More Watching People Dance

Last weekend was the company Christmas party, and things went about as expected: the food was good, everyone had fun, and I got drunk. But something happened that I could never have anticipated. Most of our housekeepers have worked together at another property, so they've been to Christmas parties together before. Which means they've seen Serina dancing before. I'd been told she "likes dancing" but there's no way I could have been prepared for the... "performance" to which we were treated. Behold...

Oh, she wasn't done...not by a long-shot. Also, as you watch this clip pay attention to two things: the way she's "interacting" with her "audience" and the look on the Sales Coordinator's face at the very end of the video. She gets this terrified look like, "Oh shit, she's coming this way!"

The entire night was hilarious, but the dancing made the night for me.

Watching White People Dance Makes Me Happy

Last Friday night, I accompanied a friend of mine to New Bern where he was dj'ing a frat party at a country club. I'd planned on being bored, but they mentioned my two favorite words when used together ("open" and "bar") so I figured I'd find a way to have a good time. Little could I have known... Not long after I helped G set up his sounds and lights... ...the party-goers began to arrive. I should mention they were already drunk when they piled off the buses that brought them in from Greenville. I should also mention that as soon as they got off the buses, most of them went straight to the (open) bar. Those two facts should have told me what a shit-show this was going to be. With that in mind, I powered up my digital camera, and found a discrete spot behind a speaker to capture the drunken shittiness. For the sake of clarity, I'll be explaining each pic/vid clip briefly. For example: The only thing I love more than white people is watching them dance...

I call this one "The White Boy Butt-Wag"...

Not to be out-done, the ladies were getting down on the dancefloor...in a very white way...

There were couples dancing together, but adding "romance" didn't do anything to add class to the dance moves...

All in all, it was a great time. It was also a great reminder to be grateful for my sense of rhythm...

Levi Johnston goes full monty...sorta

After months of breathless waiting, the pictures of Levi Johnston's Playgirl spread have been released online. I'm not going to lie--I've really been looking forward to it. Not so much because Levi's such a stud. Frankly, he's only so-so. I, like a lot of people, am fascinated with the private figures of public figures. There's something comforting about knowing that those who live in the public eye also have to battle muffin tops and cellulite. Kind of brings them down a notch. Anyway, in the spirit of poking fun of celebs' body flaws, I present Levi Johnston's Johnson...

I guess the photographer caught Levi soaping up his junk....

I'll give him this--he's got some nice legs....

To summarize, I'm left with the same impression of Levi Johnston that I had of the Palin family--not bad looking but ultimately unimpressive.

Random Picture of the Day

Sometimes the important messages are just right in your face...

Call A-waiting

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: After going on a date and giving a guy my number, how long should I wait for him to call me before giving up on him? Signed, Call A-waiting Dear Call: The answer is painfully simple: you shouldn't wait for him at all. Anyone who can't find five minutes in the course of his day to call you and say, "Hey I just wanted to say hi." doesn't deserve your patience. Get on with the business of living your life, continue to meet people and go out. That way you're not sitting by the phone waiting for someone who may never get his act together. Good luck!

Seeking Employee "Benefits"

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: I've been having a flirtation with a good-looking coworker. Things have been getting more and more flirtatious, and it seems like something might be inevitable. We're both single, so it wouldn't be infringing on anyone's relationship. A friend of mine says there's nothing wrong with consenting adults "getting to know each other better." What do you think Uncle Trey Pound? Signed, Seeking Employee "Benefits" Dear Benefits: No, no, no. I've said it before, and apparently I'm going to have to say it again: do NOT poop where you eat. And screwing around with your coworker, no matter how dreamy he may be, definitely counts as pooping where you eat. There are few ways that this can have a happy ending: if one of you hurts the other one, every day when you clock in you've got a reminder of what a fool you made of yourself; those you work with might start to wonder just what you did to deserve that last raise. And let's not even think about all the ways it could bite you on the butt if you're misinterpreting his attention. He could just be one of those really friendly guys that relates to others in a flirtatious fashion. Making a move on him could be a good way to get a sexual harassment complaint filed against you. Either way, you're asking for trouble. And if you keep asking for it, eventually you're going to get it.

Flying Solo

Dear Readers: The following question was one of many with the same theme. Since they all basically asked the same question, I distilled it down to one straight-forward one: Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Where are all the good men? Signed, Flying Solo Dear Solo: It might seem that the ever-elusive Good Man is an endangered species, but they do still exist. The important (not to mention difficult) part is not lowering your standards while you're waiting for Mr. Right to come along. There's a difference between settling down and just plain settling, so don't latch onto the first guy that wanders through your life. Keep those standards high and you'll draw quality men to you. Keep your standards too low and you'll continue to get nothing but trash.

Thank you, Jerry.

Yesterday afternoon, I found out that a local broadcasting legend died after a short battle with cancer. Jerry Wayne was half of the Breakfast Club morning radio show on 107.9 WNCT. For 14 years, he's entertained eastern NC, easing us into productive (or sometimes not so productive) days. He raised money for the Children's Miracle Network through annual telethons and made countless appearances at charity events and fundraisers throughout the area. But more important than that is his legacy. See, I've always believed that a life spent giving joy and happiness to others is a life well-spent. And by that yardstick, Jerry Wayne lived an extremely well-spent life. That legacy will endure far longer than his brief time on this earth. My heart goes out to his family--both his family at home, and his family at the station. As someone who has relied on Jerry and his partner Donna Kelly for morning motivation, I know mornings will never be the same. I thank you Jerry, for sharing your mornings with us for all these years. God bless.

Jerry Wayne

1970-2009

.

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Stressed-out Boyfriend

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

My girlfriend and I have been having the same argument for months now. We live together, and I’ve been hanging out with her roommate lately. Nothing has happened (and it won’t) between me and the roommate, but my girlfriend is the jealous sort and she’s really bothered by our friendship. I’ve tried to explain to her that it’s just a friendship, but it’s falling on deaf ears. What’s worse, I can’t tell her the real reason I get along so well with her roommate: it’s because my girlfriend is kind of a pill. She’s very negative, and whenever anyone complains, she always has to one-up them. If I complain that my feet hurt, she mentions having hers amputated. I guess she’s always been like that, but it’s really starting to get to me now. How can I get her to change Uncle Trey Pound?

Signed,

Stressed-out Boyfriend

Dear Stressed:

Are you really writing for help, or do you want me to tell you what you already know: that you don’t want to be in this relationship anymore? If you’re looking for a reason to break up, I’m sure the ones you’ve mentioned (jealousy, negativity) are good ones. But if you’re looking to make things work with her, you already know your friendship with her roommate is going to have to end. Or at the very least, you’re going to have to cut back on the amount of time you spend with her for the sake of your relationship. As for your girlfriend, there could be a few reasons she’s such a downer. It could be that she’s had a rough life, or maybe she’s clinically depressed. Either way it’s not going to be easy, but you’ve got to talk to her. She’s not going to read your mind and pick up on your unhappiness, so be honest with her.

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Working Stiff

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

I work for a small, privately-owned company. Our owner expects his employees to take on extra responsibility, yet doesn’t want to compensate us for our efforts. We’ve all griped about it, but no one is sure what do, as jobs in our industry are hard to come by these days. No one wants to bite the proverbial hand that feeds us, but it’s getting frustrating Uncle Trey Pound. We’ve been feeling taken for granted, but lately we’ve been feeling taken advantage of which is even worse. Before it seemed like he was just tight with a dime, now it’s more like he’s actively trying to use us.

Signed,

Working Stiff

Dear Stiff:

Yours is a fairly common complaint. Bosses tend to be good at delegating responsibility—that’s usually how they become bosses. But if you’re doing work for which you’re not being compensated, then it’s your responsibility to speak up. You don’t have to have to organize a union, or boycott the company, just sit your boss down and (calmly) share your concerns with him. It’s entirely possible that he’s unaware of the revolt brewing among his minions. If your suspicions are accurate, and he really is taking advantage of your work ethic, then you need to have your exit strategy in place. While there might not be a lot of jobs in your industry available right now, doesn’t sound like you’ll be missing out on too much. Good luck!

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Roomless Roomie

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

My roomie's boyfriend is always hanging around our apartment. He doesn't actually live there, but he might as well, since he's always there. He eats our food, washes clothes here, she even keeps men’s toiletries in the bathroom for him. What should I do Uncle Trey Pound?

Signed,

Roomless Roomie

Dear Roomless:

What it sounds like you've got is a boarder who's not paying rent. Casually ask your roommate if her boyfriend will be moving in soon. Since you didn't mention how you actually feel about him, I'm going to assume you have no problem with him personally, just the living situation. Mention how much easier things would be on everyone if someone else was splitting the rent. Be honest with her about how he's eating you out of house and home and it's starting to bother you. Don't let your resentment for the situation turn into resentment for your roommate. Regardless of whether or not this guy stays or goes, you've got to live with your roomie.

To all my new readers...

I just noticed something extraordinary, and I felt so humble that I had to respond. I maintain a fan page for my advice column (Ask Uncle Trey Pound) on facebook. It's a way to stay connected with readers and friends of mine. But just now when I glanced at the list of fans, I noticed something odd... of the 365 "fans" I don't know a good portion of them. That's important since I've been counting on my friends to fill the ranks of my "fans." When I realized that quite a few of the fans are complete strangers to me, I understood that my writing has extended beyond my little circle of friends. Some were friends of friends, but others were seemingly random-ass people that just stumbled upon my fan page. Something in my writing connected with them enough for them to follow the page and keep up with updates. That, frankly, justifies my decision to refer to myself as a "writer." A guy with a lot to say, but no one to say it to, is just a guy with a lot to say. But a guy with a lot to say and someone to speak to--someone to communicate with-- is a writer. I am a writer, and I thank you for making me one.

Put on your dancing shoes Sally. We're going out.

Last night was an epic night of drinking and fun with some friends. What made it better is that it was completely unexpected for me. Yesterday was my friend Ashlie's 21st birthday (first sip of alcohol, if you're dumb enough to believe that) and they threw a party for her at a local nightclub. I'd been thinking that I was working this morning, so I had only planned on hanging out for an hour or two, then heading home. Turns out I had to work this afternoon, which meant I had plenty of time to recuperate this morning, and every reason to drink like a sailor on shore leave last night. Which I did. "Wasted" ain't the word--I drank myself retarded last night. JT picked me up on her way home from work and we warmed up with some drinks at her place while she got dressed. We then headed out to "our" spot (the bar at Chico's downtown) where we pre-gamed some more. JT ordered a ridiculously large sangria, which made me think, "When you're drinking something called a Sea Of Sangria, you know it's going to be a long night." I had my usual beer, and things were off to a roaring start. After an hour or so, we left for the club and things really swung into high gear. There was free beer in honor of Ashlie's birthday, but after a couple of those, I got a taste for vodka 'n tonic, and that's about when the night started getting fuzzy... I recall dancing to Pitbull's song "Calle Ocho" (that shit is the hotness), and doing the Cupid Shuffle with a stage full of people, but beyond that I really can't give many details. Things got a little clearer when we left the club and headed to one of downtown's favorite nightime eateries, Omar's. Omar makes a mean cheeseburge pita, but last night I was in the mood for something more traditional, so I ordered the Athenian. I think it might have been because his (young) son was working the cash register, but I wound up not paying for my food. JT was told her total was $6, and I was prepared to pay something resembling that. I had my pita in hand, and decided I needed something to wash it down. I asked the kid for a canned soda and asked him what I owed him. "$1" was his response. I realized quickly that he wasn't aware I'd not paid for my pita, and just chose not to enlighten him. After eating our food (including the last few bites we ate outside for some reason) we apparently decided it would be a good idea to call George and leave him a profane message cursing him out for not joining us downtown...even though I don't think we actually invited him. He replayed the message for me this morning, and I sounded like a total jackass. Nice. Apparently the oddity didn't end once I was safely home. I woke up this morning fully dressed, sleeping on the floor under my computer desk. I don't know if I was worried about earthquakes, or if I was just having a good old fashioned air raid drill. I just don't know. Now that I think about it, the phrase "I just don't know" really seems to sum up my night.

The Binge Drinkers' Prayer

Lord protect me from the babbling slurring moron I'm about to become. Watch over me as I slowly destroy my liver, my bank account balance, and my reputation. Allow me to come home with all my clothes on (or at least with) me. And if I hook up with someone ugly, don't let my friends see me leaving with them. In Jose Cuervo's name I drink. Amen.

Comedy show with the parents

Last night was the Ricky Smiley comedy show at the Convention Center. Since I work closely with the center (and I'm friends with most of the staff over there) I got the hookup on tickets, and got some for my parents and me to attend the show. I figured they'd both have a good time, since they both generally like to laugh. It was hilarious listening to my mom crack up, and my dad hoot along with the audience. It did get a little awkward at a couple of points, but I hung in there and had a good time. Awkward moment #1 came when one of the opening comedians made a couple of jokes about smoking weed. I give my mother full credit for not turning to me and making a smartass comment. The second awkward moment of the night came when a comedian make a series of gay jokes. Not reaching the level of actual homophobia, but enough to make me a little hot under the collar. Normally I'd have gotten up and walked out, but the fact that my parents were sitting next to me kept me in my seat. Thankfully the moment passed quickly, and the night got better from there. The third awkward moment wasn't so much one particular moment, as it was a bunch of little sex jokes to which I felt weird responding in front of my parents. My personal favorite was about the little girl who saw some animals mating at the zoo ...her mother didn't want to explain sex to such a young child, so she told her the animals were "making cupcakes." Later that day the little girl was watching tv and again saw two animals going at it. Her mother again told her that they were "making cupcakes." When the little girl's father got home from work, he told his daughter to go outside and play, because he needed to talk to her mother alone. When the little girl came back in two hours later, she found her mother making dinner in the kitchen. "Mommy," she asked, "were you and Daddy making cupcakes while I was outside?" Startled, her mother responded, "Why yes. How did you know that?" Smiling, her daughter proudly answered "Cuz I licked all the icing off the couch!" Words cannot convey how hard it was for me not to laugh at that with my parents sitting right next to me, lol.

All the talk of same-sex marriage has me thinking about other limitations on liberties that have been struck down in the past. It's rather revealing that things once considered taboo, have now been proven as antiquated and discriminatory. While reading up on the subject, I ran across a quote from Mildred Loving, who (along with her husband Richard) challenged Virginia's anti-miscenigation laws (laws banning interracial marriages), and won. I thought it was especially touching, and decided to share it. Surrounded as I am now by wonderful children and grandchildren, not a day goes by that I don't think of Richard and our love, our right to marry, and how much it meant to me to have that freedom to marry the person precious to me, even if others thought he was the "wrong kind of person" for me to marry. I believe all Americans, no matter their race, no matter their sex, no matter their sexual orientation, should have that same freedom to marry. Government has no business imposing some people's religious beliefs over others. Especially if it denies people's civil rights. I am still not a political person, but I am proud that Richard's and my name is on a court case that can help reinforce the love, the commitment, the fairness, and the family that so many people, black or white, young or old, gay or straight seek in life. I support the freedom to marry for all. That's what Loving, and loving, are all about.

I'm a Celebrity!

I got a pleasant little surprise this afternoon while working on the front desk. A guest came down looking for some toothpaste, and when I handed it to him, he gave me a funny look. A little while later when he came down again to check out, I was busy on the phone. He heard me say my name and gave me another funny look. As he approached the counter, he goes, "Are you the Trey that writes the column?" I was so startled that I gave him a momentary blank look before responding, "As a matter of fact I am." I guess I've become so accustomed to keeping the two parts of my life separate that I'm always a little surprised when there's some overlap. Now that I think about it, he didn't mention liking/disliking the column so I'm not sure just how flattered I should be. I'm going to choose to see it as a compliment that he recognized me at all. Either way it made my day. I love being a pseudo-semi-sorta-kinda-celebrity in a small town!

Dammit! I fed the stray...

A while back, I came up with the concept of "feeding the stray." When a stray animal (say a cat) comes around and you feed it once, it's going to keep coming around because it's discovered a source of food. There's a similar pattern among humans. We've all seen it: the shy, awkward outsider just looking for a chance to belong. The misfit in desperate need of a sense of acceptance among his peers. Then one person extends a polite kindness--an invitation to a party, a drink at the bar--and suddenly the misfit feels like a friend. And just like that, you've fed the stray. You will not shake this loser with anything short of a restraining order--and even those aren't guarantees. If you run into each other in social settings, he'll follow you around like a bad fart. If you give him your number, he'll call you endlessly. The only thing that can end the cycle is when the "stray" finds another source of "food." So you introduce him to your friends (not the good friends, the ones you rarely speak to) praying he'll latch onto one of them. You try desperately to shake this kid like a booger stuck to your finger. There's no moral to this story, just wanted to explain what I mean when I say, "Dammit! I fed the stray..." Some of you know who I'm talking about, but I don't think I'll ever really be rid of the motherfucker. At this point, I've accepted it, even embraced. Hell, maybe I was the stray that he fed. Who knows at this point.

Our time has come

Today was the day we've been awaiting for so long. The Quality Assurance inspector from corporate checked into our hotel last night and spent the day evaluating our property. There were some glitches that threatened to keep us from opening (lack of carpet on the upper floors, etc), but around 5 the QA guy (more on him later...) pulled John, Jen, and JT aside and gave them the results of his inspection: we passed! That means that we've passed corporate's (high) standards, and will now be linked to the "central database." John popped the champagne, and we all took pictures of the big moment. Ironically, as we sat around sipping champagne from small plastic cups bearing our (now official) logo, we got our first walk-in. I'm sure he wondered just what the hell he'd wandered into, but he definitely got an enthusiastic welcome. He even posed for a picture with Jen.

Today wasn't just important to the powers-that-be who have invested so much money in our hotel; it was important to each of us personally. We've all invested so much sweat equity into the completion of this hotel that we all had personal reasons to want to see it open. We've watched the hotel grow from an unfinished construction site to a refined and beautiful hotel. More importantly, we actually feel like a team. A friend of mine that was hired to do part-time night audit made the comment, "I can't believe y'all are just meeting each other. Seems like you've known each other for years." It really is hard to believe we've only known each other for three weeks: we've already created a lifetime's worth of classic moments (for example: our chief engineer singing "Oops! I Did it Again" at karaoke night), and become our own form of special, dysfunctional family. While I might not love every member of that dysfunctional family (Princess), I love the family as a whole. I can't wait to get down to the business of filling some rooms.

Speaking of "family," the QA guy kept setting off my gaydar. Every time he passed within three feet of the front desk, I did my best to shine...and not just for the benefit of the hotel. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a nice smile...especially when that smile is on a man that looks good in a pair of dress pants. After he announced we'd passed our inspection, we went from inspector/nervous employee to members of the same team. While he'd been politely friendly all day, he seemed much more relaxed. Our chief engineer ("...it's Britney, bitch.") said he caught the guy checking me out after I'd taken off my blazer and walked past him to join in the celebration. I wasn't sure how seriously to take it, though. G has been known to mess with my head. Before he left, he made sure to pass his card out to the GM and AGM, and as he stood there, I asked for one also. He laughed and asked, "Why would you possibly need to get in touch with me? I'm not that important." For the sake of decency, I didn't answer that question the way I wanted to, but I persisted and he finally gave me a card. Maybe I'll give it a couple of days and send him a nice "thank you" email. You never know...

New "Ask Uncle Trey Pound"

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: For the past month, I've been seeing a guy I met through friends for 30+ days. We've been dating, but so far no commitments have been made, which suits us both just fine. The only problem is that while we've become closer emotionally, we haven't become closer physically. In fact it hasn't progressed beyond the awkward hug from him when he leaves to go home. I blame myself: early on I told him how guys in my past have tried to use me for sex, and that I was sick of being used. Uncle Trey Pound, how can I give him the "green light" without looking like a slut? Signed, Got Needs Too Dear Needs: The good news is that you've met that rare guy who seems to really want to get to know you. He's put in some (fully clothed) time with you, and he's respecting the fact that you've been burned before. The bad news is that since he's not picking up on your "green light" signals, that means you're going to have to be a bit more direct. That doesn't mean date-rape drugs and handcuffs, just be more...open with your needs. Let him know that while you appreciate his respect for your boundaries, you need a little bit more than hand-holding and Mac vs. PC debates--you need some lovin' too. Something tells me that if he's like most fully functional heterosexual males, he'll be naked before you can finish your sentence. Good luck, and try not to break any lamps. Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Last year I came out to my parents as a lesbian. They were shocked, and for a long time our relationship was a bit strained. But over the course of the past two months, we've started to communicate more, and things have been really good between us. They've been very supportive, and that's actually part of the problem. My parents have started introducing me to friends as their "lesbian daughter." My mom has tried to fix me up with a couple of women--with disastrous results. Uncle Trey Pound, how can I tell my parents that while I appreciate their support, I'm more low-key in the way that I live my life? Signed, Out, But Not Out There Dear Out: First, you've got to give your parents credit for trying to accept you. In their own awkward way, they're being supportive, and that's more than can be said of a lot of parents. They love you, and they're going out of their way to show it, so cut them some slack. Having said that, I'm sure it's embarrassing to have your business put out there every time you meet a friend of theirs from work. The easiest way to tell them is to say just what you've said to me. You love them for their support, but it makes you uncomfortable to have your personal life the first thing people know about you when you're introduced. Remind them that you weren't their "straight daughter" before coming out, and you're not their "gay daughter" now that you have. You're their daughter, plain and simple. Dear Uncle Trey Pound: For almost three months, I've been dating a wonderful man. I truly love him, but I recently found out that he's been keeping some secrets about his past. Specifically, he's lied about the extent of his past drug use. I don't judge him for his past, but the lying concerns me. Should I give him another chance, or would I just be giving him another chance to lie to me? Signed, Between a (Crack) Rock and a Hard Place Dear Rock: Before making any decisions ask yourself a few questions: How far in his past was this drug use? None of us are the same people we were five or ten years ago, and none of us should be judged by decisions made back then. Also, what are the chances that his "past drug use" will become a part of his present with you? If you think he's successfully put it behind him, I say give him another chance to be the man you need in your life. Finally if you do decide to forgive him, how easy will it be for you to really put this behind you? Will you really be able to forgive and forget, or will this be a constant source of aggravation every time you get mad at each other? If you think you can really put this behind you and forgive him for lying, I think it's worth a shot. Good luck!

A Change is Gonna Come

The last week has been stressful as hell, but rewarding at the same time. My mornings have been spent going through training at the new job, while in the afternoons I've worked at the flower shop. This week marks my last week at the flower shop, so things will hopefully settle down some for me. Honestly, I'm feeling about my last day at the shop the same way a kid feels about the last day of school: a little anxious about the change, but excited about the new beginning. I'm particularly excited about the people I'll be working with. It's been a long time since I've had the chance to work with such fun-loving, high-spirited people, and I'm loving it. For example, last Wednesday we met up at Tavern on 4th for karaoke. We rather euphemistically called it a "team-building exercise," but it only took one song for the team to be officially built. That song was...wait for it...wait for it... Britney Spears' "Oops! I Did It Again." I'd nicknamed us the Hampton Hoochies, and (if I do say so myself) we sang the hell outta that song. To be more precise, George (our new maintainance man) sang the hell out of it.

Who'd have thought that of a bunch of women, one gay man, and a maintainance engineer, the maintainance engineer would be the one to know every single word. Even the spoken interlude in the middle of the song. Giving credit where it's due, George didn't just sing that song, he rocked it. Then he rolled it over and spanked it, lol. Clearly, it was one of those moments we'll be talking about for years to come. It's also especially gratifying to know I'll be working in a place where I can actually contribute something. Boss Lady at the flower shop rides me so hard, sometimes I have to reach back to make sure she hasn't strapped a plow on my shoulders. While I know I'll be working hard at the hotel (especially as we're getting ready for grand opening) I feel appreciated in a way that I haven't in a long time. As douche-ish as it sounds, I can't wait to get to work.

Random thought for the day

Just got a question for next month's column about a guy who's tempted to cheat. He went on and on, extolling the virtues of his hot new prospect compared to his current girlfriend. After giving it some thought, I've come up with the thought "don't let the green grass fool you--there's just as much manure over there." To put it in Frat Boy English: for every hot girl out there, there's a guy who's sick of banging her. To find out exactly how I responded, look for the new column on the Ask Uncle Trey Pound fanpage on Facebook in a couple of weeks.

Five Things I've Learned from Porn

1) I don't care what Oprah says, SIZE MATTERS. 2) Sometimes in life, you just have to fake it. 3) "Sloppy seconds" are only questionable to picky people. 4) It doesn't matter what we look like on the outside, we're all pink and horny on the inside. 5) 5 pounds of makeup can't hide 10 years of meth addiction.

Road Trip Diaries, pt. 2: award ceremony, hot dogs, and back to G-Vegas with time to drink.

Alright, having successfully found something to eat (the best jerk chicken wings I've had in a long time, for the record), we hurriedly got dressed for the Just Not Famous Enough awards ceremony. Since we didn't have a hotel room in which to change, and we couldn't change at the site of the show, we had to get creative. And by "creative" I mean the girls got dressed in the truck on the side of the street as evening traffic crawled by. My favorite moment from getting dressed was when I was getting changed. I crawled into the back of the truck, stretched out as best I could and started changing pants. When I was done, Su had to let me out. As I climbed out, I caught a glimpse of us in the glass storefront of the F.W. Woolworth's: Su was standing over the gutter using a water bottle to brush her teeth as I climbed (half-dressed) out of the back of the truck. I remember thinking, "Gotta say one thing about Pitt County folks, we sure know how to make in impression." We actually managed to get three girls into their fancy dresses (and me into my outfit) without getting an indecency citation. No small feat, considering the wind kept whipping Su's dress to dangerous heights. Finally, everyone was dressed, and we headed out. The plan was to drop Su off at the press box so she could get pictures of people walking the red carpet. I was to take the girls to the Marriott down the street to meet someone (still don't know who) then come back to drop the girls off for their turn on the red carpet. When we got to the hotel, the only familiar faces I saw belonged to guys from Irvine, who were scheduled to walk the carpet just after us. After getting up with Su and finding out that we were expected on the carpet in 3 minutes, we hauled ass back to the awards show. We pulled up, I hopped out and opened the door for the girls, and they had their turns looking all hot on the carpet. They then went inside to finalize their plans with the event organizer. Meanwhile, I stayed in the press box with Paula and the other journalists, freezing our asses off. The temperature was dropping along with the sun, and it got ridiculously cold out there. Cold as it was, I was kind of having fun watching the local "celebrities" preening and showing off for the (bored, cold, and mostly unimpressed) members of the press. Finally, we were allowed inside. I was in desperate need of something to warm me up, so I quickly ordered a stiff vodka-n-tonic with lime. After all, nothing warms the spirits like some chilled spirits. Once that began to kick in, I started to relax and check things out. Things were a little unorganized at first, but that's to be expected since this was the first event of its kind to be put on in NC. Between awards, there were bands and artists representing each of the nominated genres performing. My favorite was a hip hop group called Liquid Sun (http://www.myspace.com/officialliquidsun). It was a foursome, consisting of three (very good looking) Black guys, and one (pretty-fly-for-a-) White guy. They had the crowd hyped, and wound up winning the award for their category, so it was a good night all around for Liquid Sun. Morgan and Ashlee had been asked to present the Just Not Famous Enough award for alternative rock band. The whole way there, they'd been rehearsing their scripted bit, trying to come up with ways to deliver the lines smoothly. I'm not sure how, but the subject of Legally Blonde came up, particularly Jennifer Coolidge's line, "...makes me wanna hot dog rrreeeeaaaalll bad!" Morgan jokingly said, "I should say that when I get on stage!" and the joke was born. I dared her to do it, and sure enough she did. When the girls took the stage, Ashlee set her up: Ashlee: Well, I'm really excited to be here. What about you Morgan? Morgan: I'm soooo excited. Ashlee: Oh yeah? How excited are you Morgan? Morgan: I'm so excited, it makes me wanna hot dog rrreeeeaaaaaal bad! Unfortunately, no one else was in on the joke, so it sorta fell flat. But the girls looked so hot, I don't really think anyone gave a damn. In any event, the girls did a great job and I was really proud of them for representing the magazine so well. In no time at all, it was time to begin the drive back to Greenville. We were using Morgan's GPS (named "Gypsy") to navigate our way home, and it was giving us constant updates about our expected time of arrival back in G-Vegas. When Gypsy indicated that we'd be back home at about 1:30 am, all it took was Su saying "That's enough time to head downtown for a cocktail..." and suddenly we were on a mission. After a brief pause outside of Durham (where I peed for about 10 minutes), we arrived back in G-Vegas at around 1:37. I managed to down four (maybe five) beers and two shots of tequila before last call. I'm more than a little proud of that--I think that might be a personal best for me.

Road Trip Diaries, pt. 1: Leaving Pitt County, jerk wings, and British Accents

Friday was one of the funnest, most exciting days I've had in a long time. Ever have one of those days where things just seem a little...better in some indefineable way? People's jokes seem funnier; the sky seems bluer; everything seems to hum with the certainty that life is good. I was so there yesterday.

I met up with Su, Ashlee, Morgan, and Paula at the G-Vegas Magazine office a little past noon. Ashlee and Morgan (two of our G-Vegas Magazine Cuties) were presenting an award at the Just Not Famous Enough Music Awards in Greensboro, and the rest of us were going along to take pics and provide support. The girls showed off their (gorgeous) dresses, while I tried to decide between the ties I wanted to wear with the all-black outfit I was planning on wearing. After grabbing a quick bite to eat at 'Sup Dawgs (freaking love that place) we settled in for the drive to Greensboro. Su, Mo, Ashlee and I were in the G-Vegasmobile, while Paula followed in her car. She was flying out of Raleigh the following day, so she needed to drive on her own. I felt bad letting her drive the whole way alone, but I needed to be in the truck with Su so we could plan our day and help the girls practice the script they'd been given for the presentation of the Alternative Music award.

Speaking of the G-Vegasmobile, I noticed something funny as soon as we left Pitt County. See, around here people are familiar with the magazine. So while I'm used to being stared at when I'm in the truck, it's mostly looks of recognition. People honk, wave, smile at us. The first time I drove the truck alone I felt like a rock star, lol. Once we left Pitt County, however, I could feel the recognition level slipping. People passing us on the highway gave us quizzical looks--at times I could read there lips as they read the G-Vegas logo that's emblazoned down the sides and back of the truck. So the girls and I decided to have some fun. We started smiling and waving when we'd catch people staring at us. Some quickly looked away, embarrassed at having been caught staring, while most smiled and waved back. One little girl stuck her arm out the window, waving wildly as her parents' car flew past us just outside of Raleigh. It was awesome.

Between prepping for the awards show, the girls and I spent most of the trip laughing and joking about random things. Since I was riding shotgun, I was designated dj, and I continuously scanned the radio looking for music to sing along to at the top of our lungs. We car-danced, told stories, and just generally had a blast.

In no time at all, we were in Greensboro. We decided to get some food, which turned out to be something of a challenge. We agreed on Chik-fil-a and parked the truck. When we walked down the street [on the way, we passed the F.W. Woolworths where the A&T students held their historic sit-in], and got to the doors of the restaurant, only to find them locked. The lettering on the doors indicated they closed at 3:30. Huh? We then went into an indoor shopping plaza, looking for more places to eat. Subway? Closed. Hibatchi Grill? Locked up tight. We finally got to a caribbean restaurant that was closed as well. A woman standing just outside the doors at the end of the corridor noticed us and came back inside. Seems she was the proprietress of the place, and upon hearing that we'd just gotten into town from Greenville, opened the place and heated up some food for us. It's been forever since I've had jerk chicken, but the wings I ordered were the best I've had in a long time. They were so spicy they made my lips tingle, but I couldn't get enough. We thanked her repeatedly and tipped generously.

I'd joked with the girls along the trip about how I sometimes like to do fake accents, so we agreed that I'd be "British" on the road trip. As we were paying and leaving the restaurant, the owner asked me, "Where you from? London?" Now, for those not in the know, if one is going to have a fake accent, one must also have an appropriate backstory. So when she asked where I was from, I had my story ready: in my most posh, Eastenders accent I responded "I was born in Trinidad but we moved to London when I was two." Paula studied her shoes, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Ashlee biting the corner of her lip. Hell, she damn near chewed through her lip trying not to laugh, lol. As soon as we got back into the corridor with the door safely shut behind us we burst out laughing, drawing some odd looks from a family that seemed to be on a similarly fruitless search for food.

Coming next in Part 2 of the Road Trip Diaries: the Just Not Famous Enough awards ceremony; "Makes me wanna hot dog reeeeaaaal bad"; and Back to G-Vegas with time to drink.

Pick any direction, as long as it's forward.

I've been talking lately about taking my writing (namely my advice column) to the "next level" but so far it's amounted to just that: talk. The past few weeks, I've been hanging out at Barnes & Nobles alot--stalking the shelves that feature guides to writing and getting published. My friend Kristen (who writes for Greenville's Daily Reflector) suggested I check out a book called The Writers' Market, but the $30 price tag had me flinching. Since I was able to get my check early today, I decided to splurge and buy the damn thing. The price still made me slightly queasy, but I'm considering it an investment in my future. I'm going to use the resources in what Kristen called her "bible" to advance my fledgling career as a columnist.

While I love working for G-Vegas Magazine, it's been an unpaid position for almost two years now, and it doesn't look like that's going to change anytime soon. So, it's time for me to shit or get off the proverbial pot. I'm not sure if finding a paying gig means I'm "shitting" or "getting off the pot," but I do know that this burning desire to write isn't going to fade. In fact, the time I've spent with G-Vegas has only confirmed to me that this is what I was meant to do.

Tomorrow afternoon, Su, Morgan, one of the new G-Vegas girls and I will be driving to Greensboro for an award ceremony (some award for North Carolina's athletes, artists, musicians, and writers who are on the verge of a breakthrough) where the two G-Vegas Girls will be presenting one of the awards. Along the way, I'll be reading my Writers' Market, taking notes, and making plans. Since it's a bit of a drive, I'll have plenty of time for all that.

Now that I have a definite plan in mind, I feel a lot better about the direction my life has taken. Like the title of this blog states: "pick any direction, as long as it's forward."

Polly and Joe's grapevine (originally written 7/26/07)

I've spent this weekend at Jackie and the Colonel's place, working on tasks around the yard. It's been a while since I've done anything resembling yard work, and my muscles are screaming right now.

While I was raking leaves along the fence that separates our property from the neighbors, the Ayers, I saw Polly come out and amble towards me.

When my family first moved onto Leggett Mill Road, we were the first black family. Polly and Joe Ayers had lived in their house next door since Jesus was in high school, and were the stereotypically eccentric Southern neighbors. Once, when I was in high school, Joe climbed atop his roof to adjust his satellite and fell off. Keep in mind Joe was in his 70's at the time of his rooftop death climb. To this day, I don't know what's funnier: the fact that my 70-something year old neighbor fell off the roof, or the fact that he was back up there the next day with a rope anchoring his body to the chimney.

Polly, on the other hand, was always viewed as a bit of an annoyance. She was infamous for approaching the fence that separated our properties, and engaging whatever unfortunate soul was closeby in conversation. And it was never really a conversation of any importance. It was usually more of a dull recitation of her activities that day.

About ten years ago or so, Joe passed away, and Polly remained in their house alone. I've seen her occasionally out in her yard puttering around, but I reflexively avoided her. Today, I couldn't avoid her. I was raking leaves by the fenceline (damn that fenceline) when I looked up to see Polly approaching. I waved and went back to my raking, hoping she wasn't trying to conversate. She was. She propped her lean frame against the fence and said something neighborly about the weather. I was still hoping she'd move along, but I was fresh outta luck. She proceded to comment on the weather, Christmas, dogs (about that time, my parents' dog, Max ran up and tried to make friends with Polly), and grapes. It was as we discussed the grape vines that grew in both our backyards, that things took something of a turn.

In certain parts of Eastern NC, it's common to see grapevines growing in peoples' backyards. The grapes, I suppose, can be used for wine, but if most families are like mine they just pick them and eat them. I remember summer nights, mowing the lawn, and grabbing grapes off the vine as I walked past. As Polly commented on the sad condition of her grapevine, she said, "...yeah, I never cared much for grapes, Joe was the one what put that grapevine up...I shore do miss Joe...especially when the grapes are ripe..." As she said it, she gazed off into the distance, as if she was watching Joe pull his rusted pickup into their gravel driveway. She went on to say that some summers, she picked baskets full of grapes, thinking Joe would love them, only to give them away.

As I looked at her in the haze of an unseasonably warm day, I felt like I'd never seen her before. All of a sudden she wasn't the pesky, eccentric neighbor. She was a woman who'd lost her partner. She'd signed on for life, and she'd drawn the long straw. He might have died first, but she had to live without him, and it broke her heart. And every time those grapes hang full and heavy on the vine, she thinks of her Joe, the one what put the grapevine up in the first place.

Nancy Jenkins (originally written 8/29/08)

Nancy Jenkins died yesterday in Raleigh. Not too many people outside of North Carolina know who she is. Hell, not too many people inside of North Carolina know who she is. She was the mayor of Greenville from 1989-2001 (?) and her term saw a time of great change for our fair city. During her tenure, the Convention Center was built and Eastern North Carolina rebuilt after the Flood of '99.

Somewhere along the way (around '95 or so) she encouraged a young man to continue thinking and writing: I'd entered the Martin Luther King Jr. essay contest at the advice of my english teacher, Mrs. Yeomans. Yeo-Yeo (as Sheon and I used to call her) loved my entry [I recall her discussing the essay with my mother, and saying "I really think God sent Martin Luther King as a savior to the Black people." I think my mother was honestly speechless], but I didn't think it would have much of an impact outside of my school's walls.

The night of the award ceremony (I'll never forget, it was held in the WEB DuBois Center), I was genuinely surprised to hear my name called as the winner for the Senior (high school) division of the contest. As I read my essay [I can't remember everything I wrote, but the general gist was to stop the cycle of bitterness and neglect in the Black community--I will always remember the line, "When will we learn that to bequeath this legacy of hatred and animosity to the next generation is to damn them to the same miserable existence we so vehemently decry?"], I could feel a hush in the room as they sat absorbing my words. It was the first time I could feel the power of my words. I think that might have been the exact moment I fell in love with writing.

After I finished speaking, Mayor Jenkins walked over to me to shake my hand. As she clenched my hand, she leaned in close and said earnestly, "That was lovely. You make sure you keep writing. I can tell from the way you speak and the way you write you've got a brilliant mind, and you need to share that with the world." I was floating on air. Mayor Jenkin's words were the first inkling I had that writing was something that might have any relevance beyond academia. I'd enjoyed writing before, but I'd never really considered any practical application of it.

I have no idea if she had any idea what that simple comment meant to me, but it's still with me, all these years later.

My half of a conversation with a friend

A friend recently sent me a letter, asking me how I deal with issues. In particular she wanted to know how I deal with racism and homophobia. Just thought I'd share part of the letter I sent her:

.....it's not so much a matter of turning a cold shoulder to the cruelty of others, it's more about deciding who determines how I feel about myself. people can hurl all types of invectives and profanities at me, but they don't get to make me feel bad about myself. I made a decision a long time ago that I'm fucking fabulous, and no one's cheap opinion is going to change that. No matter what people say to or about me, God will always be in His Heaven, my parents will always love me, and I'll still be fabulous. Once I made that decision, everything else just sort of fell into place. We each have to make similar decisions every day, and when someone chooses to treat me poorly because of a superficial characteristic (race, gender, orientation, etc.) then they "choose" to miss out on all I've got to offer. They miss out on my weird sense of humor, my heart, and all the philosophical conversations I love having (this one, for example). With that in mind, I can only feel sorry for people who spend their entire lives judging and hating those around them. I pity the pricks, because they're missing out.

A great man was born today (originally written 6/16/07)

Today's the Colonel's 60th birthday, and it's got me thinking about some things. After years of vowing I'd never be anything like my dad, I finally realized that I'll probably spend the rest of my life trying to become more like him. I understand now that he's the type of man I want to be, and the type of person I want around me. He's compassionate, patient (to a point) forgiving, honest, (the Santa Claus lie aside) and funny. He knows when to laugh at himself, and when not to laugh at someone else.

In more ways than he may ever know, he's taught me how to be a man. Not through lectures and speeches (though I've gotten my fair share of those), but by being what he wanted me to be. He wanted me to be a man who bore my color, name, and talents with pride and dignity--and he taught me by doing it himself.

I recall an incident when I first joined the Navy. I was in boot camp, and there was a poster on the wall that showed all four branches of the military, and their equivalent ranks. It showed what an E-4 was in all four branches, then what an Officer First class was in all branches, etc. Some of the guys and I were clowning around in front of the poster, bragging about how much rank some of us had upon entry. With four years of JROTC and two years of college, I was entering as an E-3, as opposed to some guys with no ROTC, and just a high school diploma, who were entering as E-1's. I pointed out where I was, then looked up the list to see how that compared with the Colonel's rank. Let's see...I'm here (indicating E-3) and Dad is.....(finger traces up the ranks of enlisted titles).....he's right about......(finger begins to pass officers's ranks).....riiiiiiighht about......(finger has reached upper ranks of officers' titles)....here. Whoa. When I saw the stark difference between my meager position and the position of clear power and authority held by my father, I realized just how far he's gotten in his life. The bulk of his career took place in a very unenlightened time in American history, and he accomplished all that as a Black man in that time. To see just how high his career reached was a moment of intense pride and love.

So while I might have had different idols at different times in my life, I now know that my hero--the man who has done the most to ensure my happiness and well-being; the one man who has done the most to shape me into a person of any quality; the man to whom I will always look to determine what makes a man--has always been my father.

It is with great pride that, on his birthday and the day before Fathers' Day, I salute the Colonel--the greatest man I'll ever know.

Today was a good day (originally written 7/25/07)

This afternoon, I drove out to the old homestead to do some laundry, but I wound up playing photographer with Jackie (mom, for those not in the know). She's still obsessed with her newest toy (digital camera), and I taught her how to use the self-timer on the cam. We spent a couple of hours taking pics of each other and ourselves.

Jackie even managed to rouse the Colonel (that would be my dad, FYI) from his afternoon nap and cajole him into a golf shirt for a family portrait. The Colonel even got Max the dog in on the act, making our family photo session complete.

I had a lot of fun this afternoon, puttering around the yard with Jackie, finessing angles and finding "good light." I mostly enjoyed the fact that our interests converged in such a fun way. It reminded me of when we lived in Fayetteville, and every Saturday Jackie would take me to the library downtown. We'd split up, find our books, then meet up at the checkout line to show each other our choices. It was like our special time, and I lived for it every weekend. Sounds a bit nerdy, I reckon, a 12 year old kid all excited about the library, but I more enjoyed spending time with my mom. She's really an extraordinary woman.

Not to be morbid, but today is the type of day for which I'll be grateful when my parents have died. Today was the kind of day that will comfort me, reminding me that we've spent quality time together. Yeah, today was a good day.

The moment my life changed forever.

I've been thinking about an episode in my past, and I finally feel like I'm ready to share it. In the past, when I've told people this story, I've been greeted with laughter and incredulity. It offended me some, but I realize now that some people were simple unprepared for how brutal my life has been at times. So, here goes...

**Now would be a good time to pour another glass of wine/light a cigarette (or joint)/use the bathroom, or do anything else that might take you away from your keyboard**

When people ask me about my unusually brief time in the Navy, I give them two choices: the polite answer or the honest one. The polite answer is that "military life just wasn't for me..." The honest answer is "I got caught in bed with a Marine." But the truth is more than that--he wasn't just some Marine, and we weren't just in bed. His name was Monty (LCPL R. Montanez), and he was the one. The One. He was a Puerto Rican former football player with steel-gray eyes and a smile that could melt an ice cube. We met when I was temporarily assigned to the mailroom at NATTC (at Pensacola, FL) and he would come in every morning to collect the mail for his Marine barracks. He started joking with me about how tight my uniform pants were (that was no accident) and eventually his jokes turned into flirts. One day, it occured to me that he wasn't just messing with my head, and I flirted back. I was rewarded with that killer smile of his, and I fell--hard.

We dated for about a month and a half, which is like a lifetime for two men. While we were dating, we established something of a routine. We spent our free days walking downtown or out on Pensacola Beach. At nights, we'd either go to Van Gogh's (an awesome little coffee shop downtown), or we'd go to one of Pensacola's many clubs or bars. Since I was underage at the time, it was a very good thing that Monty was so slick at sneaking me into bars: military id's have the picture on the front and the date of birth on the back. Most places were so concerned with the date of birth that they never looked at the picture on the front. After Monty had his id checked and had paid, he'd slip me his id, and I'd present it with the date of birth facing the doorman and my thumb clamped over his (gorgeous) picture. We only got caught at this once, and the doorman (at a gay bar) was so amused at such a ballsy stunt that he gave me a wrist band anyway.

On nights when one or both of us had to stand watch on base, we developed a routine for that also. Monty was friends with just about everyone in the Marine barracks, so when he wanted to go out, he would just tell the person on the quarterdeck (the "lobby" in civilian terms) to cover for him, and to report in for him as if he was present. When I had duty, I would bribe someone to switch shifts with me, giving me the night off. Unfortunately, these weren't fool-proof methods, and it was this sneakiness that eventually did us in.

One weekend night, we both had duty, and we both made our plans to get out of it so we could go out together. I found some loser with no life to switch shifts with me, and Monty made his normal arrangements to take off. We went out, and had a grand old time. It may only be because of what happened next, but in my mind that night was one of the most glorious of my life. We partied like an old married couple that knew just what to do for the other--he knew which drinks I liked, I knew which songs to request for him. While the club was packed, it seemed as if it was just the two of us, dancing forever in a private party for two.

When we left the club, we headed back to base, and to another one of our routines. He entered the barracks through the quarterdeck, as required, then let me in through his window. Monty did have a roommate, but the guy was married to a local woman, and spent almost all of his time with her at her off-base house.

What we didn't know was that while we were out, the guy covering for Monty had gotten sick. His replacement didn't know anything about Monty's arrangement, so he reported him missing. The Staff Sgt. on duty left a note for the guy on quarterdeck watch to allow Monty back into the barracks then notify SSgt. So while Monty was letting me into his room (and we were drunkenly getting down to "business"), SSgt. Hall was heading in our direction. He had a master key (one of those key-card systems), and he was planning on surprising Monty. Monty had latched the security chain over the door, but SSgt. Hall easily kicked the door in.

I was (to put it bluntly) on top, so SSgt. Hall got to me first. He grabbed the back of my neck and threw me to the floor next to the bed. If he hadn't known what was going on when he walked in (certain...movements can only be one thing, and the smell of sex filled the room), it was crystal clear when he pulled me, naked, from on top of Monty. Monty was equally undressed and in an equally compromising position, so there was no hiding what we'd been up to. I looked up at him, already stuttering on excuses and lies, but they fell on deaf ears. SSgt. Hall was enraged, and he took it out on me. He kicked me and hit me, raining down blows on the back of my head and my exposed back. I'd curled into a protective fetal position, but I just couldn't get away from his fury.

After beating me for what seemed like an eternity, he stopped, panting and sweating heavily. Looking up at him as he stood there gasping for air, a perverse thought ran though my mind, "The way he's sucking air, you would think he's the one that was in bed..."

He pulled me to my feet and push/pulled me into the bathroom. I honestly thought he meant to kill me in there. Instead, he grabbed a towel off a nearby rack, turned the water on, and ordered me to "get cleaned up." I gingerly washed my face, taking note of the boot-shaped bruises already forming on my arm and shoulder. When I walked back out of the bathroom, Monty was sitting on the edge of his bed in his PT shorts and a tee-shirt. His shoulders were slumped, and his head was hanging in defeat. I hoped he would look at me, give me some hope, but he determinedly avoided my eyes. SSgt. Hall spent the following hour and a half calling us worthless trash. He promised to send us "back to mama" branded as fags. He then had me escorted back to my own barracks. I spent the night trying to cry quietly and failing miserably. My roommate tried to find out what happened, but I just couldn't bring myself to tell him. I felt ashamed, dirty, worthless. After a couple of hours of trying to get past my dejected silence, my roomie quietly got up and rounded up all the razors and medications and locked them in his closet. To this day, I'm grateful he did that--it was one of the lowest points in my life, and I really didn't want to live. Needless to say, it didn't take long for word to spread. By the next afternoon, I was a pariah on base. Everywhere I went, the whispers and accusing stares followed.

Two days later, a special Captain's Mast was held for me. If a court martial is the military equivalent of a judge/jury trial, then a CM is the equivalent of a hearing. It's just as binding, but not quite as formal. Frankly, I might have preferred a more formal setting. The base commander stood there and smilingly told me that I was what was wrong with today's military. My actions had "undermined [his] command" and he couldn't stand the sight of me. I was sentenced to 45 days in restricted barracks, followed by an "other than honorable" discharge from the Navy. My JAG officer (military attorney) advised me that my discharge was a sure thing, and my only real option was to request an appeal. I didn't expect the appeal to work (and it didn't) but it bought me time to continue drawing a paycheck while I was assigned to a temporary (read "cushy") job.

I never heard from Monty again. I heard rumors that he'd basically "denounced" me. I'd heard from some people that he claimed I'd seduced him while he was drunk, while others said I'd raped him outright. Deep down, I don't think Monty would ever lie about me like that, but it's hard to say what a person will do when they're between the proverbial rock and hard place. Monty was a "lifer"--he talked about staying in the Corps for life, so he just might have lied to save his career. I've seen people do a lot worse for a lot simpler things. If he did lie, I've long-since forgiven him.

Looking back, that moment set me up for a lifetime of thinking "It's me against the world." Feeling that despised and hated justified my fears, and gave me a reason to keep lying to the world. But finally I realized I'd been through my worst nightmare: I'd been violently outed, beaten, cursed, and rejected. And it hadn't killed me. It was close for a while, but I was still standing. After that I figured if it was going to cause me that much grief, I might as well own it. I finally came out to my parents a year later and there was no going back.