The dreaming days where the mess was made

How do I cry over thee? Let me count the ways:

1. Gwen Stefani's music video for "Cool." To be frank, the refreshing absence of marching bands and Asian women was enough to bring me to tears. But as the three-minute story unfolded, I saw reflections of myself in Gwen's eyes that I typically see only in her writing. The learned poise she bravely maintains while serving tea to the fiance of a past love. The glances she steals from him while hidden behind her porcelain cup. And most heartbreaking of all - to me, at least - the wrenching blankness of Gwen's eyes as she imitates admiration for what was supposed to be her wedding ring. We'll never be happy for him. How could we?

2. The ending of "The 40-Year-Old Virgin." (Spoiler ahead!) Oh, right, let's see what happens when I tell a guy on our inaugural dinner-and-a-movie that I'd like to wait until the 20th date before we get down and dirty. I'm envisioning the confused expression that creeps across his face as he attempts to figure out what's funnier: the idea of waiting to have sex, or the idea of a 20th date. Admittedly, I was skeptical, too - until Andy realizes that for the past 40 years, he's been waiting not to lose his virginity, but to find true love. I'll think of this scene the next time I'm on a date. Maybe the wait really does pay off.

3. Any episode of "Oprah." I come home drunk at 3 a.m. and, without fail, Oprah's on. And it's the episode where a beautiful young woman has been struck by a drunk driver. And the car exploded into flames. And her face is now horrifically disfigured. And the mother of the imprisoned drunk driver is in the audience. And the girl and the mother meet. FOR THE FIRST TIME. They hug and it's beautiful and tragic.

The girl later admits to allowing herself only five minutes a day to cry. The irony of my having cried for the past half-hour instantly sobers me, and I go to bed.

(Wow, am I emo or what!)

The longer that I wait, the more selfish that I get

Let's hope he isn't one of those people that reads blogs

Augh, he is such a tease. If it's not how much he hates rushing into sex with a guy, it's how good his ass looks in his black "undies." He says he doesn't drink or do drugs. He also says he precums to the point of being virtually "self-lubricating." A description of his ideal date (homemade dinner and cuddling), a declaration of what he finds most sensual (most bodily functions, evidently). My god. A virgin and a whore.

But as they say: A freak online, an actual freak in person. Yup, that's right. We met online. Haven't yet met face to face. Now, I'm tempted to defend myself from the people who'd say I'm a loser for meeting guys online, but let's be honest, you're the one reading a stranger's blog, not me. And there's nothing wrong with that! Let's just agree that we are all on the same level here, because the Lord knows I haven't had much luck meeting gay guys in the traditional way (hoping that hastily delivered blowjob in the bathroom of JRs will net you a phone call the next day).

By the way, he is still talking about his precum.

I'm just going to gloss over the fact that he's an entering college freshman and say that when — if — we meet in person, it will go nowhere. I mean, obviously. He's 18 years old, for crying out loud. He says he's going to wait until he's found love to have sex again. He's been burned too many times. He describes himself as "strange" — more "mature" than most guys his age, and he expects his boyfriends to be mature, as well. Most haven't been, he says.

Okay, man. Whatever. A jaded if not eye-rollingly pretentious freshman — that's gonna go over real well. And as for the "doesn't drink or do drugs" thing? I pulled that same stunt at the start of my freshman year. We all did. In three months, you'll have a handle of vodka under your bed and a box of condoms in the drawer. That's when you know to sign on and say, "toby - sup?"

Wow, good guess

I drove all night

Oh no. Oh my dear god. His hands. Augh. His hands are rubbing my back. His hands are rubbing my back and they’re creeping downward toward my waist. I knew it. Oh god, I knew it. Ah! There they go! Around my waist and under my stomach! His hands are now touching — rubbing! — oh god, they’re rubbing my stomach and I think I’m going to throw up.

I should not have asked him for a massage. Oh sure, his Gay.com profile says he is licensed in massage therapy, but these days they give out massage therapy licenses to amputees, for crying out loud. No, this isn’t a massage. This is just some cheap way to get me shirtless and lure me towards his bed. Which, by the by, I passed on the way to the living room. There were three cats sleeping in that nest of a bed. Three cats! If he thinks my face is going to be shoved into one of those pillows, he has another thing coming.

This nightmare scenario — this freaking nightmare scenario, and yet, it isn’t until he opens his mouth while perched on my butt and grinding his fists into my lower back that I realize I had driven 50 miles for something I really, really, truly did not need.

“You’ve lost weight since the last time I’ve seen you.”

You son of a bitch.

“At least 10 pounds.”

Oh my god, you son of a bitch! I’m going to strangle you!

“Yeah, definitely 10 pounds. It shows in your face.”

Oh, that’s it. That’s it! I’m going to kill you!

I flip around so that I’m on my back. Of course, this means that he’s now straddling my crotch, but there’s just no other way. I ask him to remove his T-shirt. No, I demand him. Just remove your stupid white Hanes T-shirt so that I can see how much weight you’ve packed on since I’ve seen you last December, when you claimed to be strip dancing at some local dive bar. Remove it so I can see your shapeless stomach and atrophied pecs. Good. Now toss it on the floor.

He looks down at me, grinning, as if the very sight of his naked upper body is worth the 75 cents I had paid in tolls. In a way, it is. I tend to like bodies like his. A big, brawny man, with a barrel of a chest and a soft, cuddly tire around his waist. He has to be tan. A tubby tanorexic. Trust me, it’s hotter than it sounds.

The half-naked man straddling my waist isn’t tan. For this reason and many, many others, he will never be The One, but there is something about him that's enough to make me forget the horrible experience of our previous hookup, enough to make me instant message him out of the blue, to essentially throw myself at him.

Well, I say it's something about him. It's really something about me. I hook up with someone, vanish for six months, and then mysteriously resurface with the plain intention of doing it all over again. These guys have always taken me back. In a way, they are just as bad as I am.

At 2 a.m., I'm finally in my car, heading back home. I think of Uma Thurman, driving her convertible against a grainy black-and-white backdrop. "This time, I'm going to kill... Bill...." I know that I will never, ever drive to this man's apartment again. This time, I mean it.

I sleep like a princess queen

I installed new curtains in my bedroom last week. Each morning, two bluejays fly through the open window and part the curtains with their beaks, all the while tweeting the opening riff of Journey's "Separate Ways."

He's not that fat

Preordained checklist of this awkward love, it's so sad

I won't allow myself to think of reasons why, but I really don't want to see him tonight. I think it was the dinner date on Tuesday. I mean, the dinner part was fine and everything - put a chicken chimichanga in front of me and I'll be happy for at least 20 minutes - but the whole "Let's go for a walk" thing was a bit too much. After such a flawless meal of two Coronas, good Mexican food and great conversation, I didn't want to ruin the night by having to force myself into Romantic mode. I just wanted to go home. By myself. But no - we went for a walk.

Down Wisconsin Avenue. Past the liquor store. Past the CVS. Holding hands the entire time. Oh god, it made me so uncomfortable, holding hands with a guy in public, but looking back on it, I'm sure it wasn't the hand-holding that bothered me as much as the guy whose hand I was holding. It felt unnatural for a reason. I should have realized it then, but instead, I allowed him to sit me down on a park bench and make out with me, and I even agreed to welcome him into my apartment for a movie on Thursday night. Tonight. Oh dear god, that's tonight.

I'm telling you right now - the movie at my place? Not happening. Nope. No way. I'll be out of town this weekend and I need time to do laundry and to get a haircut. I've had a stressful week and I need time to be alone. There is so much going on in my life right now and I need to just have a few drinks in front of the TV and maybe even close my bedroom door for five minutes and let it out, just let it all fucking out. I can't do any of that shit if there's a guy sitting in my living room, expecting me to put out once the credits to "Party Girl" start rolling. So, no, you're not coming over tonight.

Which is exactly what I wrote in an e-mail to him. I had initially planned on fabricating some fail-safe excuse, like "I'll be working late tonight" or "There's a networking reception I need to be at." But when I signed into Gmail and started typing, the words were honest and truthful and completely unlike me. Lying to boys has always saved me the trouble of having to deal with the fact that I can never seem to find what I'm looking for, but for some reason - well, I think I know what the reason is - I feel compelled to be straight-up with this boy.

I'm honest today, and I hope that I'm honest next week. Telling someone to his face that you never want to see him again is never easy.

God forbid someone think I'm neither funny nor attractive

I'm not the funniest person in the world, but when I may a joke, people usually laugh. Not this guy. He just stared at me blankly, constructing an impenetrable wall of unexplained hostility that would remain erect for the rest of the night. Whatever, man. For someone who's too cool for school, you could really benefit from a lesson on sarcasm and irony.

This all took place at JRs, which admittedly is not the best place for verbal discourse. There is some talk of going to Cobalt — ew — so my friend asks if there will be a cover. Mr. Wall o' Hostility chimes in with an answer, and I swear, this is what he seriously said:

"Um, a cover? Do you know who I am? I don't pay covers."

Ha! I laughed and laughed and laughed, because, to his credit, that was the funniest thing I had heard all night. Oh, man. Do I know who you are? Of course I fucking know who you are — you're a 22-year-old college graduate who works at a tanning salon in Virginia. Good job, dude. Seriously, way to go.

Later that night at Mercury Grill, my friend fills me in on a little secret: the administrator of tanning salon operations is really into me. That's odd, because he hasn't said a word to me all night. I pass on him, because I'm already talking to someone just as cute, someone who laughs at my jokes, makes a few of his own, smiles warmly. Someone with whom I hang out the next night, with whom I watch a DVD at his apartment. And stay over.

Great weekend. Hope yours was great, too.

A little from Column A, a little from Column B

Deep Thoughts from LucasBlog.com

1. Michael Lucas is "open-minded and accepting," and he resents those who feel that drag queens are an embarrassment to the GLBT community. [Link]

2. Michael Lucas thinks that Jai Rodriquez "[looks] like a woman" and needs to "try and butch it up a bit." [Link]

3. Michael Lucas doesn't like Muslims. [Link]

One of these is not like the other...

Things don't have to be this way, catch me on a better day

The doctor said it without missing a beat.

"But, you're quite the looker. You know that, right?"

Right. I'm sure that is what you say to every 22-year-old who comes into your office, whining about body image problems. Oh, no, what are you talking about, you look great! Get outta here, you're crazy! Well, yeah, that's sort of the problem, doc. I'm fucking crazy! So, like, fix me now.

Normally when I'm in an examining room, I take off my shirt and hop up on the wax paper-covered table. This time I was invited to sit in a chair with my clothes on - how refreshingly dignified! The doctor pitched me some softball questions about my general health. Do you drink alcohol socially? Sure, that's one way of putting it. Do you smoke cigarettes? Only when drinking - read into that however you please. Do you take poppers? No, I don't even know what they are. (Only a gay doctor would ask that!) I enjoyed taking his light-hearted health survey and watching him check off boxes, mostly because I knew that in a few moments, this age of yes-or-no questions would seem miles away.

The conversation abruptly shifts to, "So, why are you here?" I tell him. We both immediately know how this appointment is going to end, but he hears me out anyway. Maybe I'll take some blood, just to make sure it's nothing "organic." Yeah, that sounds fine, that's a good idea. It's possible that you have a testosterone deficiency. Wow, I never thought of that, it's definitely possible.

And then: Have you ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist?

Oh, no, I don't need to see a psychiatrist, I have a blog.

Um.

I, mean...

I have no idea why I just said that.

The doctor didn't really say anything, either because he doesn't exactly know what a blog is or because he knows exactly who I am. I'm laughing at this point, because who cares, no matter what I say, this type of appointment ends the same way they all do. Not that I have a problem with that. It's the next appointment that matters most, and who knows how that is going to end.

Let the rain fall down

Opened my cell phone this morning and, well, what do ya know?

Am i ever gonna sit that hot ass on my face

NO, YOU ARE NOT. STEPHEN, LEAVE ME ALONE.

I'm sorry for not updating, but I promise an entry later today. Have a great Wednesday!