Photo by Shiela Thomson/Flickr
It’s only recently that I’m getting used to coming first – both in sex and in life. It’s probably because I’ve been used to coming second since birth. I grew up in Guadalajara, Mexico, the country’s second largest city. Now I live in Los Angeles, the American city with the silver medal; this sex blogger can’t afford New York or Manolo Blahniks. In the same way, when you’re a Gay, working-class, Latino man of barely-above-average looks, you always get stuck being the sidekick, just like in the movies. I’m a personal assistant who’s studied English for two years at the most prestigious university in Los Angeles, and I’m still washing dishes for a living – oh, the places where being Mexican takes you! In any case, sooner or later comes the day when you tire of not being the protagonist of your own life, and you take a chance.
For me, it all started with love, although at the time its name wasn’t love, it was Josh. This was back when I was a virgin of only eighteen, and I wore running shoes and a hoodie on first dates. In retrospect, I don’t know which was worse, still being a virgin at eighteen or my fashion sense at the time. Anyway, suffice it to say that for our first date, Josh and I watched “Enchanted” in a completely empty, dark movie theater – a wasted opportunity, since all we did was hold hands. But back then this was a triumph! For me it was the first time holding the hand of a boy not related to me. The contact of our two boy hands, so intimate, so soft, so forbidden, and so right, was capable of giving my chaste body an erection. Then and there, I felt that this cute boy, his hand, my hard-on, and I were meant to live an epic love story. We would fall desperately in love and slow-dance to White-people-music some day, just like in the breeder, romantic, fairytale propaganda film we were watching. He would wear a black tuxedo, and I would wear a white one – and I would be thin enough to pull off wearing white, and my parents and the government would get over the whole Gay thing.
Well, maybe not. What actually happened was that he probably didn’t think I was attractive enough (and trust me, I don’t blame him considering my gelled-back hair and the obscenely oversized Nike hoodie I was wearing), and he never called again. Although I didn’t even get to kiss him, I did get to be depressed for a whole year. On the bright side, I also got to justify my excessive ice cream intake and unmet deadlines. And that’s the name of that tune. I’m sure you’ve all heard it before.
On the other hand, sex was a very different story. The cop who popped my cherry at nineteen (whose name escapes me at the moment) was so excited about taking my virginity that you would’ve thought he got to throw me into a volcano, too. The first time hurts about that much, but no need to explain that one. The act was truly nothing special. So much so, I didn’t even… finish. The cop seemed a bit offended, but it wasn’t my fault: I was much too nervous and distracted by all these new sensations. A man’s lips, strong arms, wide back, thrusting hips, and musky scent – and yet no hands. His body was so distracting, in fact, that I couldn’t get out of my head to enjoy it. This was an educational tour for me, not a pleasure trip. That’s meaningless, amateur sex for ya!
Now that I’m twenty-two, my wardrobe doesn’t have anything larger than a kid’s medium tee, and I’ve done more than my share of Gay dating and fucking, I can claim that I know a thing or two about the subject – even when I don’t. The one true thing I did learn, though, is that there are four types of people you can date; surprisingly or not, I’ve found that most people, at least most of the people that I’ve encountered, including me and a lot of my friends, fit pretty neatly into one. The categories:
I. THE SENSATION-SEEKER, or my friend Junior
Motto: “But it doesn’t count as cheating if I didn’t come!”
Modus Operandi: Deep inside, you’re a slut who’s not really interested in any type of commitment – no judgment. What’s really worth judging, though, is the fact that you are always in a damn relationship because you hate being alone (or you easily get tired of having to look for new boys/girls/mammals you haven’t already diddled). Either way – single or committed – the moments when you’re not having an orgasm, you’re not happy; luckily for you, you’re skilled, limber, and/or popular enough to make ‘em last a few hours at a time.
At your best you are… a rockstar in his prime!
At your worst you are… two words: Hugh Hefner.
II. THE OLD-FASHIONED, or my friend Lilly
Motto: “I just like things the way I like them – the right way!”
Modus Operandi: You are probably the Martha-Stewart doppelganger we all love to hate: conservative and firm in your values. But despite your charming, confident, and composed demeanor, you actually have the self-esteem and integrity of the teenage girl whose tits developed last in her class. In matters of love, you play it cool in front of whatever society it is you’re trying to impress. Nonetheless, you secretly and desperately yearn for a permanent relationship with the perfect soul mate you are 1000% sure God made specifically for you, His most loyal servant– despite all statistical and anecdotal evidence to the contrary. And just to make sure, being the devout Victorian that you are, you pray a thousand times a day for that tall, rich, handsome, motorcycle-driving, guitar-playing, well-endowed doctor or lawyer who loves your cooking, extended family, and unshaved back.
At your best you are… Princess Diana: classy and beautiful.
At your worst you are… someone married to an ugly guy who is completely beneath you and lives at home with his parents… but isn’t quite Prince William at Buckingham Palace.
III. THE KNOW-IT-ALL
Motto: “I wasn’t dating you; you were dating me!”
Modus Operandi: You are an arrogant smartass who thinks the Pyramids cheated you for the title of seventh wonder of the world. As such, you date absolutely no one because dating is for fools who need to validate their existence through other people (Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids!). However, you eventually realize that you’re in love with an exceptional person. So what do you do? Well, you fuck it up because then you won’t have to deal with the fact that, as it turns out, emotions do exist and they’re not an urban myth your mom fabricated in order to blackmail you into not euthanizing or putting her in a home when she’s old.
At your best you are… Newton, Machiavelli, or Marie Curie.
At your worst you are… Someone delusional enough to think these people ever got laid.
IV. THE HOPELESS ROMANTIC
Motto: “Love conquers all… fuck my bills!”
Modus Operandi: You date absolutely everyone! But since you’re doing it all in the name of love, you think this somehow spares you from the title of slut. You fall in love selectively (or so you claim), but immediately so, and with impossible, sadistic men who will keep you perpetually guessing, thus giving you material for your next novel, which has already been written by all the bad romance writers out there, proving once and for all the futility of your existence. * Gasp for air *
At your best you are… Carrie Bradshaw (insightful), Ally McBeal (idealistic), or Juliet (ever-true).
At your worst you are… Carrie Bradshaw (full of it), Ally McBeal (weak), or Juliet (dead)
In case you couldn’t tell, I fall into the last category, among the hopeless romantics who want epic, melodramatic, happily-ever-after love–or else nothing at all. It is this identity, and the way it relates to the others, that I will explore in this blog. By embracing this part of myself, and all of the messy emotions and slutty decisions and ice cream binges that come with it, I hope to eventually be able to claim my role as the protagonist of my story, my Gay Latino life, in this crazy, sexy city that I call home.