Every time I’m in a club, I find myself attracted to the guy dancing dorkishly on the dance floor with a half-empty bottle of Miller Lite. He sports a five o’ clock shadow and looks preppy enough to be intelligent, but his debaucherous interpretation of Fergielicious sheds light on his crazy side. I’ll like it. And I can’t help but think that if I made the right moves, he’ll like me too.

Unfortunately, I won’t do anything about it. I’m amazed by friends who can strike up conversations with random people in bars and clubs. I can’t do that. It’s not necessarily because I’m too socially inept to be friendly with people I don’t know; for me, the smoke, darkness, alcohol, and grinding just don’t cultivate the most appropriate environment to find someone with the brains, heart, and depth of a guy I’d ever consider dating. Sure, nights out with friends are fun; but when I’m searching for The One, those ingredients of nightlife culture concoct a simple, well-worn stew of temporality, sexuality, and—some would argue—immorality.

I, for one, think that consensual one night stands are okay. It’s fine to sneak in a little candy while waiting for a full meal to bake in the oven. But most of the time, the stew just doesn’t agree with me; that which may be comfort food for others is an improbable recipe for my view of success in the relationship world. I’m time-conscious, future-driven, and live in such a way that I want the majority of my decisions to be productive towards molding my ideal Yet-to-Come. And The One who I foresee in that Far, Far Away is not someone who I can pick off a dance floor, with whom I can have throw-away sex, and then from whom I might procure a phone number to set up a real conversation that will lead to Happily Ever After. It just doesn’t strike me as a likely chain of events.

I find it ironic that many of us attempt to build the foundation for these long-lasting, best-friend-for-life relationships with people with whom we have no basis for trust, no background except for the stereotypes we create when we see them for the first time—Actual. Total. Strangers. And while I certainly have my share of friends who have had successful dating experiences with these truly random people, I find that my long-sought path to mental and emotional intimacy might be paved easiest when I have something on which to build: the commonality of a mutual friend or employer, a previous conversation online, an exchange of emails—any minute insight into a personality is much more helpful to me than hoping that drunk-ass disco vibrations are going to get me into a fantastic relationship.

In an ideal world, it seems as though the best ingredient in a solid significant other is to have a strong friendship already prepared, aged, and ready for some extra spice. If you already share secrets, vibe with each other’s humor, and like being around one another, then why look elsewhere for anything better, let alone a complete stranger? The foundation’s been built; it’s just about building on top of that base.

It seems like such a no-nonsense, easy solution. But I have two problems:

(1) I don't have gay friends that I see with any regularity. After graduating college, I relocated to Texas, where most of my friends are straight. Don’t get me wrong; I love them… I just can’t fathom being the gay man in a straight relationship. My gay friends, on the other hand, have set roots on either coast, leaving me straddling the center-divide in Bush country, and well—I’m interested in neither Bush nor bush.

Dear Fannie,

GWM student here. My problem is that I’m beginning to suspect that one of my close friends has a crush on me. I can’t be sure of it because he’s never made any kind of overt gesture, but it’s more about his hidden stares and lingering hugs. He’s a great guy, but I’m not attracted to him in that way at all, how do I let him down and stay friends? I’m inclined to wait for him to make a move and cross that bridge when we get there. Is that a good idea?

Unsure of Unrequited Love


I think that the way that we choose friends is in some way based on attraction. So it shouldn’t be completely surprising that your friend may be attracted to you. People on your end of the unrequited love equation usually get the raw end of the deal. No one likes to hear, “Woe is me, so and so is in love with me… Isn’t my life difficult?” Coping with unwanted excess love seems much less difficult and emotionally damaging than coping with a dearth of love. But, rest assured, Unsure, that negotiating a situation where a friend wants to be more than a friend, can be difficult, drawn out, and exhausting.

According to recent psychological studies in unrequited love relationships, the vast majority (almost 100%) of unrequited love is the result of a disparity of attraction levels (comprised of physical beauty, personality, social standing, etc.). According to these studies, most people tend to consider themselves more attractive than they actually are. So when Boy A who is a 50 has a crush on Boy B, who is a 70. Boy A thinks himself as a 70, so he thinks that he and Boy B are a good match. But Boy B thinks himself a 90, and sees the disparity between his own attraction level and Guy A as much greater than it actually is. One of the biggest misconceptions of unrequited love is that the greatest burden of emotional stress is on the side of the pursuant of the unrequited love, Boy A. But, studies show that its Boy B that is the recipient of the most emotional stress, derived from trying to be considerate of their pursuer’s emotions. This is only exacerbated by the fact that most unrequited love occurs within friendships rather than acquaintances, making it harder for the pursued to continually rebuff advances and unrequited feelings.

My advice? Nip it, and nip it early. Even though you may not be completely sure of your friend’s feelings for you, you should make your feelings for your friend very clear and defined. A mistake many people make in these situations is to ignore the unwanted feelings and to only address them once they have become overt. Waiting for your friend to make a move is really just procrastination on your part, and frankly a little unfair. If you’ve already identified his potential feelings, the best thing for both of you is to sit down and clearly define your relationship. Having been on the other side of the fence many a time, I can tell you the best way to get over a crush is to receive some closure and clarity in the relationship. If you leave the boundaries of your relationship murky and undefined, it just allows more room for imagination and pining, which doesn’t help anyone.

You have nothing to lose. If you’re wrong about you’re friend’s feelings, the worst that will happen is a few minutes of awkwardness. But you have the opportunity to solidify a meaningful friendship with a moment of genuine honesty.

(...to the full post)

I once admitted during an undergraduate scholarship interview, “I read romance novels.” As I became personally, politically and academically more aware of queer issues, my relationship to this genre changed. I find some heterosexual romances make me uncomfortable by so firmly reinforcing gender stereotypes and heteronormativity. Other het tales are filled with deliciously subtle cues that create queer spaces. Just last week I told Tough Stuff how much more relaxed I was while reading my then-current paranormal romance, even though I couldn’t put my finger on what queered it. No sooner had our conversation ended than I turned the page and met a gay character. Bingo.

The predominantly gay slash movement in fanfiction increasingly questions the assumption that m/m and f/f pairings are attractive and marketable solely to readers who are gay. We find that self-identified straight women are arguably the most common writers and readers of m/m erotic romance. E-books and small publishers are increasingly recognizing these markets, as well.

So what makes a gay-affirming, HRC-approved hotel chain like the Hyatt pull all of m/m romance author Laura Baumbach’s promotional materials at a recent Romantic Times convention, and what makes Romantic Times allow it?

Here is the poster that was considered most offensive to the businessmen passing by the public promotional display area of the convention:

Now personally, I think that’s a great ad for reading. American Library Association take note! Yet this promotional set, just this one amongst countless others typical of the romance genre, was silently and rapidly pulled by Hyatt staff.


Is it because a naked man is more offensive than a naked woman? We still don’t see full frontal nudity equally between the sexes, true. Just check out this poster they allowed to remain:

It’s okay for us to see a nude woman in a submissive position, hands bound; but a sexily recumbent man is taboo. Can we not objectify the male form yet? Is that what this is about? The businessmen felt their own sexuality commoditized and challenged?

Or, perhaps, rather than being offended by his masculine sexuality, the businessmen passersby were offended by the URL along the bottom of the poster. Is romance between two men itself a paradox and a challenge to the businessmen’s worldview?

And I know we all hate to do the race analogy, but…would the hotel have yanked promotional materials featuring sexually attractive black women, had businessmen passersby complained?

Hey, when the hotel referenced said “offended businessmen” were they using a quasi-neutral masculine form of the word, or did they really mean that only men complained? Is the eroticized male/the suggestion of homosexuality the sort of thing businesswomen complain about?

Oh, the politics of the publishing industry. I know we often look critically at the production and marketing of textbooks and journals in academia, but I’m every bit as worried about popular literature. Romantic Times staff member Carol Stacy replied to the Hyatt fiasco and questions about Romantic Times’s refusal to review m/m romance as follows:

My decision is based on my "print" readership and the fact that the majority of my "print readers" are not interested in m/m books at this time.

As I have explained to Ms. Baumbauch if that readership changes in the future so will my policy to review this type of fiction.

This is a space consideration AND a business decision. If you will forgive the analogy: one does not cover yoga in a NASCAR magazine if you get my drift.

It's that simple.

[quote source]

The Monday after the funeral Jamie’s boss took her into what was called the “executive dining room” on the pretense of making lists of campers for color war teams. It was really just a screened in porch adjacent to a tool shed, with a long narrow table inside. The table nearly filled the entire room, which wasn’t more than seven feet wide, so much so that when they were building it they had to slide the table inside the skeleton of the room first and hang the screens after the fact. It commanded a view of the camp that only a select few had access to, and thus, was considered a special place. It was where the camp administrators ate, and during non-meal times, it was where special meetings were held.

From where Jamie sat she could easily see about half the camp. The wide grassy expanse behind the main office, which was burned from sun in places and sinking in other places where sprinklers had been set to provide relief from the heat, stretched all around. Behind it the woods rose, creating a little valley in which the heart of the camp sat. She looked around as if she were searching for something. A group of kids were heading to Tetherball 5, which was separated from the camp by a wall of fern trees in a little clearing on the edge of the woods. It was Josh’s group. She identified his figure receding across the softball field even before he turned around and urged the stragglers to follow. The hollow, reassuring sounds that tennis balls made were heard almost constantly, as the tennis courts were only about 20 feet away from where they sat. She saw the silhouette of the little boy who was her pet standing distractedly in the outfield of Softball 1—she had taken care of him during a thunderstorm and they bonded.

Josh turned back again. He was standing right in the round opening the trees made at the entrance of the woods. Although the sun was shining hard on his face, he was half bathed in the darkness of the woods. He put his hand above his eyes and made an annoyed herding gesture with his other arm to the slowest camper.

The man who was sitting across from Jamie was called Sack by everyone, although his real name was Jon. He saw her looking over in the direction of the woods. Josh was his nephew, and he could tell him from far away too. “What’s going on with you two?”

She looked at him with a vague expression, drawn suddenly away from her thoughts, although she had been considering the very same thing. She huffed. “I don’t know. He’s kind of—“ She stopped herself, wondering what it was okay to say to his uncle about him. Then again, she thought, Sack is my real friend—the reason I’ve been here for so long. He was the person who had taken an interest in her when she was dorky and sixteen and new here. He was the reason she was the only person her age who ate in the executive dining room.

He surprised her by saying forcefully, “He’s selfish. You know I loved busting you about it, but honestly he’s not a good guy for you Jamie.”

She sucked in her breath and drew herself up a little. “Sack,” she said slowly, “I think I figured that out this weekend.”

“He fucked up at the funeral?”

“He didn’t come.” Sack raised his eyebrows, but she stopped him. “No, it’s not like that. I didn’t want him to come. I wanted to be with my friends and I wanted to think about Amanda and not deal with him. But he just—wasn’t the way I expected him to behave. He was sort of a cold fish about the whole thing.”

Sack was the clown king of the camp, and everyone loved him. Now he shook his head, looking at the table. It was rare to catch him being serious, even for Jamie, who spent all her time with him. Today however, he looked at her contemplatively, seeming to regard her as the person she was right then, not all the different people she had been throughout the six formative years he’d known her. “You know Jamie,” he said, “you sometimes have to protect yourself in life.”

“You’re right. He’s incredibly selfish. I honestly never realized it till this weekend, but it’s all about him. Even down to the first times we went out, during the year, down to the movies we would rent. He always gets his way with me.” Sack laughed. She swatted him on the arm. “Not like that—you’re disgusting.”

He shrugged and looked down at the stack of papers before him, ready to get down to business. “You sure walked into that one.”


Later that night she was sitting out on the dock with Tom. He was standing up, skipping stones, a talent she had never acquired in all the time she’d been there. She was sitting down, her hands behind her, her feet trailing into the cool dark water. It was late in the afternoon, the time before dinner when the campers were freed from their activities and allowed to flirt or play as they pleased, and most of the counselors did the same. The sun was low in the western sky. They heard steps on the dock and both turned around. Josh finally knelt down wordlessly beside her and began to untie his sneakers. He put his feet in the water too and knitted his fingers with hers on the dock. She moved her hand away and he looked at her seriously. “How’s it going?”

She didn’t say anything. Instead, she looked in Tom’s direction, for help perhaps. He wasn’t looking at her, but almost instinctively he started talking. “How can I keep doing this? I’ve been doing this for twenty minutes. And yet it doesn’t lose its appeal to me.” He launched another stone.

She smiled in spite of herself and finally looked at Josh. “He’s a leettle bit stoned,” she said with laughter she couldn’t resist in her voice.

“Are you?”

“No,” she said, mimicking the sternness of his tone.

He looked out at the lake. “What’s up? Why are you mad at me?”

She paused. “Ja-osh.” When she wanted to make a point she said his name with two syllables. But she couldn’t bring herself to say what she wanted to say. She lied down on the dock staring up at the sky. “I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry I’m not throwing a parade every second to be back. You know my friend did just die.”

“I know,” he said quietly.
She put her hands behind her head. “When is your next night off?”

“Not till Saturday.”

“Oh good,” she said lightly. “A bunch of us are going to Jakson’s lake house that night. Tom’s coming,” she said, looking in his direction. Tom nodded wordlessly. “Too bad though.” She smiled at him. “I have tonight off.”

“Well Miss Jamie, I am on, and anyway I have to have dinner in town with my mother.” He looked down at her and patted her on the forehead. Josh’s mother was the art director there.

“Ah. Well, your loss.”

“Yes indeedy,” he said matter-of-factly. Tom laughed at him. This allowed Jamie and Josh to laugh too, which was a welcome feeling for both of them. “Okay you two, go get high in the woods, I have to go to dinner.” He leaned down and kissed Jamie quickly before hopping to his feet.

“Don’t tell your mom,” Jamie said, trailing him with her gaze.

“Bye,” Tom said vaguely without turning. Josh wasn’t yet off the dock when he heard him quietly ask Jamie if she wanted to go into town for pizza. She groaned and started laughing. The lake seemed to distill and preserve all human sounds, and Josh could hear notes of their conversation even when he was at the door of the dining room. He walked in and was overtaken by the din of conversation. A quiet person in general, he was always surprised by how quickly his own thoughts could be overtaken by the voices of children.


He was disturbed by their closeness, he allowed himself to think as he took his seat among the campers of his bunk. He made Julian, the boy who was sitting by the window, give up his seat. From here he could watch them sitting on the dock with impunity. Tom had given up throwing stones, and they were both sitting cross legged facing each other. He had difficult feelings towards Tom. They had gone to high school together and always been friendly, although Tom was always a cooler guy than he had been. They had both discovered Jamie last summer when she was dating another guy they had gone to high school with who also worked at the camp. Before last summer, although she had been a fixture at the camp for years, neither of them had ever really known her. Josh and she had bonded over their shared interest in literature; Tom had warmed to her when he realized she was a stoner. Josh remembered the first time he noticed her. She was sitting in the front office with a little boy named Jonas who was sick. They were both sitting on swivel chairs upholstered in retro orange fabric. She was playing something good and new to him on the cd player, and as he was checking his mail box he turned absently to ask her what the name of the band was. She was sitting perfectly still but making a funny face at the boy when she realized he was watching her. She smiled at him self-consciously. “He’s sick—just trying to cheer him up,” she said, poking Jonas in the belly gently with her pointer finger. He brushed her hand away grumpily and looked forlornly out the front window of the office. “Uh oh,” she said to Josh comically, “guess he doesn’t like that.” She brushed his hair out of his face. “I’m sorry Jo—do you want me to get you something?” The boy shook his head.

“Ok,” she said half to Josh, half to herself. She hadn’t meant to pick on the little boy and she felt bad.

“What cd is this?” Josh asked, rifling through his mail.

“The Actual Tigers.”

“Actual Tiger” he repeated appraisingly.

“Actual Tigers” she corrected. He nodded.

“What’s that you’re reading?”

“Oh,” she smiled at her book thoughtfully. “It’s actually this book my friend’s dad wrote. It’s about this American guy who moves in with his long lost family in Greece. It’s good.” She looked cautiously from him to Jonas, as if she were checking on the child’s condition. She looked back at Josh. “I’m Jamie, I guess we’ve never really been introduced.” She stuck out her hand.

“I know who you are,” he said, good-naturedly shaking her hand. “You’re dating Ben.” Then, by way of explanation, he said quickly “I know him—we went to high school together. Go way back.”

She was happy to have been called Ben’s girlfriend by one of his friends. That meant he had told them about her. “He told me. I’m a little intimidated by the old boys’ club thing you guys have going on.”

He laughed. “We don’t bite.” She smiled. He looked around. Neither of them had anything to say. She turned back to her book and he, ostensibly, to his mail. His eyes lingered on her white shoulders. He had heard some other counselors talking about her the other day appraisingly, but joking about how pale she was. True, she was the one counselor who had not developed even a hint of tan by now, half way through the summer. She had walked by right when they were talking about her, just off the water trampoline with a troupe of little girls. “Hey, Jamie,” a guy named Justin called out in a sing-song voice.

“What is it now,” she turned sassily, already sensing the joke in his voice.

“We thought there was a ghost out there on the trampoline before. All we could see was your bikini going up and down.”

She smiled broadly, hands on her hips. “Hah-Hah.” She turned away, heading back to her group. “Gotta run, some of us have work to do here.”

Josh had been on the outskirts of the conversation already, and hadn’t been drawn in. Now he noticed that she was just the kind of girl that Ben always dated. He was always getting someone who was a little too charming or pretty for him. All his girlfriends were sharp girls and it never failed to mystify Josh who secretly considered Ben to be a little moldy. “I guess I better be getting back,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, “well I guess I’ll see you tonight at Ben’s thing.”

“Oh, oh yeah right. Well, I’m not really supposed to be off tonight, but my mom cut me a deal that I could go after my bunk goes to bed, so I’ll be driving up with some people later on. You’ll probably all be off your faces by the time I get there.” He wondered as he was speaking why he was telling her all this.

She smiled. “Let’s hope.”

“Okay, see you,” he said, patting the doorway as he exited.

“Nice to meet you,” she called after him out the screened in window.
(...to the full post)

Covert operations are the best kind. You get to dress up all stealthy like in a makeshift renegade ninja suit, jimmy the locks to your neighbor's house undetected and take a huge dump in their washing machine. You know, ‘cause they have a washing machine. Or something. Not that I would know. Remember that song by Shaggy? "It wasn't me?"

Realistically speaking though, I believe the love of the covert stems from everyone's need to feel naughty and mischievous. Be it wearing women's underwear to your Bar Mitzvah, harvesting kidneys to sell on the black market (Covert "Operation"…get it? Ha! I slay me.) or donning a nun's habit, the “rebel cause” always gets you a smidge wet.

So, in honor of the covert, I divert thy spirit to didactic [news] stories of thine brethren of questionable moral decrepitude in the form of Commandments (the most blatant of teachings)…just to be a little subversive. And in true Commandment form, we rate the covertness of their tales on a scale from One to Ten.

First Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Be A Stupid, Stupid Turd.

An Australian television personality, Grant Denyer, most widely known for presenting the weather and hosting a family-oriented TV show, when asked live on a morning radio show, "How are you?" responded: "Let me say I'm feeling like I had sex with a black man right now."

I think we can all agree that was a dumb way to start the morning considering Australia's spotless genocide record. So spotted it is solid, like the black panther to it's non-black cousin. Ahh, Zen masters and their life riddles. In fact, his comments are so entrenched in ineptitude that there is little else to say. How much teeth bleaching must one endure to lose control of one's mouth? (Observe example to the right.)

Covert rating: 2 – Not sneaky at all but how many people really listen to Australian morning radio? The true puzzle in our hearts and loins: Does that mean he felt good or no?

Second Commandment: Thou Shalt Be Smoother With The Ladies

Salt Lake City, which is the holy grail of fun news, reports on a woman who battered her husband. How? Sneakily. She told the man she had a surprise for him, covered his addled noggin, led him into the basement, and addled his brain some more. With a hammer. A hammer. This is what happens when one bears the pressure of a man's man's man's man's world.

Covert rating: 8. Plus 1 for utilizing the crutch of sexual arousal, then minus 4 for letting the bastard get away and reach the cops and plus 2 cause the coppers are still investigating. That comes to a total of 7. And I guess you really can't excuse her craziness just to the weight of social pressures despite their thriving and hammer-swinging abundance in the Mormon homeland. You want to know what patriarchy is like? Ask my sixth wife. She's three. She's learning to form complete sentences, but why bother, I'm just going to tell her to shut the hell up.

Third Commandment: Thou Shalt Realize That When Naked, All Bets, And Clothes, Are Off.

Here is where it gets tricky. A woman walks into a bar. She gets up on stage, looks at all the leering guys cheering her on and says "Fuck you" and takes all her clothes off. Yeah, feminism! Yeah, taking back gender inequality! Yeah, objectifying myself for a quick buck! Yeah, what the fuck am I talking about?!

The idea is that, and all you L Word fans know it well, by embracing the act of stripping, where a little chickadee is the subject of the "ultimate objectification" (ritual gang-bangs not included), the woman is subversively gaining power, monetary benefit, and a sense of control.

The opposing idea is that no matter what you might believe, participation in an industry that caters to the homogenized image of beauty is backwards and furthermore supports the notion that a woman can be bought.

Sticky, right? And not even in the good way.

So I invite you to take a gander and decide: Is making the conscious decision to strip your clothes off to make a living a covert feminist operation?

Covert rating: ???

In lighter news: it appears that there are fewer babies floating in the rivers of China.
(...to the full post)

We're all aware of the competition that women are capable of feeling between each other. Her ass is cuter. How does she keep her hair so flat? So what if she doesn't need to wear makeup. I like wearing it. Why does she giggle like that? Could she flirt a little more? And the famous…what does he see in her anyway? And here's the best part…EVERY woman has done it and will continue to do it. Some actions are rooted in more superficial issues than others, but still true for all. We need to stop trying to act like we don’t do these kinds of things because denial usually just makes the problem worse.

Sure, some of us are much better at keeping our inner she-bitch hidden and sometimes we can overcome it for periods of time. Some of the effective ways to avoid such loss of our selves to the whims of the societally-imposed she-bitch are by not reading popular magazines, not watching popular TV shows, not hanging out in popular places, and not being around popular[ly defined] people. At least then you know you are hanging out with real people; people that, even when you have those urges to give the evil eye or spill your drink on her new pants (even if they were 2 bucks from the thrift store they still look cuter on her than they would on you), you know that it is an unfounded urge produced by society's subliminal evil forces and not of your own doing.

Now multiply that by 13. Awesome. That's how I feel walking through the streets here in Mexico. It's something I've accepted and now have a much easier time dealing with. It's that... women here have a hard time liking me for who I am. I'm different. I'm exotic (i.e. over 5'3'', blonde, light eyes, and wear flip flops regularly). They don't know who I am. Men notice me because of this, and only this, and it causes a lot of women to not want to be mi mejor amiga. The intimidation that I unwillingly represent not only causes nervousness but often, blatant glares. We're talking in restaurants, in bars, at work, at baby showers, in the supermarket, the taco stand on the corner, and especially walking down the street. And then they notice: I speak Spanish? Phew, forget it. Not only am I a gringa, but I can employ their language, too, and communicate with other people. I am officially the enemy.

If I am honest with myself, I can admit that I only have one real Mexican female friend. I definitely have other good acquaintances who know I'm not Satan's gringa messenger. Maybe we just haven't moved past the role of just conocidas, but it's still disheartening to be fully aware that my lack of a real female Mexican social circle is due to basically…the color of my skin and hair.

One time I went to an internet cafe and the person I'm dating nudged me to look up. The guy working there was oblivious to his open mouth and googley eyes as I walked in. Now… I know how to work it – but this kind of reaction? I can't take credit for it. But the kicker was what the girl sitting next to him, who we then figured out was his girlfriend, said: "Hey…hey…I'm right here! No ya know what? Go ahead. Just look. It's not like you see one of those every day". Wait for it…wait for it…annnnd….she sends a glare right at me!!! Awesome. Another amiga to add to the list.

It's a weird dynamic I got goin' on here. The truth is, I absolutely love living here. I love the people, the culture, the food, the music, the relaxed lifestyle, the passion in the people. But even after a year of living here, I still get really irritated by the reaction I receive, both from men and women, when I'm walking in the street. Like I've mentioned in other posts, it's not a major city and that has a lot to do with the specific experience I'm having, but I don't like that I feel more comfortable walking down the street holding my partner's hand because at least then the men can't whistle and the women know I'm no longer competition. Trust me, the novelty of being "different and exciting" wears off a lot faster than you think. And even faster if your Irish roots scream stereotypical "gringa".
(...to the full post)

Dear Fannie,

I'm a young gay male and I've found myself in… kind of an awkward dating situation. I started dating Mike first and we really hit it off, only to find out later that he has a boyfriend, Thad. Mike and Thad had an open relationship agreement, where they can date/sleep with other people when either is out of town (which happens frequently, Thad travels a lot for his work). Mike and I have a great connection and I really like him, so we date/fuck whenever Thad is out. Mike is very open about our relationship with Thad and I've actually met him a couple of times. He's a decent guy, attractive, and sweet… but not the guy I usually go for (he's attractive for his age, but he's in his late 30s and while not entirely out of my usual age range, is kind of up there for me). Mike has suggested we start a poly relationship and has been trying to get me and Thad into each other.

Fannie, what is a poor gayboy supposed to do? Do I ditch the hottie because he can't be all mine? Or do I stick it out and try this poly relationship? I've always considered myself a monogamist… but maybe monogamy is just for straight people.

Thanks,
Montreal Menage-a-trois

Poly-amorous relationships are always a tricky deal, MM. It sounds like Mike and Thad have a fairly open and stable relationship, seeing how they are comfortable with their partners looking for companionship and sex outside of their relationship. You've expressed that you and Mike have a strong connection, and it says a lot that Mike likes you enough to bring you into the fold of his relationship with Thad rather than just keeping you at the fringe as the man on the side (no reference to our wonderful contributor).

I also agree with you -- many queer people have similar sentiments about monogamy being a throwback to hetero couplings. Monogamy occupies a sacred space in contemporary relationship ideals; a place that countless of therapists and counselors have advocated as the most "healthy" choice. Queerness often questions the idea that a person can and should be completely satisfied with one partner. While paired relationships have been successful for many people, monogamy has also limited the romantic experiences of many.

Poly-amorous relationships sound like a great idea in theory, but in actual execution they can be very difficult to maintain. Just think about all of the jealousies, fights, and ego struggles that come with relationships. Adding a third or fourth (etc.) partner to the mix only increases these challenges. However, it also increases the possibilities for an extended support group when the hard times come around.

Now, in regards to your specific situation: It doesn't sound like you're as nearly as interested in Thad as you are in Mike. The golden rule of three-way or multiple partnered relationships is that they are actually three-way. Often times these three-way relationships involve one partner who has relationships with two partners, with little connection between the two partners. This sounds like what you, Mike and Thad have: there isn't a completely mutual, three-way relationship – it's Mike trying to have his cake and eat it too. If you like Mike as much as you say you do, I'd advise trying to get to know Thad more. But if you don't feel a fire between you and Thad, I'd cut the losses and run. Because if you don't love Thad as much as you love Mike, you won't be gaining two partners, you'll just be getting half of one.

++
fannie

send your questions to askfannie@gmail.com
*note: all the names in this post have been changed from their originals.

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The craziest thing about our society, in my opinion, is that we're constantly being bombarded with this amorphous thing we call 'culture'; in reality, we only have a fraction of the amount of time it takes to consume culture as it does to actually analyze it. It slips through our ears, and eyes, and back out our mouths, and we leave it up to academics in their ivory towers to tell us what it 'means' to be a cultural consumer. While I can't purport to really ascribe 'meaning'…as a geek of all stripes it's pretty fun to pick through my favourites to see just how I am consuming.

To start, it took me until this week to think about the way I process music under the lens of gender and sexuality. Ridiculous! This week, and I'm 21. Strangely, it took me until I was listening to Feist's "Lovertits" from Open Season to take notice of the differences of normative and non-normative gender roles in popular music. The reason this song caught my attention (as opposed to the entire crotch-throbbing Madonna, Peaches, and company oeuvre) was because I always found Feist to be a pretty conventional , clean-cut, straight (or, I am lead to assume) woman, who sings about love, loss, and the like, and not one of our glorious aforementioned femme-tops.

So, hearing this smokey-voiced vanilla lady sing "I'm your lovertits" with a husky, male back-up singer was exciting. I felt it was transgressive without being crass (although, I do love crass-ness…) and it made me consider what transgression means in music. There may be a line somewhere in the musical sand that is rarely tended to closely but is instead more frequently leapt over. Just like in porn, magazines, and television, there is a clear divide between women's sexuality constructed for male pleasure, and women's sexuality that rejects this standard of eroticism. When Peaches sings about her furry crotch, she becomes 'queered' no matter what her sexual orientation is, because she is transgressing far beyond those boundaries of what women are supposed to do to make men excited.

Moreover, it occurs to me that maybe this is what sets queer music apart: not only do queer artists not fall on the side of the line that fits into normative eroticism, but many of them don't even recognize standards of normativity and instead only subscribe to their own (normalized) desires.

However, there is a hole in my argument here because it does not account for the listeners – do its listeners play a bigger role in defining the music? Take Britney for example. When a gay man hops up on a podium at a club and grinds to "Slave 4 U" the song becomes somehow different than when a 14-year old dances to it in her bedroom. It transforms from faggy, ironic, tinged with S/M, to suddenly about premature sexuality, loss of innocence, and a very strictly gendered type of submission. The queer man dancing to the song is taking it from normative society and making it his own, while the young girl is having her sexuality dictated to her from what is considered admirable female allure. There are combined latent and manifest readings of the song (finally, a use for Freud!) that are both listener-dependent and dependent on the expression of desires within the music.

Which is why – just like there is a need for queer villages, clubs, and so forth – music by and for queer people can be empowering. For example, Lesbians on Ecstasy have no small following, thanks to the fact that queer women are able to listen to their music and hear a voice that is preaching a desire to be free and fuck whomever it pleases. It's no small gift to give someone, this ally in your headphones; to have a new standard for eroticism in art that more closely fits an individuals life is unquestionably a liberating experience. Queer or queered music is not simply cultural re-packaging of the vanilla stuff, but instead a chance to redefine gendered and sexualized eroticism in the arts.

Plus, it's hot.

I hate seeing his screenname. Every morning, there it is—under “Quick Contacts” on G-mail: a new status message grayed beneath it, a green dot indicating his chat availability beside it; if I roll my mouse over his name, a box with his picture appears next to it, a picture he changed after we broke up a month and a half ago. And even though I’m over him for so many reasons, I wonder if, for him, I was that easy to get over: click, and upload a new file—a brand new beginning as simple as changing a G-mail profile picture.

His new picture was a reminder of how long it had been since we had talked. Keeping in touch was his suggestion to begin with; he said during our break-up conversation: I’d be devastated if we couldn’t be friends. We may not have been The Ones for each other, but there were aspects of each other that made our short relationship worthwhile. He wanted to keep those things, and so did I.

For a while, we did well: he’d call me in the weeks after our split, wondering if I was awake for work or spotting my car’s twin on the freeway. He shared musical discoveries he thought I’d find interesting and offered to have drinks, a movie, or a meal. Every morning, I’d turn on my computer, check my email, and boom—a message about something happening at his work. He’d keep typing his stories even as I, busy at work, was unable to respond. He even added me to his MySpace Top 12, an event, he said, only reserved for the closest of his friends.

I never reciprocated as much. I called him awake on a day he had to be up early; I looked over some drafts he had due. But I didn’t feel the need to update him on work. I didn’t want him to be the recipient of my first “hello” every morning. I didn’t even want him in my Top 12. I had placed him so close to the role of boyfriend that once he was no longer occupying that position, I found it difficult to give him the attention I used to give him. Once he negated his position of +1, he had no place to go but zero. I couldn’t give him any other role.

I think my lack of responsiveness grew too much for him. A week ago, he messaged me, concerned about my distance. He said he even talked about it with his best friends. I assured him it was nothing, but he concluded I was mad at him. The next day, he sent me a short message on G-chat. This time, he sounded cold. His last line: “One day, maybe we’ll hang out again.” User signed off.

I had my excuses. Legitimate ones. I keep a hectic schedule, juggling my job with advance planning for a summer operation, and he was just being immature about it.

But I couldn’t lie to myself: if I really wanted him as a friend, I would’ve made time. I didn’t. I had to get away. I needed to grow away, so far away that any chemistry I had with him would evaporate. Only then would I be ready to come back from a different point of departure—friendship.

Earlier today, after two weeks of non-communication, I gave in. With my evening conference calls postponed, my roommate out of town, and my friends busy with work, my choices were to sit at home alone or take him up on his long-held offer of dinner. See him for the first time in one and a half months.

I called him. His phone rang. (I bet he let it ring after seeing my name.) All for the sake of dinner company, I left him a winding, beat-around-the-bush message that screamed nervousness. I hung up. It’d be nice to see him, I thought. My heart started skipping a bit. After a month and a half, yeah—I thought—It’d probably be really nice. Maybe friendship will work out.

He called back fifteen minutes later. (I let it ring a bit before responding.) I answered cheerfully. Excitedly, even. He said he couldn’t make it to dinner, and I thought: well, okay. At least I tried. That’s when he dropped it: He was leaving the city. He’s been looking for jobs in places thousands of miles away. He was done with his employer. He was done with this town. He needed a new start. And as much of a non-planner he is, he set a date for himself: August 1st—goodbye.

Tomorrow morning, I’m going to see his screenname on my computer: a new status message will appear; a green dot will indicate his chat availability. He will not message me; I will not message him. And it will bother me—this time, though, because I feel responsible. Like I, somehow, played and continue to play a role in pushing him away. I needed distance and enforced it upon him. Now, as I find myself growing just far enough to pave a return route to his friendship, he’s imposing the distance I had wished for all along. Actual distance. And that’s very different from the distance of the internet or the distance of silence.
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Dear Fannie,

I'm a 25 year-old straight woman. My boyfriend of two years recently moved in with me. Now, he's not the cleanest person in the world, but it isn't bad. However, recently I've found myself pinned down with the majority of the housework. He does some of his own chores, like his clothes and stuff he leaves around. But it irks me because I have a normal 9 to 5 office job where most of his work is sporadic (he's an actor). Although when I get home I'm not doing any additional work than I did while I was living alone, I feel like I'm not valued. And it's not as if my boyfriend doesn't want to help me… but even when he tries to help me, he just isn't very good at cleaning/cooking/etc. Do you have any advice?

Bored with Chores

Bored, you've run into a problem women have been struggling with for centuries: the Chore War.

The question of who does the housework is an integral part of relationships, hetero or otherwise. Housework is still by and far seen as "women's work" and thusly devalued has been one of the greatest schisms that frequent couples. When one partner is burdened with all or the majority of the reproductive labor for the household (not a reference to child-bearing or childcare; I'm referring to the labor required to reproduce and sustain the home), the relationship becomes unequally yoked and oppressive. It's easy to gloss over house work as insignificant, menial chores that shouldn't be a big deal. I mean, they're just a few dishes, right?

Wrong. Housework comprises a huge amount of energy, resources and time; all of which have been historically made invisible by a patriarchal sexual division of labor. Recent studies estimate that, if properly compensated for the work she performs free-of-charge for the betterment of her family, the average full-time housewife would out-earn her husband's annual wages. Now, Bored, you're pegged with being doubly screwed by your lecherous boyfriend. Working full-time AND doing the majority of the housework means you not only have one job, but many (maid, cook, launder, etc.)!

And for those of your queer folk out there, don't think that this issue doesn't also affect you. Many queers believe that patriarchal structures such as this don't apply to queer couples because queer relationships subvert patriarchy by disrupting the heteronormative gender politic. But studies show that while lesbian relationships tend to be more egalitarian, gay male relationships are equally if not more likely to have an unequal sharing of housework.

So here's what you need to do:

Sit your boyfriend down and talk it out. Rules need to be set about what each of you will be contributing to "home care." Make sure you don't let him get away with "manly" tasks like fixing the drain or washing the car. When men actually do housework, they tend to perform tasks that are one-time tasks that don't have deadlines, like mowing the lawn, cleaning the attic, etc. Meanwhile, women tend to do perform tasks that are daily, repetitive and have deadlines, like shopping for groceries, doing the laundry, or cooking. Make sure you break up the household care into truly equal parts. Also, don't get trapped into the "ineptitude vice." This is where men use the easy excuse of not knowing how to perform a task, or purposefully doing it badly. Your boyfriend should be just that – your BOYFRIEND – and not a child. You're not his mother, so stop babying him and treat him like an adult.

If he refuses to grow up and be an adult, Dump The Mother Fucker Already! (also known as DTMFA as popularized by the nationally syndicated advice columnist and my personal hero, Dan Savage).

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fannie

send your questions to askfannie@gmail.com
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