Men Are Assholes, and They Don’t Know What They Want

This comes with a warning: Never date a writer … or a reality star.

I have been single for a long time. My longest relationship lasted exactly one year. I moved in to his house on June 21, 1993, and I moved out on June 21, 1994. He was a raging alcoholic. 

With the exception of that year, I have lived alone for more than a quarter century, which is amazing since I am only twenty-nine. You just tasted part of your lunch from yesterday didn’t you?

As you know, living in a garage-level (I still refuse to call it a basement) apartment in DC was not attractive to potential suitors, and apparently living in a luxury apartment in Rockville didn’t quite do the trick either although …

There was the six-week relationship in Rockville with the Jewish boy who wasn’t “out” and never invited me to spend time with him and his friends although I included him in everything. After giving this potential relationship my all, I knew I couldn’t give anymore when we were at the movies, and he saw a cousin of his. He screamed then pointed at me and yelled, “Stay here.” Then with arms flailing and his feet not touching the ground, he ran out to their car to chit chat while I waited on the sidewalk. When he was done kibitzing, he returned to me, and I refused to speak to him.

“What’s wrong?”

“You pointed at me and told me to stay as if I were a dog.”

“Oh, well they don’t know I’m gay.”

“Seriously? The way you ran to their car? There were squirrels in the trees pointing at you and yelling fag.”

Then, I imitated him running to the car, to the horror of him and the amusement of everyone in line for the movie. Needless to say, we did not pick out china patterns after that, nor did we see the movie.

Prior to that, I dated the forty-year-old virgin. Well, not quite dated. We would go out several times a year because he thought I was funny and would laugh at everything I said. I kind of like having an audience. But, there is no future in a relationship based on a Jew being a ham. Did I mention he was a virgin? Do the math.

Soon after arriving in Washington in 1997, I met Frankenstein at the Pride Festival (he was incapable of human emotion). We dated for eight months. He would travel all the time and never invite me to accompany him, usually on the weekends, yet I stuck it out because I was desperate to be in a relationship, until a friend asked one night, “Do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?” I broke up with him the next day.

There was my other Jewish boyfriend, the one my mother adored. He dumped me on my birthday in 1999 because he didn’t want to be attached on New Year’s Eve.

With such a lovely dating history, I made up my mind at that point to quit actively seeking love, and I also realized I was happier when single.

Over the next decade, there was the guy who wanted to spend time with me – in my apartment, but not in public. The Jew who freaked out at six weeks when my friends invited us to dinner. He and apartment boyfriend hooked up after that when they discovered their mutual love of bondage.

There was the one who declared after I found out he was dating someone else that he could not see me exclusively because if he did he would fall in love with me, and he swore he wouldn’t fall in love again. He and the other guy he was dating recently celebrated eight lovely years together. Funny, I was dating him five years ago.

My favorite was the one in witness protection. He couldn’t remember how to spell his first name, and his condo looked staged. There were no pictures of family or friends, just pictures that came with the frames. He also couldn’t remember his age or where he worked. However, he was the best of all of them in bed and still is.

I resigned myself to believe my mother was right when she declared I would die alone. When I left the drunk to live on my own again, she said, “You are better off living by yourself.” I wanted to say make up your mind. But my living alone saved her from explaining who my roommate was to all her friends, who, ironically, knew I was gay.

Over the last year, I went on two dates. Yes, two dates. I also had dinner with the virgin and the guy in witness protection, who is still the best one in bed and a great conversationalist even though I know nothing of his life prior to 2003. Hey, a guy has to eat.

I figured that moving into a trailer park was not going to help me hook Mr. Right. What gay man wants to date trailer trash? Boy was I in for a surprise – or wasn’t I?

Twenty some years ago, I walked into the Oar House in Norfolk, Virginia, and my friend Joe Moore, the best looking guy in Norfolk (may he rest in peace), said to Christopher Lance (may he also rest in peace),“Watch out for that one; he’s husband shopping.” If you watched porn in the 1980s, you know who Christopher Lance was. His real name was Bobby Slack. We dated for a bit. And now you know who said that about me and to whom.

As I have always said, I apparently was not a good shopper.

A part of me always thought that my living situations, apartment dwelling to be exact, were handicapping my prospects. With that in mind, mobile home living was not going to improve the situation, but I am happiest when I am single, so I didn’t care.

So, here is how it all happened. I was on a dating sight (I keep putting myself out there), and no, not Manhunt or M4M or Adam4Adam or FuckeMeTonight (actually that one is made-up, but feel free to steal it if you want to). I saw this profile a while ago, but for some reason, I decided to send a note one day, and it went like this.

“I’ll bet everyone tells you how hot you are.”

The following day, I got “Actually, no. Do you really live in a mobile home? And do you really own two AMCs and a Rambler?”

There was a link to my blog on the site. Well, I figured that would be the end of it, and honesty was the best policy.

“Yes, I live in a mobile home, and I drive two AMCs and have a Rambler in restoration.”

And the response was:

“Cool. It is on my bucket list to live in a mobile home, and a few weeks ago, I went to look at an AMC Matador wagon.”

Opportunity only knocks once, so I responded:

“Do you want to do dinner some time? Here is my number 1-800-CYNICAL.”

He called, and we talked. More importantly, he made me laugh. We then talked daily for the week leading up to the date, and he impressed me by not doing the one thing that drives me crazy – sexting.

I found out he only dates guys who own dogs because only they understand about caring for something and about how one needs to be home for the dog at certain times. Yes, he has a dog.

I don’t like being teased. Guys tend to “sext” a lot before a date, and then the date happens, and nothing happens. Besides, at my age, I have had enough sex. I need someone I can talk to and spend time, without looking at my watch.

The date night arrived. It was great. And in case you are wondering. He did not look like his pictures. He looked even hotter in person. That is a surprise I can live with.

We had been dating for more than a month, when I met his crazy family at the fancy restaurant with the two different colored napkins.

If had known that all I needed to do to find romance was become a Gay Jew in a Trailer Park, honey, I would have done this twenty years ago!

Until …

A little history and some psychology for you. At six weeks into a relationship, one knows if he is falling for someone or not. It is usually at this point that several things happen. One of the guys admits he is falling in love. One of the guys dumps the other one because he is afraid of falling in love. One of the guys fakes depression to sort of get out of the relationship without having the balls to admit he just doesn’t want to continue.

I dumped my first boyfriend. I was twenty-five, and I freaked out at six weeks into the relationship and was afraid of falling in love (although I didn't understand that at the time). However, I did it in person, not over the phone or with a letter (this was pre-internet). We have since reconnected on Facebook, we are both still single, and I haven't aged a bit.

In the above relationships, two of them ended right at the six week mark, and in all three, the other party went into a depression, then either disappeared or wouldn’t admit they wanted to end it. I gave each a chance, and in the end, I had to be the man with the balls in the relationship.

To all you guys reading this. If you are done or you don’t want to continue, have the fucking balls to come out and say so. Yes, you will break someone’s heart, but that is better than making someone think he did something wrong or terrible. People deserve honesty.

And bitch, if you are going to date a writer, you really need to watch what you do.

So, here is what happened with Mr. Wrong. Yes, we will call him Mr. Wrong.

After the dinner with his family, he asked why I looked uncomfortable for about five minutes at the table. I didn’t recall looking uncomfortable. I was listening to the conversation, and since he worked for his sister, they started talking about work. What could I add? Politely, I listened. However, he dwelled on that five minutes for more than I thought was necessary. I didn’t tell him that. I let it go. It wasn’t that important to me nor worth discussing.

I had a good time, and that was all that needed to be said. Why analyze the evening?

Now, I may jump around here a few times, so bear with me, I have a lot of points to make.

The one relationship where I lived with my partner for a year was filled with arguing, screaming and drama, which is why it didn’t last. His other relationships lasted a minimum of five years because apparently that is what made them tick.

I refuse to be in a relationship filled with yelling, screaming, hysterics and most of all, drama. I grew up in a house filled with yelling, screaming, hysterics, hitting, and drama. I also grew up around alcohol and drug abuse. I avoid these things in my life. When dating someone, I won’t engage in ridiculous arguments over ridiculous things.

For example, when Mr. Wrong kept asking about the five minutes of silence from me at the dinner, I just said, I was listening because that was what I was doing. Some men would have responded, “Why are you making such a big deal out of this. What is your problem?” And looking back, I really think he wanted me to make this five minutes of listening at the table into some dramatic moment.

At another point in the conversation at the dinner, he asked me about the BMWs at the auto show I attended that afternoon. My response was, “I didn’t look at the BMWs. They all look alike to me. I like cars with character.” I did see the looks from everyone at the table when I said that.

For the record, I have never driven a BMW, Mercedes, or Audi. Surprisingly, I don’t feel deprived.

Unlike me, Mr. Wrong had been in long-term relationships – three of them, two for three years and one for ten. He never talked much about the first one, but apparently number two was his supervisor at work who seduced him on a business trip. They stayed together in a tumultuous relationship that ended when Mr. Wrong found out the man was engaging in scat with other men. This should have been red flag number one for me.

I had to ask him if he kissed Mr. Scat Supervisor and how long it had been since he had. Who wants to kiss a shitty mouth?

The ten-year relationship, which ended three years ago, was with a nasty drunk, according to Mr. Wrong, who was the good guy in the house (they always are and we all know there are two sides to everything). Ten years with a nasty drunk – makes you wonder.

This should have been red flag number two. Mr. Wrong obviously thrived on drama. But even a drama queen has his limits, and the relationship ended when the police had to be called to break up an argument.

I am not saying I am perfect, far from it. I know my flaws and that I can be difficult. I like being in control, I am set in my ways, I act like Joan Crawford when it comes to keeping my house, and I am not easily impressed. I also don’t bring a lot of excitement to a relationship. I just want someone with whom I can enjoy spending time, engaging in conversation, and laughing a lot. I am not going to stir up drama for the sake of stirring up drama.

Now, we also need to look at one other aspect of Mr. Wrong’s prior life. He not only lived on the A list, he lived beyond his means on the A list in two major Midwest cities. He drove the fanciest cars, lived in the biggest houses and wore only designer clothes. The exact opposite of me. And you know that none of those things matter to trailer trash like me.

However, three years ago, Mr. Wrong lost his job in the recession, then his house, moved into an apartment in a new city for a new job, and lost that one as well, and if I counted correctly, lost another one in there somewhere. His ex of ten years somehow also ended up in that new city with a new boyfriend with whom he is still partnered.

As I mentioned, Mr. Wrong works for his sister, and she gave him a small cottage to live in, while he figures out his next move. He has been figuring it out for more than two years. I’ll never forget my first visit to the cottage. I thought it was adorable, but I did notice the remnants of the prior life, mainly the huge artwork on the walls, and the closet filled with more clothes than the wardrobe department on the set of Dynasty. He had more than twenty designer suits, dress shirts out the ass, shoes, shoes and more shoes. I told him when I walked in there, I felt as if I should act like Ethel Mertz at Gimbels Basement, clawing through the racks.

There was a list of goals in the closet including buy a Porsche and be in a long-term relationship. Yes, I thought for a minute I might just be a goal. Another red flag? It was in the back of my mind.

I have to say something about expensive artwork. Why is it always so fucking huge? Who has walls that big? Also, why is it usually so ugly? Just because something costs a lot, doesn’t make it pretty.

As a Jew, I was taught art is what matches your couch.

I did not comment on his artwork, well not exactly. There was this painting in his bedroom of a woman’s eyes that took up the whole wall. He told me the artist picks someone in the background in a famous painting and creates a painting from some aspect of that person’s face. Whatever, I felt as if she was staring at us all night. The damn thing was ten feet wide and four feet high. Seriously!

But none of this difference in priorities bothered me because he appeared not to be bothered by it.

From the day after the first date, he would text me thirty to forty times a day. I am not exaggerating. It was actually fifty to sixty, but I didn’t think you would believe me. We would talk for an hour every night. He told me at one point he was starting to really like me, and that was before the second date.

By the third date he texted he missed me. That should have been a red flag.

On New Year’s Eve, the third holiday in a row I spent alone this year, he had a preplanned trip to a ski resort in California. This was the weekend after our first date (yes, I am still jumping around, but I have to make some more points). I decided not to text or talk to anyone as I was a little down. Everyone I knew was out of town, and here I was alone on New Year’s Eve – again!

He texted me about five times, and I was getting a little sick of it. So, I texted back that I was going to bed, and I would talk to him in the morning because I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Then he called. I didn’t answer. Then he called again. I finally answered because it was the only way to make him stop. I didn’t want to shut off my phone because if there were an emergency, I would have to wait for it to boot up.

During that conversation, he informed me that he was an “overcommunicator”and that I should not shut him out as he will worry and we should talk out anything or feelings we have. We had not been on our second date yet.

This should have been red flag number … OK, I lost count here.

The texting and talking continued for six weeks solid. Then one day it stopped. It didn’t slow down; honey, it stopped. And it stopped when he was supposedly on the road to his former Midwest City for a dental appointment because he loved his dentist and didn’t want to switch. I wondered if she would address his slight bad breath problem?

I thought he had an accident or was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. I texted him mid-day asking if he was OK. No response. Then I called. No response.

Then he texted, “At the gym, will chat latter.”

What the fuck?

We didn’t chat. I called again two hours later. I got a text. “I don't want to talk or text anyone. I am down on my luck, and I don’t know where to turn. I have to figure out my next move. My luck is running out.”

I responded, “Remember when on New Year’s Eve, you told me not to shut you out? Well, you shouldn’t do that to me. I am here to listen.”

He responded, “Thanks. I didn’t want to burden you.”

And, I never heard from him again … until ...

After two days of silence, I sent the following. “Dear Mr. Wrong. This is so typical. Six weeks into a relationship, the guy gets depressed then dumps me. I can see the writing on the wall. I will save you the trouble. Good bye, good luck, I am done. Milton.”

He responded, “Wow … ok, this is for the best. It was never about you. Have a good life.”

If he really did want to continue seeing me, he would have called to talk me out of it, but the son of a bitch did not have the balls to call me on the phone and just say, “I really don’t want to do this anymore” or “I want to move on” or “You suck in bed, and I need more.” I know I am lousy in bed, so this wouldn't have been a good argument.

This pussy took the coward’s way out and forced my hand.

Now, you can imagine all the crap that went through my head. First of course, was what did I do?

I really hate being fucked with. Don’t tell me you miss me and you are really beginning to like me and come on super strong with constant communications every day if you have no intention of following through for the long haul. Fuck with someone else. I don't like being test-driven.

If he was so worried about his finances, why was he taking ski trips all over the country? We have excellent skiing right next door to us. Did I tell you one of those trips was with his ex and his new partner? He invited me to go, but it was mid-week, and I cannot take three days off from work with only a day’s notice.

So, my thought was that although he says living in a trailer is on his bucket list, he just couldn’t see himself with trailer trash as a partner, especially one who was not impressed with who has what and what they can or cannot afford.

Then I noticed he changed his online profile pics on the dating site the next day. That is when I realized what was really going on.

His goal was to be in a long-term relationship again, but what he wants is another drama-filled screamfest with the police being called out once a week, and I’ll bet he wants that with someone who can keep him in a lifestyle in which he wants to become accustomed.

He can’t handle a healthy relationship. Few, if any, men can. I refuse to become a nasty drunk or take a dump in another man’s mouth in order to find love. Believe me, there was a time I would have done anything, but never anything involving the urinary or digestive tract.

The real problem is I will never know what really happened because he refused to talk on the phone, but frankly, I don't care anymore. I will wonder from time to time, but I won't care.

I have always thought I was flawed because no one has ever fallen in love with me or to be more exact, no one has ever allowed himself to fall in love with me. However, this six week affair affirmed something I have known for a long time.

Men are assholes, and they don’t know what they want ... and somehow, I figure I, too, fit into that equation.

And yes, I do hope he reads this.

If you are husband shopping, follow me, get on my email list, share me with your friends but don't tell me you miss me.

Close Combat

This one is for my friend, Lisa.

I have never been in a fight. OK, I was beaten up a few times as a kid, once by a neighbor whose mother told him I threw a mud pie at their 1965 Oldsmobile when I was five. He was eight. Yes, I threw the mud pie, but in my defense, I was aiming for my friend Jerry. I missed. This woman held onto that for the entire day, and that afternoon, when the school bus dropped her son off, she came out, said something to him, pointed at me, and next thing I knew I was on the ground getting my ass kicked. I didn’t throw any punches because I was too busy guarding my face. Every drag queen knows never the face, never the face!

My father, the original Mister Macho, who tried to make Robert Conrad look like a flaming sissy, once gave my brother and me boxing lessons using the cushions on my mother’s mid-century modern teak couch. All I learned from that experience was that my father knew nothing about boxing.

Funny thing about my father, he always talked about all the fights he got into as a kid in Brooklyn. Once saying, “I’ve been beaten up by guys smaller than I, and I’ve beaten up guys bigger than I.” Actually, he did not say, “I.” He said, “me.” I just felt like cleaning up the grammar.

What is it about Brooklyn? Everyone who grew up there said they fought every day, yet none of them have cauliflower ears or crooked noses or missing teeth. Is this just an urban legend or is everyone from Brooklyn full of shit?

He also told one story about how three Marines beat him up when he was in the Navy. Apparently, they called him off a bus full of recruits, took him into a room, told him to straighten up his hat, turned off the lights, then punched him in the stomach. All mayhem broke loose, and when they were tired out, they cleaned up in the bathroom and had a good laugh.

My father also told the story about the guy in the Navy who never bathed, so he and two other sailors were ordered to take the guy into the shower and scrub him down with brushes. This was forty years before the Village People made their first appearance.

OK, a fight in the dark, and four naked sailors in the shower. Interesting.

Of course, he always followed these stories with the one about how he fell asleep in a Jeep, and the guy driving it reached over and fondled him. He immediately had him stop the Jeep, beat the guy up, and left him wherever they were in the desert. I have two problems with this story. Anyone who has ridden in a World War II era Jeep will tell you the only way to fall asleep in one is to be dead or passed out drunk. And what were two sailors doing driving a Jeep in the desert?

Needless to say, I did not inherit my father’s mortal combat history. I have also never been fondled in a Jeep. My loss.

I did manage to talk myself out of more fights than you can count on two hands, two feet and an open zipper. I have never punched anyone in my life. This is not to say I have not wanted to. I have also never put my fist through a wall, but then again, that is a very straight thing to do. Straight guys love to punch walls and doors. My friend Chris always said that one day I would get into a fight, and when I threw my first punch, all the rage I have held onto for years would come out, and I would end up killing the guy.

When I was ten years old, my mother thought it would be a good idea to enroll my brother and me in Judo classes at the Jewish Community Center. OK, Judo at the JCC – I am not even going to go there, but you can imagine all the Jewish mothers sitting on the sidelines watching to be sure Irving didn’t get injured or sweaty, and that he had nosh when class was over. OK, I went there. Our mother just dropped us off.

At the time, I thought it might be fun to horse around and learn to fight at the same time. However, Judo is not a martial art for those needing to learn how to defend themselves. The translation for Judo is “gentle way.” How often do you get into a fight in your pajamas? In addition, to engage in Judo combat, your opponent must also be barefoot in pajamas, and you must grab the collar of his pajamas in a certain way in order to throw him. But if he throws you, you must land on your back, throw out one arm and yell, “Hiyah!” with an accent on the “yah.” Seriously?

I am amazed I can remember that since it was forty years ago.

“Excuse me, sir, who just broke into my house, will you put on this snazzy white robe, take off your shoes, tie this lovely pastel belt around your waist, stand with your feet parallel and shoulder width apart, and let me grab you by the collar and throw you over my shoulder?  Oh, and don’t forget to flex your knees a bit and bounce on the balls of your feet. Thank you.”

No offense to Judo enthusiasts, but even at that young age, I found this martial art to be useless for self defense. I wanted to take Karate, but that would never be taught at a Jewish Community Center because you might poke or kick someone’s eye out. Or worse, you might injure your hands and not be able to take piano or violin lessons or worse hold a pastrami sandwich again.

By age eleven, my career in white pajamas was over. I did get up to yellow belt, but to go beyond that, I would have had to fight someone, and again, I am not a fighter.

Several years ago, while living in Mount Pleasant (which was neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss), they started offering Krav Maga classes at Bancroft Elementary School, next door to where I lived. A friend of mine’s partner, a lesbian of course, took the course and loved it. I would chat with the instructor as she would head to her car, and she tried to get me to join the class, but at the time, I really had no desire for mortal combat.

For those who don’t know, basically, Krav Maga is an Israeli self defense technique that roughly translated means “close combat.” It is a combination of boxing, martial arts, and other fighting techniques intended to take down your opponent as quickly as possible, so you don’t miss the early bird special with soup or salad, coffee or tea, and dessert. Jews are nothing if not efficient.

My idea of fitness has always been weight lifting and running. I used to run five to ten miles a day in all kinds of weather until a fateful morning in 2007. My bad hip slipped (there is no other way to put this), and I ended up having the sidewalk for breakfast. Now, being the Neanderthal that I am, I immediately got up and started running again.

Archeologists say Neanderthals had a very high pain threshold evidenced by the fact that their bones are full of self-set fractures. A Neanderthal could fall hundreds of feet chasing a Woolly Mammoth, break a foot, reset it in seconds, and keep running. I am the same way. I have reset at least two broken toes. I told a doctor neighbor how I did this once, showed him the black and blue toe, and he got squeamish and almost barfed in front of me.

I knew immediately something was wrong. My shirt was covered in blood, and when I reached up, I realized a part of my face was bleeding as I had a four-inch wide, two-inch deep hole in my chin. I took off my shirt, held it up to my chin and walked home. This was 5:00 am on 16^th Street in Washington, DC. No one stopped or noticed me. Upon arriving home, Serena, who was by then completely deaf, had no idea I was home. I showered then drove myself to the emergency room at Washington Hospital Center. Fortunately, it was empty that morning, and they took me right in.

The doctor could not get over the fact that I showered and drove myself over. He asked if I was in pain. I wasn’t. He also asked about my swollen fingers, which apparently I had sprained in the fall. I didn’t even realize I did. I then relayed my Neanderthal factoid, but I think a part of him thought I was on some kind of controlled substance. He checked my pupils and seeing they weren’t dilated came to the conclusion that I was just a freak of nature. Big surprise.

Thus ended almost thirty years of running. I tried cardio machines, but moving in place and getting nowhere to me is the most boring thing one can do. Cardio machines gave me heel spurs, and you probably guessed, they make me whine, too.

Going back a dozen or so years, at age thirty-two, I decided to take dance classes, beginning with tap, then ballet and modern. I wasn’t all that good, but I did manage to dance for a season with the Palm Beach Opera, only because they needed someone over six-feet tall to dance with one of the women members of the ballet, as we were called. I wasn’t a women member, I was just a member. The choreographer retired at age forty after trying to choreograph me. Some people make shoe salesmen cry; I do the same thing to choreographers.

I took dance for three years, but when I moved to DC, transportation and getting to a class after work proved impossible; thus ended my dream of becoming the next Ken Berry. Besides, Kinney Shoe Stores were out of business by then.

I did try a class at a studio a year before I left DC, but I was the only guy in a class of twenty-five-year-old women, and frankly, I did not feel like continuing.

In the armpit of Maryland known as Rockville, there was no way to have any extracurricular activities because it took two hours to drive three miles.

But now, I live in Jessup, where I can go grocery shopping during rush hour and still be home in time for Diane Sawyer.

Some guys deal with a mid-life crisis by buying a car or changing their wardrobe, so they have more street cred. I guess my sudden need to try something totally outside my comfort zone is my way of dealing with the approaching date of my fiftieth birthday. I started thinking about taking a boxing class. It looks like a great workout. I still go to the gym every morning and have not missed a workout since 1977, but frankly, weight lifting is starting to bore me, and I only workout for thirty minutes now just to maintain, and I cannot wait to be done.

I have no desire to bungee jump, parachute, race a car, ski, grow a beard, wear bikini underwear, or date a younger woman, but I think hitting someone would be a fantastic stress reliever. Working as a government contractor, I tend to think about hitting people all the time.

One Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago, I was watching a Jersey Shore marathon on MTV, and there was an advertisement for Krav Maga Maryland, and they mentioned a studio in Columbia, which I could spit at from Jessup. I also knew where it was because there is a great Asian-fusion restaurant in the same strip mall. I could drive there in seven minutes any time of day, and I could stop at Walmart on the way home. Win-win. The next day I called about classes.

I met with one of the trainers that week, and he explained the classes and the schedule and asked me what I did for a living and why I wanted to do this. I gave him the quick version of what you just read, and I signed up. After signing up, he took me over to the where they sell the equipment and told me I would need padded gloves and a cup. I understood about the gloves, but I didn’t understand the need for a cup. Apparently, there is a lot of crotch kicking in Krav Maga. “Excuse me, could we amend that contract I just signed?” He didn’t grab the cup and show me which one to get, he pointed from a distance. I said, “I haven’t put it on yet, so there is no reason to worry about touching it.”

I informed him that I would shop for those items elsewhere to get a better deal. I stopped at Walmart, and they had the same brand cup and gloves for one quarter the price, so I bought four of each. That way I could clean them after every use and not miss a class.

On Saturday, I arrived for my first class, wearing my new cup and gloves. Being a Saturday morning class, there were about forty of us in there, and thankfully, a range of ages from thirty years younger than I to around two years younger than I. Yes, I was the alta cocker in the room.

Everyone, including me, was wearing black sweat pants and black or gray T-shirts and tennis shoes or those weird socks with the toes in them that I find creepy. I was the only one in Chuck Taylors, except for the instructor. Yes, the tall drink of twenty-something water teaching the class shared my taste in shoes. We had a connection; he just didn’t know it yet.

There was one exception – there always is. One guy was barefoot, wearing red short shorts, a pink shirt, and aviator glasses. He also had the Tom Selleck mustache. I pictured him living in the house at the end of the cul-de-sac with a train set in his basement. I made a mental note not to partner with him. No need to be the crazy magnet during my first class.

The class started with running around the room for five minutes, then push-ups, then running backwards for another five, and guess who ran backwards right into me, knocking me on my fat ass? Yep, my magnet brought the weirdo right into me. He couldn’t knock someone else over. It had to be I? I bounced up immediately, as I always do, and kept moving.

We then ran sideways then did these jumps with push-ups between, and I thought I was going to die. The class was only six minutes in, and I was going to have a heart attack in a studio in a strip mall in Columbia, Maryland. I could see the obit. “Obscure blog writer and Gay Jew from a trailer park collapses in Hebrew self defense class during the warm up. No film at eleven.”

I somehow caught my breath, and the punching began. My partner was a guy who was shorter than I but could punch me through a wall if he wanted to. You hold a pad in front of you, while your partner punches you in combinations you call out, but my favorite part was when you say down, he drops and does five push-ups while you run to another part of the room, and he has to find you and begin punching you again. Then you switch. The theory behind this is that most fights happen because you see a love one being attacked and you might get knocked down and have to chase the guy.

To be clear, I am not chasing anyone. The only running I do now is to the 7-Eleven for a pint of ice cream.

At one point, the instructor came over to give me pointers, and I told him it was my first class. When I took dance, I told them it was my first class for almost six months before they finally caught on. He asked how tall I was and then showed me how to adjust for my height. I never knew punching someone could be so much fun – no wonder straight people get into bar fights all the time.

At the end of that exercise, he told us about fighting people at different heights then said, pointing to me, “Your opponent could be … how tall are you?”

No matter where I go, I get pointed out as the freak. Whatever.

The workout is so intense that you are drenched in sweat, and the entire class stinks of BO, but that is half the fun!

The class ended with a very intimate moment. He asked us to pick someone who was nearest to our size. I got as far away from Jeffrey Dahmer as I could and picked out this six-foot-two, twenty-three-year-old, hunkalicious slab of masculinity. Then we were instructed to lie on our backs, while our partner got into a push-up position above us, wrap our wrists around his neck then allow him to crawl across the floor dragging us all the way. Once at the other end of the room, you switched positions. I was the second fastest one in the room. And honey, I hadn’t had that much fun with a man’s arms around my neck since Bush choked on a pretzel.

Thank God, I was wearing a cup.

I cannot wait until the next class.

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What's in Your Basket?

Remember the episode of Designing Women when Suzanne said to Mary Jo in the supermarket, “Two guys, one cart, fresh pasta … figure it out”? Do you look in other people’s carts at the supermarket? Of course you do.

Have you ever had to go shopping for a strange combination of just a few items and hoped no one would look at your basket? Of course you have, and you wouldn’t be reading this is if it didn’t happen to me.

I love looking at other people’s carts, especially those of mothers, especially weight challenged mothers with weight challenged children. Was that politically correct enough? Roseanne, when she did stand-up, said fat mothers were the best because they had the good snacks. No one hangs out at the house with a skinny mother.

No one would hang around our house. One, because we were the crazy family every neighborhood has and points out when friends and relatives come to visit, and two, our mother was constantly on a diet. Everything in our house was sugar free. The woman used Sweet n Low instead of sugar in every recipe. To this day, I never eat in a restaurant that advertises “home cooking.” I stole that line from Alan King, alev ha sholem. When the fat-free craze started, we adopted that as well. There is no food worse than fat-free cream cheese. Cream cheese is fat! Remove the fat, and you have caulk.

My mother’s grocery cart was filled with Fresca, Tab, Sweet n Low, bananas, chicken, chuck roast (which I have told you she would burn on the grill), cottage cheese, and tomatoes. Oy vay.

Mother was on Atkins when it first came out, and I remember going with her to the G.C. Murphy Co. lunch counter at Newmarket Shopping Center in our 1965 Corvair, where they had those cool orange punch machines, and her ordering a hamburger omelet with a side of cottage cheese. I don’t care how fat and desperate I get (and I have been pretty fat and desperate in my day), I will never order a hamburger omelet with a side of cottage cheese. Occasionally, she would convince my father to go on one of these diets.

No wonder my parents always had gas. For years, I thought we had an invisible pet duck. Think about it.

Back to the market. I am a very efficient grocery shopper as I have told you before, but this does not preclude me from observing other people’s food choices, especially in the checkout line.

Before I criticize others, I do have one problem when I shop. I can buy $200 worth of groceries, and I still have nothing to eat. Seriously, I will come home and empty my bags, which will contain cleaning products, Kleenex, toothpaste and other personal hygiene products, and only find a bunch of bananas and three fresh donuts that I will eat very quickly before disposing of the evidence. Esmeralda gives me a look that says, “I know what you’re doing.”

As a kid, I had to sneak fattening snacks, and although my parents are not watching anymore, I still eat junk food when no one is around and pretend I never do. Then I say, “The dryer keeps shrinking my underwear.”

I usually get stuck behind the fat mother (yes, I said fat this time, which is ok because my shrinking underwear is cutting off my circulation). I love their carts, which usually have frozen pizzas, frozen chicken nuggets, six or seven boss bottles of soda (do they call them boss bottles anymore?), ice cream, four of five bags of Doritos, a hunk of unidentifiable red meat, pork chops, and a jumbo pack of toilet paper. They are going to need that toilet paper. Amazingly, there are no, and I mean no fruits and vegetables in the cart. However, next to the cart is a little fat kid that is so hyped up on sugar that the mother is constantly shushing her and saying no when she grabs candy bars. Seriously, no candy bars? Well, I guess she has to draw the line somewhere.

Behind me is the former supermodel, a seventy-something woman in a velour track suit, whose face is pulled so tight that when she turns her head she has an orgasm. In her cart are fruits and vegetables of every variety and color, various nuts in bags, enough Crystal Light to drown a giraffe, and a bottle of Geritol. I wonder if she has an invisible pet duck, too.

Between major shopping excursions, all of us have to run in for a few items, and these fun people can be found in the express or self-checkout aisle. There you find the husband buying tampons.

Now, I never had a period, although many of my friends would argue otherwise, but I have never understood running out of tampons. Maybe this is because I have a dozen toothbrushes, at least seven back up tubes of toothpaste, bottle after bottle of mouthwash, shampoo, and body wash, bottles of dog shampoo and ear cleaner, enough detergent to wash the Baltimore Ravens' jock straps for a year (who wouldn’t want that job?), and dozens of other bottles of cleaning products for windows, floors, countertops, bathtubs, toilet bowls, etc.

If there is a nuclear war, look for the really skinny but immaculately clean Gay Jew and his dog next to the very clean park space where his trailer was vaporized. I may die of starvation, but I’ll be damned if I die dirty!

So, women of America, how in the hell do you run out of tampons? Or, do you do this to torture your menfolk by sending them out for tampons? Amazingly, they never run out of maxi pads. If my Aunt Flo visited me every month, bitch, I would be prepared.

Well, I can usually find something I need at the grocery store, since I rarely buy food, but one morning this week, I needed only two items. I drove over to the store right after the gym at 6:00 am and walked into Weis on a mission. I was pronouncing it “weece” until my neighbor corrected me and said it was pronounced “wice.” I asked the manager, and he said he pronounces it “we is.” I’ll go with “wice.”

Where was I? Oh yes, my two items.

There I was with my hand basket. I love the little hand baskets because they discourage me from buying even more bottles of detergent. I had my two items, and I looked over to the bakery department, and what did I smell, fresh donuts! They come out fresh at 6:00 am! There is a God.

Hey, I just came from the gym ... shut up.

I went to self-checkout, and I scanned my bag of donuts then my next two items. At that hour, the cashiers are not available, but one is around to help, and she likes to bag items for the few people who come in to shop. She is also the weird one they put on that shift to keep her away from most of the customers and the other staff. When she bagged my items, using my canvas shopping bag, she gave me a strange look.

What, you never saw someone buy donuts, Fleet enemas and double-A batteries before?

If you like to shop and spy on other’s baskets, follow me, join my mailing list, tell your friends.

Excuse Me, Lady – Is That My Dress?

The hardest thing to do is get a straight man in drag. The second hardest thing to do is get him to take off the damn dress!

For gay men, the easiest thing to do is get him into the dress, and when the night is over and the tips are counted, getting him out of the dress is the second easiest thing to do. Watch RuPaul’s Drag Race, and you will see how quickly the queens take off their wigs and makeup.

I admit it. I have done my share of drag over the years and as recently as six months ago. We had a party to celebrate Lucille Ball’s 100^th birthday, and I went as the Here’s Lucy Marionette. It should not be a surprise that I skipped over Lucy Ricardo and Mrs. Carmichael; after all, I have never been like everyone else. There I was in a tuxedo jacket, ruffle shirt, white bow tie, top hat, red wig, full make-up, black stockings, six-inch stilettos, and NO PANTS. I walked down the street like that!

Upon seeing the photo, Lucie Arnaz told me I made her day – probably because she had seen her share of Lucys in the chocolate factory, doing the Vitameatavegamin commercial or fresh out of the grape vat. Did I just drop a name? Yes, I did. Even a Gay Jew in a Trailer Park knows a few celebrities personally. Puff, puff.

At the end of that evening, I made a decision. Well, to be honest, the mirror made a decision. Drag has three phases: Fierce, Amusing and Tragic. Up through age thirty, it can be fierce. Up to age forty-five, it can be amusing. The secret is recognizing when it becomes tragic, and honey, that night, I saw it clear is day.

In drag, I look like my maternal grandmother, Nana. All I need is a wig, a Kent cigarette, and a couple of Oh-my-Gods, and my brother will swear he is seeing a ghost. The sad part is that as I age, I continue to look like Nana – as she aged. All I needed that night was a fresh cup of instant Sanka and coke-bottle glasses, and the picture would have been complete.

For anyone who has ever worn drag, there is that first moment in his life when he puts on a dress. OK, you are about to be told something no one, not even my closest friends know. My first moment was age nine, and it was my slightly homophobic mother’s fault!

If she were alive today and knew what I did, it would kill her. If she is listening or reading this from wherever she is, this is going to be priceless!

In the house where I was raised, I only had the use of half my bedroom closet, as did my brother. My father kept half his clothes in his closet, and my mother, who never threw anything away, kept half her clothes in mine. Do you see where this is going?

When you are an oddball kid and spend a lot of time alone in your room living a fantasy life that is much better than reality, you have to find ways to entertain yourself, and that is what I did.

Not only did my mother keep half her clothes in my closet, but also she kept half her shoes, and even better, a complete wardrobe of hats, gloves and wigs. It was a future drag queen’s dream.

I didn’t have to shop for anything, which at age nine was a good thing, since I did not have a driver’s license, nor did I have a job.

When I was sent to my room, I was more than happy to oblige.

My mother was a fashonista in her time, so not only were the clothes plentiful, they were fabulous, and most were left over from the late fifties and early sixties, my favorite fashions of all time. She was tall, and I was tall for my age, so we were the perfect match, both size twelves. Today, a twelve is an eighteen. Every mother wants a daughter, so they can share clothes. I wonder if every gay boy wants a mother who’s into fashion?

There was a flower-print sundress with a sweetheart collar that I must say I looked fetching in, especially with the brown wig, multi-colored pumps and big straw hat. There was the blue knit dress with the big buttons down the center that went really well with the blue shoes with four-inch heels and open toes. My mother was a size ten shoe, and at age nine, I was a men’s nine, so I could squeeze into her shoes … for a while.

My favorite was the full green skirt, with shiny gold leaves etched into the fabric that went with an off the shoulder light green top and green shoes. I could not get over how good I looked in that one, and little did I know what I had done when I danced around in my room in that outfit.

But, the drag show was not to last very long. I continued to grow, and by age eleven, my feet were too big for the shoes (a sad day when that happened), and my waist too big for the skirts and capris (which with my yo-yoing weight was no surprise). My career was over.

When I was sixteen, my mother decided to clean out some of the clothes, and when she came upon the full green skirt with the shiny gold leaves etched into the fabric that went with the off-the-shoulder light green top and green shoes, she looked at them and said, “This is what I wore to your father’s and my wedding.”

OH MY GOD! I had on my mother’s wedding dress, and I didn’t even know it! It took everything in me not to laugh! How many boys can say they had on their mother’s wedding dress? OK, it wasn’t a white wedding dress, but my father was her third husband, so it still counts. All the pictures of their wedding were in black and white, so I never made the connection. Then, she pulled out the flowered sun dress, which I found out she wore on their honeymoon. Could this get any better?

By that point, I had not worn a dress nor heels in at least five years, and it would be almost a decade before I did again. I thought it was out of my system by that point.

When I first came out, most of my friends were drag queens and bar flies. Sadly, only two of my friends from that time are still alive. I loved them all and still miss them. One night, there was an AIDS charity event where I was volunteering, and I was asked if I would do drag to act as MC. At that point, I was twenty-five, six-four, and two-hundred-twenty pounds. I protested, saying I couldn’t do glam drag, but funny maybe.

This was before six-four RuPaul became a household name. I saw RuPaul in Atlanta before the polish we now know, and giirrrll, she was a hot mess!

They put me in a black suit dress that looked as if it came out of Maude’s closet, a black teased up wig with a flip, very heavy make-up, and at that moment Sylvia Rose was born. The year was 1988. Sylvia talked with a heavy New York accent, smoked Benson & Hedges and said the most awful things to people. I loved her. I found it amusing that after all those nights prancing around in every article of clothing my mother saved from the early years of her third marriage that this was the first time I did this in public.

Needless to say, I was a hit. Who is going to argue with me, and the way everyone was drinking, who would remember?

For the next four years, Sylvia would come out to host an event on occasion, and then she retired. I never had to shop because the girls always had something for me to wear, most of which I suspect was stolen from their grandmother’s closets. The shoes, I bought myself from a drag queen shop in downtown Norfolk, Virginia, where they didn’t even blink while a six-four, former football player, walked around in heels to be sure the size seventeens fit. I need to re-visit that store some day.

Speaking of grandmothers. When Nana died, my mother donated all her wigs to Goodwill. I would kill to have those wigs today. They were real hair, professionally coiffured by Don’s Wigs of Newport News, teased to the heavens to be closer to God, and just magnificent. Uccchhh, when I think of the money I could have gotten for those on Drag eBay …

But, I digress …

When I moved to Florida, I decided to go as Bea Arthur one Halloween, and for the first time, I had to shop for my own dress. So, I did what any respectable drag queen would do, I went to the Hadassah Thrift Store. I figured it would be the closest to my childhood closet I could get. I pawed through the racks like Ethel Mertz in Gimble’s Basement, and I found the most perfect frock. It was pink satin with layers and layers of chiffon overlaying the dress and sleeves to hide my less than perfect figure – exactly what Bea would wear.

They sold it to me for $15. As I was leaving, one of the yeantas in the shop said to the clerk who rang me up, “How could you sell that dress to a man for $15?”

My friend, Stan, loved that dress, and when Halloween was just a memory, he asked to borrow it, and being the generous sort I am, I lent it to him.

Bitch cut off the sleeves! I could have killed him!

I told him he could keep the dress. I look like a member of the East Germany women’s swim team when I go sleeveless.

Over the years, I picked up a few other frocks. One from Sears – in the 1990s, they had a great big girls' department. That black dress lasted a few years, then I wanted to go as Endora one Halloween, so my friend Sandy, made me my first custom made dress – a multicolored shift that mimicked the one Endora called a Lilly Arlegge original in the “Jack and the Beanstalk” episode. Complete with wild red wig, purple shoes (I died a pair of my black ones) and perfect Endora make-up, I was really pleased with myself. So pleased, that I decided to go to the restaurant where I worked, in Delray Beach, to show off my costume.

The owner asked me to go up to a table of old Jewish women and ask them how their meal was. So, there I was, a six-ten Endora (the heels added six inches), standing next to the table, and I asked in my best Endora voice, “How is your dinner?”

And one of the ladies answered, “The fish is a little dry.”

No one even blinked. Seriously? This make-up took me three fucking hours, and all you can say is the fish is dry?!?

The owner asked me what they said, and I answered, “The fish is dry.” Then, I left for my party, where a few people thought I was Madge the Palmolive Lady.

Upon my arrival in DC, I finally had a chance to break Sylvia Rose out one more time, and Endora joined her for a Purim Party at Bet Mishpachah. I had to explain to one old queen who Endora was and the premise of Bewitched. I then asked for his gay card.

I think my best drag costume was Joan Crawford in the Mommie Dearest wire hanger scene. Everyone got that one. There I was hair in curlers, white band around my skull, bathrobe, night cream, a dress on a wire hanger in one hand, and a can of Bon Ami in the other. We had an acquaintance who fancied himself a movie buff, and he was the only one at the party who could not guess my costume. He said, “Are you Endora?”

I should have dressed as Madge the Palmolive Lady.

By then, I was approaching forty, and frankly, my feet couldn’t take the heels anymore. So, I retired my drag costumes until the Lucy party this past year, but I didn’t discard them until …

With limited closet space in the trailer, I decided it was time to let someone else enjoy my haute couture, so a couple of weekends ago, I donated all of my girlie stuff – all of it. However, I did keep the shoes. Hey, I can’t just quit cold turkey!

One day in 1985, Mother and I were out to lunch, when she said, “Don’t look, but that woman over there is wearing one of my mother’s dresses.” Of course, I looked. My first thought was why is this woman shopping at Goodwill?

This past Sunday, I was out shopping at Home Goods, the one my friend, Lydia, suggested in Gambrill, Maryland, and while I was wheeling my cart down the aisle, I just about screamed.

This woman, obviously fresh from church, was wearing my black fedora complete with zebra print hat band that I actually fashioned myself. It originally had no hat band, but I found a zebra-print scarf that I wrapped around the hat and let dangle off the back. At first I thought it was a coincidence, until I saw her dress. It was a black knit dress with a black and gray striped bodice, and a black and white striped knit jacket. She was even wearing two strings of pearls.

Bitch was wearing my dress! The hat was meant for a different outfit, but those were definitely my old clothes.

I couldn’t stop staring at her. I wanted to criticize her, but she was really pulling it off, and I was a little surprised I didn’t think of wearing that hat with that dress.

I wanted to say, “Excuse me, Lady, is that my dress?”

Instead, when she looked over, I said, “I really love your outfit.”

She smiled and said, “Thank you.”

And people make fun of my taste in clothes. If they are good enough for church … wait a minute. I wonder if she is on the committee to support a ban on gay marriage? And there she is, sitting in a meeting in the church basement wearing the clothes of a former drag queen!

Life can be sweet!

If you think someone is wearing your dress, follow me, join me, get on my mailing list.