Boy Girl Attraction

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I am not old enough to cross the street by myself yet. My brother walks me to the community center along with three other boys. We carry bags of candy on this holiday when anyone can dress up like a girl and no one will think twice about the decision. No one will wonder if that person prefers girls or boys. Instead, everyone will just take a good look and laugh at the drag queen. Except me.

The boy in front of me looks like a real girl. Long greasy black locks of hair sweep past my face as he turns his head around. He talks to another boy. My brother arrives at a gate and opens it up for the rest of us. A crowd of teenagers surround the pool deck but I keep my eyes on the greasy black mop in front of me. I like the way they look. I like the way they seem so different from everyone else in their halloween costumes. I, myself, am dressed in nothing more than a black t-shirt and jeans.

Perhaps, we have something in common. I think as the other boys lay across an empty pair of lounge chairs. I take a seat next to the boy-that-looks-like-a-girl. His face glows white from all the makeup. Except, their lips that look as dark as the night air that surrounds us. My heart beats heavily against my chest.

I never knew what the word “attraction” meant up until this moment. Whenever my parents tease me about a “girlfriend” they entertain the idea of a girl falling in love with me. Or at least liking me. Whenever anyone else teases me about this they entertain the idea that girls like me at all. However, the girls in my class treat me like another girlfriend. During recess they permit me to talk about the boys on the playground. They allow me to give them advice about which boy would best suit them for a elementary school relationship; a kind of romance that two members of the opposite sex engage themselves in during  class projects, lunch table seating arrangements, and games at recess.

For example, when Travis and Samantha got together they chose each other for everything. During gym class he picked her first for his volleyball team before choosing me, his best friend. I wanted to hit him with a ball but he chose me next.

For example, Andres and Jennifer preferred to sit together at lunch. But the rules of the school were that only an even number of boys and girls could sit at the table. So if one of them came in late then another boy or girl would trade seats so that the two could sit together. I wanted to remain in my seat sometimes but removed myself out of civil manners.

For example, boys chased girls on the playground but I never wanted to chase girls so I found a hole to dig. I kept digging until the bell rang. I would much rather involve myself with dirt than hormones. Except for this Halloween, when I found myself asking this strange boy-that-looked-like-a-girl questions.

“Do you like to read?” I say to him. He turns his beautiful white face in my direction. He answers. I ask another question. He answers again. This exchange of words goes on and on until they leave. I cannot believe how lucky I am to feel normal for once. That I finally entered the game of sexuality.

“You know that’s a boy, right?” my brother asks. He is sitting with the other boys, laughing. I bite my lip. My hope is lost. My revelation is snuffed out with these words. I am still just alone.

“Yeah,” I say but my voice feels deflated. I no longer feel the longing to talk to the boy/girl or anyone else. I would much rather go dig a hole somewhere. I would much rather burry my loneliness than to sit around here looking foolish. Because everyone else saw it except for me.

Happy Halloween.

 

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The Aftertaste of a Dream

 

Four years ago I got rejected from art school in New York City. The experience left me stranded in the middle of Florida with two best friends. We gathered our strength together in order to help one another. A flock of hands lifted one us out of a broken heart and into the art studio, where they learned to give into their emotions with by studying them. A flock of hands pulled one of us away from a small town, where everyone believed that a medical degree led to happiness, and into the vibrant city of Orlando. Each of them found a way to believe in themselves again while I wondered where to start.img-thing.jpeg

I switched majors, from art to writing, but still felt aimless. New York City no longer appealed to me since Orlando became my home. Its craft coffee shops, literary clubs, and hipster bars resonated with my need for culture. I no longer felt the craving to taste other cities, but I still craved a dream.

One of my friends went on to graduate and moved to a different state. The other one got married and continues to study art at the same university that I attend. We still help one another get through the hard times. Although, not all hard times call for the attendance of friends. For example, I felt the bitter taste of rejection the other night and thought of New York City. After several seconds it dissolved into something sweet. My teeth grinded against one another in anticipation for the next sample of rejection. I needed to taste something like it again. Maybe I’ll go to grad school. Maybe I’ll intern at a radio station. Either way I need a dream again.

A Completed Story

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I started calling myself a writer this year. It happened after completing a short story. The two paragraphs explained how an alcoholic journalist could reconcile his addiction with art. Instead of drinking to forget about the past he painted it. This led him to a community where people use art to make political statements. In the end, he uses them to become mayor of a small town in Orlando.

This story made me feel good, like it healed a wound or cooled a burn inside. My fingers stopped twitching throughout the day. A story laid behind them now. They could carry on with their daily tasks while I thought up new ideas. A planet called California that harbored an evil stepmother. Mermaids that ate pizza. These things I looked forwards to the same way a runner looks forward to their next marathon. I am a writer.

The Pie Hole

IMG_2308I’m sitting in a Pie Shop with a cup of coffee, a time of the day when all my best ideas are sleeping. They curl against the corners of my mind like cats do in their favorite parts of the home. Some have chosen the bedroom where I store my most intimate memories.

One of them is of an ex-boyfriend that turned on the radio before taking a shower. He called me in, took my hand, and we danced. I remember my naked tummy wiggling against his before spinning around. It was one of the most joyful experiences I’ve ever had with a lover.

I’ve kept that moment underneath the bed in a shoebox. Next to it a sleeping cat lies. If I woke it then maybe a story about two boys that snuck around town in search of places to kiss would unravel. Some of the strands have sewn themselves into Closet Case posts. However, finding a new purpose for this memory will take work.

I’m a writer that’s in their infancy stage. Moments like this, coffee and pie, is the time that I like to reflect on my aspirations. They are lying all over the place but part of finding them is by looking back on old times. I think that what I have to gain this time from reflecting is that I love writing love stories.

Two people that are solely themselves when apart, but combine to make an ultimate personality. That’s what I like to read about.

Until next time,

BoyKitsch

2015 Bulletin Board

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Friends,

Thank you for coming back.

  • Since that time I’ve completed two college courses and am ready to start blogging again. I stopped writing it because I was concerned about its content. While my stories may have been entertaining they weren’t always truthful. Truthful to me means a direct play-by-play without any opinionated words to describe people. This is impossible for me to do so I must change the content of which I write.
  • Literary Theories, Paintings, Artists, and Music are just a few things that interest me. I love these things because of their impressions on culture. People can carry away many interpretations from just a single art piece. Yet, they aren’t always willing to share that influence with others. I’m one of those people because often times I feel overlooked. I am a seclusive person by nature but when I do speak to friends I don’t think they listen. In effort to overcome that insecurity I write.
  • I write because I want to reach people. I want to hear their opinions because that way mine can keep growing. Conversations, though, can only start after someone breaks the ice. Smash!  Maybe now we can talk about The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao or Glee. I know that they both opened up my perspective on music and internalized racism.

-BoyKitsch

Morning Lion

In my bed I once awoke to find a lion sitting at the foot of it. My first instinct wasn’t to scream as perhaps someone, a less imaginative-someone, might have done. It’s golden mane was unlike any one I saw ever in my dreams. I didn’t want it to disappear so I forfeited sleep and comfort. I crawled slowly towards the beast. The bed seemed longer than I remembered it to be. Through tunnels and mountains my body tumbled. Even through an avalanche of pillows did I not take my eyes off the brilliant beast. It’s pearlescent teeth reminded me of a pirate treasure I buried beneath the ocean when still an adolescent. The closer we came together the more familiar our friendship seemed to be. I couldn’t remember the last time we met but that didn’t seem to be important. I knew that approaching it was not against the laws of nature. So I came as close to it as possible but still did not touch it, for there was still the fear of it being an illusion. I could smell oatmeal in it’s mane, the kind my father served me every morning before school. We talked for several minutes about Kindness before it reminded me that no one deserves solitude. I saw it’s paw shiver and that’s when I noticed the sun was beginning to leak through the blinds. I asked it not to go. It promised to come back. I hope so.

Books and a Blog

“It’s a small move I’ve made to move past the first page”

In the beginning there was a collection of notebooks in my possession. Each had a single page filled out with multiple adventures. Monsters ran through sentences before jumping the hurdle into a story about a Florida romance. On the bottom was always the prophet’s signature, a coffee stain I left behind before watching my favorite television program.

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For years they stood like props around my bedroom. Invited guests sat among the books and talked about things I didn’t understand. Ambition, College, Fame, Creativity, were all words similar to the ones written on the first pages. There was a difference between the spoken and the printed though.

In conversation people talked about their achievements. There was a gallery down the street in which one of them had just ran an art exhibition. On the bottom of each piece was a familiar signature. It was the same one I saw on a story printed in a literary journal. My friends were achieving something while I sat in an altar.

I learned that the world runs by the success of having done something. So I began this blog because I wanted some proof of this law. My stories have been about travels, small ambitions like college, and at best some fiction. It’s a collection I’m proud of even though I do miss the smell of ink on paper. So every now and then I return the cove beneath my bed.

Hello Friend

We hadn’t spoken very much, recently. I kept missing your calls, although the time I picked up there was no one at the other end. It was like you vanished completely that not even your dog knew where you were. I had to feed him amounts of food that depleted my life’s savings. He’ll never be the same.

I wandered about your flat for several days. Every room had a photograph of us in it, the likes of which sent me miles back into memory. The first moment I remembered, which is to say the one that still plagues the heart, is of our last kiss. I held your bottom lip between a smile before saying, “I love you”. That’s where it ended.

I slept in your bed, turning with every nightmare of your absence. We would never have time together under the mistletoe. Every winter we’d walk into town and buy the most colorful ornament for our Christmas tree. It was a tradition that was carried from our childhoods’, although we made them instead. Your’s always had the most curious of shapes. Like a cloud it transformed from small to big to being a rectangle to being a horse. Mine were that much boring compared to yours.

I don’t know where you’ve gone to but I hope you’ll come back soon. In the meantime I’ve taken the liberty of keeping Lord Byron. He’ll never survive on his own.

Sincerely

Kryptonite

I won’t try to make this creative. Artists proclaim that struggle is a field for harvesting inspiration. This is not true. I have written, erased, rewritten the same sentence for over four days. Working on thesis papers has been my all time weakness in college. Being an English major and I’ve locked myself in a room full of Kryptonite. 

I don’t know what to do. These papers are the very reason I dropped out of college the first time. Except, I just had a brilliant idea. A shiny key to unlock this door may be within my reach under a certain pile of green glowing embers.

-Signing off early in search off hope

Logging Off

When I first started blogging my attention was immediately drawn to gay blogs. I wanted advice on finding romance because I reasoned that gay romance is different than heterosexual. Experiences can be similar but the pieces belongs to a different cultural-puzzle.

A piece of it is the Grindr App, one that has helps spark conversations between non-heterosexual (I say this in light of transexuals, bisexuals, etc.)  men since 2009. It has personally helped me gain the attention of men that were perhaps too shy to meet in person. Not to say all pursuits were welcomed.

Recently, I had an encounter with someone whose profile expressed honesty. He wanted a person to be direct with their wants. I thought to myself, a reasonable request. Not all men can be straightforwards and thus has been a problem in previous relationships. I’d rather someone tell me they are “looking” rather than have me type twenty texts thinking we are “connecting.”

Me:Looking? 

Him: No.

Me: Cool. Neither am I. 

We continued small talk. It was all me telling corny jokes. I wasn’t trying to impress him but ya never know when a corny joke might hit a sweet spot.

Him: Let me be rudely honest I don’t care. I am looking but not for you. You are too short for me.

I logged out leaving a few bitter words which I now regret. The conversation hadn’t been my first turn-down but it left me wondering why I logged on day in and day out. Entirely, the app is a community of  men that choose to log on. They are NOT the only men. I think this is a good phrase worthy of being slabbed on some LGBT pamphlet.

Coming out of the closet wasn’t easy so I turned to Internet Cafes instead. There I promptly made as many fake names as someone named Madonna wishes she could. In the end though there was nothing to gain except fake boyfriends that didn’t make me feel any more loved or accepted. So I deleted them all and found a GLBT center called Compass with the fortunate help of my parents.

It’s been eight years later and I’m sure boys soon to be men are turning online to come out. As I’m sure men are turning on to “get off”. They both are looking for something that probably lies within the same arena. Quite frankly though I am not concerned about either at this point. Somebody different is who I am becoming with online anonymity. I don’t like that person.

I’ve logged off.