I wasn't always the witty, charming, whimisical and color-coordinated future icon you read before you. This facade took years of study and prayer to contruct, yet the scars from grade school occasionally rear their ugly, puss-dripping heads. Hence my current bachelorhood. And it's accompanying virginity. None of thse conditions are voluntary. I'm not Rivers Goddamn Cuomo; I don't take a vow of celibacy for clarity or whatever bullshit reason. I'm just a loser. Plain and simple. When I look in the mirror, I still see the chubby, weird dorky gay kid everyone made fun of at one point in their prepubescent life. And that needs to end.
When I was beginning to come into my own as a gay, my hormones raged uncontrollably. Since I was only out to a few people and still fearful of what might happen to me should I come out to anymore, most of my efforts to assuage the heat betwixt my legs were clandestine. I'd pilfer workout mags from drug stores into my bookbags, jack off in my room with unhealthy frequency (my record was nine times, achieved in the summer of 2003, thanks to the rebroadcasting of "American Gladiators" on basic cable)and my favorite passtime, stalking hot straight guys in the mall. Oh! the hours I spent trolling the Galleria, devouring meaty calves, large pecs peeking through tight shirts and the cherished exposed arms of various studs, hunks and the like. At the end of a long day of stalking, my feet were sore and my heart heavy with regret at having wasted my time. And let's not forget the embarassment of walking around a mall--the stomping ground of the gum-popping set--from afternoon to evening without buying a single thing. It's like being in the 70s and not getting stoned with Streisand. It's just not done.
But it's not like I had any thought of approaching these guys I dutifully followed til they ran away from my ever-present stare. Far from it. My pleasure came from merely looking at them because that's all I thought I was worthy of doing. I'd concoct stories about them in my mind--about our torrid love affair, too passionate for the world to understand. In my mind, they were who I wanted them to be: smart, funny and a great dancer, despite who they actually were. So it was enough for me for a while. My imagination was my boyfriend. Now, however, I'm totally over my imagination. It doesn't put out and frankly I don't need that level of commitment without some hot action, you know? Stalking simply doesn't do it for me anymore.
And why should it? I'm a pretty good catch, over here. I won't repeat my astounding attributes, but if you knew me, you wouldn't be able to understand why I'm alone. I'm just that awesome. And even if I am slightly dillusional, if that flapjack-breasted Kiki Dunst can trick someone into loving her, I should have no trouble. As of today, I am officially hanging up my stalker binoculars because I'm not in high school anymore. I'm not still in the closet, I'm no longer an insecure teenager. I'm an insecure 20-year old and dammit I deserve love--real love--like everyone else. Not that I expect men to suddenly drop their shoulder bags and come chasing after me, but I will no longer debase myself by sneaking around behind the next piece of eye candy I see. Hell, that's what the internet's for.
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