Maybe I just like pictures of guys, and wish I had a body like theirs. Yeah, I would love to work outside without a shirt, but I can't put my friends or neighbors through that!! LOL Maybe if I quit surfing gay porn and jacked off to something "straighter," I would be different. Maybe if I actually wanted to be with a guy, then I wouldn't be the sexual novice I am today. Maybe if I knew which rug really could bring together all the colors of a room, then I would fit the mold a little better.

Besides, the load of being gay just seems like too much to bear. Maybe I am gay, but honestly, the crazyness that being gay brings with it is enough to push me right back into the closet. I don't want to get lambasted by John Hagee or James Dobson or somebody with a sign. I don't want to endure any more lectures from long-time friends who, immediately after giving me said lecture about how wrong it is to be gay, then won't talk to me at all. I don't want to be the weird sheep of the extended family who just keeps getting older but hasn't ever had a girlfriend. I don't want to be alone, knowing that my thoughts and lack of self-confidence put me into a prison that I wouldn't want to put anyone special through the trouble of breaking into.

Then today, I stumbled onto an interesting website from Joe Kort called Straight Guise. After looking around, I have a lot of respect for Joe and his writing style appeals to me. Even so, now I figure I fall into one of these categories of a straight guy who thinks he is gay for some other reason. It reset my whole damn mind. It's not Joe's fault; it is simply me being me.

Then again, put a picture of Salma Hayek in front of me, and I'll probably show a bit of interest and evaluate that she is beautiful. Show me a picture of Nick Lachey and you'll have my attention. (Isn't it obvious? Salma only gets a link; Nick gets a picture.) Yet I don't find myself drooling all over myself hoping to have wild jungle sex with a cute or hot guy. I just find them attractive.

(Complete tangent: I wonder how many times a mention of John Hagee and a shirtless picture of Nick Lachey have been in the same blog post.)

Ultimately, I'm tired of the uncertainty. And it seems like the very presence of uncertainty should be a pretty good sign that I'm not gay. After all, aren't most gay guys pretty certain they are gay. I mean, there's not a lot of doubt on this point, right? So why why why do I run around in circles and isolate myself and continually get stuck here? I know some of you readers have been through this with me before, and some of you are rolling your eyes because I'm back in this spot again. Just bear with me, OK? Thanks.

When you're buried, at least you have less chance of falling

I feel buried lately.

Work has been absolutely out of control, with me working lots of "bonus" hours over the past six weeks. Then there's the helping hand I have been giving my friends with whatever they need help with. The computer that won't work, the dishwasher that leaks, the garden that needs tending, the forms that need to be couriered from here to there.
But I also feel buried emotionally. I feel that at times I intentionally make myself so busy so as to avoid the quiet, those moments where thinking and struggling mix, those times in which I grow. After all, if I'm going at break-neck speed helping everyone else, collapsing into bed exhausted after going, going, going all day, I feel less pain. I can't spend time worrying about myself, or blogging, or thinking,...

...or growing.

I realize now that keeping my head down and plowing forward is a coping strategy I have employed for years. If I can just stay busy, perhaps helping other people, then I won't have to look at myself. And I wonder if that "selfless" principle is not so much an abundant love of the people in my life as it is a example of how my low self-esteem ranks me dead last on my list of things to care for and nurture.

But it does hurt less. I can't fall from a high place when I'm already buried.

So I am trying over the past few days to discover those things which mean something to me, those things to which I need to devote time and effort and love. Perhaps even those things to which God calls me.

Apologies to ya'll for the long blogging pauses, and especially to Dave who has been worrying about me. Get yourself well, buddy. I hoping to keep peddling, to keep moving forward, and to keep growing. Wish me luck!

Ready to Rest

I am worn out. (Insert large sigh and exhale here.)

Once again, I'm here apologizing for not blogging. But honestly, life has been absolutely on fast forward lately. I would LOVE to get some rest.

For now, just be sure that I am still continuing the journey, and I hope to write about it more soon.

Hopefully soon, hopefully.

Happy Labor Day, everyone!

I Remember (Part 4)

Today is completely random. No big long stories to tell, just tiny little things that I figured every young boy thought growing up. Of course, none of this EVER was verbalized. The questions simply wandered around in my head, much like they do today.

I remember wondering why game shows never had male models. If the Price Is Right was going to give away a sailboat, why keep showing that busty Dianne in a one-piece? Maybe a shirtless guy in some board shorts would be nice.

I remember watching Miss America pageants and wondering when the male version of said event would be aired.

I remember actually seeing a clip from a male beauty pageant on a show like Entertainment Tonight. All those cute guys with great smiles and matching black and white speedos. Wow!!

I remember watching the summer Olympics, one of the rare times when this young boy, growing up with rabbit-ears TV in the country, could actually see swimming. Oh, those guys were so cute.

I remember not ever getting enough of watching Greg Louganis. (Maybe I had just an ounce of gay-dar, even back then.)

I remember being in junior high and visiting the metal shop owned by one of my Scout leaders. In his office, tacked to the wood paneling, was a pinup calendar of some lady wearing dental floss draped over a car. My reaction: Nice car. My second reaction: Why are the rest of the guys going nuts over that?

I remember church camp, when I had a really cute counselor. Unfortunately, I can't remember his name. Also unfortunately, he completely crushed my spirit me when he needed to borrow my flashlight, but couldn't remember my name, so he called me "Chubs."

I remember venturing into that one back-room at the video store and trying to rent straight porn (because I hadn't given much thought to being gay yet and I thought all guys watched porn), but leaving the store empty-handed because I didn't see any box covers that I thought would have enough "guy footage" for my taste.

I remember driving down Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood years and years ago and thinking, "You know, here are some of the places I've seen on the web." I prayed to God that the people giving me a tour of LA didn't notice.

I remember a youth pastor once explaining how important it was to not look at a girl's breasts. I should "bounce my eyes up," to look away from her breasts and concentrate on her face. Until that day, I hadn't ever looked at a woman's breasts in that way.

And lastly, I remember *loving* December because all of the new calendars would be in the stores for me to look at while my mom was Chrismas shopping. One word: Chippendales.

The Life Happened

I feel kinda bad that I haven't been blogging lately. First, I miss the connection to some of you other bloggers and readers. Second, I've short-changed myself by keeping a lot of stuff inside rather than working through it in this written forum.

But blogging has taken the back seat to this thing called LIFE. Things have gotten goofy around my work and I've little time or energy left by day's end.

Sorry folks. I hope to rejoin the blogging world soon. I do kinda miss you.

I Remember (Part 3)

I remember my neighbor Daniel. He lived next to my dad, and so I didn't see him very often, maybe every other weekend and a few extra days during the summer. But I remember him nonetheless.

Daniel was a few years older than me, and he was beautiful. Me...I was the portly younger kid who wore "husky" size jeans and was quite ordinary. Daniel didn't come into the house all that much, but he did water ski with our family all the time. I even remember that he took to it right away. For months and months, I wiped out behind the boat unable to even get up on skis. Daniel got up on his first try and skied half-way across the lake.

Though I wasn't completely aware of it at the time, Daniel looked fine in a swimming suit. Smooth chest, abs, pecs, winning smile. He had it all. Plus, he was always really nice to me. As a pre-teen, could it be possible I wasn't aware of how much I liked Daniel? In the house on the other side of me was Karen. She was always nice too, but I really didn't care so much to keep track of her or her business. Daniel, however, I liked it when he came over.

Somehow or other, all of us were playing the famous childhood game of catch known as Pickle. I was a lousy thrower, catcher and runner, so I wandered around the game much more than I actually played it. There was no expectation that I could competently play the game, but I was welcome to be around.

This particular day, somehow Karen and Doug and their friends decided to play Strip Pickle, which made absolutely no sense to this little kid. I remember them telling me I didn't have to worry about losing, so I just did my normal wandering. But once Karen had gotten out 3 times, our little entourage went between the our houses and Karen got really really nervous. Before I knew what was happening, both on that day and in life, she unbuttoned her shirt and flashed the boys with her bra. Really, I've never seen anything happen so fast. I didn't think anything of it, other than I had never seen a girl without all her clothes before. (And given how quick the flash was, I probably still hadn't.)

Later, however, Daniel got out 3 times, and I realized Daniel was about to show Karen and the rest of the girls his penis. Panic struck me, because I had been on Daniel's "team," but again, they all assured me I didn't have to do anything. And right there, right then, Daniel unzipped his pants and showed Karen and her friends his dick. This was no flash, folks. Daniel put it on display for a while. And I stared.

Nothing happened in me. I didn't want to have sex with him, I didn't have a boner. (Who knows if I was even capable of one then.) I didn't think very much of it at all, I guess. But I did feel a bit more of a man that day, perhaps in the same way my straight counterparts feel when they've first seen the flesh of a woman.

I'm not even sure why I put this story here. But I do remember. Maybe somebody can tell me what it means.