Sometimes you shoot a big load or the guy you are with at that moment does and it gets all over your face, in your hair and on your newly washed bed sheets. What do you do? Well, the polite thing to do is swallow and you already didn’t do that, so why worry about it now. What I hope you did was close your eyes because if you didn’t, they are probably burning right now and you’re not able to read this blog post. After you open your eyes (we’re saying you closed them during the big splurty shot), you grab the hand towels you preset aside on your nightstand to wipe it away. If you were caught in the heat of passion, you dumb bitch, you didn’t set up your nightstand. What are you going to do now? Totally kidding, sometimes I forget to plan too. Let’s say the towel is there and you grab it, you wipe excess off of your eyes or area around your eyes so that nothing dribbles down into them. Then before you wipe yourself up entirely you wipe up your partner and then yourself. You tell that slut to get out of your house and possibly cum back another day. You quickly jump into the shower and after you use shampoo you put in conditioner. You wash that man right out of your hair!
Well, that was certainly the long way of saying- I am not talking about that kind of conditioning.
(This is taken from the web) What is conditioning in psychology?
Conditioning is a form of learning in which either (1) a given stimulus (or signal) becomes increasingly effective in evoking a response or (2) a response occurs with increasing regularity in a well-specified and stable environment. The type of reinforcement used will determine the outcome.
I say crock of poop (I don’t always have to use profanities; I just prefer them). For many of us gay men and all the other letters of the drippy alphabet soup we wholeheartedly accept and love, we don’t all grow up with stable environments. That doesn’t mean we still don’t learn what is expected of us if we want to have a good life. Growing up in a Mexican and Catholic household, where “yo manda”, translated to “I’m the one in charge” is usually said, let’s face it, and done by the Mexican fathers in the home. Even if a big chunk of that childhood, that the said Mexican Catholic father, was coming home in a drunken daze, sleeping, or not home. A lot of the time it was not planned to go home cause (lets face it) he thought, I’m drinking to go home in a drunken daze later, or in a few days’ time- kind of thought process. ( I often think if there was any thought at all other than for himself.)
And even then, in the toughest of moments, we learn what our parents want or expect from us from an early age. My best friend Toni (my bestest Utah gal pal), recently became a widow and is learning who she is as a single person. She said, “I don’t think I know who I am. Like how do you really know you like the color blue? It’s your favorite color.” After telling her she is a people pleasing beeoch, who I absolutely adore, and that she just forgot who she was as a single person, she began to change her tune. Then I acknowledged that it is easy to forget because she’s been married for so long. I drove home this point because it can’t be easy for her or any of you whore-ish desert widows. Grief for straight couples or losing a husband or wife, is just as painful as it is for you or me (I imagine that were both gay as fuck cause straight men aren’t going to read this). Then I added, “Well shit, now that I think about it…how do I know I really like the color blue?” I mean, from an early age, we are told blue is for boys and pink is for girls. Then we go all ape shit crazy and do bedrooms, clothing, socks, shoes, and toys accordingly; never really knowing for certain the future gender identification is for said baby. I remember always being told, “Cowboys, the Cowboys… “ I don’t know if you have seen their costumes, but they always have blue in them. I remember thinking, “Like, ewe I totally get, barf, I hate football.” Or “Seriously, do you really all have to yell at the tv like they can’t actually hear you?” and “Why doesn’t anyone want to go to the movies with me right now?” Don’t get me wrong, I do like cowboys. However, I like my cowboys in tight wranglers. Totally different concept and I might have just not understood the instructions completely, what were they asking me to do? Look at cowboys, watch the cowboys? I have to say sort of listened, under their instructions I love cowboys. I even like cowboys with freshly taken off wranglers. Either way, wranglers or not, I’ll scream at a tv or whatever you want me to for a naked cowboy. My deepest hoes… I mean hopes are that my cowboy also makes me scream a little bit too.
So, conditioning happens from the earliest of ages. From babyhood to puberty and even into adulthood; we are conditioned to follow their idea of a norm or standard to achieve optimal happiness. Whether it’s the stories portrayed on TV shows, in the news or movies and magazines. or at our local churches telling us it’s wrong to feel same sex attraction or to be gay- it happens every day; all day long. Every turn we seem to get a smack in our faces reminding us that what you and I feel like on the inside, or who we love or care about is not what we are supposed to be doing. And do that as a child and be caught doing it, the smack in the face could no longer be metaphorical.
I remember from an early age that I wanted to be a father. Somehow, I hear Toni’s soft voice, “Well how are you sure you want to be a father?” She never said that but now I hear that beeoches voice as I question everything. I think about that question and I wonder, WTF? OMG, did I adopt that child because I was conditioned to feel that I wouldn’t be whole without one? I still have the hole in my heart from that little shit and all the adoption processes and parenthood that took place. I’m left feeling even more of a hole from not feeling whole to begin with. How did I fuck this up? Adoption, nor did foster care for that matter, end up quite like I expected it to. I always seem to get the short end of the stick in this life, and I don’t even like camping or outdoor activities that don’t involve a swimming pool. What the fuck am I going to do with a short end of a stick? Gross. (I do however love my son and Kobyanne Marguelese aka Koby, my foster kid.)
When I arrived in Palm Springs, almost 7 months ago, my eyes were held wide open as the burning itchiness of not blinking, irritated my eyes and simultaneously soothed my soul. I felt like I didn’t dare blink because I didn’t want to miss anything. Its the best feeling I’ve ever felt. I was (and am) watching and learning things I may have heard of in Utah and only seen once in my life. For one thing, most of you bitches are married here, but that doesn’t stop you from being horny dick chasing bitch. You cock swallowing gobblin. You know you try to hook up on the regular. You in my dms bitch and I love it.
I’ve heard of a thrupple in SLC and even had them as friends on Facebook. Did I ever really think that could work? Fuck no! I was CONDITIONED to think of nothing more than monogamy was possible. Two people – one marriage. (Not to be confused with two girls one cup- but I guess a marriage can include that too.) Even you straight bitches couldn’t fulfill the obligation of that one marriage thing I learned from an early age. Many of you straight hoes are on your 3rd marriage, with kids from 4 different baby daddies or mommies.
(Clutches pearls) No judgement here. I just am pointing out that you and we deserve to be happy. A father’s happiness does however have the potential to affect others. When you straight men get married and then cheat on your doating wives you leave at home to watch your many children, you still have a home to return to, one that you likely run! That was probably my alleged dad’s favorite go to come too, whatever. I knew I at least had that as an option. After all, like father like son? Hell to nah nah nah! No, don’t be a bad dad.
I admit it, I may swear like a sailor and have been a party girl at one point in my life, but I’m still very much a Pollyanna bitch from Utah. Sex hadn’t really even been on my radar the last few years. I mean a couple of times, but loss and depression seem to take control and shut down yo’ junk and cumming is the last thing that was on my mind. Then Palm Springs happened, and I remembered how thrilling it was to be looked at and chased after for all the right reasons. Totally different than what I’ve ever experienced in Utah over my 45 years. I was about 40-45 miles outside of SLC and it made it difficult to date. What you Utah bitches passed up, this brown piece of man meat, is being gobbled up and eaten (and I mean eaten) here in the desert. You can’t have any no mo’- so don’t ask. It’s no longer offered on a Utah menu, should have had it while it was being served.
Not that I’m really out slutting around town every night of the week here in PS, but the option is available for me if I want to. More than I’ve ever felt being a brown man in Utah. I love that about this place. We are in the Land of Milk and Hunties, Hunty or is it Land of Milk em and Honies? Land of Milk and Honies? I’ll work on it.
Back to the story, so I get here and am guarding my Catholic Mexican cooch like these men are going to break in, beat it up and throb… I mean rob it, and not give it back. I was guarding my boy pussy like it only had 7 remaining fucks left in its life. Like it could get poked and then I’d loose/lose all rights to ownership. She free now. Well not completely free, there’s always a price to pay (even if it’s putting up with cuddling and cooking me dinner from the time of penetration, until one of us croaks in our old age). 😊
High morals of the story, I passed up some really good dick since I arrived in the desert. Granted, I wasn’t ready for all of that- at the time I arrived. Although I may not be ready for all of that right now, I’m more capable of saying yes or “hell yes let’s get out of here and go back to my place,” more today than I was two months ago. I was thinking the ever so coveted “right one” (as we are taught in Utah), was going to come along and break the curse of the “only 7 more fucks in your butt” chastity belt I was wearing- any day now! It never happened. Not the right key at least. I thought, for sure he’s cumming and will be able to bang me all he wants and vice versa; until the end of time. (Vers as needed or upon request).
I remember on one occasion here in Palm Springs, well in Cathedral City…. (Back story- I’ve learned to look down on people who live in Cathedral City because {snooty voice}, “I live in Palm Springs.”) That’s not really true, I don’t really feel that way, it just irritates Ron/Rhonda Rae. So I’ll say it until my old bitch friend leaves me. Irritating Rhonda Rae has come to be one of my most valued past times. So, back to the story, I went home with this couple I met early on in my PS experience. They had the audacity to invite me to their home in Cathedral City, gross (not really, again just for the Rhonda irritation factor). And no bitch, I didn’t just go home with them immediately. I had been to at least 3 parties where they were before going to their home. You think just because I have a mouth of a whore, I act like a whore and do whorey things, that I am whore? I had to make sure they were only going to eat my butt and not the rest of me. That Jeffrey Dahmer Netflix series ruined it for me! I move to the sluttiest homo city full of dicks and rainbows, more than I’ve ever seen and then those bitches at Netflix bring up Dahmer. Yes, I was dumb enough to watch it. If you haven’t watched it and you are gay- don’t fucking watch it! Its scary as fuck! This crazy white man really did that shit! If you are someone who votes on awards that shows receive- then give all them damn awards to the cast of Dahmer! They did an amazing job! (Especially you Mrs Nash- we homos love you!) But seriously don’t watch it if you are gay and haven’t watched it; you won’t ever bring home a hot stranger again.
Back to the first threesome in many, many, many moons (literally and referencing my ass here too). It was literally the most fun I’ve had in the longest time. They were the most respectful, kind and courteous people I’ve had the pleasure of playing with. I didn’t know husbands could do that and not be jealous of a third person or wiener. I also didn’t know that husbands could be as open to having lovers or even a boyfriend (on the side or shared together) as they are here in Palm Mother Fucking Springs. There are husbands that like to watch, husbands that like to participate and husbands that like so many different things. It has literally opened my Utah mind, heart, and now different parts of me to this wonderful experience in the desert. I realize this is an acceptable thing here in the desert, if planned. No one gets in trouble,no one gets hurt if your honest about what you want or need. These homos talk to their husbands and then I get an invite to their homes. Glory hole- I mean glorious. This is one way telling the truth can come bite you in the ass and you’ll really like that it did; because you got it, that’s what you asked for.
It makes me rethink marriage. I’ve always wanted to be married. I’ve always wanted to share my home, life, chores and let’s face it- half of the bills with someone else. Maybe now I’m even open to sharing a boyfriend with my future husband, who knows? You want to know what really turns me on? How is it you are most likely to get in my pants, you ask? Talk to me about double health insurance coverage and never having to pay a deductible or copayment again! That’s an undies dropper for sure (if you wear them). That shit is sexy as fuck!
Let’s face it, marriage is a contract that gave men permission to own women. As time progressed women were not viewed as property (so they say), and they were given the rights to own land (The Married Women’s Property Act of 1848), and to vote (ratified August 18, 1920). Then marriage went along its merry little way for almost a whole century (until on June 26, 2015), when we homos made it possible to be Merry and Marry Our Marys at the same time. We were finally allowed to marry our loved ones. I remember that day very clearly. It was beautiful and I loved seeing so many people so happy and eager to get married, because they weren’t allowed too before. It was beautiful. (We have to fight to keep it. Vote!)
So, I hear Toni’s soft voice, “So how do you know you really want to get married?” I want to say Toni shut the heck up and get out of my freakin head already, but I already know not even the imaginary Toni is not willing to do that. I think about it and realize my answer to that specific question is a big, “FUCK NO!” Why would I want to share a bed with someone who snores, farts, burps, and talks unexpectedly? But then you people and the magic of this place happened and keeps happening to me. Yes, Palm Springs happened again, again and again. It keeps feeding me more of it’s delicious magic and I’m hungry for it. I’m blessed that wherever I work as a therapist, possibly in private practice in the future (or where ever), I get to work with this beautiful community filled with older gay men. I love you old bitches. (Its a term of endearment -don’t get all old man mad at me). Many of you share similar stories and you don’t even know it. Just like my Ron- Rohnda Rae moved here with his long-term husband, you did too. Together and committed, well before we got the right to marry, you beautiful men (fine and lesbians) found each other. You came here together with the hopes and dreams of living out the remainder of your hard-working lives in a safe and loving environment. A place you can hold each other’s old wrinkly hands at the grocery store or at restaurant without fear of being gay bashed for it. You lived in love, lived in your cute homes and because of your older age, didn’t make too many friends when you got here. Because after all, you happy homos had each other. That’s beautiful shit right there.
It’s that person you finally exchanged vows with in 2015, some of you with open relationships- but that doesn’t lessen the love, after 20 years of already being together- your love was sealed and is legally honored. Then your husband (fine lesbians – your wife) dies, and it sends your whole world crashing. Sending you, the living breathing one, into a deep, dark depression that many of you widows are experiencing now, have experienced, or will. The hurt never goes away. It just changes a little bit, but you still miss that man (or woman- for those pesky lesbians), every fucking day of your life. And be honest, it’s not just every day, that doesn’t explain it properly. You miss that man/woman during every meal, every morning, every night, every shared television show, and every piece of mail with his/her name on it that reminds you they are no longer here in the physical form. (Yes, bitch, if you haven’t guessed it, I’m still a Jesus loving homo. I believe this is not all there is- I believe there is more. Besides, He already forgave me for my sins, which includes my cock sucking, butt fucking, and potty mouth- so fuck you for judging me! I’m a very passionate happy homo. Sorry, I get carried away sometimes. I’m a very passionate happy homo. Sometimes I forget to take down the shields that served me well in Utah. FYI, I also believe in Buddha, Mohammad and a lot of other beliefs too. They all have the same message- don’t be a dick and love. Jesus just got to me sooner then the others and married my soul when I found out he hung out with hookers, whores, lepers, and the poor. He sees me, flaws, and all, and that’s my kind of man. And those abs…. yaaaaas!)
My point is not to bash anyone with religion. We as a community have been beaten enough with the bats of religion. I get it. If I didn’t have the spiritual moments I’ve had, I wouldn’t believe in anything. I just know there is more, whatever it may be called, it’s there. My weird joy (in my current role) here in the desert is, I get to see people trying to find their way back from grief. I get the chance to tell them it doesn’t go away- it just changes and how you interact with it changes. It’s such a beautiful thing to witness, I’m jealous of your love and hope I find something like it in this life.
I then realize, I do want to get married. I hope that I get to spend 30-40 years of farting, burping, snoring alongside someone that I love and that loves me just as I am. Someone that it hurts me so much just to draw a single breath when they die. Someone that leaves a hollow feeling, like there is a huge hole in cavity of my chest where my heart and lungs used to be, because without him I feel a void there. I long for that person who loves me back so much that it devastates me when they die. I want to know what it feels like to love someone so much that it’s a struggle to turn the thoughts and answers you make or give to people from “We” to “I” or “Me.” I want to blubber all over everything and choke on my words trying to get the we to me in a sentence right. I hope in that moment, if I’m lucky, I never get it right. Your hurt looks awful and beautiful all at the same time. How could I not want to get married after hearing your beautiful stories? Besides, talking about double health insurance coverage is really giving me a boner.
What am I trying to say? I’m trying to say- question everything. Know who you are as a couple and then be open to learning who you are without your lifelong partner. Like they said in the threesome I referenced earlier, “Open.” Be open (maybe in the same way but that’s not what I meant.) You could be depriving our community of a really good fucking friend if you refuse to be open. Or depriving us all of a really good fuck. A really good fuck friend? Want to do a threesome? Too fast? Fine, I was kidding anyhow. It’s easier to let our guards down when humor is involved. (So many judgmental bitches out there. Gosh.)
We as Mexican and Catholic men must not fall prey to the teachings or actions of our fathers. I asked for input on Facebook about traits we are told as Mexican and Catholic men are supposed to possess. One of my fellow LCSW friend’s replied, “I meet with men all the time who were “raised” by the same rules. Men have long been stunted by these unrealistic, unfair expectations. It’s totally warped their sense of self and has caused shame and self-loathing. Also, are you sure you want to be a macho man or is it that you want a macho man?” I replied, “It might be that I just can’t get that timeless song out of my freakin head now.”
Macho Man? What the heck am I talking about now? All over the place, yeah a little ADHD. Add that to all the other letters I’ve acquired over the years and I’m my own alphabet soup. Here’s the FB post:
What are the shitty things we are taught as Mexican men not to do….
Examples:
* don’t be gay – yup, I fucked that one up (right up the butt)
*Don’t express emotions – fucked that one up too
*Don’t cry- fucked that one up all the time
*Don’t play with dolls- too bad I done did it
*Respect your elders – meh, sometimes they don’t deserve it
*Don’t talk back- meh, sometimes they need a talking to
*Fight back but you better win and don’t come home with your ass kicked or I’ll kick it again. – tired of the fight over here.
*Be a womanizer – ew.
*Machismo-macho macho man (I want to be a macho man) (The song- talking about the song, but won’t mind putting out for macho men either. They need love too.)
*Don’t whine or complain when you are sick and don’t go to the doctor’s office that’s for pussys… are you a pussy? – No, daddy dearest, I’m not a pussy, but don’t mind having a dick thrown around my inside walls either.
I obs didn’t listen that well as a child and you shouldn’t listen to that shit either! It makes for a bad, unhealthy individual. Be your own man. I chose my own path. It wasn’t easy and some days it’s still not easy. If you don’t know what I’m talking about look at the first *. Not many of us have had it easy. It’s just part of our story. It’s the beginning part and sometimes the middle. You get to decide how it ends. I’m excited to write my next chapters here in Palm Springs.
Write your story, write a good and honorable one, or at least a cum filled slut kind of an ending. I see honor in both now, don’t you?
What I’d like to reaffirm in this post- make up your own mind. Live your own life. Make your own rules (but don’t hurt people). Live and love and fuck and be happy. Its okay if you, or if we are different. It’s fine because we as a community have each other. That’s why we came here- to be with our people. Be respectful. Be truthful. Be kind. It’s okay to say yes and it’s okay to say no. I love you and I hope you never feel alone. Talk to each other. Find each other- you all need each other. I hear it all the time in sessions- FIND each other. We need each other. I want you to be happy. If you are a widow, I hope you see the beauty in the love and sadness you have for the loss of your husband that I do (fine wife too). Grief is beautiful. It means there was that much love and it’s just looking for a place to live now. It’s a beautiful gay story that is not told nearly enough. I know I haven’t heard it or lived it enough. Go to the movies and support gay love stories, because if you don’t, they stop making them and that hurts us all (as a whole). Palm Springs is for older men, for retired men and older retired men sometimes just happen to be widows. I see you and I love you. This is your town. Act like it, love it, and love each other. Don’t get bitter, don’t be a dick- suck one instead. You are loved.
The Happy Homo
(No, I really don’t want to do a threesome with you… but I might with your friend and his husband, but no not with you.)
