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.