I Don't Want Your Love... Your Revenge, on the Other Hand...

Despite flamboyant tendencies, I like to consider myself on the conservative side of "gay."

I don't know many showtunes (though I know all the lyrics to "Legally Blonde: The Musical." Just because it's about me). Seriously! Bubbly girl who kicks ass and takes names, all with a smile on her face? Thaaaat's me! Also, I've never had 3 relationships in 3 months like many of my peers. But these reasons are why I feel so weird in gay bars.

Everyone's skinnier than me. They have better hair than me. They get more attention from other boys than I do. In turn, I pinpoint their one flaw and judge from across the room. All my friends get a laugh out of it, but I'm still single.

The Boy Scout asked me to Karaoke Night again this summer. I, of course, accepted. Little did I know he was going to show up with 2 cars full of other boy scouts... and a girl boy scout.

DISCLAIMER: I am not making this up. This stuff ACTUALLY happens to me.

I rolled up to the parking lot down the street from the club in my new (used) Toyota Avalon, affectionately named "Wilberta." As I walked down the street in my graphic tee and skin-tight jeans (thank you, Katy Perry), I saw a big group of boy scouts standing outside of a gay bar. The only thing weirder would be if the Scout Master was there. And touching people.

The Boy Scout greeted me, "HEY! COREY!" and gave me a big hug. We did introductions and said "Hi" to the kids I already knew from last year and went inside. Coincidentally, I had just turned 21 and was adorned with a yellow bracelet (ew) which read, "PARTY TIME!" Little did I know that this would be a foreshadowing of the debauchery that was to follow.

Karaoke night was in full swing at the gay bar. When we entered the bar room, there was an extremely skinny homosexual boy dressed completely in black, with a spiky belt and long hair. I grabbed the Boy Scout's hand and said, "Oh, my God, it's Chris Crocker! Should we ask him to leave Britney alone?" The Boy Scout laughed but quickly caught himself and told me to stop being judgmental... Which he knew wouldn't happen, but he still had to say it. The situation only got worse when Chris Crocker's chunky fag hags joined in the fun. While he sang the chorus of a Fall Out Boy song (Of course), they rushed the stage and started booty-dancing. ...What?

The Boy Scout left me for a second to sign up for karaoke. Next thing I knew, I was singing "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga, accompanied by the Boy Scout and his entire troop. It was like that YouTube video where the unattractive frat boys sing "Bad Romance" a capella... We didn't sound as good, but we (read: some of us) were better-looking. The entire bar was singing along and dancing. I'll never forget the one kid dancing on his bar stool. His legs were kicking, he put his hands in the air like he just didn't care, and you could see the music moving through him. I've never seen so many queer boys belting Lady Gaga at one time except for that one time at Providence Pride (which is another story for another blog entry).

Performing is such a rush. Call me an attention whore (and you wouldn't be wrong), but there are few better feelings than the applause of an entire room after you've just poured your heart and soul into a song. On the reverse, I can't help but have a minor panic attack going into any kind of performing/public speaking. It makes me think of that scene from "Citizen Kane" when the private investigator is interviewing Kane's wife and she has that flashback...

She's sitting in front of the fireplace, and she says to her husband, "I couldn't make you see how I felt, Charlie. But I couldn't go through with the singing again. You don't know what it means to know that people are...that a whole audience just doesn't want you." I really felt for her. It's tough to go up on a stage and give it your all, only to have a room full of people scowl and send negativity your way. That scene has always made me tear up. It's hard to not identify with her terror and disappointment, you know? There are harsh critics out there.

As the night went on, the Boy Scout and I continued to pick duets and perform. The songs were then followed by "Eagle Scout shots." Each boy scout who had reached a certain rank had to do a shot. My Boy Scout, however, was not legal and I was. The bartender refused to release it to the Boy Scout, so I took it in his place. All of the boys started to cheer, "YEAH! COREY'S AN HONORARY EAGLE SCOUT NOW!"

"Does that mean I have to sleep in the dirt and tie knots out of rope?" I asked. I got a few head-shakes in response. You can take the boy out of the gay bar, but you can't take the gay bar out of the boy...

Once the night started to wind down, however, we noticed that a set of eyes had been on us the entire time. "He's been staring at us all night," I said, getting possessive once more.

Yeah, but he's also been all over that old, fat guy," the Boy Scout responded. Shocking. Another creep is staring at me? That NEVER happens. The Boy Scout continued to speak, "You know, the Scout Master gave us a challenge tonight."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"He said that whoever got the most numbers at the bar would get to sleep through breakfast tomorrow."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get the creep's number," I told him.

"What?"

"Look, he's been staring at us all night. And I'm gonna look like a loser if you just stare back the whole time. Introduce yourself. It'll be a good story."

"Will you come with me?"

I grabbed his hand. "Absolutely." We walked over to the tall man with a snaggle-tooth, dressed in nothing but a tank top and shorts... at the club. Really, buddy? Show some class. The place might be a dive, but everyone else made an effort! The man introduced himself as "Adam." He was "Twenty-stheven yearsth old." I deciphered his lisp and found out that he was 27. I knew this was about to get good, so I promptly introduced myself. The Boy Scout then found the balls to do the same. Adam put his number into the Boy Scout's phone and we walked away, laughing about what had just transpired.

"You better win this fuckin' contest," I said to him.

"Don't you worry, I have this down. My competition is a bunch of straight guys at a gay bar."

It was then that the "get the fuck out lights," as my friend Sarah calls them, illuminated the entire bar. Last call had long passed and the bar was closed. We made our way out into the warm, summer morning. It was 2 a.m. in the city. There was no humidity. For a New England summer? That was pretty awesome.

The straight boy scouts were outside flirting with a couple of fag hags, while the girl boy scout lit up a joint and passed it around the circle. I had a minor panic attack in my head, because we were outside of the club, under a streetlight, and a cop had just driven by. I wouldn't fare well in jail. I had visions of becoming a prison bitch and holding onto the soap as tight as I possibly could. Knowing myself, I can't stand being dirty... So, once I dropped it, I'd pick it up and find myself victim to a prisoner who would do anything for a little mangina.

I turned to the Boy Scout, who could sense the crazy passing through my head. He came at me without warning and planted a big kiss on my lips. It was at that moment where I felt all the crazy dissipate (which is quite the feat, 'cause I'm a fucking lunatic) and I smiled.

The moment was killed, however, when Girl Boy Scout started cheering, "MAKE OUT AGAIN! MAKE OUT AGAIN! MAKE OUT AGAIN!" When I met her earlier in the night, I knew I didn't like her because to be a girl boy scout, you have to be one of those girls that wants to "make a point" about gender inequality and show all those stupid boys that you can get messy and help old people walk across the street, too. I glared in her general direction, but my dirty look didn't last long. I felt a very forceful SMACK ON MY ASS. The Boy Scout and I turned around to face Adam.

"Oh. Hey, Adam..."

"WHAT'STH GOIN' ON, GUYSTH?" he asked.

"Nothing," I snapped. Behind that "nothing" was a big, "GO THE FUCK AWAY," but I'm a little classier than saying that to someone's face.

That's when the Boy Scout's friend and right-hand man, Rich, spoke up. "We're going to the pizza place on Thayer St. Everyone ready?"

"Oh, I know where that isth!" Adam volunteered.

The Boy Scout looked at me. "Corey, where are you parked?"

I pointed to the left. "I don't know how to get there. Where are you parked? Can I follow you?" I responded. He pointed in the other direction. That's when Adam interjected.

"Oh, Corey, I'm parked over that way! You can follow me there, I'll show you the way!"

The silence was more uncomfortable than an AIDS joke in a room full of promiscuous gay men. The Boy Scout took this opportunity to man up. "Corey, I'll walk you to your car."

Adam had lost the battle, but the war to rape me in a back alley was not yet over. The Boy Scout called back to the others and said, "I'll meet you back here in a couple minutes." He then took me by the hand and the three of us walked toward my car.

"Are you coming with us because you guys need a little 'make-out time?'" Adam asked, snickering.

The Boy Scout came back at him with a simple, "Yeah," and we crossed the street to get in my car, leaving Adam in the dust. The Boy Scout jumped into Wilberta's passenger seat and kissed me with this intense energy I had never felt before. What was probably only two minutes felt like it lasted hours. And it felt good. That's when there was a knock on my driver's side window.

"Hey, make-out queensth! Let'sth go!" Adam snapped in a jealous tone.

After I dropped the Boy Scout off at his car and followed Adam to the pizza place, I found myself alone with him outside. The Boy Scout was nowhere to be found. It was then that Adam took the time we had alone together to tell me about his DRAMATIC FUCKING LIFE (This is the pot calling the kettle black).

Apparently, Adam has a 300-lb. sugar daddy who takes him to the club and buys him lavish gifts. Meanwhile, his fiancee lives an hour away, so Adam is free to do whatever he wants and hook up with whoever he wants. His fiancee also, apparently, knows about his sugar daddy, because the fiancee is going to put diamonds in the skull ring that the sugar daddy bought for him. And, to top it all off, he has a 6 year old child named "COLTON JAMESTH" who lives in "ARIZTHONA."

"Wait, he's your biological child?!" I asked, incredulously.

"Yeah!" Adam cheered excitedly.

I wasn't about to go into the gory details on this one. While Adam rambled about his child's favorite color and the last time he went to visit him, my phone rang. Recognizing the custom ring tone immediately, I picked up my African-American Berry and said, "Hello?" It was the Boy Scout. But Adam wouldn't shut the fuck up. "Adam, hold on. Hello? ADAM, HOLD. ON."

"Are you alive?" the Boy Scout asked, worried about me having followed a drunk driver to the restaurant.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good, we're almost there." Click.

He arrived and we spent the night talking outside of the pizza place. It was nice and peaceful... until the fat girl who we saw at the club sat down on the car across the street. The car in question was parked outside of a Chinese restaurant. Fat Club Girl's ass caused the car's alarm to sound loudly (at 2 o'clock in the morning). The only person who was bothered was the car's owner, who, coincidentally, owned the Chinese restaurant.

"YOU NO SIT ON CAAAHH," he screamed. "YOU NO SIT ON CAAAHH!"

I got a kick out of this and immediately snapped a picture on my African-American Berry. The Boy Scout smirked and rolled his eyes. He was never one to encourage my antics, but he could never deny enjoying them. This process with the fat girl sitting on the car repeated itself two more times. Fool her once, shame on you. Fool her twice, buy her a submarine sandwich from a late-night pizza place.

Either way, Adam didn't appreciate the fact that the attention wasn't on him. He continued to tell us about his upcoming wedding in Puerta Vallarta, but kept emphasizing that "didn't stop him from being able to play." I vomited a little in my mouth. The thought of boning someone with a snaggletooth is not appealing to me in the least.

Eventually, the adrenaline high that everyone experienced from the night's events dwindled and the pizza place closed. As we left and the Manager shut the door, a shitfaced, Asian drag queen appeared out of nowhere, bolted toward the door, and hung onto it for dear life. "No, we're closed!" the Manager shouted. But that didn't stop Drunky. He/She/It grunted while pulling on the door handle. Eventually, the pizza place Manager won the tug of war, shut the door, and locked it. Drunky was very upset at this turn of events, so he/she/it (shit?) ran away, flailing its arms and crying.

I was dumbfounded. Mostly because I couldn't find the reality show cameras OR Ashton Kutcher. But when all the lights went out in the buildings on that street, I knew the night was over. But I was wrong. "Corey, let me walk you to your car," the Boy Scout offered again. I agreed, fearing what Adam might try to do. Adam naturally followed us down the street to my car, but kept his distance. We kissed and hugged good night, which caused more jealousy flare-ups on Adam's face. He kept bragging about his ring. "I told you I'm getting diamonds put in the skull's eyes, right?"

I ignored him. But the Boy Scout decided to appease him (knowing that I was sick of his bullshit). "Yeah, Adam. Call ya tomorrow! See ya!" With that Adam got in his car and drove away. The Boy Scout wasn't my boyfriend, but he was acting like a gentleman. And to be treated well in that moment was enough for me. He started to walk down the street toward his car. I rolled down my window. "Don't you want a ride?"

"Oh... Yeah!"

Holding my right hand while I drove with my left, the Boy Scout and I made our way down the street. We pulled into the parking lot, where we found 3 boy scouts peeing in the bushes.

Not the romantic ending I was expecting.

I followed the Boy Scout and his friends back to the highway. And through the windows, I could hear, "BYE, COREY," as I pulled on to the highway. It was kind of like that moment in "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" where the kids feel "infinite," only way cooler.

Ralph Lauren Called... He Wants You to Stop Popping Your Collar

Since high school, I've been perfecting the art of fashion and telling my mother, "No, you don't get to buy my clothes anymore." Also since high school, I've popped the collars of my polo shirts. It was semi-cool back then, but I keep it alive as an homage to the 1980s, and as my personal fashion statement.

My family, and my mother especially, have never understood. Back in high school, we had a senior dress-up day where we were supposed to dress up like a past decade. Lois suggested to me, "Core, wear two polo shirts and pop the collars!"

"...Mom, I do that NOW," I responded.

***

Fast forward to the present day. As you've probably seen in my previous posts (and if you haven't, get to it!), I'm a little desperate when it comes to dating. What? You think I'm semi-attractive? Let's go out a couple times! Then, you'll say something stupid and I'll pretend it didn't happen until you finally make me hate your guts. Then I'll ignore you and you'll delete me off Facebook. It's a vicious cycle.

One night, I just happened to log into my Myspace and found a friend request from a boy who was friends with one of my other friends. He seemed nice and we hit it off. So it only seemed natural that we'd meet and try to see if there was chemistry in real time.

Elated, I went into work going on and on about my date that Friday night, causing nausea to overtake everyone in the office. We were scheduled to meet at 7pm that night. 4pm rolled around and my shift had just ended, when my African-American Berry started to vibrate.

"Oh, I just got a text! I bet it's HIM..." I swooned. Jenn and Jillian smirked at each other, because they get a kick out of the young, puppy love stage I always seem to find myself in. Both of them having been in serious relationships for years, they have to laugh at me a little bit. I think it's justified.

"What does it say?" Jenn asked.

"'Hey, can we reschedule? I have an ear infection...'" I read.

Jenn saw the color drain out of my face and offered to go to dinner and a movie with me. I declined and went home to watch chick flicks and cry.

But not all was lost. We rescheduled to go to dinner and a movie. And I had to come up with a plan of attack. I went to the Grace to my Will: Amy.

"Corey, be you. Be loud, be outgoing, be funny, be yourself. What are you wearing?"

"Well, I just bought these new dark jeans, black Chucks, and a black polo."

Amy knows me a little too well. "Popped collar?"

"I don't think so. I don't wanna be TOO MUCH for him..."

"Corey, you need to BE YOURSELF. And that's you! Do it!"

She actually sent me a BBM the night of the date: "Collar popped? ...Good boy."

The date was fun. The conversation was okay, more negativity than I usually like on a first date. I really didn't wanna know about how much he hated his mom, but he was cute and nice to me! And he gave me a big bear hug goodbye and a big kiss on the cheek. It was very kind and conservative, but in a good way. 'Cause I have this bad habit of rushing things...

Later that week, we started talking about what we were going to do that weekend. He changed the subject abruptly and said, "I just have one request."

"Yes?"

"Can you not pop your collar anymore? I don't dig it."

My jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, I don't like it. Can you stop?"

"...No."

There was silence for a few minutes.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Uh, well, I'd rather you be honest, but I'm not changing it," I said.

"Oh, okay, my baby pops his collar," he cheered. This was too much for me. We went on one date, and all of a sudden he pulls out the overly-controlling personality trait card and calls me "baby?" Red flags all over that.

A week and a half later, I got an IM from him.

"Hey, why did we stop talking?"

"...Oh, gee, I don't know, because you judged me?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to hurt you!"

I closed the window, so as to not dignify him with a response.

***

I went down a bit of a shame spiral after this, and kept dating loser after loser. I think my best moment was the date I went on a week after that. We went to the Cheesecake Factory and saw that crappy Jonah Hill and Russell Brand movie. Let's just say, the movie didn't hold my attention, and neither did he.

"...Corey, wake up. You're snoring and everyone in the theater is staring."

Tales From the Crypt (of Customer Service)

For anyone looking for an easy job that pays well, customer service isn't the right career path. As I approach my fourth year of dealing with angry, whiny clientele and part-time status, I've seen some wild things and met all kinds of crazy people.

The weird thing? I wouldn't give it up for anything in the world.

Picture this: First day on the job as a movie theater rep.

"Okay, ma'am," I said as I handed a bag of popcorn and several sodas to the guest at the counter. "Your total is seventeen dollars."

She looked at me incredulously in response. "You have to PAY?!"

***

It sounds terrible, but dealing with language barriers makes me wanna take my own life. It's not a matter of racism, it's the awkward moment where you have to politely let your customer know you don't understand what the fuck they're saying because they've just gotten off the boat and are incredulous that you don't carry Curry-flavored soda.

One day, I answered the phone. "Hi, this is Corey, how may I help you?"

"Yes, I want to see E-Wall and Wanted," a man with a thick accent replied.

"Sir, do you mean Wall-E and Wanted?"

"Yes, I want to see E-Wall and Wanted."

"...Okay, well, we don't have those movies. We have Batman, but it's sold out."

"Okay, fine, but when are E-Wall and Wanted playing?"

"Sir, we do NOT have those movies."

"When are they playing?"

It was at this moment that I knew customer service was not the career path for me. But I still come back for more. I'm a glutton for punishment.

***

Furniture's even trickier.

"Hi, this is Corey, how may I help you?"

"I have your delivery drivers here, and I'm NOT letting them leave," an obviously angry woman snapped at me.

"...Excuse me?"

"THEY BROUGHT THE WRONG BED."

"What's wrong with it?"

"They brought a black footboard and a RED HEADBOARD." The woman continued screaming at me, and I had to hold the phone away so she didn't hear me laughing at her. She then went on to demand, "You better get in a truck and bring me the right bed!"

Okay, lady, I'm gonna go hop in a truck and bring you a brand new bed to your summer home in South Buttfuck. I'll get right on that.

***

My favorite job so far has been being a greeter. I like talking to people. ...Well, some people.

One day, I saw an old lady sitting on a bench. She looked kind of confused and lonely, so I approached her. "Ma'am, are you finding everything alright?"

"Oh yes, but sonny, come here a second!"

I cautiously inched closer. "...Yes?"

"Are you on the Jay Leno Show? You're that fella, Ross! The gay fella!"

"Yes, you caught me. I left showbusiness to greet people on a Saturday night for $9 an hour."

People are really dumb.

Tracy Turnblad is an Asshole.

I was driving into the lawyers' office the other morning, lost in thought. I bitch about traffic, but I secretly love long drives in the morning during rush hour, because it's a good time to decompress and think about everything going on in my life.

As I approached the exit that would FINALLY take me off the Expressway (Sidenote: Why do they call it the "Expressway" when it's so God damn slow?!), "Without Love" from Hairspray started playing through my iPod. I sang Zac Efron's part, believing myself to be within his vocal range, and also wanting to have rabid monkey sex with him.

Then my thoughts turned to the story's plot: Tubby girl who can sing has crush on pretty boy in her high school (Story of my life!). And it got me thinking... Especially about the lyrics: "Tracy I'm in love with you / No matter what you weigh."

Zac Efron... is full of shit. It's my experience that fat chicks are inherently miserable and like to attach themselves to popular gay guys (Story of my life... again!). Was Link Larkin a chubby chaser? Furthermore, why should I believe that Link and Tracy would STAY together after their "happy ending?" They're FIFTEEN years old! That shit won't last past the summer... Link will dump Tracy for someone skinner. Then she'll eat ice cream and cry.

***

I found myself sitting on the couch a few weeks ago. It was the first night of summer vacation. While some reveled in the unusually warm, spring air and got their booze on, I was eating ice cream and watching "He's Just Not That Into You..." Alone.

This film has become a staple in my repertoire. Mostly due to an unfortunate incident involving a final project for Studio TV Producion II.

***

One of the class' professors handed me a script. "Corey! You'll be directing two scenes from 'He's Just Not That Into You.'"

Ashleigh piped up, "Professor, that's perfect! Because that's the story of Corey's life!"

I think it sucks that people like me live for these small moments of male attention. We just want to be loved and love in return. And when that opportunity seemingly presents itself, it turns out it was never really there at all.

I had a confrontation with a prospective suitor who took me out on the town, introduced me to his friends, and opened his home to me. I asked him, "Did monogamy die and I didn't get the memo? I don't think it's so much to ask to be doted on by ONE person and not have to worry about him following his cock to greener pastures."

Am I right? Or does this concept not exist anymore?

I Hit Rock Bottom, Took Pictures, and I Came Back Already (Part 2)

I love IMing, because it helps me to keep in touch with lots of people. I caught up with Jess T. tonight, and this is what came of it:

Corey: I don't know, I'm still in that rebound/bad date stage. Remember that time a guy took me to dinner and told me I giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy? He wondered why I didn't call him back...

Jess: hahahahahaha

Corey: And then there was the banker who got me into a bar... didn't pay for my drink... got me to open a checking account... and then only ever hit me up again to tell me he was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

Jess: ...omg am I allowed to laugh?

I Hit Rock Bottom, Took Pictures, and I Came Back Already.

I feel bad for people who don't have friends. Granted, there's probably a reason why they don't have friends... Like, maybe they don't bathe. Or they dress up as their Dungeons and Dragons character at work. Or maybe their personality is so offensive that no one can stand to be around them. It's tough being perfect, but it's a line I toe on a daily basis.

The guys I date, however, do not. And whenever I get hurt, I have good friends who pick me right back up and set me straight (no pun intended).

At work, we have a huge parking lot. With more than 500 parking spaces, there's lots of room at night once all the guests have left. Working in the same place for almost four years now, the parking lot, and the building itself, hold a lot of memories. Tonight, I was reminded just how lucky I am to work with the people I do.

Upset about yet another douchebag using me as a back-up because he dumped me for a guy who won't take him back, who then hooked up with someone who's hugely obese and has a weird face, Amy and Jenn had to listen to my crying for a good half-hour, as a cold breeze swept the hilltop. Consoled, I came home to do laundry and found a text on my phone:

"From: Jenn
MSG: You r amazing. Love you."

That was the pick-me-up I needed.

It made me think about all the other times people have helped me, and there's one instance that stands out in my mind.

When I was 18, I met a boy who I liked, who begged to take me to dinner and a movie... and then took my virginity. Amazed by someone wanting to be close to me and physical with me, I rode the wave for 3 days... Until it became abundantly clear that he had no intention of calling me.

The following Saturday, I worked the opening shift in the movie theater. Maria noticed I was upset all afternoon and as my shift was ending, she reassured me that I deserve better than waiting by the phone for someone who won't call. A lesson I learned the hard way when I stayed up until 3 am waiting for the same guy to call me and say "good night."

I left work and made my way to the Bargain Bin at Circuit City (may it rest in peace). I picked up several movies. At the top of the pile was "Never Been Kissed," which had never been seen by me. I came home without a word to my parents, popped the movie into the DVD player, and curled up into the fetal position on my bed.

The scene where Drew Barrymore dances in her foyer at home to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna broke my heart. Here was this teenage girl (much like myself, only without a penis) who had never felt beautiful in her life. And when she got asked out by the most popular boy in school, she was ELATED. She had messed-up hair and poorly applied make-up, but no one had given her the time of day or shown her how to properly groom herself. She didn't have any emotional support and felt alone in the world.

But this boy, the one she put so much faith in and devoted so much affection to, she thought would change that.

Drew Barrymore... was wrong.

She leaves her house, only to have her expensive dress ruined by eggs, which the popular boy throws at her from his limo. Embarrassed, hurt, and alone, she runs into the night, to hide from her family. Rather than show weakness, she hides what she's feeling and puts on a brave face. Even though it's only a facade.

I could so identify with Josie Geller. The movie progressed to the climactic scene where Drew Barrymore reveals that she's a 25-year old undercover reporter, and not a high school kid, when my phone started to ring.

"Incoming call from: Maria"

A picture of my best friend pretending to move in for a kiss under some mistletoe appeared on the screen and I answered.

"H-h-hellooo..."

"Hey, Corey, how are you doing?"

"(Sniffle). Maria! They ruined Drew Barrymore's prom by throwing eggs at her! Then they tried dumping dog food on the nerdy girl, but Drew Barrymore stopped them! AND NOW, SHE'S GIVING A SPEECH."

"...What the fuck are you talking about?"

"(Sniffle). I'm w-w-watching 'N-Never Been Kissed...'"

Maria went on to explain that this guy I was crying over was an asshole and that chick flicks were gay. I love brutal honestly. And that's what I needed to hear.

Not So Free Hugs

A few weeks ago, I made a bad decision... again. My ex-long distance "boyfriend" called me.

"Core!" he yelled in his best impression of my mother who he's never met. "What are you doing next week?"

"School and work, same as usual... Why?"

"I'm gonna be in Boston Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday."

I almost spit out my coffee. "What? Really?"

"Yeah, I have this thing for school, and I'm visiting my friends at Northeastern. I was hoping we could hang out."

I was over the moon. I missed him. And I was seriously lacking in the "Male Attention Department," due to a particularly dramatic incident involving my getting dumped for someone who lives overseas. But I'm not here to judge people's life decisions (It's funny 'cause I'm lying. I'm totally here to judge people's life decisions).

Fate has a funny way of working. We decided on Monday afternoon to hang out, and I told him I'd make my way to Boston as soon as my classes were over. That's when an e-mail came through on my BlackBerry:

"From: RJohnson1
To: Screen and Teleplay Class
Subject: Class on Monday is Canceled

Please have Exercise 4 done for Wednesday."

I knew this was meant to be, and that e-mail was proof. First thing in the morning, I drove into Boston to meet up with the boy who had me head over heels in like last summer. I couldn't help but remember all our late night conversations. How we'd fall asleep on the phone together... My 20th Birthday when he called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me at midnight... And how he was the first (and to this day, only) boy to ever tell me he likes me.

My heart was racing and my head was swimming. Sadly, my internal organs get more exercise than I do.

Anyway, I saw him across the Barney's in Copley Square. It was kind of weird... but exhilarating at the same time. He helped me try on clothes I couldn't afford, and it was a grand old time!

The $575.00 pea coat I loved still haunts me to this day, however.

After walking and talking for what seemed like forever (and we could have gone on longer), we set up at the Starbucks in the mall. He pulled his sketchbook out of his notebook and showed me his designs. Sure, a gay fashion major isn't the most original college archetype, but please bear with me.

As the pages flipped, we moved closer and closer to each other. Absentmindedly (at least, that's what I tell myself to help me sleep better at night), I rested my hand on his chair. Taking the physical cues, he started brushing my hand here and there. But it wasn't in that "I'm stroking your hand to be cute" way, it was more like, "I'm wiping the dirt off your hand. You're welcome."

"...Am I in your way or something?" I asked.

"N-no," he hesistated. "I just wanted to hold your hand, that's all."

I laughed. "So why didn't you just say so? It's me, I'm not gonna be weird about it."

We locked hands and it felt right. Like how it used to be.

That's when a tall, skinny, homeless black man appeared in a basketball jersey (who resembled Snoop Dogg) and sat down with two frumpy white women at the next table.

"UH, EXCUSE ME, LADIES. CAN I SIT MY ASS HURRR?"

The two fat chicks looked at each other and nodded without a word in response. I couldn't help but laugh. That's when Bruce scolded me.

"Corey, quiet," he laughed and cracked a joke about Snoop Dogg busting a cap in my ass.

I find that laughing together is a deciding factor in a friendship. If your sense of humor is compatible with someone else's, you're meant to be. He smiled at me and we kissed.

...That's when the old man at the other adjacent table saw us, and stared wide-eyed in disgust.

"Bruce, look! That old man is so disgusted!"

"Whatever, Corey, he can deal."

"Oh, no, I'm not saying it's bad that we offended him. I think it's HILARIOUS." Bruce shook his head and laughed. A reaction I often get to anything I do.

From there, we continued our adventure on the streets of Boston. Turning onto Newbury Street, a large, homeless black man had a cardboard sign attached to his front and screamed and waved his arms ahead of us. Not wanting to get killed or molested, I averted my attention from him and gestured for Bruce to do the same.

...It was no use.

The homeless man caught us staring and said, "Look! I love these kinds of guys!" (Read: The Queers). I looked up at him with that "Deer in the Headlights" look and tried to keep walking. But he continued, "Come on! You're not afraid of black guys, are ya?!"

That was a challenge. I had two options. Ignore him and awkwardly run away... or speak to this man and not have him think I'm a racist. As a guilt-ridden, bleeding heart liberal, I chose the latter.

"Hi there."

"Hey, guys! I need some money for the retah-ded chilluns!" he announced. In order to get him out of our hair, I handed him a five-dollar bill. Bruce opened his wallet, too and rooted for change. "Yeah, yeah, five dollars from both of you would be good. I GOT CHANGE." Bruce handed over the money and the homeless man looked at us, touched by our generosity.

A few seconds later, I found myself engaged in a group hug with the boy I liked and a smelly, homeless person.

"Okay, bye," I said to the man as I pushed the boy down the street.

"...Corey, what just happened?"

"We just paid five dollars each for a hug from a homeless man."

"...Why?"

I put my arm around his shoulder. "You need to know something... This kind of stuff just happens to me. And I can't do anything about it."

The funny part? He never called me after that. But that was the best five dollar hug I've ever had.