Big Fat Hairy Living

I checked my company’s “personal appearance” policy in the company’s H.R. information database. They do not say that I can’t have a pierced septum.

I really need a man. A nice big one. Furry, with a big gut. Not a shapeless blob, but not ultra muscular. Built like a lineman, maybe like Tony Siragusa or Jason Gamble. He’d have to be taller than me, so he’d need to be at least 6′2″ or 6′3″, and 250 pounds. 300 or more if he has a beefy lineman build. (Tony Siragusa is 340, and Jason Gamble is 320.) Ideally, he would have played football or rugby. He has to have at least a goatee; I am not attracted to men without facial hair. Beardless moustaches or moustacheless beards are a turn-off. Dark hair is preferred but not essential, and if he’s around 40 and has a little bit of grey in his beard and hair, that’s even better. Short hair, no long hair. He has to be hairy enough that I can cuddle up to him, bury my face in his chest hair, and feel safe and warm next to him. When he wears T-shirts, the hair has to pop out of the top of his shirt. And the back, too.

He should be financially comfortable and willing to spend a little money on me — not too much, just a few small things every once in a while. He should be able cook for me as well as wash dishes. He should know enough about what kind of food I like that he can introduce me to new dishes secure in the knowledge that I will like them. He should have enough decorating sense so that he can help me make decisions about my apartment.He should live on his own and have fun being around me, yet not feel insulted or lonely if I feel like being a loner for a few days. He should not be insulted that I will want to live on my own for a few years before I contemplate moving in with him. He should be conversational, but not overly talkative. He has to be intelligent and with a sarcastic sense of humour, but he has to be able to be serious some of the time. He should be at least 10 years older than me, so that he can use his life experience to guide me, teach me, help me understand where I’m going. Someone that I can rely on to be there for me, but also someone who can use a young guy like me to help bring his otherwise-infrequently seen wild side to life. He has to be self-confident and aware of his intelligence and beauty, yet modest at the same time. He has to be strong-willed and take-charge, yet considerate of others.

He has to be horny enough that I can get it any time I want it, but not too much hornier than me, so that I have to turn him down all the time. In bed, he has to like the same kind of things as me, but be experimental enough that we can both try new things without being afraid to scare the other off. He can have tattoos and piercings, too (tasteful; not too many of them.) He should be able to handle the occasional fling on the side. An open relationship, but not so open that we lose sight of the fact that the real reason we’re there is for each other.

He has to like Macs, not PCs; Coke, not Pepsi; boxers, not briefs; top, not bottom; Martha, not Lynette; the Toolbox, not the Black Eagle. No cologne; it reeks. He has to be a non-smoker, but he should be able to enjoy the occasional cigar. And finally, he should have a car so that we can go shopping at Home Depot and Price Costco together. If he doesn’t like eatons, there is no chance for a relationship. And he has to like football.

I could use a man like that.

Last night I got around to thinking about my life up to this point. I felt kind of disappointed thinking about all the mistakes I’ve made in my life, and all the opportunities I’ve missed. That’s not to say that I’m unhappy with my life; not at all! On occasion, I’ve seized opportunities presented to me (for example, when I started taking singing and music lessons, or when I tried out for the football team in high school), but I can think of so many missed opportunities, so many things I wish I had done, and so many things I wish I hadn’t.

I think I know why I have such contempt for many of the people in my office. It stems from dissatisfaction with myself, not having done everything that I should have done already by this point in my life. I’m mocking them because a part of me is like them. I regret the fact that I haven’t done exciting things, that my life is pretty ordinary. They are not part of something special, and they probably don’t want to be. I do. I’m working on it, but I’ve already wasted so much time.

I have a friend who works at a radio station. Another friend is an excellent singer, and is working at a job he enjoys. Another friend played college football in the U.S. I would love those things, and I’m taking slow steps towards doing some of the things I wish I could do, but others I will never be able to do (for example, play football again; what I would have given to play college football! Or re-do high school and take different courses.) Then there are things that I could have done and had the chance to do, but didn’t for whatever stupid reason (rugby, wrestling, high school music, make friends more easily, take drama class.) Is it normal to regret at such a young age?

I wonder how they can be happy having done even less. Living for work. No goals beyond their house, their retirement. No aspiration to be anything other than a paper-pusher at a large corporation.

I just got finished teaching a technical course at my company’s learning centre. The course was OK. What was really good were the students. They were fucking hot. One of them was actually someone I’ve seen around and lusted after. His name is Domenic. Then there was George, the hairy muscular Greek-looking guy. Those were only the two best ones, though. Luckily I didn’t get a woody.

I installed some new lighting I got at Home Depot. It looks cool in my dining room. I tried to install the fixture myself, but it’s hard to hold up heavy track lighting while wiring it up and screwing the fixture in all by yourself. Thankfully Eric helped me out by holding the fixture in place.

My first exposure to creating music was probably around grade five or six, when I got a little rinky-dink Yamaha PSS-30 as a gift from my sister. I enjoyed playing it, but since I didn’t know what I was doing, I was limited to sounding out tunes like “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and stuff like that. Lessons never ocurred to me, and if they did to my mom, she didn’t mention the possibility. Or maybe it was just too expensive. I don’t know.

Then came grade seven and eight. My blob of a music teacher totally turned me off music. She made it a chore rather than something enjoyable. I ended up with the clarinet, an instrument I didn’t like at all. I was unmotivated, and the teacher was a bitch. Her name was Miss Maxwell, and we called her Miss Fatswell.

After that, I pretty much ignored music in all its forms. It wasn’t until recently that I discovered my latent love for music. I finally realized it in May of 2000. After seeing musicals, I would always feel a little down, but I didn’t know why. I finally figured out that it was because I was depressed that I couldn’t do the same thing. Watching musicals, listening to the music, transported me into a different world. I want to be able to do the same thing to other people. I want to have fun doing it. I want to be part of something that makes people happy. And makes me happy too.

Oh no!! The bear at Eglinton station shaved! His face is naked!

Yesterday my office mate told me not to let stress at work bug me. Something that’s hard to do and easy to forget. I need to be reminded sometimes. I’ll try to follow his advice.

The Governor-General sent congratulations and best wishes to the (possibly) first legal gay marriage ever.

On the flip side, though, gay activists who insist that “gays are just like regular straight people” are usually the ones who apologize for the leathermen and drag queens at Pride parades. Why should we hide who we are so that we can have our inherent human rights recognized? If you change yourself or hide yourself to gain those rights, have you gained anything? Isn’t it just like being closeted?

Fact is, we’re not the same. We have sex with people who are the same sex as us. That seemingly simple fact has incredible repercussions on the way we think, the way we view sex, the world, people. (I think it’s true that that gay sex is fundamentally about equality in a way that straight sex is not, because of the baggage of millenia of discrimination against women.)

We’re not “just like straights,” and I don’t want us to be. Assimilationists suck. I think it’s straights who should act more like gays, not the other way around. Call me a reverse-assimilationist.