Inspirations for blogs come at the strangest moments. I was in the tree pose in yoga class,back aching and tummy trembling. I looked at the skinny male instructor executing each pose with ease and remembered I used to teach an aerobics class back in the 80’s. (Sidebar: If I were a heterosexual man in the back of a yoga class, I’d be in ass heaven There were only three guys in the class today and they were further back in the room than me!) The music of Inda Arie was gently taking me to that place in the practice where we say “namaste” (I bow to you) but my mind wanderd to Diana Ross, Muscles:
She said she wants a man to always understand
But that's alright for her, still it ain't enough for me
She said she wants a guy to keep her satisfied
But that's alright for her, but it ain't enough for me
They say they have to see his real personality
But that's alright for them, still it ain't enough for me
I need what the eyes can see, ah
(HIS ANATOMY)
My fellow blogger Corey Jarrell hit me up the other day humorously frustrated by the slim attractive looks of these young boys now-a-days. It was ironic that I was in the second week of my dedicated 5 days a week commitment to the gym. I had been going irregularly. Mostly I go to my yoga class on Thursdays and Sundays and since I bought my new Vibrams, (great for walking, hiking or jogging. My legs really feel the burn)
I’d been doing a 30 minute treadmill with Supremes disco mixes on my IPod. I recently had a rude awakening. My weight, which had stabilized at 216lbs, suddenly jumped 7 lbs to 223lbs! Then I read a Facebook posting from my diva girl Mashica who said that Satan had recently jumped on her scale and was exactly seven pounds! I upped my cardio to 60 minutes and went back to circuit weights! This was as scary as those bedbugs infesting all across the country!
If that's alright for them, still it ain't enough for me
I don't care if he's young or old, just make him beautiful
I just want some strong man to hold on to,
I want MUSCLES
Now I can admire a muscle man on television and magazines all day long, but when it comes to “luvin” in the bedroom, I LOVES me some chubby men. I loves me sum chubby, BUT I do not want to be chubby. I know it sounds weird in the body-obsessed society we live in. I am an admitted chubby chaser. I like my men to have a little jiggle in their swagger. I prefer to rub a round tummy like a Buddha for good luck. Man boobs are a turn-on. Rock hard abs, sculpted arms and an ass to bounce a dime off are great at a strip show, but in bed, I need to feel flesh that moves. I even recorded a poem about it (“Big Boiz” click #6 on the Sound Click player to the right):
Make him strong enough from his head down to his toes
And don’t get me to talking about toes! During my shallow years, my friends can testify I have dated some awful men just because they had pretty feet and let some of the most wonderful guys pass me by because of some jacked-up toes!
Muscle man, I want to love you in the sun, oil on your body
Come with me, high in the cascades
Let this be, we've got this thing made
Lost at sea, hide the desert
Stay with me, you won't regret it
Take this love, so deep to swim in
Come to me, and let the love in
She said she wants a man to always understand
But that's alright for her still it ain't enough for me
I don't care if he's young or old
(Just make him beautiful)
I used to tell people years ago the other thing Oprah and me had in common besides Baltimore was the fact our weight zoomed up and down. During my adult years, I watched my waist go from 29 inches to 38 inches. During my modeling years, I worked as a fit sample model. I could wear the sample suits right off the racks for the buyer’s shows. Then I got into a relationship. When you are attracted to thick boys, you forget part of the courtship involves eating. I like my thick boys (and girls) happy and food makes them happy, so we eat! Two years with my wife gained me 20lbs, which I lost after the divorce, but the next seven with my partner had me finding that 20 plus 10 more pounds over the course of that roller-coaster ride of a relationship. That became my pattern. Lose the weight and find a thick sexy man and then get happy and gain the weight back.
By the time I hit my forties the additional factors of high blood pressure and cholesterol added risk factors that made losing weight more of a necessity than a pleasure principal. The only difference this time was as you get older, dropping weight is a bit more of a challenge. Less physical social activity like going to the disco, teaching aerobic classes and biking to work and more social activity like good red wine, cheese, red velvet cake and feeding ya man chocolate covered strawberries in bed became the norm. A few years ago, I grabbed hold of my waistline and did a reality show called Ship Up Shape Out and lost some weight on a seven day cruise to lose.
It is time to get those disciplines back. The weight crept up on me this time and I wasn’t even in love! NOW I’ve got to work that body. Now whenever a dude hits on me and asks “Why is a nice guy like you single?” I have to be honest and answer, “Being single is healthier for me, I eat less, exercise more and I can get into my favorite clothes.” I still crave my big boiz, but I can even only have them in moderation…30minsB4midnight
When I heard the news that Chief U.S. District Judge Vaughn Walker overturned California's gay-marriage ban Wednesday in a landmark case that could eventually force the U.S. Supreme Court to confront the question of whether same-sex couples have a constitutional right to wed, I wanted to dance and shout it to the rooftops. I did not because I was standing in my jockstrap in the locker room of a local gym. One television plays ESPN non-stop and the other plays CNN. I watched as the naked towel draped men slowly approached the television in silence. Many said nothing. It made me think where I was when I heard the Rodney King verdict or where I was when Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. The reporter repeated it over and over again:
"Proposition 8 singles out gays and lesbians and legitimates their unequal treatment," the judge wrote in his 136-page opinion. "Proposition 8 perpetuates the stereotype that gays and lesbians are incapable of forming long-term loving relationships and that gays and lesbians are not good parents." Walker methodically rejected every argument posed by sponsors of the ban in response to a lawsuit filed by two gay couples who claimed Proposition 8, the voter-approved ban, violated their civil rights.
“OKAY, OKAY already!” One guy shouted at the screen. I smiled to myself and imagined how many guys in that locker room were gay like me cheering inside. I mean come on, raise your hand and snap your fingers if you do not know at least one gay person. How many Americans know someone in their immediate family who is gay? It is generally argued that one person in ten is gay. The 2000 census report says 2-3% of the United States population live in same sex co-habitation. Gay people have existed since the beginning of recorded time. I used to say to people put a face on gay. Try to put aside religious convictions, political affiliations or stereotypical images (rumors, falsehoods, urban legends). If a gay family member or gay friend you love wants to get married - but can’t - how would it make you feel? Put their face on your image of gay marriage.
No matter what sex you are
You're gonna be married you are
The beat of the heart my love
Is stronger than the homophobes
This court order just lit my fire
Equal rights fill me with such desire
I love you boy,
Now I can marry you boy
No matter what sex you are
You're gonna be mine you are
I know the final stages of this decision will not be felt for years, but I imagine all the things that will happen as a result of gay marriage. Gay couples are able to care for each other in times of adversity rather than relying on the state. Healthy same sex marriages provide positive role models for young gay people. Recognizing those images could reduce the number of gay teen suicides. Gay sons and daughters will feel more involved in the activities of adult family life. . The need for adoptive homes of children in general would benefit from gay marriage. Gay couples seek to adopt children because they cannot conceive in the traditional sense. The result is more children get to find homes of loving families. The emergence of the gay family unit goes beyond gay teens. Gay marriage would allow same sex couples with the same basic rights heterosexual people take for granted. Gay people have children and those children need the stability and economic security provided by legal marriage. Both partners will have equal shares in legal and health decisions. Families headed by same-sex couples would then have equal access to employer-provided health and retirement benefits. Gay spouses would be entitled to the same sick and bereavement leave to care for a legal partners and non-biological/adoptive children. Equal access to pensions, workers compensation, Social Security death benefits and spousal benefits would be taken for granted. How does it feel to have a civil right denied your sister or her children from a gay union, because of her sexual orientation or lesbian relationship? Put your most beloved family member’s face in that situation.
Can't let the homophobes chart our destiny
Oh no matter what sex you are
You're gonna be mine you are
Need you beside me love
Only you can guide me love
Marriage is an important heterosexual cultural symbol and a good example of how white heterosexuals are privileged. Marriage is the last legally sanctioned discrimination in America. It was not so long ago that interracial marriage was forbidden. The Supreme Court of the United States struck down laws banning interracial marriage in 1967. That same civil right should be extended to gays today. The opponents of interracial marriage hid behind religion and “family” values to justify denying mixed couples the right to marry. Since that ban has been lifted, we see the institution of marriage has hardly crumbled. Ask a mixed race person today how they would feel if their parents had not been allowed to marry.
Lezzies, Sissies, Dykes
Trans, Bisexuals, Fem Queens
Lipsticks, Tops, Bottoms
Vers, Rough Trade, Drag Queens
I don’t care about your gender sign
All I know is when same sex lips touch mine
We can be legal boy, really legal boy
No matter what sex you are
You're gonna be mine you are
In fact, multiple marriages by celebrities make one wonder whether marital laws should limit the number of marriages for all people – gay and straight! This glorious game of “I do” and “I don’t right now” has been played out numerous times by celebrities like Elizabeth Taylor who had eight husbands and Zsa Zsa Gabor who married nine times. Lana Turner said “I do” eight times, while Billy Bob Thornton bought five wives wedding rings. Joan Collins and Geena Davis had five husbands each, while Star Trek’s William Shatner only married four times. Liza Minnelli married four men as well, but two of her husbands were gay, which is okay because the gay person married a person of the opposite sex. Jerry Lee Lewis had six wives, and one of them was his underage cousin (which is legal in some states). Sometimes the number of heterosexual marriages pales in comparison to the length of the marriages. I texted my former domestic partner:
ME: “Will you do me the honor of taking my hand in marriage?”
He responded back from Texas
HIM: “LOL You got it! I know it is unconstitutional to refuse it!
ME: The fight ain’t over yet. If I were ever to get the right to marry somebody, it would be you”
HIM: “And I’d say yes”
ME: “What? This from the same guy who did not believe in marriage when we were together?”
HIM: “LOL Well You know how that goes. If it is an equal institution, I’m cool with it”
(Yeah I know, just make sure it’s the right sized carat!)
(From the Diana RossRed Hot Rhythm & Blues album, 1987)
A fellow blogger Corey Jarell (COREY@ I'LL KEEP YOU POSTED!)
wrote a recent post on nude modeling and it made me re-visit my book, DREAMBOY: My Life as a QVC Host & Other Greatest Hits.
Below is an excerpt:
Dale likes people, so he chose to be a telephone operator. That’s how the poster read. My first taste of commercial modeling came when I was twenty-years-old, and I appeared in a print advertisement sponsored by the Maryland State Department of Employment. The agency did a series of posters highlighting real people who worked jobs normally attributed to the opposite gender. Featured were female construction workers, male nurses, female police officers, and me -- one of the first male telephone operators in the state.
Working for the Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone Company, otherwise known as “Ma Bell,” was my first real job after I graduated from high school in 1977. Day in and day out, I saw the faces of the “lifers” who worked there, people who hated the job but stayed on for the benefits. I couldn’t imagine staying at a job I hated for twenty years, like my brother would end up doing. But my mother was so happy when I called to tell her that had I passed the telephone operator test and was starting a job that had a paid vacation and a health insurance plan. She said, “Boy, you got a good job with benefits. Don’t mess that up.” And I tried, Lord -- I tried to stay with it.
I did love people, but giving out telephone numbers all day wasn’t my idea of relating to them. I loved the attention I got the day the cameras arrived and took the picture of me for the advertising campaign. The camera man flashed his bulb, capturing me in a moment as I flipped through a huge paper directory. Then, as quickly as it had happened, it was over and I was back to the real world of being just like everyone else. “Hello, directory assistance -- may I help you?” That was my standard, never changing phone greeting. Directory assistance operators were “programmed” to sound alike, and if you knew what was good for you, you’d better stick to the script or risk being canned. You were to answer the phone quickly and correctly, then get the person off the line as soon as possible so you could pick up the next call. That was the drill.
Speed and accuracy were crucial, while imagination was taboo. I spent three years with the company, confined to a desk, answering 411 calls. (Even though I spent the second year in a mental hospital, it still counts because technically I was still employed by the company. So I say that I had one year off in the middle, with good behavior.) If I stayed there, I could expect to do the same thing for eight hours a day for the rest of my life. It was not an enticing prospect.
Male operators were relatively new at that time, and their voices took callers by surprise. Often, people wanted to engage me in conversations. But frequent compliments on my “wonderful speaking voice” only delayed my getting calls turned around as quickly as possible. Working for the phone company did, however, allow me to move out of my ghetto, basement apartment in northwest Baltimore and into a really nice building in a gay area downtown. Then one day in 1979, I called in sick and never went back.
I needed to find a job that made me the center of attention, just like I had been that day during the photo shoot. I got the idea to become an art model after seeing an episode of Alice, a television sitcom based on the 1974 movie Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore. In one particular episode, Alice and her sassy, man-hungry waitress co-worker, Flo, (the character who popularized the catchphrase “Kiss my grits!”), take a break from their jobs at Mel’s Diner to attend an art class. When they arrive, to their surprise, they are given the assignment of sketching a naked male model. The sexual tension and innuendo that ensues makes for great humor between the two ladies; Alice is uncomfortable with the nudity while Flo, true to her character, overtly gives the male model “dirty looks.”
I envied the position of being desired, admired, and yet untouchable. My interest in art had led me to enroll in a night course in photography at the Maryland Institute College of Art, (MICA), and while taking class one evening I saw a flyer that read, “Seeking nude art models.”
It seemed like the perfect fit. I loved being naked. As a child, I was always comfortable wearing as little clothing as possible. During the hot summer days in Portsmouth, Virginia, my siblings and I ran around in our white cotton underwear. In high school, my best friend and I ran naked across the auditorium stage one day, during a play rehearsal when the drama teacher was not there. Back in 1975, such a stunt was called “streaking.” There was even a song made about it called “The Streak,” by Ray Stevens. Being naked in public gave me such a rush.
During my summers as a teenager, when I would spend time in Baltimore at my father’s apartment, I would walk down Gwynn Falls Parkway to the park at night and take my clothes off. Hiding them in the bushes, I would run naked through the park. How I never ended up running into the police or a rapist is testimony that God looks out for fools and babies. I eventually stopped my nude runs at night when I lost my house keys in the park. Not that I had my address on them, but I got scared that someone would find them and come after me. It was a rude awakening, but I still enjoyed nudity.
That next Thursday night, I arrived half an hour early just to make sure I would find the right room. A buddy came with me because he could not believe I would really pose naked and wanted to see it for himself. It was a night class for alumni students, and they ranged in age from late thirties to early fifties. Another model was also scheduled for the class, and when he arrived he started undressing right there in the middle of the room. I found that odd, because when I thought back to that episode of Alice, I remembered that the model character had a dressing room. I remained sitting in the corner of the classroom, feeling very much overdressed in my vintage winter coat, Calvin Klein designer jeans, and ankle boots. But then my buddy looked at me as if to say, “Your turn?”
The instructor asked me and the other model which of us wanted the long pose and which wanted the short pose. The long pose would be the same pose held for the duration of the class period, while the short pose would change every twenty minutes, after each rest break. (Poses were usually twenty minutes on and ten minutes off to rest). I opted for the long pose so that I could study what the other guy was doing on the short poses, then duplicate them the next time around.
On my ten minute breaks, I slipped into my jeans and wandered around the classroom to admire the work of the artists. The alumni class students were not required to work in any specific media, so I could be rendered in charcoal, oils, acrylics, pastels, or even clay. I got to be a favorite among teachers, and a few helped secure private assignments for me, recommending me to pose at the homes of local artists or at other art schools. Many of the art teachers themselves would also approach models to pose for their own private work. From there, word of a good model would get around. Sometimes I also posed for high school students, but for them I was required to wear swim trunks.
When I told my mother what I was doing, it did not surprise her. She seemed pleased that I was doing what made me happy. She moved to Baltimore during my second year of working at MICA and when people asked her what she thought of her son modeling nude, she told them, “It’s not like I have never seen Dale naked. I changed his diapers. It ain’t nothing new to me.”
I loved being naked and being watched. I prided myself on being able to zone out and hold a pose without moving. Standing still, my mind would drift to songs in my head, my favorite movies, grocery lists, and things to do later. When you are twenty-one years old, you feel young and fearless and never question the dangers that could be out in the world. I never thought that the artists who hired me privately might be crazy or be sex fiends. I never once felt I was in any kind of danger. One time, I caught the bus to a late night assignment at a huge, creepy mansion that had been used in the horror film The House on Sorority Row. Instead of worrying about being alone with a stranger in the dark house, my biggest concern was the cold draft coming from the fireplace.
Posing nude for private sessions invited sexual attention, and I was hit on twice during my nude modeling days. A traveling instructor once asked me to pose for him at his apartment in a temporary dorm next to the college. Halfway through the session, he confessed his deep desire for me, threw his arms around me, then pushed his tongue down my throat. I was surprised…but not turned off.
The second incident occurred when a very frail, old, white gentleman was drawing me at his home. He lived with his twin brother, (and I had posed for both of them during an alumni art class), but his brother was not present during our appointment. As the session was ending, he asked if he could put his arms around me before I redressed. I thought to myself, “He’s so old -- he probably hasn’t touched a naked body in a long time. What harm could it do?” He embraced me with the passion of a grandfather, and was so gentle that it never felt awkward. (Although there was still a slight sexual undercurrent present.) I was honored and flattered. He did not undress and never crossed that line again. I felt sad for him because I believe he was so far in the closet that even his twin brother did not know about his desires.
I see the fire
I feel the flame
It gets me every time you look my way.
You know how it makes me feel inside
Come get me with your eyes
Dirty looks…
As much as I loved working at MICA, posing during classes wasn’t always a breeze. There were times I stood in a pose so long that I would pass out. I learned early on that part of a model’s traveling kit included a comfortable robe, flip flops, a blanket to stand on, and a space heater. Sometimes the drafts made posing an extremely frosty experience; I figured I’d have arthritis before I turned thirty. The most frequently asked question by my friends was, “Do you ever get a hard on?” The answer: “Yes.” That usually happened while in a sitting or reclining pose, and once during a wrestling pose with another guy.
I posed for anatomy, watercolor, sculpture, and photography classes, but my favorite class was called “Drawing for the Clothed Figure.” It was during this class that I got to try out some of my costume designs. I would come up with interesting outfits for characters I’d invent, such as the “suave gentleman,” (wearing a tuxedo), an Arabian sheik, a prohibition gangster, or an English count. The instructor loved that I came up with my own ideas. I looked forward to those sessions and often wished I was the artist doing the drawing.
Long before television shows like America’s Next Top Model and Project Runway brought national media attention to modeling and designing careers, I was already posing nude, competing against other models for assignments, and designing original fashion outfits on a shoe string budget. My family and friends see these shows today and say, “This is nothing new. Dale was doing this back in the 80’s.” When I look at these shows, especially the modeling shows, such as TV Land’s She’s Got the Look, VH1’s America’s Most Smartest Model, Bravo’s Make Me A Supermodel, or Oxygen’s The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency, there is always a competition that involves posing nude. And there is always one contestant who has drama issues around being naked. Television loves conflict and drama. But in the real world, if you are comfortable in your own skin, wearing clothes just becomes an extension of that comfort.
In my lifetime, I have consistently reached for non-traditional jobs -- not because somebody told me I could not, but because I wanted to do them. I am glad I did. Through them I learned anatomy, physical discipline, design construction, fashion show production, and how to market an image. I also learned how to take rejection and not take it personally. Each new artistic venture I embarked upon seemed to unfold before me, as if created just for me in mind. Yes, Dale likes people, and that’s why he chose to be admired, desired, looked at and photographed. Look, but don’t touch. Well…sometimes.
Dirty looks
You're giving them to me again
Dirty looks
I want you to
Just keep them coming
Dirty looks…
I love it when you look at me
Like that, boy
Dirty....... 30 minutes B4 Midnight..but I promise I'll be Clean tomorrow!!!
My mom raised the three of us kids mostly by herself. As a single parent she drove us to events, picked us up from school and made sure all our needs were met, even when those needs were wants. I shall never forget the time it was my brother’s birthday and the family tradition was to make the favorite foods and have a private birthday party with Miss Love’s homemade cake. Her cooking was less than stellar, so most cakes always fell apart covered in icing. It was raining outside and I threw a tantrum wanting a cheap plastic toy like my brother had received. Now it was his birthday and I certainly did not need a birthday gift since it was not my birthday. Nevertheless my mom got into our 1958 Red Chevrolet Impala and drove in the rain to the store to purchase me that toy. Although the memory of her action stayed with me for most of my life, I never knew that I would return the gesture until recently.
You're the engine that keeps me running
You're the motor that keeps me coming
To the road that keeps on winding
Coming to the love I keep on finding
The Madison clan has always loved television. We only had one TV set during the early years. Miss Love watched her soap operas daily. Her kids watched the Saturday morning cartoons. The few times the boob tube was turned off was between the hours of 6PM & 8 PM during our homework time. Our family bonding time was in front of the television during those prime time hours. We watched in pride when black entertainers were on Ed Sullivan and saw ROOTS and learned about slavery together. We laughed at Flip Wilson dressed as Geraldine in drag. We had to make concessions in those days and agree on what shows to see because there was only one set.As each of us got older and started working we purchased more televisions. My brother who ended up working in the audio-visual industry always acquired more sets as hotels tend to sell off old TV’s when newer models come into fashion. My mom (Miss Love) has lived on her own for about 25 years in a small one bedroom apartment. We got her a television for her living room and one for her bedroom. She later decided she needed one for the kitchen counter too later on, once she found out one of us was getting rid of an old television. With the advent of digital cable television she soon learned that her living room television no longer connected to the lobby. There was a feature that allowed her to see what visitors were ringing her doorbell, so she wanted another television set that could be hooked directly to that apartment cable line. This allowed her to see who she was buzzing into the building.
Hey you're my driving wheel, you better believe it baby
You take me farther, than I’ve been before
Than I’ve been before yeah
You're my driving wheel. My driving wheel baby-
Just one touch - opens up my door
Opens up my door
My mother has always been there for me. She accepted me when I came out the closet. And ten years later when I left the gay life and got married, she embraced and loved my wife as confusing as it seemed to her. She comforted me during the divorce two years later. She went to church with my boyfriends. She held my hands the first time I had an operation. She laughed at me telling me I was high off the anesthesia singing “Midnight Train to Georgia.” She came and took care of me when I fell off a horse and bought me a special back pillow. So it was a no-brainer when she fell ill a few months ago that I would drop everything and fly across country to be by her side as she had emergency gall bladder surgery.
Ain't a road in life I can't travel As long as I know you're there-
Ain't no map I can't unravel As long as I know you care!
Every time you touch me- Starts my motor running-
I like the way you keep it humming-
Keeps my motor running- I like the way you keep me humming oh
After two surgeries and rehab, we realized that Miss Love was 82 years old and the idea of her living alone was too risky to take with her fragile health. She has my sister in Baltimore, my brother in Washington DC and me in California. She choose to live with my brother in DC, so in the midst of a heat wave, my brother and I rented a truck and drove from DC to Wilmington Delaware to move my mom. We explained to her that she would be moving into a smaller space and she needed to discard some of her possessions and then the rest would be put into storage. It was important to make a list. She wrote down:
Some clothes
Some shoes
Family photos
Vacuum cleaner
Iron & Ironing board
All my television sets
We argued with her that she did not need all the television sets. While she was in the hospital we bought her a new flat screen and gave away one of her old sets away. My brother has televisions on every floor plus one in his kitchen and a small one in each bathroom. Her response was “They are mine and I want them with me.” My brother turned to me and said, “Give up. We are not going to win this one.”
The day was long and exhausting. Twenty years in one place a person collects a lot of things and my mother was the queen of collecting. We spent a lot of time throwing things out, cleaning the apartment and packing the vehicle. The goal was to return the truck to DC by close of business day and secure a storage bin. Friday traffic had us barely reaching DC in time to gas up, drop off the items she would keep and get the truck to U-Haul. My brother experienced the second brown-out on his block within one week. No power. No air conditioner. We were all hot, exhausted and hungry. We quickly unpacked and rushed the truck to the rental.
You're my driving wheel
I can't hear ya now
You take me farther
Than I’ve been before
Than I’ve been before
The storage place was closed, so we had to keep the truck another day. Frustratedthat the day had not gone on schedule, I flop on the sofa to wait for the power to come back on. My mother comes in and gives me a stern look.
“Dale I am so disappointed in you. Didn’t you say I could have anything I wanted to make me happy? Then why is it I am missing a television set? I have gone through everything unpacked and there is one set missing!”
I took a deep breath. I wanted to cry. My feet and back were sore. I was funky, thirsty and had scrapped two fingers. I looked at the dried blood on my hand as I calmly answered.
“Ma, it was never my intention to cheat you out of a television set. We were unpacking so fast to get the truck back and the small t.v. was under one of the many bags of your clothes. I can go get it now if you want or if you can wait until tomorrow when we unload the remainder of your stuff at the storage place.”
Later that night when I was holding back the tears telling my brother the story of my reprimand, I thought about that day I threw a tantrum and my mother drove in the rain to make me happy.
You're my driving wheel
Drive me crazy baby
Just one touch
Opens up my door
I have experienced the true meaning of when the child becomes the parent and I fortunately have not forgotten the lessons she taught me. Thank you Miss Love for driving me!
Today I saw somebody Who looked just like you She walked like you do I thought it was you As she turned the corner I called out your name I felt so ashamed When it wasn't you Wasn't you
'Cause you are everything And everything is you Oh, you are everything And everything is you You are everything And everything is you (Thom Bell - Linda Creed)
I consider myself a confident gay man. I don’t live my life in a closet. Hell, most of my friends know I leave the closet doors open in my bedroom. It is a symbol of who I am, an OUT gay man. I am comfortable in my shoes, (sometimes high heels). There are times when I walk out of my hyper-heterosexual neighborhood in Inglewood California wearing the most outrageous leopard-print attire. When my ghetto neighbor threw beer bottles in my back yard after listening to me have gay sex, I confronted them. Then why is it when I enter the world of the public gym, I feel trapped in a closet? Is it the horrible memories of 6th grade torture in gym class? Is it the humiliation being picked last for basketball team? Was it that first embarrassing erection in the showers and the laughter and teasing from the guys?
How can I forget When each face that I see Brings back memories Of being with you.
When I have my iPod on, all the sissy queen of the 70’s disco comes out in me. Once I hear Diana Ross in the midst of The Boss, it’s like all bets are off. I caught myself today singing out loud:
Thought I could turn emotion On and off I was so sure So sure (I was so sure) But love taught me Who was, who was, who was the boss
To top it off I even tried to sing the OOOH WOOOO part. A sweaty woman on a stationary bicycle stopped and gave me weird glance. I caught myself and locked myself back in the closet. I finished up my cardio workout without any further incident. I proceeded to the abdominal machine which faced the basketball court. I looked out at the polished floors and netted hoops and thought about the training film I was cast in as a kid who loses his wallet on a basketball court. I was so bad the director had to bring in a double to dribble for me. My close-up of me dunking the ball was done from a ladder. I shudder when I see that video.
I headed to the sauna area for a little steam and whirlpool after my workout. The basketball game has broken up and the players head to the locker room too. It is then I notice one of the players is female. I don’t want to stereotype her and say just because her hair was styled in a “mannish” cut or that she walked with a male swagger or even deepened her voice that she was lesbian, but for the sake of argument, I will bet my entire collection of Judy Garland movies that this girl was a same gender-loving female.
As I sat in the whirlpool half listening to their conversation, I got a little angry. Here she was being accepted into their macho world, no snickering, no teasing, and no ostracizing. I think about the butch lesbians I see out and about in grocery stores and in public wearing clothes more masculine than anything I own and nobody stares except me! I am jealous because sometimes I want to wear a sarong skirt and some wedgies. I always re-think the wardrobe choice because I refuse to be stared at like a freak of society’s standards of what a man should dress like.
I justified in my mind all the times in a hair salon or a ladies clothing store, when a feminine guy bonds with the women who inhabit that environment. The Sex in the City girls can have their “GAYS.” That butch lesbian was simply bonding with the men of the gym with whom she shared a common interest. She faces the same discriminations in life that I do. She can play ball with them, but they wouldn’t vote in favor of her being able to marry her female lover. She walked like a dude, talked like a dude, but she wasn’t.
oh darling I just can't go on Living life as I do Comparing each girl with you Knowing they just won't do They're not you
Was I still jealous? YES. Was I still angry? YES. I was jealous that I always found it difficult to bond with heterosexual men. I don’t like sports. I was angry with a society that still places us in categories based on how we dress. I was angry with myself for allowing myself to go back into that closet (even for that short time) I fought so hard to break out of that damn closet in 1976. It became my personal mission to teach all straight people that gay people are basically no different from them. We don’t have three heads. Most of us aren’t even recognizable. What is there to be afraid of? We just have sex with the same sex instead of the opposite sex. Everything else is pretty much the same. I don’t dislike heterosexuals just because they have male / female relationships. I am just mad that society doesn’t treat us all as equals.
A buddy of mine, not knowing I was gay, once went on incessantly about a hot lap dance he’d received from a busty female at a strip club. Instead of pretending that women were my sexual interest, I shared with him an experience I’d had with a male stripper at a gay bar. After he picked his face up off the floor, he had to admit that he respected me for being open and for treating my gay life just as normally as he treated his straight life. Yeah, that’s me, 30minutes before tomorrow spreading universal acceptance by teaching one straight person at a time.
You are everything And everything is you Oh, you are everything And everything is you 'Cause you are everything And everything is you
I used to tell people years ago the other thing Oprah and me had in common besides Baltimore was the fact our weight zoomed up and down. During my adult years, I watched my waist go from 29 inches to 38 inches. During my modeling years, I worked as a fit sample model. I could wear the sample suits right off the racks for the buyer’s shows. Then I got into a relationship. When you are attracted to thick boys, you forget part of the courtship involves eating. I like my thick boys (and girls) happy and food makes them happy, so we eat! Two years with my wife gained me 20lbs, which I lost after the divorce, but the next seven with my partner had me finding that 20 plus 10 more pounds over the course of that roller-coaster ride of a relationship. That became my pattern. Lose the weight and find a thick sexy man and then get happy and gain the weight back. 
