Oops. I just spilled coffee on the keyboard of my laptop. My laptop doesn't work any more. Has anyone done this before? When it dries, does your laptop work again? Maybe I'd better buy that G4 laptop sooner, than later? : (

Expand beyond nine to five

I have a confession to make. I don't like working eight hour days. Maybe it comes from being a student for 10 years. As a student, I set my own hours, decided what class to attend and when to study. Whatever the reason, I absolutely cannot and refuse to work eight hour days for a company.

I tried to do it - get a full time job. I had finished graduate school and found a full time job. I was there eight hours per day. I thought it was time to grow up and get a real job. I felt imprisoned. Even claustrophic. I knew I was trying to be like everyone else, but I hated it. I dreaded getting up at the same time, every morning, arriving on time, having lunch at the same time, and leaving at the right time. My life was so scheduled, I suffocated. I finally quit, even though I didn't have another job to go to. I decided, "Life is not worth living if I have to work eight hour days, every day, for the rest of my life."

I decided, before quitting, that my life would be better if I quit. It worked in my favour. First of all, the company I quit hired me on a contract basis. I earned more in two weeks than I would have, as an employee, in two months. Secondly, I got a job as an instructor, making more in a month with less work, than I would have staying with the company. As an instructor, I only worked 20 hours per week, but I made more in a month by about 40% than working full time with my previous company.

I can make $3000 in two weeks now, working part-time hours as a freelancer, when the work comes to me. This past week, I've only worked.... 7.5 hours. The rest of the time was my own. And, I can mark exams at the beach.

So, a part of me feels like saying to y'all - you're suckers! Deadbeats. Why are you working full time for a company that wants to make a profit off of you? Why not go freelance, where you make the bucks, and spend less hours? I guess the security of a full time job is more important to you. Yes, I have no security...but I've decided to have faith, that I will get a new contract. It's full of insecurity I suppose. But that's the only way I'm willing to live. It's also the only way I will live. The main thing is to have faith, that I will be taken care of. I can't change who I am. So I accept who I am, and the way I work. I believe the universe will conspire to help me.

I've realized I can't be someone I'm not. I can't work regular hours. I can't be imprisoned by nine to five hours. I can't accept that my boss makes more profit than me. I need lots of hours of personal self-reflection. I deserve it. That's the way God made me.

It does take a huge risk, one which most people aren't willing to make. But I did, I have faith, and it works for me.

I do take into consideration how much money I need each month, and in my mind I set quotas. Then I take these quotas, send them out to the universe with faith, and ask for it. It has worked for me, so far.

I'm not rich, that's for sure. But I always have what I need. And so far, that's good enough for me. I'm rich with time, self-reflection, time to make food, time to write, time to go to the beach, time to work out, lots of time. I love having time. Thyme, as a spice, I haven't experimented with yet, but perhaps I want to.

So thank you, God, Universe, for giving this to me. I write this to hopefully give others a positive option. It's real. It works.

Sacred Contracts - Part 2

A note before the last part of my article. Out of the blue my best friend from Lethbridge, JZ (who I blogged about before - I tried kissing her when I was 21) e-mailed me. We'd been out of touch for five years. It's so great to hear from her. We are soul mates. She's so dynamic and fabulous! It's strange how this past week three people showed up from my past, out of the blue. I love that!

Today I went to the department meeting; a very suave move on my part. It was marks review. I didn't need to attend, but I thought I'd show up and say hello to my Department Head and Assistant Dean, and other important people. Since I decided not to go back in the fall, I wanted to do it on good terms. So I said hello to everyone, they were glad to see me, and asked me to apply again next year after I'd had a break. They really like me. So that option is open in the future.

I made myself the most delicious, juicy cheese burgers for lunch. I cut up a green onion, 1/4 cup of feta cheese, salt & pepper, Worchestersire sauce, and mixed it together with regular hamburger. I grilled the burgers with gouda cheese, then slathered garlic mayonnaise on them and a garlic dill pickle, and sat it on a bed of Romaine lettuce. I was so full, I had to sleep for 40 minutes. Why is it that I can always make better food than what I eat at a restaurant? I've know several incredible cooks, who make food better than I've ever tasted at a restaurant. Maybe restaurants need to appeal to a middle range of palates, so they go bland? I don't know. But I've never had a better burger, better salads, better stir-fries, better salmon and chicken, better everything than what I and my friends can make. I also had sugar-free fruit jello. I can't eat any more today. I'm stuffed. I even worked out and did aerobic exercise. I think I've already lost five pounds after a week. And for those of you who are concerned, I've had excellent bowel movements since using Psyllium.

I also got my second bedroom for my new roomy ready. I took apart the futon and frame bed, took off the shelving from the wall, filled all the holes, scrubbed the walls, sanded them and spot painted it, vacuumed, dusted all the floor boards and doors and now it's ready for him. He moves in on Friday.

I've been thinking about RA, since my date with him on Sunday. He really does have many qualities that I admire and like. When I think about it, he has qualities that I loved about BC, except he has morals and values. For instance, he knows how to do "construction-type" things. He's built houses. He knows how to repair things. For me, this is an intense turn-on. It's very blue collar, except he has a white collar job. BC knew how to do all those things, plus fix cars. I get more turned on by this, than someone who can volley academic intelligent bullshit with me. I think this is true...I've never actually had a really intelligent boyfriend who could engage me in fascinating intellectual conversation without being droll. All my female friends are super intelligent and sophisticated and can meet me on this level, and I love being with them. But I've honestly never been friends with a man in the same way. Perhaps Toddo can do this...I've had some great, complex communications with him.

I guess it's about my father again. My father was brilliant. A photographic memory. He won the Governor General's award for highest academic achievement when he graduated from high school. At one of the top colleges in the U.S. on a full scholarship he finished two master degrees suma cum lade (sp?). He once failed a class because the professor didn't believe such a young guy could write such a brilliant essay, and accused him of plagirism. My father also learned to speak Latin and Hebrew. But he was so humble, he never really showed his intellect. He once told me that it's more important to speak on the same level as everyone else, so he spent great pains learning to communicate very complex ideas with very simple language and using common parables to make a point.

So I've always been attracted to humble guys, with very little education. Even RA told me he left high school in grade 11, and didn't finish it until he was 24. Same with BC - weird coincidence. Both never had college education. Both have expressed a difficulty with the academic environment, in terms of learning. That is so opposite to me, I can't tell you. I loved school and academia. I guess my father expressed himself as an average Joe most of my life, until he pulled out obscure references to certain things when I pushed him for an answer on something. Even when I tried to trap him into giving me a definite answer on something, he would never give me one. He'd tell me all the different schools of thought on something, then leave it to me to make up my mind. I admire him for this, of course. He taught me to be an individual thinker.

I feel very blessed. I've met two interesting guys lately, both of whom I want to get to know better. I hope they're willing to just be friends for a while. I'm tired of diving into major sexual infatuations (like BC). I'd like to get to know them as people first. I'd like to do things with them as friends. Go camping, do weekend trips, hang out, make them dinner. Have fun conversation. And if it doesn't go beyond friendship, I'd be happy. And if something more happens, that's okay too. I'm a little afraid that they want sex sooner with me, rather than getting to know me first. I guess that's the chance I need to take, because I tell you - that's what I want right now.

In the meantime, I might meet someone else. The X-Factor. The guy who has a hot body, can meet me head on intellectually, who is my equal, rather than my compliment. A man who is like my female friends. This summer should be interesting... especially with my new body. I can't wait to strut the beaches in my blue/white/yellow swimming thing.
________________________________________

POWER IS A COMMON THEME in Myss' writings. For her, becoming empowered is about breaking away from the tribe mentality, which involves various stages of risk and courage. Our first test involves overcoming family-of-origin beliefs, such as religion, politics and other ideas about the world, that suppress our individual passions from being fulfilled. The tribe extends to the group influence, which may be cultural, national or global in origin, and makes us believe in the illusion that power comes from our ability to control the outside world. In these instances, our value is measured by worldly successes. But at some point, she writes, everyone is disappointed with this outwardly driven striving. In our suffering, we turn inward, and learn to define success by our own, more spiritual estimations.

Spiritual empowerment involves making the decision to never give away our spirit for the security or approval of others; and to stop living in the past of resentments, or the promises of the future. In the process, we lighten our psychic load, and our spirit has more energy to invest in inner guidance. We no longer give away our power to others or outward things, but use it to manifest our highest potential. "Creating synchronicities doesn't come cheap," she says. "You require a great deal of energetic reserves to be able to trade it in for opportunities. Miraculous opportunities that bring you closer to your highest potential, and puts you on the fast track to fulfilling it."

Myss' newest contribution to self-empowerment is to identify your personal archetypes, and then using a method of 'chance,' cast your archetypes onto a wheel that resembles an astrological chart. For many years, when giving intuitive readings to people, she often saw a symbol for the client in her mind's eye. Myss learned that the archetypical symbols she intuited, represented an aspect of the client's psyche that required self-awareness, in order for healing to occur and empowerment to be realized.

While the term "archetype" is difficult to grasp, Myss reminds us that we use archetypes in our daily conversations. "Isn't she a Princess," we say about a woman who feels entitled to special treatment. Or, "Who does he think he is - Don Juan?" we say when criticizing (or perhaps admiring) a womanizing man. From decades of popular psychology, we're all familiar with our inner "Child," and the games of the "Victim, Rescuer and Saboteur." Myss includes a whole index of archetypes in her book, Sacred Contracts, and asks us to identify a total of 12 that we relate to on some level. Complicating matters somewhat, each archetype has a sacred aspect, and a shadow aspect. For example, if you tend to sell your spirit and dreams in exchange for the safety of material comforts, you're the Prostitute. But once you identify and become conscious of how you play out the behavior patterns of the Prostitute archetype, you can choose to not play out its dynamics. Then it becomes the Sacred Prostitute - the holy aspect of yourself that reminds you not to 'sell out.' By discovering your shadow patterns, and acknowledging your sacred ones, Myss purports you can become more aware of your behavior patterns, and make conscious choices that are more in sync with our spirit.

After choosing twelve archetypes, the fun begins with "casting your wheel." Myss 'reinvents the wheel' with a 12-sectioned circle called "houses." Each house is numbered, and corresponds to an aspect of self and life:

* ego and personality
* home
* creativity and good fortune
* occupation and health
* marriage and relationships
* other people's resources
* spirituality
* highest potential
* relationship to the world
* the unconscious



By writing your archetypes on individual pieces of paper and placing them in one pile, and the numbers one through twelve on other individual pieces of paper and placing them in a different pile, chance is used to place your archetypes in each house. Once you've stated your intention and put yourself in a meditative state, then you select from the first pile an archetype, and match it up with a number that represents the house it belongs in. Myss writes, "Your archetypes will be guided into their appropriate houses by the energy of simultaneity, coincidence, spiritual order, divine paradox and destiny."

By matching archetypes with a house, Myss explains that new insights and connections are made, increasing self-awareness and the potential for making choices that are self-empowering. By avoiding decisions that complicate our lives, we make room for "energetic reserves" that can be used for fulfilling our sacred contracts - our highest potential and the purpose for our lives.



QUEEN MYSS IS WINDING DOWN, coming to the end of her lecture, and already a line-up is forming near the pulpit for devotees to pay their respects and - just possibly, be endowed with her royal signature. The Rebel in me, which landed in the house "My Relationship to the World," loves the irony involved in listening to a new age preacher in the sanctity of a Christian church. But my butt is hurting from sitting on the hard pew, and the Hedonist archetype — found in my "Ego and Personality house" — is complaining.

"You'll never be able to live an empowered life without hurting someone," Myss says. "You need to learn self-authority and not be afraid of independent thought and action. And only then will you receive visionary insight, and high-powered intuition." I glance at the people in the line-up, wondering if they're taking in what Myss just said. I notice the anxious, dark-haired woman I spoke with earlier. She's clutching a copy of Sacred Contracts to her breast, looking eagerly at Myss.

"You'll find yourself following the most absurd guidance. After all, you only follow logical guidance when you're afraid." Myss says, with a wicked grin on her face.

I find myself sneaking out of the pew, stumbling over seated people's feet and purses. I feel drawn to say something to the dark-haired woman, but I don't know what I'm going to say or why I'm doing it. All I hope is that I don't embarrass myself. Suddenly the audience stands clapping, giving me cover.

She sees me coming toward her, pushing through the crowd, and breaks into a smile of recognition. "What am I doing?" I think. "I can't believe I'm doing this!" But I smile back and hear myself saying, "How did you enjoy Caroline Myss' talk?"

"I loved it!" she squeals. "And she wasn't as scary as I thought she would be."

I want to tell this dear woman that she's as powerful and significant as Myss; that her sacred purpose is equal in importance; and she needn't feel so victimized by the world. Perhaps it's the Teacher archetype in my "Spirituality" house.

But all I say is, "I'm glad to hear you say that."

I touch her on the shoulder and with a silent blessing turn toward the exit.

Sacred Contracts - Part 1

This is an article I wrote for a magazine last year, which unfortunately never got published! So, at least I can publish it here. This is the "spiritual" aspect of myself, thus far mostly unrevealed on this site.

I'M STANDING IN A LINE that stretches one block around the corner from the front door of St. Andrew's Wesley Church in downtown Vancouver, waiting for the doors to open. At 6:30pm, the sun has long disappeared over the horizon, and the temperature hovers around one degree celsius, making the wait barely tolerable. In front and behind me are mostly middle aged women of two types: the first tend to be dressed in rich, well-cut fabrics with silk scarves, and expertly styled and coloured hair that shimmers under the sodium street lights; the second type appear to spend their time and money on other pursuits. I imagine them raising organic vegetables in their own garden, or perhaps covered in mud, spinning pottery in their home studio.

"Where are all the men?" I think.

A tall, successful looking woman with a maroon and gold scarf around her neck asks her friend, "I wonder how much she charges to do speaking engagements?" I notice that her scarf matches her copper hair.

"I don't know. Maybe $500?" suggests her friend.

I smile at their niaveté, and turn around to talk to them. "Carolyn Myss (pronounced 'mace') is on a book tour, so her publisher probably covers most expenses," I say to them.

A woman with an official demeanor interrupts our conversation by addressing our section of the line-up. She says, "Does everyone in line have a ticket? All fourteen hundred tickets are sold out, so if you don't have a ticket, then you're out of luck."

I silently calculate fifteen dollars times fourteen hundred people… Maybe the book publisher doesn't contribute! Someone's making half my yearly salary in one evening.

A petite and attractive dark-haired woman in front of me asks, "Have you seen Carolyn Myss talk before?

"Only on video. This is my first time," I say. "Have you?"

The dark-haired woman says, "Me neither. But I've seen her on PBS and boy, is she ever… brutal. It makes me nervous." I notice she's in her mid-thirties and looks anxious. "Have you read Sacred Contracts, her new book?" she asks me.

"Yes, I just bought it last week." I say.

"Oh, it's so scary," she says. "All that stuff about archetypes - like the prostitute, victim, child and saboteur - they're so disturbing. It makes me realize how often I'm a prostitute, always selling my soul to get other people's affections. It's so hard to take." Her wide eyes plead with understanding and longing.

I take a deep breath in to ground my energy. She's feeding off it, trying to replenish herself. Obviously she hasn't read Carolyn Myss's book Why People Don't Heal and How They Can. Myss explains how our self-help culture has become one that's based on "victimology." Our identity is founded on our suffering rather than our strengths. Within seconds of meeting this anxious lady, I already know too much about her. But I'm practicing compassion, and try to think of something to say that would empower her, while showing empathy.

"They're not meant to create fear," I say to the dark-haired woman. "The archetypes are meant to give you tools to understand, observe and transcend your behavior patterns." On the street behind us we hear horns blaring, because a car tries to turn into a one-way lane, nearly causing an accident.

"Oh my god," she says. "Driving is so dangerous. That reminds me of when I ran into a car and the driver turned out to be a lawyer. Of course, that's just my luck - out of anyone, I hit a lawyer! I haven't driven since." She looks at me, expecting approval and confirmation of her beliefs.

Thankfully, the line starts to move forward, and I don't need to respond.



WHEN I HEARD about the Carolyn Myss speaking event on January 21, I immediately bought my ticket. I knew they'd sell out quickly. Since discovering Myss' writings, I knew I'd found one of North America's most influential and insightful healers. Since her introduction to the world with her books, Anatomy of the Spirit and Why People Don't Heal and How They Can, she was recognized worldwide, to great acclaim, and twice made the New York Times bestsellers list.

Myss is regarded for three reasons, the first being her medical intuitive ability. She combined forces in 1983 with C. Norman Shealy, M.D., Ph.D., with whom she worked to refine her skills as a medical intuitive. He would back up her paranormal insights with scientific fact. Myss is able to read the energy field around a human being, and describe the energetic dysfunctions that are present within her client's bodies. She treats the body and spirit equally, as interdependent aspects of oneself.

Myss is also honored for her academic knowledge and interpretive abilities. After receiving a degree in journalism, and working in the new age publishing industry as an editor, she felt an inner calling to study spirituality. She received a Masters in Theology at Mundelein College, which followed with a Ph.D. from Greenwich University, in Intuition and Energy Medicine. As a result, her writing is grounded in academia - including philosophy, theology and contemporary new age thought. She quotes source texts from major religions, including Christianity, Buddhism, and Islam; Celtic myths; and popular fairy tales. In a cross-disciplinary manner, she examines their shared spiritual meanings. And in each book manages to find a way to tie these disparate thoughts into a new working model of healing - one which increases our understanding of the spiritual journey.

Finally, Myss is notorious for her ruthlessness with people. When she sees into the fears that stop a person from empowerment, Myss delivers her insight with force. In Sacred Contracts, she explains, "in those moments I am looking through the personality and into the heart of their passion to transform the ordinariness of their lives into the extraordinary - meaning their greater potential in this lifetime." The queen is the archetype that corresponds to her actions here - Myss says she, "symbolically decapitates people who are yearning for liberation from their fears." Perhaps the anxious dark-haired woman I spoke with in line has reason to fear Myss. She doesn't soften her interactions with people until she feels they have, "made a conscious connection to their excuses and self-sabotage." While it's shattering to be in the line of fire of naked truth, it's ultimately transforming. Myss isn't the gentle, nurturing mother often expected in new age circles. Instead she's the Shakti, a force who destroys in order to create anew.

I wanted to attend Myss' talk because I wanted to see her in action. It's like the dark thrill of seeing a car accident, while knowing no one gets hurt.



I SLOWLY SHUFFLE into the main Sanctuary, designed in the Norman architectural style. It's characterized by its massive pillars, and semi-circular doorways and windows. The vaulted ceiling is high enough to allow a legion of angels to flutter about. An unseen pianist is playing Bach in the background. Being among the first in line, I think I have a good chance of finding a seat in the front. But once up there, I see that the first twelve rows are already packed with eager Carolyn Myss fans. Returning to the pews at the back, I see a hand waving at me, and the maroon-scarfed woman I was in line with earlier stands and says, "We saved a seat for you."

"Is that ever nice," I say with a big smile. I feel blessed by her generosity. Looking down the fifteen foot long bench, I don't see any spaces. "Are you sure there's room?"

"Oh yes, just scoot in. We'll find some room for you," she says.

After upsetting about nine seated patrons who irreligiously stand on the bench to let me pass, I find a cozy seat, giving me just enough room to hold my shoulders square. I wonder, "Would I be thoughtful enough to even think of holding a seat for a stranger?"

I wait, chatting occasionally to my new friends, while watching swarms of people fill every corner of the cross-shaped sanctuary. Men of every age begin to appear in the pews, scattered in pockets among the women. There's even a kid with raspberry kool-aid coloured hair, whose eyebrows, nose and lips are pierced with rings. Thirty minutes later, the lights dim, and into the chancel walks a small, slender woman. She's wearing a bland outfit of gray slacks and jacket, and a pink, black and gray striped sweater. But I notice she walks with a regal grace.

"Now remember. You're not born yet," Myss says sternly, like an evangelist preacher looking for recruits to be baptized. She speaks into a cordless microphone, like a pop star, with a moderate Chicago accent. "Imagine you're not yet born and are being prepared for incarnation. You must be born for some purpose, and this purpose is going to be burned into your soul, so you won't forget when you're in a human body," she explains. The audience and I are silent, caught up in imagining such a state of being.

"Your purpose is clearly defined. Human experience is about discovering how powerful you are as vehicles of creative expression," she says. "In order to discover your power, you're given a schedule of people you may meet, places you may go, and experiences you may have. It's a situation where destiny and free choice walk hand-in-hand."

A young woman arriving late attempts to make it to her seat in the second pew from the front. She's an easy mark for Myss' unmerciless humor. "What are you doing?" Myss says aloud. "Are you trying to make it to your seat without being seen?" The audience laughs nervously. "I've never understood how people think they can be invisible by stooping around and tiptoeing to their seat." Myss unkindly mimics her, appearing more like Frankenstein than her target. "It's like when people whisper," she hisses loudly, "Thinking that no one can hear them." Bursts of audience laughter.

"And that feather boa you're wearing isn't helping," she adds.

Myss gets her payoff. The audience peels into horrified laughter. Her technique is as subtle as spraying mace into open eyes. She continues, "No one is born empowered. Not even the saints or Buddha himself. It's a journey that you must take on your own. Fortunately, each of us is given lots of help on the path. This includes your allies, people with whom you form positive and supportive relationships, as well as your adversaries, who teach you to grow spiritually, albeit painfully."

It occurs to me that Myss antagonized the woman with the feather boa for a purpose higher than just getting a laugh. Was she indirectly telling her to own her power, and walk without apology for her existence?

"And you're given archetypes. These are the blueprints that guide you in your decisions," Myss says. "Learning to recognize how they influence your reactions gives you greater choice and understanding on your own path to power."
To be continued tomorrow.

Food

Mmm...I'm in love! With food, that is. It's now been a week on the Dr. Atkin's Diet and it's been heavenly. I'm never hungry, no carbohydrate crashes and mood swings, deep sleeping and a high fat delicious grin on my face all day long. No cravings for carbs of any kind, and only a momentary craving for sugar. My ketone's are high, indicating I'm burning off my body fat. I'm in the induction phase.

Yesterday I tried a couple recipes from their website, and wow, are they delicious. First, the Caesar Salad. Romaine lettuce, 1/2 cup of real mayonnaise, two cloves of garlic, Worcestershire sauce, lemon juice, a touch of red wine vinegar, salt and pepper. I skipped some of the ingredients and added others, such as dried mustard. I had a plaste of the Caesar salad, and chopped a hard boiled egg on top, and mmmm.

This morning I made the Egg Salad and had it for breakfast. Boiled eggs, chopped, dried mustard, garlic, Worcestershire sauce, a touch of red wine vinegar, salt and pepper, and fresh dill. I also added tiny chunks of marbled cheese and celery. I took a cup of Romaine lettuce, dumped a heap of egg salad on top and ate this creamy delicious concoction.

The diet is so satisfying, that one day all I had was an egg, ham and cheese omlette with four sausages. Yesterday all I ate with a few slivers of chicken, and a Caesar salad. But then I went on a date last night, saw X-Men2, then we went for a late night dinner at a Greek restaurant, and I had a skewer of lamb and another Caesar salad (no croutons or garlic bread or potatoes or rice). I didn't need to eat, but my date was hungry so I joined him, since I can.

For lunch, I'll have a cup of steamed broccoli, and dip each bite in melted lemon butter. I can't wait to try the high fat chocolate cheese cake, without the nuts. I'm so in love with food, that I don't even feel like talking about my date last night - but I had a great time. It was really fun, and he's so cute.

The only problem - my bowel movements have been nearly non-existent. Yesterday I started taking fiber - Psyllium, and even tried a dieuretic. Nothing yet. I'm sure once I "go" I'll be five pounds lighter.

Now I must be off to figure out how to make Salad Nicoise.

Growing Up

The Cocaine Thing: After staying up all night and all day from doing that small line of cocaine, I realize I'll never do it again. I really don't understand how anyone could become addicted to it. It's the worst high I've ever experienced. It's like being on speed (I think...I've never done speed). It feels awful. It's not pleasurable in the least. I didn't eat all day. I found myself wringing my hands - which I never do. And tilting my head with every thought - do you know what I mean?

I did have a friend who became a cocaine addict, and he described to me that it made him feel powerful, charismatic, confident. He basically sold his soul to get more of that feeling. Maybe I'm already those things so it doesn't affect me that way. Instead it makes me way too alert, unable to sleep, my whole mind/body races and it's awful. I'm a laid back type of guy and I like being that way. No more for me, thank you.

The Date: I met RA for coffee, at Kits Beach. I had an amazing time with him. He's my third "Finding Mr. Right" guy. We have a lot in common. Because my father's a minister, and RA was highly involved in the church throughout his life, we could relate on that level. He spent most of his life working for non-profit organizations, helping the less fortunate, from the Vancouver street scene to building houses for Mexicans in Mexico, to organizing camps for Christian teens to being an elder in the church. He's incredibly sweet, shy, honest, open, cute, interesting, warm, lovely, intimate, masculine, moralistic and maintains respectful boundaries - all that shit. All that stuff I've always wanted in a guy. Again, he reminds me of my father, who is probably the best man in the world that I've ever met. Yet he's also realistic, has experimented with casual sex, isn't a prude, has come out to his family, his co-workers and friends. We had coffee, then walked around the beaches for an hour and a half, talking. This is my favourite thing to do.

So what's the problem, you ask?

Why can't I have a 'babe', with a hot athletic body, who's young looking (like me) who also has all his qualities? Someone with youngish looks, a curvaceous tight bod, someone who I can't wait spending all my time in bed with him? Unfortunately, with RA, I feel like having a good friendship with him. A very important, intimate relationship, yes, but hot wild sex? Nope. Do I feel like treating him with ultimate respect and reverence? Yes. Do I want to honour him in every way? Yes? Do I want to shove him down on a bed, naked, and take him? No. Do I want him to do that to me? No.

I'm not getting any younger. So I can't waist time experimenting with another lover. And I must admit, I've never met someone with such a similar background to mine, and with experiences that I can relate to. If we were partners, I'm sure it would be forever - he's that type of guy. But I'm afraid, I'm not into him physically. It leaves me very conflicted. It makes me miss BC.

I've decided - I will meet up with him a couple more times to see if there's any sexual interest. I'm definitely attracted to who he is. But sexually? Not so far. I will not get involved if there's no raw sexual interest. (Actually, when I typed that last sentence, I imagined kissing him for the first time...it was kind of nice.) I am conflicted. Maybe warmth, trust, respect and admiration are more important in the long run? I hate growing up.

36 Hours

Just a short note...I've been busy working the last couple of days. I haven't had time to do any writing.

I got together with friends in North Vancouver on Wednesday night for dinner - it was wonderful.

I've been sticking to my Dr. Atkin's diet. I feel great and sleep amazingly well (except for last night I didn't sleep at all - reason to follow....). I've been walking an hour a day along Jericho beach to UBC at a fast pace - relaxing and burning fat. I'm trying to get over my hatred of walking in the rain - I won't let the rain stop me. (Reminescent of Mariah Carey, isn't it?)

I spoke with my new "Match," RA, yesterday afternoon, and had a long conversation. He has a terrific voice, and sounds very interesting and 'grounded.' We're meeting on Saturday night. I don't think he's relationship material for me but I'd love to be friends with him.

The Pianist called me out-of-the-blue yesterday, and we're meeting up on Monday for a walk. I'd called him about a little over a month ago and I reached an answering message recorded with very strange 'new-wave' music on it without any speaking - and left him a message. Didn't hear back from him. When the Pianist called, I told him, and we discovered I didn't have his correct number, so he never got my message. So it was nice of him to call because he's someone else I'd like to be friends with.

I also got another e-mail out of the blue from someone I went on a date with a couple months ago. This would be worth talking about actually.

I'll call him JU. We met up online at gay.com, got together for sex, and had an awesome time. He's beautiful and young - only 23. Very intelligent and remarkably intimate. Great thighs. Beautiful face and skin. He's extremely present during sex. He even let me *punch his kitten* (according to CoolRelax terminology). I took him out for dinner a week later. It was okay - the conversation, though, had a lot of quiet moments. I found out during dinner that he's an escort. He's one of those escorts who really loves what he does, and even sees his role for some clients as mutually therapeutic. JU recently came back from a gay cruise with a client who paid for it so that they could go together. *Hmm, lucky JU.*

We went back to his beautiful apartment, starting kissing and stuff. He is a great kisser. He excused himself to go to the washroom. While I'm sitting there alone, I begin thinking, "What the f*ck am I doing with this guy? He's too young, etc." He was gone for quite a while, and in the meantime I decided I should probably go. I got up, and when I was putting on my shoes he came out of the washroom and embraced me. I told him, "I should probably go." I didn't know what to say! He reacted extremely well, said he really enjoyed himself, and gave me another sweet kiss. I didn't call him again.

This morning when I checked my e-mail I saw he sent me a message at 3:20am. It said, "hey there! just dropping you a line to say hello :) hope u are doing well." His message is very sweet and cute, but it leaves me confused as to what to tell him or how to act on this. Just tell him "I'd like to be friends?" Even though he's very attractive and sexy, I think this is what I'd like. Perhaps he would also? Any advice?

I went for a late night, 11:30pm dinner by myself, after teaching, and ordered a steak and salad greens (i.e. Dr. Atkins diet). I was sitting outside on the patio, here in Kits, when a very cute young guy, about 5'11" walked by, then paused, and leaned against the railing, right beside me. He had buzzed blond hair, blue eyes, and was wearing a baseball cap and general 'guy' attire. (I was wearing my normal Vancouver 'uniform' of sweatpants and a t-shirt with a fleece jacket - no one dresses up in Kits).

He took out a cigarette and started smoking it. I caught his eye, and said, "Hey bud, how's it going?" We engaged in conversation for a while, and then I invited him to have dinner with me. I'm a sucker for a cute guy. He said, "Hey thanks!"

I'll call this guy "Bud." He ordered steak and spaghetti, but didn't want any alcohol. I asked him about himself, what he does, where he's from, all the regular stuff. He's 21. Boldly, he said to me, "Are you gay?" I said, "Yes."

I honestly didn't invite him for dinner with me because I was looking for sex (believe it or not). I guess I miss my 21-year-old Scottish roomy - all that youthful energy, passion, openness, lack of cynicism and absence of decades of being betrayed. I was just having fun conversing with him. Of course, it helped that he was GORGEOUS to look at. But I felt like his big brother.

I reassured him that I wasn't coming onto him. (I assumed he was straight.) I think he believed me...but I'm not sure. I invited him back to my place to watch a movie, and he said yes, but "Would you drive me to a friend's place so I can pick up some clothes and stuff?"

"Sure, Bud," I said.

We drove downtown to the West End, stopped at a house, and he ran in. He came back five minutes later with a trendy (read:gay-looking) aluminum cannister with some designer's name on it, carried by a strap over his shoulder. I was looking forward to leaning back and watching a movie with him. Okay...maybe cuddling too!

We were sitting in my livingroom, now at around 1:30am, and he confessed to me he's a morphine addict. I felt a combination of sympathy and horror. Partly because the last time I picked up a couple on the street, they turned out to be heroin addicts. Why am I attracting this? "Maybe I'm here to help," I rationalize. He told me he lost all his clothes last night, that he carried around in a garbage bag.

Feeling badly for him, I told him my ex-roommate left a suitcase of clothes, and I went to get it from the closet. I hadn't looked through it before. He shuffled through it and didn't see anything he liked.

Bud dumped a tiny zip-locked bag of white powder on my diningroom table, and asked me for my credit card. Yeah, right - I learned from the last couple that drug addicts are not to be trusted. Apparently when I drove Bud to the house earlier, he went - not so much to pick up his metal cannister - but to try to get some more morphine.

I gave him my debit card instead. He used it to divide the small amount of white powder into two lines, then pulled apart a pen to use the hollow and hard, plastic straw left over to snort it. After inhaling the entire line he said, "Shit - they gave me cocaine, not morphine! I don't like cocaine. Here, you have the rest."

I've done cocaine twice in my life, and didn't feel much from it. It scares me, because I've heard it's very addictive. I don't know what got into me, but I snorted it. It was a very small amount.

Again, I didn't feel much of anything from it, except more mental alertness. A lot more, in fact - I'm still awake. I couldn't sleep all night, which is terrible because I've got a million things to complete today.

Bud was so disappointed that it wasn't morphine, that he decided to go back downtown to try to find some. So he left, in a hurry. He accidentally left his metal cannister and umbrella behind. I doubt he has a clue where I live, since we drove to my place in the dark and entered the house through the garage. I looked inside his metal bag cylinder, and there was nothing of importance, except for some prescription asthma inhalers! (yikes) and a couple of CDs I've never heard of, two batteries, a brass coin from Columbia, shaving equipment, unused needles, and a pair of socks. Poor guy! I hope that's not all he owns in this world. This morning I half-hoped he would return to pick it up, but he hasn't, and probably won't.

After Bud left, I began to put away the clothing Bud had tossed on the floor into the suitcase. I discovered it didn't belong to my ex-roomy at all! Instead, it must have been left behind by the heroin addict guy, after he shot up in my bathroom and disappeared, over a month ago (see prior blog). It contained eight worn t-shirts of a mostly black color, a wild pair of hippie-embroidered surfer shorts, two boxers, a Braun electric razor, and two Narcotics Anonymous books. I looked through the book titled "Just For Today," and it had been signed on the inside front and back by dozens of other NA members, with loving and kind messages.

"Light the good light every moment, every minute, every day. Light the good light for this moment over all you do and all you say. NEVER SURRENDER BRO!"

"Loved spending our time together. What a warm and caring man. Take care of you!"

"Your (sic) a heck of a guy! Personality plus! Just won't be the same without you. Hope to see ya again. Stay clean. Have fun! Live on!" (a sketch of a guitar appears afterward)

"You bring me so much joy to see your smiling face, you have so much energy, you make me tired watching U. Good luck in recovery."

"It's been a pleasure knowing you. I hope you get what you need from MRTC because it has a lot to offer, and so do you. Stay true to yourself and following your dreams."

The hard-covered book, titled, "It Works: How and Why" had passages up through "Step 7" highlighted in a fluorescent yellow highlighter - except for "Chapter 5" which had sentences underlined in pencil. I scanned through the book, reading what he had highlighted. Let me just say I learned some things about his life through his selections...too upsetting to mention at the moment. This guy obviously was very sincere in his recovery at one point. I'm sorry to see he went back to using drugs.

In "Just for Today" many of the notes had names and telephone numbers, asking him to keep in touch. I briefly wondered if I should try calling some of them to see if they knew where to get a hold of "XXX" to return his suitcase. I'm not sure if I should - it's a dilemma for me. If "XXX" is still out on the streets, then he wouldn't be keeping in touch with his NA friends. And it would be awkward for me to call them. I'm not sure what the right thing to do is - any advice, my dear bloggers?

So that was my evening cum morning, now soon turning into afternoon.

I meant this to be a short note, but perhaps my cocaine-enduced hyperactivity made me type all this. And just when I thought I was *getting it together.* (This day was so weird, I wonder if people who have read this think I'm making it up for your entertainment.) I just looked in the mirror and my eyes are all bloodshot. Not pretty. Maybe I should be in NA?

Confession

I realized today that I'm writing all these experiences as a means of confession. I'm trying to purify myself soul, let the stories go so I make better decisions in the future. I think it's working.

Sex trade

NOTE: I decided to write more on this topic, to give it more justice.

Simone, my best friend since age 9, and I are finally driving into West Palm Beach. It's getting dark. We left Toronto two days ago to spend the month of January on vacation, in her mother's condo. Just before we left Toronto, a friend gave her a hit of acid. Simone has never done it before. I did it a few times in high school (in fact I wrote a trigonometry exam while stoned) but never enjoyed the chemical, acidic high it creates.

"I dare you to take half a hit with me," she said. Simone has a devilish smirk in her eyes.

"What? While you're driving?" I asked, dumbfounded. "Okay." I say.

She's always daring me to do things, push my limits and loves embarrassing me. Ever since we were children. I tear the square piece of paper imprinted with Homer Simpson in half, and we place it on our tongues at the same time.

We're still driving after 40 minutes - we thought we were closer to West Palm Beach than we are. I'm starting to feel a little buzzed. I'm freaked out that Simone is driving on acid, and she's never done it before and doesn't know what to expect. Fortunately she isn't feeling anything yet. The street, apartment and car lights beginning blurring, like a camera taking a picture with a long shutter speed.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes, I'm not feeling anything yet," she says. "Doh!"

It's typical. Whenever I've tried to do drugs with Simone, they never affect her. We tried half a hit of "e," and mushrooms together on different occasions, and she swears she never felt much. I'm sensitive to drugs and end up being stoned by myself.

We arrive safely.
_____________

Grieving from the end of relationships, Simone and I decide to get away for a month. I had just moved out from Les' house two months before, and Simone's marriage has ended. My 'grief-diet' has made me lose most of my body fat, so ironically I look better than ever. Simone has been over-eating, and so we decide to spend our time working out daily, eating very healthy and spending time at the beach to recover.

Simone is an Amazon. She's six feet tall, with long, luxurious chestnut hair, and has an athlete's body. Her husband was into working out so she joined him and developed abs, biceps and the most sumptuous breasts this gay boy has ever seen. She's always been naturally athletic - we did gymnastics together growing up, and diving. She modelled for a few years before becoming a 'dancer.' 'Dancer' is the politically correct term for "stripper."

Simone put herself through university, bought a house, a photography studio and went on several world-wide trips being a stripper. She didn't have sex with men - just danced, and also did lap dances. She comes from money, being Jewish and from Forest Hills, and seems to attract it, like a magnet. While in West Palm Beach: she finds a $50 bill in the parking lot; we're playing pool and a guy offers her $20 to use the table; after staying at a motel on the way to West Palm Beach the owner offers to give us the room for free because we found a cockroach in the bathtub.

I tried to kiss her, once, when we were 12. We'd been playing in my father's church, pretending there were secret passages that lead to mysterious places. She was exhausted from climbing over church pews, leaned up against the altar, and (I thought) pretended to fall asleep. I loved her, and even at age 12 she was gorgeous. I leaned into her face, testing whether or not it was okay to be this close to her, pressed my lips on her and held. She burped in my mouth. I blame her, to this day, for making me gay! She swears not to remember this, and that she actually was asleep. Being Jewish, she feels a lot of guilt for making me gay. Guilt is the commodity Jews trade with.

When I moved to Saskabush, Simone sent me the book, "The Happy Hooker." My mother opened it before giving it to me. I didn't get punished, of course, but I was embarrassed (doesn't embarrass sound like 'bare assed'?).

Most women have felt like fatty blobs when I touched them. Not Simone. I would massage her, and felt like I was with touching an athletic man. Even her breasts were firm. She groaned in pleasure from my touch, but I no longer felt like kissing her.
__________________

Now in West Palm Beach, she wants to make some money for our vacation, and decides to check out some strip bars. I go with her.

The first place we go to looks like a chain restaurant. She talks to a swarmy guy, sets up a deal, and dances that evening. I have the honor of watching her perform. I've seen Simone naked countless times, so it's not a big deal. I like her body. But I see her in action, twirling around metal bars and humping. She's raw, and dances like a rock chick, so much more than the other breast implanted, plastic surgery enhanced blond chicks. Who I find out are typical of the trade.

A handsome, middle eastern guy approaches her, and asks her to go for dinner with him, for $3000. No sex. Simone says, "yes." I take a cab home. I'm jealous that she makes so much money, when I'm so broke.
__________________

"Why don't you try dancing? You've got a great body, and could make some money on our holiday," Simone dares me.

It goes against my grain, but I do need money. Also, I've decided to expand my boundaries, after Les, who preferred a non-monogamous relationship. I've decided, in my fragile state, to learn how to be openly sexual, share myself with lots of guys, without getting attached. To learn how to enjoy being purely sexual. I did affirmations. "Sex is a wonderful thing. Sex is free, a connection, it doesn't mean much, it's two guys giving pleasure to one another." I was raised Christian - I must deprogram myself from heterosexual philosophies of monogamy. I must practice the Buddhist concept of non-attachment. I'm only jealous because I'm afraid of abandonment and need to 'own' my partner like a piece of property. Also, I never want to be hurt again.

Simone can do it. I can too.
__________________

My attempts at being an escort

I'm a little complicated. A little conflicted. On the one hand, I'm a sweet, loving, kind and moral guy, raised by a minister. I like monogamy in a relationship. On the other hand, I always wanted to be the kind of guy who was non-monogamous, could engage in casual sexual relationships, enjoy sex as a physical workout and be non-attached.

I tried my best to be unattached, and casually sexual. I did affirmations that stated, "Sex is good, free and the more comfortable I feel with my sexuality, the better experiences I can have." I tried to implement the philosophy that, "Sex is fun, it's not serious, it's playtime and let me enjoy it without conscience." I did this because the guys I fell in love with seemed to have this philosophy, without trying hard to create it. I thought I was the dysfunctional one. I became jealous. Attached. They didn't. And "they" had great sex, all the time, without guilt. So I wanted to be like "them." It would be so much easier if I could just have sex, and not feel connected or committed. I would have more fun.

So I tried to train myself. Since I look like a porno actor, I tried to make myself into one. I went to South Beach, Florida, with a girlfriend, one January. She made her living being a 'dancer.' She made tons of money. I decided to try it myself, because I needed money, and wanted to get over my boyfriend "Les." I danced on a platform at all the gay pubs and dance clubs; I danced for money stuffed down my undies; I met all the 'up-and-comers' in pornos trying to 'make it;' these hot guys flogged their dicks for me; old guys tried to suck me; I learned how to use a ripped up condom as a cock ring to stay hard. I did all that. And honestly - it did not turn me on in the least. I'm not a stripper or a porn star.

I remember one 'talent agent' looking me over carefully, stripping me down to nothing; examining every inch of me; and deciding I wasn't porn star material. He could 'feel' my hesitation and indecision.

I came back to Vancouver, and ended up with a 'massage' agency. I'm good at massages, so I guess my clients got their money's worth. I let them suck my cock. I didn't suck theirs. Nor, did I let them fuck me. So I didn't make a lot of extras, like some of the guys. What was cool was - I always got the good-looking guys. When a new client showed up, we'd line up like Miss America, and they'd choose. I was always picked. Unless I was unavailable.

I had guys who were mostly straight and guys who wanted a good looking guy. I tried my best to get turned on. I read my graduate readings in-between guys. I brought my masters level books to read, in-between clients. I tried my best. I did okay. But I'm a one-man guy, I guess. I learned that. I'll no longer apologize for being monogamous. I don't want to share my lover. I've tried my best: but I can't. I won't. Sorry.

Betrayal

It's a warm August evening on Saltspring Island. The house party lies just beyond a grove of lush trees. I'm a little nervous and excited. It's an outdoor buffet and is attended by the island's gay community. I'm happy, enjoying unscheduled days of exploring, swimming, hiking, canoeing and great sex with BC.

I'm on holidays for the entire month of August with BC. We arrived a week ago, and spent a few days in a Swiss chalet inspired bed and breakfast, and are now camping by a lake. Last night, at a party held by a friend, I ran into someone I knew from Vancouver, from my previous life seven years before when I was part of the 'in' crowd.

JR is a very handsome man: tall, jaw length, messy blond hair and looks like he walked out of a Versace ad. But I don't find him sexually attractive. He moved to Saltspring seven years before with his boyfriend RJ, who I discover I met earlier that day at the Saturday market, selling whole grain, oven baked bread. He gave BC and I a loaf, for free. I find him very sexy: tall, short cropped brown hair, engaging smile, muscular. BC and I are gaga over him. BC is also crazy about JR. JR and RJ invite us to join them at the gay house party.

I'm wearing black shorts and a black t-shirt, feeling handsome with my tan and holiday glow. BC is practically bouncing around, he's so excited to see JR and RJ and get to know them. It doesn't occur to me that he wants to have sex with them. Actually, it did occur to me, but I flipped the thought aside, thinking, "He wouldn't do that. We're on holidays together, and he knows how upset I'd be."

We walk through the private tree enclosed entrance of the home, and are startled to see an expensive, west coast, multi-leveled home overlooking acres of beautifully landscaped property. Large tables are set up on the lawn featuring delicious home cooking. There's only a handful of people, mostly older gay men and we see JR and RJ immediately, who come up to greet us. JR introduces us to the host and several other people at the party, and we grab some food. One guy engages me in conversation - he divides his time between his home in Hawaii and his residence here on Saltspring. We get into a good conversation, and ten minutes later I realize that BC has wandered off somewhere. I don't see him. I walk around the garden, saying hello to people, keeping my eyes out for BC or JR and RJ. The party's host tells me they went through that trail in the forest over there, to take a look at the riding stables. "Thanks," I say.

My mind begins fretting, thinking, "What are those guys up to?" But I relax myself, and walk into the forest on the cedar lined trail. A few seconds later I see the three men - BC has his arms around both of them, caressing their backs, while making out with JR, and RJ has his hand down BC's pants. I stop in my tracks, in shock. They see me, and disengage. "Hi," I manage to say. "I see you guys are busy." I turn around and walk back out to the garden. My mind is blank from shock, but I feel my whole body start quivering. I walk back to my car and sit in the back seat.

"I'm okay," I say to myself. "Breathe." I take deep breaths of air, trying to relax my shaking body. I feel like someone just stuck a knife in me. What bothers me the most is seeing BC look at and touch another man, in the manner he has, so far, reserved for me.

It's not the first time this has happened, but it's the first time I've witnessed it. I wish BC hadn't decided to do it on our holiday. We've still got two more weeks to go. And now I don't know what to do.

I consider driving back to our camp. Then I see BC walking toward me.

"Hi," he says. "What are you doing in the car?"

"I'm triggered and trying to deal with my feelings," I say.

BC reminds me that we're no longer officially boyfriends. I know this, but it doesn't make me feel better. I shouldn't be sleeping with him, I think.

"They've invited me to stay with them tonight," BC says.

If I didn't know BC better, I'd think he's intentionally trying to hurt me. But he's not attached to me, and doesn't realize how painful it is for me.

"Okay, well, I'm going back to camp, packing up and going back to Vancouver," I say. All this delivered without anger, blame or a loud voice.

To make a long story short, BC stays with JR and RJ for the next two weeks, has sex with them several times a day, and I go back to Vancouver, alone. I was pretty fucked up for the rest of August.

(Note: Wow, I thought I had enough distance to write this story, but having written it, I feel tremendously angry and am eternally grateful that I finally stopped seeing BC. May this story be a reminder to me and a lesson.)

Kissing and Sleep Rituals

My sister Gloria just called me, and started her conversation with, "What do you think about kissing in the morning?"

The only time her husband (who has admitted to being bisexual) feels like kissing her is in the morning, pre-toothpaste. She'd rather kiss any other time of the day, but it's the only period in 24 hours that he feels like kissing. Relationships are like that - at least in my experience. My partners always had different habits than myself regarding kissing and especially sleeping.

I haven't been with someone who is a good kisser for a long time. BC was horrible. Whenever we kissed I felt like I was drowning in gobs of saliva. I have seen bear-daddy pornos, where the top spits in the other guy's mouth. If anyone did that to me, I'd punch him. I gave up kissing BC near the end of our relationship, for mouth-on-cock action. When I was really horny and turned on though, I didn't mind drowning in his slobber. He said he couldn't help it - when he's turned on his mouth waters. It was helpful for cock sucking, but kissing? Yeck.

I've only had one boyfriend who loved to cuddle. Sure, they all like to cuddle at first, when you first meet. But after a month, they change their pattern. Once they're ready to fall asleep, they don't like being touched during the night, and especially not in the morning - when I most like to cuddle. They draw an imaginery line between us on the bed, and I'm not allowed to tresspass it. They were light sleepers, so any movement or touch wakes them. I could sleep through a catastrophe, and apparently I move around a lot during the night. In the morning, the sheets and blankets are at the foot of the bed. I also tend to take all the covers, which ends up in a "tug-of-war" during the night. I guess I'm not the easiest guy to sleep with, but once, when BC and I had a threesome, the third wheel loved to cuddle, all night, all morning, and I was in heaven. BC slept on the other side of the line, peacefully.

And the rituals they have before going to bed drive me nuts. BC had to have the bed perfectly made with military corners. He used five pillows - three under his head, one under his hips, and another under his feet. The lights had to be off. The curtains closed. The window open a crack. I prefer the window wide open, one light on, and falling asleep to the radio. I also kick off the sheets so I'm not closed in. Lately, I've taken to sleeping with my laptop, speakers, paperwork and dirty dishes on the left hand side of my queen sized bed. "The Stone Angel" had to always sleep on the left side - he was incapable of being flexible enough to sleep on the right hand side.

Usually BC, and Les, would end up moving to another bedroom or couch, just after I'd fallen asleep. A few times I was so insulted I got up, got dressed and left, telling them, "What's the point of me sleeping here if you won't sleep with me? I'd rather be at home in my own bed, alone." It's painful to wake up, not have your boyfriend next to you, and not have someone to cuddle.

It may be a little weird, but as children and pre-teens, I used to sleep, cuddled up with my sisters at night. They loved to cuddle as much as me.

I think with my next relationship, I'll ascertain whether or not he is a cuddler. If he isn't, I'll dump him, sooner than you can *blink.*

Meeting Mr. Right Part 6

He's different than the past two men Earl set me up with. He's 41, 6'1", 170 lbs., smooth. Blond, with hazel eyes. Older looking but with kind, empathetic eyes. He's Scandanavian.

He's never had a long term relationship with a gay man. He was married up until age 34.
I haven't called Rob yet. But I'll let you know when I have.

Oh my GOSH! Earl wasn't upset by my blog! In fact, he sent me another match! Can you fucking believe it? HAAAA HAAA. Life is crazy. Now I'll have to continue my dumb story. Here's what Earl wrote:

Hi Michael, I received you 'date writings' and hear your disappointment. I have another match to send your way. I really like Rob and I hope you give him a chance and don't overeact to the photo. I am strongly encouraging everyone to meet at least twice before forming any impressions. I also suggest you approach this next date more casually and relaxed in terms of your appearance - less focus on clothes and your external self and instead focus more on contact, connection.... Hope you are open to this feedback. Regards, Earl.

Life is weirder than fiction!

3:09 PM PST
I just got an email from Earl! Yikes. I'm too afraid to open it. Should I just delete it and pretend nothing ever happened? Or read it? Or just copy and paste it into my blog for you all to read it, and I'll avoid looking at it? Hmm... I'm leaning toward just deleting it at the moment.

12 Hour Delay

Have you ever wished that your e-mail application had the option of a 12 hour delay? In other words, you type an e-mail, click the 12 hour delay option, send it, but it doesn't actually get delivered until 12 hours later...enough time that you've slept, have a clear mind and can consider whether or not you want to actually send the e-mail. It allows you to delete the message if you choose against delivery, within the 12 hour period, before it gets sent and changes your life forever. I know...why don't I just not send it for 12 hours? There's something about e-mail that encourages impulsiveness. It's instant. Well, I had one of those moments last night, after finishing my last entry on "Meeting Mr. Right." I thought it would be fun to send Earl, the matchmaker/therapist, the article.

This morning I thought, "What the f*ck were you thinking?" Now I'm certain to never get another date from him. Oh well, at least I'll get some money refunded. It wasn't the success I had hoped it to be. I'm not sure if that was due to me...or the service. Probably me.

A part of me is giggling inside though, imagining Earl reading that e-mail. He's so "proper," so dedicated to being a matchmaker, and such a professional that I'm sure it'll freak him out. I assume I'll get an angry phone call from him today. I've provoked his ire again.

I started a diet yesterday. I plan to get down to eight per cent body fat in the next month. I'm trying the Atkin's diet, where you cut out carbs and just eat meat and fat. It puts your body into ketosis, meaning, since you don't have any carbs to burn, it burns your fat. I got these ketosis strips that you pee onto, and if it changes to a burgundy color, you're in the ketosis mode. I've heard great things about the diet - in the first week you're supposed to lose at least five pounds.

Meeting Mr. Right - Part 5

It's Friday at 6:30pm. I run into my house to get ready for my date at 7:30pm. I spent most of the day getting ready - haircut and color, tan, clip some overdue private parts, trim my nails and some unruly nose hairs, and work out. I take a quick shower, gel, deodorize and moisturize, and now it's time to get dressed.

I prepared my wardrobe in advance: black Body Wear jeans, black t-shirt, black cotton ribbed vest with metal zipper, and my new shiny, hip length black/green jacket. I examine myself in the mirror. I look hot, but... too East coast. Too intense, too dramatic and a little dangerous. It doesn't work in Vancouver. Sh*t! What am I going to wear now?

Let me see...I need to look casual, like I'm not trying so hard. I need more neutral tan and gray colors. But I still need to show off my biceps. I try on three different combinations of clothing, and finally decide on my first outfit, except with tan chinos. Except these pants make me look fat. Oh well, I'm out of time.


I arrive at Simply Thai exactly on time. I look around the restaurant, but don't see any handsome guys sitting alone, so I tell the hostess that I'm here for a reservation and give her Steve's name. She suddenly starts treating me very deferentially, and leads me to the restaurant's best table by the window...a foreshadowing of things to come. I was too frantic earlier to feel nervous. I check through the unpronounceable menu and pray that the food won't be too spicy and exotic.

I look up, suddenly, with an amused expression on my face after reading the red hot curry entrée titled "Gang Dang" to see him, striding down the lane of tables as though it's a catwalk. In slow motion, my eyes meet his dazzling blue ones and he gives me a laser-whitened smile. His Brad Pitt blond hair shimmers under the quartz lighting, and everyone in the restaurant turns to look at him as he walks past their table. In milliseconds I scan his wide shoulders, narrow waist and nice bulge, and break into a testosterone enduced flush of attraction. I stand as he gets close and offer a handshake, but he grabs my hand with both of his, pulls me closer, and kisses me on the side of my mouth, and says, "Hello, handsome."

Sorry, folks - that's not what happens. I wish! Steve walks in 10 minutes late. He looks like his picture, except five to ten years older. He must have Photoshopped his wrinkles in the picture Earl sent me, and lost 10 pounds - his face is a bit gaunt. Still, he's a good-looking man.

"I'm sorry I'm a little late - I hope you weren't waiting too long. I had five meetings today with clients, and the last one took longer than it should've, so I'm running a tad late," Steve says, flashing a winning grin.

"Not a problem," I reply warmly.

We spend the next few minutes introducing ourselves and exchanging details about our day. He asks,"How long have you been with the matchmaking service, and have you met other people through it yet?"

I'm surprised by his question - Isn't it a little gauche to be asking that on the first date? I think. Nevertheless, I'm curious about his experience so at least I don't need to appear tactless by bringing up the subject first.

Steve tells me that a few of his friends bought him the "Finding Mr. Right" package for his birthday, because they're tired of seeing him single for the last five years, and that I'm his first "match."

The hostess comes by and asks if want a drink. I haven't had a chance to think about it yet, so I say, "Maybe a little later, thank you."

The pink flowered, silk-saronged hostess in traditional Thai clothing says to Steve with a pretty fuscia smile, "Your usual?" She has a magnificent hair-do, reminiscent of a beehive.

"Yes, thank you," he says and beams at her. To me, Steve explains, "It's Perrier with a splash of freshly squeezed lime and a lime wedge on a bed of ice. I'm an alcoholic, by the way, so I don't drink liquor."

"Oh." I'm not sure what to say. I guess I won't imbibe alcohol tonight, I think.

"I quit drinking five years ago and started attending AA meetings. I wasn't a full-blown, on-yer-face, smashed-up kind of alcoholic though. I was just drinking too much too often, like a lot of lawyers do, and decided to quit." Steve explains.

"Good for you," I say, enthusiastically. "I didn't drink from about age 20 - 28, just because it didn't interest me that much," I say, trying to make him feel comfortable.

Steve suggests that we take a look at the menu and decide what to order. I tell him I'm not familiar with Thai food, and ask him what he recommends. Pleased, he tells me he eats here at least four times a week so he knows the menu well, and wants to take over the ordering for us. In relief, I sit back and watch him take control.


First on the menu is Cho Muang: Beautiful steamed violet coloured flower dumplings stuffed with minced chicken, onion and special Thai spices. It not only looks too good to eat, it's delicious. For the main course we try some curry and chicken dishes, equally fabulous, beautifully presented and not too hot.

I love currie. It puts me in a chemically induced state of euphoria. The only thing that is off-putting is the single track light that shines directly in my face through the whole dinner. I imagine it gives a high contrast appearance to the topography of my face, rendering my few wrinkles in three dimensions. I take a washroom break to check my appearance in the mirror - to reassure myself.

We discuss everything of importance in abstract briefs. His father is a famous Canadian Shakespearean actor; his mother is a successful journalist. He's French Canadian, grew up in Montreal, speaks French fluently and English without a trace of accent. I notice he's wearing a Tommy Hilfiger shirt. He invited 50 of his closest friends to his Christmas party, in his 500,000 dollar Yaletown condominium, which was catered and featured a shirtless bartender/stripper. I'm lucky if I know 50 people, I think. At my Christmas party I had eight people and broke my budget making all the food myself. He speaks glowingly of his rich friends who fly to West Palm Beach every few months; have expensive parties with famous people; spend tens of thousands of dollars on designer clothing (he lists several names I've read of like Versace and Chanel) and do helicopter jaunts to select places for the weekend; plus they hire gorgeous bartenders for costly threesomes.

My curry glow is fading. I don't live a glamorous live. I don't even like the concept.

"My last boyfriend was very good looking, we got along well and had great sex. But after six months, I wondered, 'What am I doing with him?' I don't feel a strong connection. It was nice and everything, but I needed to end it because it felt empty," Steve says.

He's charming and a good conversationalist. But Steve is turning me off. I tell him that each of my ex-boyfriends are very meaningful to me even though it didn't work out between us. We are connected spiritually. I don't think he understands.

"I'm attracted to the arts - especially acting. But I had to make a decision. Either go into acting, with little hope for financial compensation, or go into law. I chose money," he says, sadly. "I chose law for the money. I wonder how my life would've been different, if I'd chosen the arts."

I feel sad for him. He has the charisma, personality and looks to be an actor. But he chose the security of a huge annual salary over personal fulfillment. I didn't do that. I chose the artistic route of self-fulfillment.

I offer to pay for dinner. "No, let's pay separately," he says. That's the first sign he isn't interested in me. With all my ex-boyfriends, they agreed to let me cover the bill, with the unstated understanding that they'd pay the next time. But with Steve, there's no next time.

On our exit of Simply Thai, walking down the Yaletown district, we pass another trendy, A-list restaurant. Steve tells me, "That's a great restaurant. And, it has the hottest waiter I've ever seen, who I've been lusting after ever since I met him."

Thanks for sharing, Steve. I know you're not interested now, I think.

We part ways at the end of the street. He lives in the expensive condominium located there. It's an awkward moment. I can tell he doesn't want to make any commitment to see one another again. Out of politeness, I shake hands, and say, "We should meet again." We don't.

This date cost me $400. I'd rather hire an escort, I think.

I haven't heard from Steve, or Earl, since.

Meeting Mr. Right - Part 4

After the disappointment of my first "match," Jean-Pierre, and triggering the ire of matchmaker Earl, I wondered if I was going to be introduced to anyone else.

One month went by, then two. Earl had warned me that it may take some time. I told him, "Don't worry about it. I'd rather you waited and set me up with someone I'd have a strong connection with, rather than just setting me up to fulfill quota."

The matchmaking package I purchased included four matches (I already forfeited one of them by not getting together with Jean-Pierre), as well as an hour counseling session regarding dating issues.

A day after new year's, 2003, I receive a new "Match Report" in my in-box. Not good timing. I finally had enough suffering, and ended all contact with BC just the day before, so I am in heavy grief-mode. But I think, "Maybe the universe is rewarding me for having called it quits with BC, by sending me on a date with someone better!"

"Steve" is a 39 year old lawyer, who loves working out, the arts and traveling. Hmm, I've never been with a lawyer before, it could be interesting. He's been in three relationships in the past, none of which lasted more than six months. Not a good sign. Steve is 5'10", 165 lbs., athletic, blond hair, blue eyes and has a smooth body. He makes over a 100,000 dollars per year. Sounds hot! There's no mention of his cock size, unfortunately. And of course, he's spiritual too.

Earl informs me in the e-mail that he'll send Steve's pictures the next day.

Impatient, I google search for his first and last name and e-mail address, and find the law firm he works for. He specializes in car accident injury claims. Steve's name seems familiar, so following my intuition I look in our local gay rag, Xtra West. And I find it - he advertises his practice, and has a picture of himself!

I notice his teeth first. They are big, straight and white. A Hollywood smile. His hair is cut tastefully short, and frames a handsome face. His nose is almost too narrow, but nicely shaped. Something doesn't 'click' for me though. I can't define what it is, exactly. But I decide to meet him in person.

I put off calling Steve for the next few days, because I'm too depressed and my eyes are bloodshot and puffy from crying jags that hit me at inopportune moments. So Steve calls me first.

"Hi. This is Steve. Earl set us up together, and I'm calling to arrange a date with you," he says confidently. He has a nice voice: it's not as deep as mine, but has an upbeat, positive sound. He gives me his office, home and cell phone number, and explains he'll be out for dinner tonight, so I'm to call him on his cell phone.

Summoning all the sunny, optimistic energy I can muster in my present state, I call him at 7pm. "Hi Steve, it's insert my name here. " I hear silverware clinking on ceramic dishes, and the rumble of dinner patrons in the background.

"Hi! I'm glad you called," he says. "I'm having sushi with friends right now, but I was hoping you'd call." I'm impressed by his friendliness and warm up a little. We arrange to meet the following Friday for dinner at a Thai restaurant he recommends. "It's an excellent restaurant, and has won several awards and been reviewed by Condé Nast magazine as one of the top ten in Vancouver," Steve tells me. "I'll make reservations."

"Great," I say, "I'll see you then." The conversation went well, but I'm not someone you impress by taking me to an elite, trendy restaurant, in the middle of Generation X Yaletown. It's too "in" for me. What am I going to wear? Do I even like Thai food? How expensive is this place? My dining preference is The Naam - an organic vegetarian restaurant. It serves the Red Dragon bowl ($8.95) - a mixture of shredded beets, steamed veggies, home made potato fries and tofu cheddar cheese all mixed together, that one picks at with chop sticks. And has Vancouver's worst table service. It also attracts hippies, girls with hairy armpits and straight boys who could use a make-over by a team of gay men. (I don't look like them, of course.)

I immediately get on-line to find "Simply Thai." I check out the menu - I don't recognize anything on it, so I make a note to ask my more multi-cultural cuisine-oriented friends what it is. I call the restaurant to ask what their dress-code is, and fortunately it's dressed down.

I sense Steve may be too 'A crowd' for me. Or, maybe I should arrange to take the counseling session offered by Earl. Do I have issues?
to be continued....

Meeting Mr. Right - Part 3

Reading the "Match Report" from Earl on my first edition, grey, G3 desktop unit with a 21" monitor, I notice the unclipped nails on my fingertips as I type on my coffee stained keyboard. My roommate broke my nail clippers when he tried to clip his toenails, and I haven't had a chance to buy new ones. The "Healthy Menu" chicken fajita wrappers from McDonald's on my table top to the right of me are distracting, so I take a moment to crunch them into little paper balls and throw them in my Ikea wire basket.

Jean Pierre, I read from the "Match Report," is a French Canadian, with a Ph.D. in psychology, who has his own clinical practice and is a professor at UBC. Sounds good, so far - I do need a therapist. He loves going to art galleries, plays, string quartets and choirs. In addition to working out and rollerskating around the seawall, he's into contemporary fiction. Lovely. He's 6'2", 48 years old, moderately hairy and has a huge cock. This leaves me a bit confused. He's a little old for me, just by a decade, but I don't mind hair or huge cocks. Jean Pierre earns over $100,000 per year. Yikes! I feel very intimidated now. Jean-Pierre is spiritual (whatever that means).

My Outlook Express icon starts blinking rapidly after I read the "Match Report." I receive a picture of Jean-Pierre. I open his jpgs in IE, and look. I never considered myself to be superficial, or totally looks-based when choosing a partner (with all the variety of ex-bfs I've had in the past), but... I am extremely disappointed. I feel like a superficial circuit party boy when I see his picture. I disappoint myself.

He looks 48. Receding hairline. That's not so bad, but it's the round face and thick glasses that bother me. He's definitely someone you want to be your therapist, but your boyfriend? Not for me. I felt like I've lost my morals and values by my opinion. I just can't be interested in someone who looks like that. I feel terrible.

My heart sinks. So does my face, which I see reflected in my monitor. In the reflection, I suddenly see a superificial me. After all, Jean-Pierre is successful, educated, intelligent and has similar values, and a b.c. But can I imagine us going out on a date, relating well, but having no physical attraction? Yes. So what's the point of meeting up? I know Jean-Pierre has the expectation of dating. I just can't do it.

I show three friends his picture. They all say, "He's definitely not your type, physically." They know it right away. So sheepishly I tell Earl, "Jean-Pierre is not attractive enough for me. Even my friends know that."

Earl is livid. He writes in an e-mail, "I expect my matches to meet in person and make judgements from their meeting, rather than basing it on a photograph. He really does have a lot in common with you, and I think you're making a mistake."

Earl tells me later that he wrote to Jean-Pierre, telling him I'm not interested in meeting. In the meantime, I change my mind - I want to meet him and perhaps we can be friends? But Earl tells me it's too late.

My two closest friends have in the last eight months been dating university professors, who are older; not perfectly attractive, but have become involved with them. They're blissfully in love, because they're mature and intelligent and know how to treat a partner. I can't help wondering if I made a mistake...as usual.

Finding Mr. Right - Part 2

At his trendy downtown Vancouver office a couple of weeks later, I sit facing Earl, the psychologist, in a cozy couch designed to make me confess. He has a clipboard and pen in hand, and his practiced professional demeanour makes me feel like I am in a therapy session.

“I’d like to get to know you more. Select from this list of adjectives those which you feel apply to yourself,” Earl says.

He hands me a sheet with over 100 words on it. I scan through them, and feel overwhelmed. First and foremost, I hate labeling myself. Secondly, when I consider “patient” or “argumentative” I have to think about the differing points of view people have about me. My ex-boyfriends would say, “argumentative,” but my students would say, “patient.” Am I moral? Compared to whom? And so on. So I mention this to Earl.

“Just choose a word based on your first impulse,” he says.

I'm getting a headache.

Earl then has me select adjectives based on other categories, such as: “When you have a conflict with another person, how do you tend to react?” followed by “When your parents have a conflict, how do they deal with it?” or "What birth order are you placed in?” He also asks, “What are your sleeping habits” and “How do you maintain your household?”

“What are the qualities you desire in a partner?” I couldn’t help thinking that if I knew all this about myself, I wouldn’t have paid $1500 for a matchmaker. Perhaps I need a therapist, not matchmaker.

Then we get to the “sexually transmitted diseases” category for which he has a huge list. Somehow I’ve never had any of them even though I test regularly. I have had those cricket things. Those - what are they called again? I think I got them from trying on bathing suits in a department store.

Then we get down to the base information. “How large is your cock? Are you cut or uncut? What do you prefer in a partner?" and finally, "How would you describe your body - slim, athletic, muscular or large?” Can't you tell by looking at me? I think.

If it isn’t for Earl’s experienced therapist manner, I would feel highly invaded by his interview. It's exhausting. And somehow I am paying for this experience.

The Blogger Rules of Honor

Sorry to interupt my story, but I had an inspiration. It's called "The Blogger Rules." Say it after me, with your hand across your heart:

I promise, as a blogger, to not reveal the true identity of a fellow blogger, unless he or she consents

I promise, as a blogger, to not share images of other bloggers, even though he or she sends them to me, in confidence

I promise, as a blogger, not to make friends with other bloggers, and then date their boyfriends (or girlfriends), unless it's okay with him or her (unless your name is geek or slut or a combination thereof - suggested by Geekslut)

I promise, as a blogger, not to speak poorly about other bloggers, unless he or she deserves it, and it has caché

I promise, as a blogger, not to steal code or design concepts, without permission, from said blogger

I promise, as a blogger, not to tease other bloggers, unless they're handsome, cute, sweet (have good abs) and blush when they're embarrassed, and named Cool Relax

I promise, as a blogger, when a fellow blogger goes through hard times, to send a message of love, even if it's a few days late

I promise as a blogger, to uphold and encourage truth of expression, even when a friend may have discovered your site, or another blogger becomes afraid and silences him or herself

I promise, as a blogger, to take action through e-mails when a fellow blogger talks about doing dysfunctional things, such as too many drugs or alcohol, unprotected sex (I know this is controversial, but I mean when both people aren't hiv positive) and bulimia

I promise, as a blogger, to always be entertaining or boring, whatever is the truth

I promise, as a blogger, to share the truth of my experience and who I am

I promise... this one is complicated, but let me try to explain. If Blogger A says something, and Blogger B responds on his or her own website and complains about it, then Blogger C responds to Blogger B about his or her comments, and they go back and forth about the topic without writing directly to Blogger A about it, then this is not good. Blogger B and C should send comments directly to the Blogger A first, before making it a public forum. Otherwise, you don't give Blogger A a chance to respond and perhaps rectify (doesn't that sound like rectum and erect?) any communication problems. (Courtesy of Water Colour)

If you have any other ideas, please let me know, and let's put together the unstated honourary "Rules of Bloggers". (I'm such a Capricorn, aren't I?)

Finding Mr. Right - Part 1

My Outlook Express icon starts blinking, indicating I've got mail. I switch applications to see whom it's from. Delivered from "Finding Mr. Right," the subject line states, "Match Report."

A mixture of excitement and dread creeps over me. A month before I'd skeptically signed up with a new matchmaking service, advertised in the local gay community newspaper. I was tired of trying to meet other gay men through the usual options: for the last five years I'd tried a variety of services including the low-tech option of gay bars; and the recent high-tech offerings of phone-based cruise-lines; and on-line personals and instant chats.

Initially the phone lines were rather exciting. I had the option of leaving a voice personal, to which interested men could reply. Or I could connect to the live room for one-on-one male contact - which I discovered was designed for immediate hook-ups for impersonal sex. I became adept at correlating vocal characteristics with psychological and physical profiles, and analyzing the content and syntax of a few seconds of verbiage.

I met several men through both methods: none of whom ended up being long term relationships, or even friendships, for that matter.

I did have some hot sex though.

On-line personals seemed to have more potential; at first. I could post my profile and reply to other men's profiles, and when the time was right, could send or receive a picture, thereby pre-screening the applicant for compatibility based on physical attractiveness. But I discovered that words and photographs mislead. Adjectives such as "attractive, athletic and mature" have very subjective interpretations. If someone states, "I'm a nice guy," they generally weren't, from my viewpoint. (After all, if you're a nice guy, you assume that about yourself - you don't need to state it.)

Photographs, too, are as illusory as mirages. With a good photographer, the right lighting and angle, proper cropping and Photoshop airbrushing, anyone can look desirable. I know, because I indulged in this cosmetic practice myself. And, it must be stated here that attractiveness is in the eye of the beholder; it's not an objective quality shared by all gay men.

Even for myself, what I find attractive is difficult to pinpoint. Each of my four ex-boyfriends looked entirely unalike. I can't define what makes me attracted to them, physically: one is smooth, another hairy; one tall, another short; one blond, the other brunette; one has a full head of hair, the other is receding; one has a less than average sized cock, the other enormous beyond plausibility. What they do have in common is kindness and gentleness, which are a greater aphrodisiac to me than any physical characteristic. Shyness, too, makes me blush with infatuation (and think Cool Relax).

Instant Internet chats are the equivalent of telephone "one-on-one connections," except less certain of action. The problem with pvt's: I sign on in a horny mood in the middle of the night; chat up a storm with a sexy guy; by the time we're ready to connect I'm tired or too drunk; I don't want to spend the cab fare to get to his place; we exchange phone numbers or e-mail addresses and promise to connect again. In the morning I could care less. It's a little too instant. It's the fantasy in the moment I desire: not the reality. Sometimes the talk is as fulfilling as the action. Even though I have several naked, erect pictures of "him" in my hotmail account the next day, it's not as compelling at seven a.m.

What I really want is to meet someone I care about, with whom I share common values and interests, a man I can respect and makes me laugh and feel good inside. Simple, right? So I believe that paying $1500 for a matchmaking service is cheap in comparison to the expense I paid through the other methods. All those low and high tech methods have their price. And they're not as inexpensive as money spent from your wallet. They're paid by your soul.

The man behind "Finding Mr. Right" is a psychologist with 25 years experience, retired now, but has a passion for playing matchmaker. A modern yentl, because he's Jewish. Someone I can trust my soul to, I think.

Last fall, after failing relations with BC, I nervously gave the psychologist a call.

"Tell me about yourself," he asks.

"I'm a 37 year old man, looking to meet someone. I find it's difficult to meet other gay men in this city. I'm not sure what dance club to go to, or what club to join. I'm tired of using the phone lines and internet - they haven't worked for me," I state, as though reading from a cue card.

"You're just the kind of guy we're looking for," he says, cleverly. "We're looking for men who want a committed, long-term relationship and are exasperated by the local dating scene. Men who are ready for a loving relationship."

He pressed all the right buttons. "Can I arrange an appointment with you?" I say, hopefully.

to be continued

High school confidential

I'm over my self-pity at the moment. I don't apologize for it. They were authentic feelings. Feelings that make me human, worth loving and reinforce that I am a deeply caring person. I'd be concerned if I didn't have moments like my last blog. Enough said.

Things are looking up! I may have a new HUGE contract to work on, which would get me through the next four months - especially the two months when I have the summer off as a teacher.

And Mr. Rastafarian came by again today to take a second look at my place. He likes it, and he's going to be my new roommate as of June 1. Yeah! He's a cutie. Not my type sexually, but a sweet guy. He does yoga and swims with the Vancouver gay swim team. I think I'll be totally at home with him.

I got back some evaluations from my last term. It's pretty strange you know, these evaluations. I hate them and think they're unscientific. From my Saturday class, who hardly spoke during the whole term, I got 4.8 and 4.8 out of 5.0 for the course and me as a teacher. But my Thursday night class, who seemed to love me, I only got 3.8/4.1. At the end of my Thursday night class, everyone shook my hand saying how much they learned and enjoyed the class, yet I got the worst evaluation from them. My Saturday class hardly said a word to me as they left, and yet they gave me nearly perfect points. I don't get it.

I teach my class exactly the same way, every time, so I don't know why there would be such a huge division of opinion. One time, I loved teaching a class, had a great time and the students were totally engaged. I got a horrible evaluation from them. Other times I teach classes where no one seems to enjoy themselves, I hate teaching them, and get a brilliant evaluation. I feel like taking action on the college to find a better evaluation method.

One thing I think they should do is evaluate the evaluations according to the grade the student ends up with. What I find is... the students who get the highest grades enjoy the class and my instruction the most. Those who do more poorly evaluate my class and me more poorly. After five years of teaching, this is my experience. There are those less talented, so they don't learn as much and complain more. And then there are those who are talented, learn a lot, and complain much less.

I always have gorgeous, intelligent and brilliant women in my class. It's really a shame I'm not straight. I'd be happily married by now. It's more rare that I find a brilliant sexy guy in my class who I'm attracted to. One woman in my class is so gorgeous, vivacious, smart, sexy and engages me with wonderful conversation, that I nearly want to jump her bones. The tiny straight part of me just wants to cling and jump into her and share my life with her. She's the kind of girl you want to hold while she talks to you, because it's an extension of the way you feel about her. But I'm gay, and it doesn't work that way.

Maybe... just maybe... if she dominated me, forced me into embarrassing situations where I'd have my clothes off with a girl... I wonder. Maybe if she threw me around, said, "Stop being a whoosy, get those clothes off and let me suck your cock, boy. You don't know what you're missing with a pussy," I'd consider being straight. If she fucked me back as I fucked her, hmmm... I like it when a woman says, "I'm going to fuck YOU, boy. Don't think you're dominating me." Maybe I need to hire a dominatrix to have my first straight sexual experience? It would be way more simple being straight. I always meet gorgeous women who are worth having a long term relationship with. I just never meet men like this. If anyone has advice, I'd love it if you e-mailed me. Should I hire a female dominatrix just for the experience?

Nevertheless, I do have three cute guys in my classes. Unfortunately I'm not entirely sexually attracted to them, but I do like their personalities. They look me straight in the face, hang onto my every word, ask questions. They're very cute, but too thin. Maybe I should say four guys. The one guy who is obviously a genius, and looks like Chrisonomicon, is too unimpressed with me for words. He's always two steps ahead of me. I'm unable to make him laugh. I seriously wonder if anyone ever impresses him. It must be hard to be a genius, because you're rarely stimulated. I really don't think I've met any student as bright as him.

But this one guy, who's actually from Iraq, is surprisingly sexy. He makes comments that are very insightful and unique. He's got a very cute boyish face, and handsome masculine forearms. I checked him over more thoroughly in today's class, and he's got something going on, you know? He doesn't make me intimidated, like the other guy in last term. Instead, I feel like squeezing him.

Enough of "High School Confidential," by Rough Trade. (By the way, I loved that song in my teens.)

Here's the lyrics for all of you boys who are too young to remember it:

HIGHSCHOOL CONFIDENTIAL
She's a cool blonde scheming bitch
She makes my body twitch
Walking down the corridor
You can hear her stilettos click
I want her so much I feel sick
The girl can't help it
She really can't help it now
It's like high school high school confidential
High school high school confidential

Teenage Brandos stalk her in the halls
They tease her with cat calls
She's a combination Anita Ekberg Mamie Van Doren
Dagmar high school confidential, high school
High school confidential

What's the principal doing with her
Who's that guy, is he screwing with her
What's her perfume? Tigress by Faberge
It makes me cream my jeans when she comes my way
High school high school confidential
High school high school confidential

She drives a candy pink Cadillac
If I don't get her soon I'll have a heart attack
When she flashes me a look
I wanna burn my books
Give up high school
High school confidential