Archives For gay couple

Dear Journal,

Mom spent the week with my husband and me, and from this visit, I learned that a list of expectations for overnight house guests may be necessary. Not everyone has five cats confined in their home. Not everyone has two handicats. Not everyone is stupid like me, I guess.

The next time we have an overnight visitor, they should expect to see this list waiting on the pillow of the guest bedroom:

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Your Cat is Family

March 31, 2016 — 22 Comments

Dear Journal,

Nine years ago, Mr. Tiddles was left behind when his owners moved away. As a matter of fact, the rumor was that when his former owners left, the cat was stranded inside the empty apartment with nothing more than an open bag of cat food. When the new tenant moved in, she kicked him out. With nowhere to go, Mr. Tiddles wasted his days roaming the apartment complex’s parking lot, crouching under parked cars for shade and lapping up the dirty water that collected in the potholes.

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To The Buyer Of My Home

December 7, 2015 — 33 Comments

Dear Journal,

I will be asking my realtor to post the following letter to our home description. What do you think?

Dear Potential Buyer,

My husband and I would like to thank you for your interest in purchasing our home. I promise that if you look beyond the ragged cat furniture and litter boxes, you will discover a beautiful and well-maintained residence that was once featured in The Commercial Appeal’s Real Estate section (because they ran out of nicer homes).

It hasn’t been easy. The moment we decided to market our home, my once-domesticated compulsive cleaning habit became unbridled. This relapse has frustrated my husband and caused the manufacturer of my generic Xanax to re-align their figures for supply and demand. I crawl in bed exhausted every night from either scrubbing the grout of the kitchen/bathroom tiles with a toothbrush, sweeping the house after finding just a speck in the hallway, or wiping all baseboard corners with a damp Q-tip. But the burden is worth it so that we can buy a home with an extra five hundred square feet for the cats to destroy.

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Dear Journal,

As of September 25, 2015, I have been married twice. The first to my wife in 1996. The second, my husband.  During the planning phase of both ceremonies, I felt as stressed as a homophobe receiving a mandatory prostate exam from a curious orangutan. However, preparation for the most recent ceremony caused an unexpected and unjust element of anxiety.

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Dear Journal,

Are you new to the gay macrocosm? If so, stick around. There are a few things to know before flying out of the closet, tossing hangers and purses everywhere.

In preparation for your transition to this new culture, you may have already found articles online that provide advice. The ones I recently found were decent articles; however, I consider them mere reminders, a rehash of information I already knew. It’s a shame they did not prevent the culture shock I experienced because they failed to address the taboo subject matter that gay men need to know. That is why we are here, to share insight from my own personal experience by mentioning the unmentionable.

I understand that because the world has changed so much since I last saw a vagina in 1999, you may already be familiar with the insider information I am about to bestow. Back then, my understanding of gay culture was limited to studying episodes of Will & Grace and outrageous rumors I collected from my rural peers of North Mississippi. Nowadays, however, you have access to so much Internet and cutting edge television, so feel free to take the information you need and leave the rest behind.

NOTE: Awareness of the following will not, in any way, prevent you from leaving your heterosexual facade behind. Trust me. I’ve tried this by unsuccessfully suppressing my gay identity between the years of 1985 – 1999 (if you don’t believe me, you can ask my ex-wife – circa 1991 to 1999). This essential information is only to help you navigate this new, unfamiliar culture without making a fool of yourself like I did.

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It was Sunday evening.

Partner was standing over the bathroom toilet, urinating.

The bathroom door was open.

I was in bed.

He thought I was still napping.

With his back to the door, my devil appeared on my right shoulder. In case you are wondering, my shoulder devil always takes the form of Partner’s cat, Elvis, except with a broken left antler, a split tongue, and hooves for paws (i.e. how I always see it). Shoulder Devil Elvis explained how easy it would be to slowly sneak out of bed, tip-toe behind Partner, and yell something like, “Your mother sucks socks in Hell.” Of course I could scream “interstate jelly crackers” or “testicle pong” and be gifted the same glorious results I imagined in my head.

I smile, thinking how hilarious this would be. Would Partner scream like a girl? Would pee spray the bathroom walls as if jetting from an out-of-control fire hose? Would pee get on me? What if he farted? Would he be able to look me in the eyes anymore if he crapped himself? All of these questions begged for answers instead of speculation.

As I stifled uncontrollable giggles while imagining how startled my typically stoic partner would look when I suddenly pop behind him and scream something like, “booger pants” (still undecided) as he relieved himself, Blind Murphy Angel appeared on my other shoulder. Blind Murphy Angel reminded me of the many times Partner expressed how much he hates being startled. Seriously. Hates it.

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The Fantastic Mr. Old Man

October 13, 2014

After arriving, Partner and I discovered our assigned seats for The Fantasticks were in the first row, four or five feet away from the stage.

“Ah, shit. Really?” was my response to this as sitting this close to the stage is not only awkward for the actors performing but for us, the audience, as well. This meant I was now responsible for pretending to enjoy the show. As someone who once performed on that stage, I was aware of how the stage lights illuminated the first row. I was also aware of how irritating it is to give a performance of a lifetime only to see some jerk in the front row physically portraying that he would rather experience a deep cavity search than live theater, and I didn’t want to be “that guy.”

I groaned as Partner and I took our seats at the far left-side of the auditorium’s center section, making an unspoken proclamation forbidding him from ever ordering our tickets again. As the house lights dimmed, I made a quick survey and noticed four other schlemiels also planted in our row: two women in the middle, and an older couple on the far right. This left many seats in the dreaded first row empty.

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Read the steps below to learn how you, too, can transform a similar Halloween decoration into one that your loved one hates the most.

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Gays of the Corn Maze

October 6, 2014

Navigating The Mid-South Corn Maze is an annual tradition for Partner and me. For $7 a head, you can lose yourself in a maze of corn stalks for about an hour or so. For only $3 more, you can go after sunset to navigate the “haunted” corn maze; however, having an air horn blare up my ass equates “annoying” not “haunted,” so Partner and I attend when the sun is out.

The design of the maze is different every year. This year’s design:


The corridor at the bottom of the bottom-left clearing is the entrance. The corridor in the middle of the bottom-left clearing is the halfway-point exit (if you can’t take it anymore). The corridor at the top of the bottom-left clearing is the exit.

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My First Crush

May 14, 2014

In 1984, if you lived in the country, you needed a large satellite dish in your yard if you wanted to watch “cable.”

And you had to go outside and crank a handle to rotate it.

And you had to go outside and crank a handle to rotate it.

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The Hazards of Flirting

April 28, 2014

There’s often misconception shouted from a mountaintop
That gay folks have this natural ability to shop.
These folks have obviously never seen or met my man
Whose fashion sense is lesser than the rest of the gay clan.

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One Night in Handlock

April 27, 2014

This past Friday night, Partner and I shared an evening at the theater.  The cats were left to fend for themselves while The University of Memphis theater department whisked me away into the musical world of Chess (also known as the Half-a-ABBA Musical or “that one with One Night in Bangkok”). 

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