#5 Good Day in California

As of 5:01 p.m. on Monday, June 16, 2008, the California Supreme Court's ruling to override the ban on same sex marriage took effect across the state. I left work a little early on Monday to witness history in the making at City Hall. Like the responsible lesbian activists they are, Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon didn't keep their audience waiting. They promptly started their private ceremony in the Mayor's office with cheers of joy coming from outside the (very Evita-like) mayoral window. When the ceremony was over, Mayor Newsom introduced Ms. Martin and Ms. Lyon as the first legally married same sex couple in San Francisco. As a symbolic gesture, Del and Phyllis were the only couple wed in SF on Monday because they were the first to be illegally wed back in 2004 after the Massachusetts Supreme Court decision (and they have been partners for 50 some odd years). Since Monday, hundreds of California couples have savored their right to be treated as equals; ceremonies have been performed up and down the state. On Tuesday, the press was filled with stories of love and justice. Rightfully so, the five largest newspapers in the state (based on circulation) had front page stories covering the issue.

Los Angeles Times





















San Francisco Chronicle





















San Diego Union Tribune





















Orange County Register





















Sacramento Bee





















CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL THE NEWLYWEDS!

Talk soon,
Yours Truly

#4 (Belated Posting) As I Lie Here Dying...

there's not much more for me to do than think about everything that has brought me to this miserable point. I have been plagued by this horrible, undiagnosable, everlasting stomach ache for almost two weeks now. I've had to cancel practically every one of my social engagements during that time, including flaking on B2B (something I've been looking forward to for weeks). And now, it seems as though whatever this is is going to ruin my Memorial Day weekend. My doctor is useless and can't tell me what's causing it, but a little soul searching and one self diagnosis later, I think I've found the problem: KARMA!

Karma is a bitch...a big, fat, ugly, inappropriately hairy, poorly dressed bitch. Prior to coming to SF, I lived a fairly chaste lifestyle: minimal boozing (ok, that's kind of a lie), but there were minimal meaningless hookups; I just feel like I was a much kinder, much better person all around. Let me preface this assertion. In the past, I didn't emotionally fuck with guys just for a good lay. When I hook up with a guy now, I feel like I can only really get off when I can solicit a genuine emotional reaction from him. Essentially, I'm an emotional tease. I feign a genuine interest in someone just to get them into bed.

Some would say that this is a legitimate flirting tactic, especially for someone like me who could never get away with playing the smoldering hot, overtly sexual card. Oh c'mon, at this point in our lives, we've come to terms with our looks, and I understand that I'm the cute guy, the sweet guy. I'm not the super hot hottie that's gonna turn heads when I walk into the bar, and I am perfectly comfortable with my role. I've made my peace, and I've moved on. But for that very reason, I have to work it in other ways, so I have to be the cutest and the sweetest.

But what I do goes beyond just being sweet when I flirt. I rope them in, get them to open up about intimate matters, reveal equally intimate details about my own life, essentially have that conversation usually reserved for the third month of dating. It's gotten to the point where I've heard the 'I think I'm falling in love with you' speech one too many times. OMFG! Seriously...seriously? I spent so much time worrying about the physical dangers of being a slut that I totally overlooked the emotional ramifications!

And now, I'm reaping the bitter bitter harvest that I have sown for myself over the past several months. I've finally adjusted my relationship goals, and I've moved beyond hookups (at least for the most part, well, let's just say I no longer go out looking for a one night thing, but if one should offer me a drink, I'm not going to decline). Unfortunately, the world says, "Nope, not for you; we relationship gods have already eaten your piece of the pie and it was delicious." Karmic retribution sucks a big dick, and not in a good way, a dick with herpes on it.

In the past month, since turning this new leaf, the one date that I was actually excited about (because it was in the middle of the day, did not involve alcohol but did involve a super cute opera singer) went really well! I accepted the date with the resolve that I would not take him home with me that night, you know, try to make it a real date for once.

We met for tea right after work, had a great conversation, talked for almost 4 hours and ended the evening with a quick peck before running home in opposite directions. All excited about this potential new love of my life because I've become so desperate and clingy and afraid of ending up alone, I began to imagine what our California Supreme Court backed gay marriage would be like. And yes, I committed the cardinal dating sin, I texted him when I got home to tell him what a good time I had - btw, I can't believe I've become that guy. When he didn't immediately text me back, I took that as a bad sign.

I got "the call" at around, oh I don't know, 3:17 p.m. the next day, in a meeting at work. I let it go to voicemail. I rushed to check it at around, oh I don't know, 4:11 p.m. to hear, the Opera Singer hem haw around for 30 seconds before he finally says he didn't feel "that thing" when we kissed the night before. He says I'm perfect in every other way, I'm cute, I'm smart, I'm so supportive of his singing, blah blah blah - bullshit.

Really? How can a perfectly good date be smashed to hell by a split second kiss as we rushed off for separate cabs? I wasn't even trying; I hadn't even shown him the good stuff yet! Had I known my entire romantic future with this guy was going to be evaluated by what was literally a half second kiss, I would have extended that shit out and made it last. I would have done a little something to spice it up. C'mon!

OK, I get it. Some people can tell right away whether or not they will be compatible with someone, and I guess it is better that it happened this way rather than dragging it out several months before we both realize it's not going anywhere. Because you know, by then there are cats and home furnishings involved. But still, a little dragging would have been nice.

Since the Opera Singer, and to a certain extent before him, I have been taking blow after blow to the face. So, I've come to this realization: I've screwed with one too many guys and tampered with the delicate cosmic balance, and now it's time to pay the ultimate price - harsh, bitter loneliness. Apparently, I am good at exactly two things: fucking and friendships, but never the two shall meet. I am destined to lead a life of friends and fuck buddies, but no committed monogamous relationships...ever. Now, I'm torn. Should I accept my fate, because hey, a life full of friends and fuck buddies isn't so bad, is it? Or, should I keep doing what I've been doing, drop my fuck buddies and try to find something more? And no, I'm not overreacting. This entire entry is not the result of one bad date, it is the result of A LOT of them. Plus my Financial Analyst, who I just found out is actually an investment banker, is moving to Manhattan, permanently. He was someone I could have potentially started something with. Argh. This blows, and again, not in a good way.

Talk later,
Yours Truly

#3 Walk of Shame

So, I'm having trouble writing something as juicy as the last entry, but you have to understand that the hooker pickup was one of the sluttiest things I've ever done. I mean, my only other semi-scandalous hookups were either at the movies, in seedy motels or at the office. Well, actually I've only had one hookup at each of those places, but I had to brag about them because each was pretty fun, though not exclusively because of the locale *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*

Since I'm already resigned to the fact that this post will be admittedly more innocuous, I may as well go ahead and tell you about a hook up from last weekend, which was fun but didn't involve Mercedes sex or naked eye contact with old ladies.

First, a quick run down of the weekend (just because I promised to be your guide through the City).

Friday night in the Castro. Dinner at Brandy Ho's Hunan Food, couple bottles of wine for the table and mediocre food. Night of drinking at The Mint, Pilsner and The Cafe.

Saturday night - black tie client charity food and wine pairing event at Fort Mason with Ms. E (1/4 of the Fab4). A bunch of rich drunk Marin bitches and their financiers/husbands dropping thousands of dollars on bottles of wine and resort packages to Telluride. At least it was all for a good cause - funding research to find a cure for ALS. Needed a break from the pungent smell of money, so met up with Ms. A and Ms. M (the other half of the Fab4) for a drink at Doc's Clock. Left after one drink for a pre-scheduled Saturday night hookup (lame, I know, but when you're both super busy, you have to schedule sexy time in advance, being a grown up sucks).

Sunday started with the infamous "walk of shame" home from the Financial Analyst's house. Then, a pleasant afternoon of shopping downtown with Ms. A.

OK, with the logistics out of the way, I want to discuss this sordid thing we call the "walk of shame." I've always had a pretty clear concept of what it is, and believe me, I've taken a few in my day (per the 3:00 a.m. stumble out of someone's apartment just barely sobering up and realizing you're still only half clothed and guess what? you're stuck in the outskirts of the f-ing Marina trying to hail the non-existent taxis). But, can it really be called the walk of shame every time you leave someone's house the next morning? Seriously, I want to hear from you guys. Now, what if he was hot, you were hot, everything about it was hot. I mean, not to toot my own horn, but TOOT TOOT. Let me just say I was on my 'A' game, people. But enough about that.

I proposed this query to Ms. P, my coworker, and she oh so wisely provided the following insight: the walk of shame can be classified in either of two ways. Number 1 (which was my initial concept of this thing we disparage so vehemently) you were so f-ing plastered the night before that you woke up with the taste of booze still on your breath, and you looked beside you in horror to find some random-ass dude sporting a mullet and a "Your Name" tattoo on his ass. You quietly retrieve what you think you wore the night before and try to find your way home amid the silent (but soul-searing) judgment of the Sunday morning church-goers. This shame is derived from the bad decision you made after that fifth Absolut Mandarin and tonic.

Number 2 has nothing to do with the actual hookup, however hot or not. This shame is solely rooted in vanity. In the second scenario you are ashamed of the hot mess you've become as a result of not performing your nightly ritual. You dress in the same clothes you wore out the night before (which so clearly are not clothes created to see the light of day) only to find the splatter stains from that sushi dinner you heaved up in the restroom of the club. Your hair product has transformed your perfect coiffure into a tangled rat's nest, and for you ladies it's even more painfully obvious that you did not make it home last night. Makeup smeared all over and caked on ala Joan Crawford Mommie Dearest. What's worse is you have to sling your Manolos over your shoulders and take that walk of shame barefoot on the City streets (eww, gross).

Whether you are an advocate of Number 1 or Number 2, Clinton or Obama, David Cook or David Archuleta, OMFG! Post your thoughts.

Talk later,
Yours Truly

#2 What Everyone Came Here For

No use beating around the bush, time to air my dirty laundry and give you all what you came here for. Part II: Sex.

Let me just preface this entry by saying: I am not a whore! Contrary to what my doctor says, I am not a whore. BTW, my doctor actually called me that. Well, not in so many words. The last time I went in for a blood test, I was describing my sexual habits, and he was like, "If being a whore is causing you so much anxiety, maybe you should stop being a whore. Stop worrying so much about your health, all your test results are fine."

Sure, if you compare my activity level in SF with my activity level from college, I seem like a big ol' slut, but that's because I was a prude before. I was with a total of three people in college, so when I came to the City, it was like a whole new ballgame. I want to say that I've been with somewhere between 30 and 40 guys here. Some good, some not so much. That number may seem high, but does it count if I don't remember their names or if I was so drunk I don't remember going home with them? Ugh, that sounds bad, please don't follow my irresponsible lead. But, I have to say that I always practice safe sex, as you all should.

Through all the experimenting, I have emerged with two f-buddies. One, an executive at the SF satellite of a major television network. Two, a commissioner with the City and County of SF. My first encounter with The Exec is actually a pretty funny story.

After all the fuss I've made about not being a whore, I actually met The Exec when he picked me up off the street. Good Lord, no better than a common hooker. At least I didn't take any money from him. I was having a really bad week, and the day I had had at work was not helping. I polished off all the booze in my house and was on a quick run to the liquor store to buy another bottle of wine when we checked each other out on the corner. He asked if I wanted to get a drink with him, and I was like sure, why not I'm not drunk enough yet? He told me his car was parked just down the street.

OK time out, I realize now that my decision to go with him was one step shy of, "It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again." But hello, good judgment had left the room like four glasses of wine ago.

So this is how naive I was. When we got to his Mercedes (thank you very much), I asked him which bar he wanted to go to. He just chuckled. We started with a little making out in the front seat, cut to me with my pants around my ankles in his back seat with the automated sun shades covering the windows. It was the trashiest/classiest thing I'd experienced in a long time. All I have to say is thank goodness the cops didn't come by, because it was only 10:00 p.m. and the parking lot was far from empty. He had backed his car into the parking spot (no that is not some cheap double entendre), but speaking of cheap, at one point, I was bending over looking out the front windshield when I met eyes with this middle aged woman coming out of the neighboring grocery store. OMFG, can you say humiliated?

Man, I have a couple more pretty delicious hook up stories with The Exec and some others, but those will have to wait for another day.

Talk later.

-Yours Truly

#1 Gaining Momentum

I thought that I'd start with a little background on Yours Truly so you can assess whether this is even worth your time. Of course, I'll do my best to persuade you to stay, only giving you the juiciest tid bits. Let's begin. Part I: The Roommates.

I moved to the City a month after I got my job, and commuting from the East Bay sucked! But, finding an apartment that I loved sucked even more. Let's just say there were places where I didn't even want to touch anything. Hello? Hepatitis, no thank you. Long, and I mean LONG story short, I moved into a great place in Pac Heights with two roommates that I thought would enhance the SF experience, two art school chicks that seemed pretty laid back, a real departure from the engineers I lived with in college. (Don't ask me how a liberal arts major ended up living with three hardcore math/science types, but they were awesome).

Anyway, three months after moving in, one roommate went crazy, and I'm not talking "God, stopping being such a bitch" crazy, I'm talking down a handle of gin, a bottle of champagne, mix with her new anti-anxiety meds and go comatose in a Coffee Bean all before 10:00 a.m. crazy. After some other shit, we had to commit her to the psych ward for 72 hour observation. She moved out the same month.

Four months later, guess who else goes crazy? The other roommate has this nervous breakdown, goes on the same anti-anxiety meds as the first chick and mixes them with too much alcohol. BTW, this roommate had four months to harness all this pent up hostility toward the new guy we brought into the apartment. So, we all go out separately for 4th of July and stagger in around 3:00 or 4:00. Around 5:00, Mr. J (the male roommate) walks by Ms. E's (the female roommate) room on the way to the bathroom. She is transitioning from reciting the alphabet as she rocks back and forth and scrolls through pictures on her computer to throwing her shoes all around the room. Mr. J tries to put her to bed, but she grows violent and starts cursing at him. An hour later, she pounds on his door and stabs under his door with a knife from the kitchen exclaiming that she wants to kill him. At one point she pounds on my door asking for a gun to shoot Mr. J. OMFG! She moves home soon after to get some therapy.

Talk later.

-Yours Truly