Monte

I tried to French kiss my mother once. I was very young, of course, and didn’t fully understand what a French kiss was. I feel so embarrassed thinking about it: I slipped my mother the tongue. Of course she pulled away with shock and anger and told me to never do it again.

It was in one of my last year’s entry that I talked about the three types of attractive men in the world:

“The first is what I like to call the ‘universal good looker.’ The reason why I call them ‘universal’ is because all of the guys in this category look exactly alike. It’s as if God took all of the attractive guys on the planet and averaged their looks together to create one man; this one man being somebody like Ben Aflac. The second category of attractiveness is called ’strangely striking.’ Guys in this category always have some kind of flaw that sets them apart from the other guys in the ‘universal’ category. Maybe its eyes that are set far apart, or maybe its a small mouth or nose, maybe even mild acne; but whatever the flaw may be, it’s something that only adds to the guy’s attractiveness. The third and final category is called ‘ugly-hot.’ Guys in this category are hard to explain. When you look at them, you think ugly, but at a second glance, you think, ‘but I sure wouldn’t mind getting fucked by him.’”

Today I’ve discovered two more categories of attractiveness. Due to a lack of creativity, I’ve decided to name these two new groups after their literal definitions: 1) “Attractive-Men-I-CAN-Have,” and 2) “Attractive-Men-I’ll-NEVER-Have-And-Don’t-Want.” One example of an “Attractive-Man-I’ll-Never-Have-And-Don’t-Want” is Ashton Kutcher. He’s hot stuff, but too hot. He’s not very realistic, and maybe that’s why I personally am not attracted to him. On the other hand, an example of an “Attractive-Man-I-CAN-Have” would be the cute boy who works in the fast-checkout lane at my local Brookshire’s grocery store. He’s got beautiful skin, gorgeous eyes, the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen, a nice little butt, and his hands are hairy and manly, yet they possess a strikingly feminine quality. He’s attractive, but in a realistic way unlike Kutcher. I thought I might actually have a chance with this cute checkout boy, until today.

Today I think I may have ruined any possible chance of a date with this young man. My dad made me go to the store for butter and lemons, and I was not dressed in a very presentable fashion. I wore flip-flops, a pair of dirty jeans, an old high-school t-shirt, and instead of contacts I wore my Coke-bottle glasses. I looked like I belonged at Wal-Mart instead of Brookshire’s. And it was just my luck that this young man (whatever his name may be) was the only checker available. So I flip-flopped up to him in my ragged attire and, keeping my head low to the ground to hide my severely visible acne, I paid for my lemons and butter and left the store feeling very miserable. He did however smile and look me in the eyes. Who knows? Maybe all hope is not lost.

Yesterday I recorded my voice with my Mac. When I played it back, I was horrified. I wanted to scream into my pillow! How could this have happened? I always promised myself that I would never let my sexuality affect other aspects of my life: I pledged to never own a rainbow flag, never use the phrase “Hey, girlfriend,” and I would never under any circumstances develop an effeminate voice. But it’s happened, damn it. I never even saw it coming. I sound like a fag.

I’ve always scorned gay stereotypes thinking that we were free to be who we wanted to be, but how can I go on believing that we are in control of ourselves when I am now living proof that there exists no such control? I’ve become what I’ve always feared. I feel ashamed of myself. Today in Spanish class, I feared reading out loud in front of the class. I imagined what the other people in the room would think if they should hear my voice: “Oh, God. He really IS gay. I kinda’ thought he was, but now it’s obvious.”

Why did this happen to me? What the fuck was it that made me turn into this? What else is going to happen? Will I develop a lisp? Will my wrist go limp in a couple of years? I feel as though all eyes are on me sometimes; everybody in the room is watching my every move, looking for a sign, a hand gesture, a queer laugh, something that could incriminate me. Sometimes I don’t want to smile, move, or breathe. I wish I could tell, plead, for people to see who I am; who I really am. I have a name. Please take me seriously. Forget about my voice; forget about the way I look; forget my hair, my skin, my face, my silhouette, and see who and what I really am. Please don’t make me wish that I talked differently. Don’t make me think I’m any less human than you. Take me. Accept me. Remember me. Love me. I don’t want to be like my uncle.