Showing posts with label StevieB. Show all posts
Showing posts with label StevieB. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Nothing But Net


By StevieB

If you follow my non sequiturs elsewhere on the web, you would have noticed that I have started going to the gym after midnight. This is for several reasons: I’m up anyway, the gym is empty and I don’t have to wait of equipment, but mostly it is due to my worsening Agoraphobia, or Anthropophobia. It is easier to have the entire gym to myself in the middle of the night.

A couple of weeks back I stepped into the empty basketball court, just to get a drink of water. As I paused to wipe my chin I noticed the basketball court was completely flooded with light. A sense of emptiness was overwhelming as it usually was filled to capacity with guys at various stages of shooting hoops. That night it was deserted. The smell of the hardwood, along with the strange buzz left-over from high school gym class hung in the air. I get a strange feeling on basketball courts. A feeling of wanting to be in control, wanting the mastery of the wood and colorful lines, the enjoyment and comradeship of competition. Yet, as I stood next to the water fountain, the feeling of eighth grade gym class washed over me. The same feeling I would get from sitting in the CEO chair in a board room, hosting a dinner party, or being in front of a naked woman. A feeling of not understanding what should happen. A feeling that everyone around me knows the natural chain of events (enjoys them in fact) but hasn’t let me into the circle.

As I turned to leave the uncomfortable environment, I noticed a basket ball over in the corner.... Without thinking I went over and picked it up. I attempted to dribble. I wasn’t that bad. Until I hit my shoe. I walked out in front of the basket. All the technique I had ever learned was from Mr. Johnson’s gym class during the First Bush administration.

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Missed.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Not even close.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Missed.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.

I left the court, and turned in the ball to the front desk as if I had a great game with my boys. The next night I found myself back on the wood.

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Not even close.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.

I had watched a dozen YouTube videos. I took notes on finding my aim...

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.

I squealed. As I heard the squee bounce off the gym walls the glass court door opened and in walked a couple of guys talking to me in Greek about a “pick up” game. I pretended I was a deaf-mute and ran out of the court like a chunky eight year old girl running home, after the mean girls would not let her play Barbies. I left the ball on the wood.

The next night. I stood with fortitude. I announced to the empty gym, “This is Sparta!”

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.

Monday, October 30, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Why I Hate Football

By StevieB

Have you ever dated a bisexual?
Back in my ol’ college days I systematically hunted down and seduced mass of muscle on our college football team. He was half-back with a tight end. We hit it off gang busters both in and out of the bed, the only real issue we had was his attraction to the other sex.

The passion between us was incredibly strong, a bond that no man could rip apart. Although after getting pretty serious no man did. Was I the type to sit crying in my living room wearing his football jersey rocking back and forth as I listened to Melissa Etheridge? Absolutely.

The next time we met was in Valhalla.


The apartment building named Valhalla. I had moved in a year earlier when I noticed that I had new neighbors. When I knocked on the door I was greeted by Michelle who then introduced me to my Odin, the Ex-football player with Similar Features.

Michelle explained how they finally decided to move in together before they got married, showing me her massive engagement ring. I welcomed them into the apartment building as the football player gave me nervous looks behind Michelle.

I spent the next year trying to avoid the happy couple like they had the plague. This was hard because Michelle was so incredibly nice. Coming over to have nice chats about, calm mundane neighbor things. I never once had any sort of “conversation” with the footballer; I figured being friends with his fiancĂ© was enough fun. I ended up enjoying Michelle quite a bit. We hugged and promised to keep in touch when they moved out.

She kept in touch just once more. She had a cousin call me to give me the date for the service. Would I go? In the end I only felt it the right thing to do. I grabbed the best-friend and all the strength I could muster and walked into the church.

The mood was surprisingly light, the front on the church covered in photos of him and his personal belongings, the hardest to see was the football jersey draped next to a slew of football trophies. When Michelle spoke, she thanked everyone for their support and love of him and their little family. I quickly found it odd the Michelle or anyone else that spoke never mentioned how the footballer died. They glossed over how he contracted HIV from someone during a probable tryst away from Michelle. No one mentioned how he concealed his status for years, not getting any lifesaving treatment for fear of having to admit to what and who he was.

At the end of the service Michelle thanked me for coming as you would to an ex-neighbor. She smiled gave me hand shake and looked for the next person in the receiving line.

To this day I hate football.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Running With the Dead

By StevieB

I really need to run more.

One of the best things about running is the ritual. I am a man powered by rituals. If I have the ability to incorporate a ritual, or Habitrail, into my life I’m more than happy to spend days memorizing and ingraining it into my small monkey brain.

My running habitrail is early Sunday morning, lapping around Cheesman Park. I’m amazed how beautiful and quiet the park is, I am always amazed how the trees are perfectly aligned even after their planting one hundred and twenty years ago.

Even after I participated in a Denver Ghost Tour, last Sunday, and was re-reminded of the close to two thousand bodies left over in this runner’s paradise. The perfectly aligned trees are from the city when they turned their largest cemetery into a beautiful park by removing headstones and planting grass seed. Very industrious.

As I strode down the paths of trees, I always find it the best part of my week. My ritual of running, in the park, with the trees and a thousand 1880’s prostitutes and cattle-thieves.

I do, however, love running so much that I want to do it more often, yet running on the streets of my small fictional town doesn’t have the same endorphin rush. The countless suburban streets, the development company so long out of business that even their signs advertising the luxury neighborhoods has long since fallen to the ground. The streets and cul-de-sacs without houses, just empty housing lots returning back to fields.

The clean, black asphalt is perfect to run on for miles. Without the worry of cars or… anything interfering with my runs, this may be the problem. Right out my front door and off to the maze of under-developed neighborhoods doesn’t have the correct ritual.

I do need to run more. I guess that part of the inconvenience of the twenty mile drive to the park with the trees and the one hundred and twenty year old dead prostitutes is the ritual.

Monday, October 9, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: At The Car Wash

By StevieB

You know the lady that stands in the lanes of the carwash and when the attendant is done up selling you to a forty-dollar carwash she looks at your windscreen in hopes of sell you her chip repair services? And how she tries to hit on you?

No? Just me then.

I have very few obsessions. Other then, well a certain British Sci-fi show and Pumas and Apple products and the gym and…maybe… we should stop. The most unnecessary of my compulsive behavior would be my obsession of keeping my car clean. Really, really clean. This manifests in a car wash every four days. What? It’s dirty. Unclean.

This resulted in friends saying things like “you’re going to strip the wax if you wash that car too much.” Which led directly to me waxing my spoiled spoilered baby once a month. Thanks.

Mostly I can fight back and just go to the drive through bay and wash my silver saloon with the high-pressure wand. But, when it’s really dirty or I’ve had a bad day it goes to the fancy car wash. This is where I feel like a bad Dad If I just get the twelve dollar car wash, like the extra rinse and “clear coat” finish will stop evil from coming to the sports sedan. Oy vey iz mir, so I get the thirty-nine ninety nine dollar car wash so no one will judge me.

It was during one of these trips that I met my girlfriend, Dana. I complemented her on her Pumas; she sold me on rock-chip repair feeding into my obsession of keeping the Lotze perfect. I was a match made in heaven. Unfortunately, last Saturday she wanted to take our relationship to the physical level. Oy vey iz mir!

As I paid for my forty-dollar bath she approached me to see how the windscreen was holding up after her handy work. I said how it was great which was code for wanted to her to slowly work her hands over my bicep. This is when she offered more than her windshield services. Every fiber in my body stopped the physical reaction of retching upon her Rush Tee-shirt. But, then I stopped; she does have nice Pumas. I wonder if I’d get a discount at the car wash?

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: When I Was A Boy

By StevieB

My first car was a 1968 Ford Mustang. No. It was not brand new. I found this car in a ditch around 1991, and towed it home with the help of my brother-in-law. I spent every meager dime I had working to get that Mustang up and running. When it did run, I was always out and about in this car, with its mis-matched fenders and wonky exhaust. Around this time I also seemed attracted too, and dated older guys. I bring up this point because, now that I'm over forty I am now returning the favor and started to embrace my inner-daddy. Yet, it seems times have changed in the Daddy/boy dating world. Yes, this blog post is going to be themed "When I was a boy!"

As a gay waiter at the age of twenty-four, I met and dated guys in their late thirties. I had an apartment on my own, generally paid my own way, and had a blast in the dating world. Now, the caveat emptor of this situation may be type of guy I'm finding, meeting them mostly on Grindr. But, it seems that all the guys I have chatted with, don't own cars and still live with their parents because they just can't afford a place of their own. So, the economic atmosphere in the US is severely cramping my sex life.

Student loans, high rental rates of apartments, and the lack of jobs for new college graduates, is impeding my ability to find a nice twenty-six year old to tie up and do things. I blame the Republicans. This entered my mind as I picked up a nice guy for a date, at his parents house, the sideways glances I received were epic when his mom deducted that her and I were the same age. In an attempt to avert the awkwardness I offered that I too had a mid-term to study for, as I'm in college as well. It didn't help.

When I was a boy, I guess life was easier. I pretty much built my own car, and lived on Capital Hill in a series of run-down skeezy apartments. Now that I've found myself in the Daddy role, it appears that guys are living at home for much longer. That, or I need to change my Grindr profile to read that I'm looking for guys that have their own car. That's right, StevieB, keep those standards high. Or..... I could keep my nose out of Grindr and in my history book.

Monday, September 4, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Rent

By StevieB

I despise the musical Rent. I understand as we have celebrated the twentieth anniversary of this award winning show, it’s a part of our LGBTQ tapestry. Even more than that, it is a true representation of life in one’s twenties. Attempting to discover how to become comfortable in one’s own skin. But is it? I too was in my twenties, shocking I know. There is an age of discovery when you are out on your own, finding a place to stay warm. How to function in a society that does not care. Rent is a mirror held up to America to force everyone to see HIV. To see true loneliness, helplines, and inner strength. How in modern times the simple act of paying rent was the pure definition fighting to find a place in this world. But is it? The opening number of Rent is a declaration of how regardless of how society defines them, they’re not gonna pay, they’re not gonna pay last year’s rent; this year’s rent; next year’s rent.

Now, I understand this declaration. I do. I was out on my own in the middle of high school. Attempting to get up and go to high school while living in a flop-house filled up with homeless homosexuals. Hiding stolen jars of peanut butter under my bed so I could have dinner. My twenties would see me in a series of run-down scary-ass apartments. Progressively getting better as my jobs paid more and my education progressed. Slowly working my way through my twenties. Avoiding, unbelievably, the HIV virus, and the rats that lived in the apartment dumpsters. There is one thing I did do differently…

I paid my f***ing rent.

There is one thing that always struck me as odd while attempting to find make a home for myself in my twenties. Moving from place to place. These scary ass apartments had one thing in common. They were filled with people that did not know how place their garbage into the dumpster. Bags of trash would always find their way next too, adjacent, but not into the trash cans. As I left my twenties and moved into my thirties, I also left the type of apartments that white people point to and make cases for Urban Renewal. Yet, even as my monthly rent skyrocketed, there were still those bags of garbage that don’t make it into the trash cans. It just goes to show that every social-economic class has its inconsiderate A-holes. From paying rent in can goods to a possible pedophile named Rick, to automatic bank transfers for $2000.00, some declarations in our twenties do not change society.

Now I live in an apartment that overlooks a golf course. A statement that cannot be conveyed without coming off like you are attempting to sound pretentious. So, yes. Golf course on one side, but turn to your left and you will see the city’s loudest commuter train link. Down the block you see the low-income housing. Where all leases include the legal statement, “you must install a dinette set and console television upon your balcony.” We have a pocket of luxury, and we are allowed to enjoy it for the monthly price of a new Honda Prelude in 1978. Yet, still that stack of crud sit next to dumpsters. Last week a fully decorated Christmas tree, sat next to a happy (if not befuzzled) snowperson. A true Christmas in July. My roommate taking beaming selfies with each exciting pile of shit then sending them to our management company. 


I guess I am viewing the musical Rent through the eyes of someone in their mid-forties. I still feel it is trite and sensationalist. Yet, if I squint I can see the twenty year old terrified that a virus was stalking me, and how I stepped over bags of trash next to dumpster as I left for yet another waitering job. Not knowing if I was going to make next month’s rent. Some things, even if you perform a song about them, do not change.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Pulling a Differential

By StevieB

Last week I went with Becca, and the Boyfriend, Naveen, to get mani-pedis in beautiful downtown Boulder, Colorado. This is a standing appointment we have as friends on a semi-monthly basis. As this time it was in Becca's town of Boulder we ate Indian and wandered over to the nail salon. Now, when we do this Becca gets her toes and hands done, Naveen gets a pedi and polish, and I get just a pedi. Every appointment I see the ritual play out. Becca and Naveen approach the polish wall and debate the best and cutest colors for their soon to be pampered fingers and toes. And every time I decline to join the fun.

It is not that I am against men having polish, I am just against me having polish. Take yesterday as an example, in the gym’s locker room. Bright orange polished toes popped out of a work sock and my first thought was, “Really?” a grown man with painted toe nails. Not that I am attaching any feminine versus masculine traits. I do not believe that a painted nail is a feminine and should not be associated with manly-men. It's just about standing out. Being a peafowl at my age. Twenty years ago I would do anything to make my uniqueness stand out. Bottles of Sun-in Hair Lightener Spray came to their end in my hands. But, now I'm content with eight versions of the same grey tee-shirt folded neatly in my dresser drawer. So it still shocks me daily since our last trip to mani-pediland. Yeah, I know … since the bright orange toes are mine.

I tell the lucky people in the public realm that are exposed to my Safety-orange toes that I am just waiting for the polish to grow out. Like the polish was against my will. Like I was held down by mob of nail techs. When I was in the junkyard… pulling a rear differential from a ’73 Torino. “They came out of nowhere and softened my cuticles and applied two gel coats before I could fight them off!” But, now that I think about it, neither Becca, nor Naveen even mentioned me getting polish. I guess I wanted to be adorable.

Monday, August 7, 2017

Nice to See StevieB: Godzilla

By StevieB
  
I made Mike and the boyfriend, Naveen, sit through a Godzilla movie yesterday. It was Godzilla verses Mothra. No, Not the awesome classic 1964 version. It was an odd sort of remake from 1983. I am finding that both on Hulu and Netflicks, first run classic movies are disappearing faster than King Ghidorah into deep space. (That’s fast). It is exceedingly tough to find and good classic movie. Even ITunes is losing its collection.

Now, I have said many times that I have horrible taste in movies. When Mike the roommate, and/or Naveen settle down with me to watch a movie I wince at the thought of watching any mainstream movie. I will watch it. But, the sound of my eyes rolling may interrupt the experience. I understand that there is a given small amount of 1950’s – 1970’s Science Fiction movies in the universe. This means that my choices are limited, but even with such a small genre you would think that platforms such as Hulu or Netflicks would have a wider selection. Or… still have a wide selection. Because they did. Before they got cool.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Eighth Grade

By StevieB

In eighth grade I felt that friends were the most important element for maintaining life. Not food, or water, not even air. It was having a group of friends. Now, of course this is just like all thirteen year olds. So, this statement is not ground breaking, but in junior high it was. When I was thirteen, I had a weird collection of friends. This circle; however, did not include the most important person in my life, that being Kyle Harris. He was, and I was completely sure of this, the perfect example of what I needed in a friend.


In life, you do not need to bring up in conversations how smart you are. As in, how much education you have received. People do not need to know your diploma status. These things are self-evident. If you have a Masters in the Social Sciences this knowledge will gracefully glide across the table. No one needs to be beat in the head with a diploma. This also holds true for being a friend. Friendship, or being a good friend cannot be forced. Well, it can, but it never ends well.

This was the case of Kyle. From Fall until early Spring I struggled to enter his realm of friends. Although Kyle and I would occasionally hang out, and I thought we had fun together in the eighth grade level of buds; I spent countless amounts of energy blending in with his other friends. I acknowledged they were way above in my social standing, but, boy did I try. There were many times I begged my Mother for new cable knit sweaters, as Kyle’s buds had already seen the twelve I had. Every move was calculated on how I could force my person into group social situations. I was sure that Kyle and I were solid, but yearned for him to put a good word for me, so I could join their table in the lunch room. Still I sat with my collection of freaks in a six-month old knock-off Ralph Lauren sweater.

On a freezing March morning I approached Kyle as he sat with the friends. I tried to push into the group and be part of the conversation. This was met by couple of other guys quickly telling me to beat it. As I accepted their advice I attempted to remain cool and wander off. This is when I overheard Kyle say “yeah, he hero worships me. It’s annoying. I can’t get rid of him.” 


And this is when I first learned about being a friend verses being a good friend. It is the actions taken by someone you trust when you are not around. I never talked to Kyle again. The funny thing was that he never missed it, missed my friendship, and never approached me. The funny thing was, within a week that group of guys I sat with lunch noticed how much more fun I was to be around. The rest of the school year was pretty memorable. Hanging out at the mall, going over to friends’ houses. Just enjoying the short time I had until the end of eighth grade.

Monday, July 24, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: To Sleep; To Read

By StevieB

I need a book to read.

Since February I have been re-reading the Harry Potter series. From "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much." All the way to "all was well." Several times through. I would continue this cycle until my phone gets replaced with some new technology that doesn’t support audio books, or I die. Whichever comes first. Oh, did I mention that when I say “read” I mean to listen to audio books whist I drive, or when I should be sleeping, but I am not. So, really I need a new book to hear.

I have found that instead of actual sleep I can indulge in listening to The Half Blood Prince for the hundredth time. What fascinates me most about not sleeping, is the massive amount to prohibited things one cannot do when the civilized world, the ones without scary dreams waking them up every ten minutes, sleep. Like I cannot clean the kitchen when others “have work in the morning” like my roommate. So really there is not many options that won’t bring your downstairs neighbor upstairs to criticize my vacuuming ability and flexibility. So audio books, seem to be the only option.

The problem is other people. When stating this problem of needing to find the next great book series to fill my long nights, is that people really want to answer. To offer help in this book search. “Oh, I just finished a great series about a woman who is a taxidermist and solves WW II crossword puzzles she found in a mysterious crate on her gap year trip to Poland. It has a man that drives an old Volkswagen beetle. I don’t remember the name though. Uh… Turns out the baby eats lead paint and dies. Sad really.” After an entire re-telling of this saga of boring VW drivers, the last thing I want to do is find out the title. Or, speak to the person offering the information ever again. 


I guess I will continue my quest for a great book series. To listen to, while waiting away the night when I should be sleeping.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Sliding Through Summer


By StevieB

My roommate, Mike mentioned it yesterday. That summer was mostly over. “It is not!” I quickly replied. Then, I started to think about summer and realized that he’s kind of correct, we are past the half-way point. Sliding through the sun going down at 9pm straight into wearing Dad sweaters.


After Pride, there seems to be, to me anyway, a short list of acts that need to be crammed into summer until the chill begins. There is the Renaissance Fair (against my will), launching Chinese lanterns into dead of night, (trying to not get arrested), maybe a second camping trip, and… the ever attempted; but very rarely accomplished, Alpine slide.

Now the Alpine slide, if you have not done, is a cement track down a perfectly good mountain, in which you place a low-cart like mechanism. It is like bobsledding, but in the heat, and upon a rash causing concrete track. Mike and I attempted to take a ride on the area’s local slide; also nick-named the Tooth Chipper, but they had closed the week earlier. The whole creepy Christian themed amusement park was being bulldozed for condos. Now the closest slide is WinterPark, or Steam Boat Colorado…. About a three hour drive. Which is fine. Perfect weekend drive / adventure.

So, Summer maybe more than halfway over. But, there are plenty of fun adventures to be had.

Monday, July 3, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: A Dark and Stormy Night

By StevieB

It was show time at our house last night. The performance began right after midnight. A storm blew in and with it came thunder and lighting. It was amazing as I had not witnessed thunder and lightning happen exactly in the same instant since I moved from Texas. The typical lighting storm has a flash of lighting, then you can count the seconds until the thunder is heard. Last night was immediate and super loud, meaning the storm was right on top of us, happening right outside the bedroom window. 


The old statement about tornados being attracted to trailer parks and lightening being attracted to golf courses must be true. Although, since moving into a home next to a golf course I have haven’t seen lighting strike the course, or any of the endless idiots that like to continue to golf and afternoon storms drift in, I believe it a matter of time. Last night the lightening tried its best. 


The loud booming prompted the dog to have flashbacks to his time in Texas as well, as he quickly army crawled from the foot of the bed to under our pillows and, if his plan would of succeeded spent the remains of the night under my head. The cat however, took the thunder booms to be some sort of a starting pistol and the crazy was on. This culminated in her running in place as she used a stack of paperwork, neatly sorted and stacked upon the dresser, as a treadmill. A flurry of papers quickly covered the floor. The next act was for kitty to salsa dance on the scattered paper. Getting out of bed this morning, I was treated with all of Kitties playtime handiwork. Today I’ll find out whether they have invented dog and cat ear plugs.

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Pride

By StevieB

Pride Fest came and went. There comes a time where you can fall into a feeling where you just believe that pride festivals are for the youngins. Yes, I remember my first pride. I can tell you all the pride events after that, and how much sun block and alcohol was consumed. But, after your twenty-eighth pride you can lose the since of triumph that comes along with being able to stand in the sun and declare your true self to the world. Just so you know, you should not do that. Forget that it is a luxury.

The most fun about watching the pride parade is whom you watch it with. The BFs friends are in their twenties and early thirties. Some had just discovered the joy of pride day. Seeing a gay parade through these eyes helps to reconnect. A young lesbian kept turning to me during the procession of floats and asking questions… “What is a… Imperial Court of the Rocky Mountain Empire?” I raised an eyebrow to think that one through. What is court? Even though it’s been around long before my time, and even had attended events back in the 1990s. “It’s… like a Shriners group… a social club for drag queens. Before they were allowed in public and into the bars. Drag queens had a social club to meet, where they would be safe.” Whoo. I thought I explained that one pretty well. “Safe from what?” She asked. This twenty-something lesbian lives in a world were Denver is a safe, embracing city.

This realization of time passing was of course countered by me sharing a story of how one pride I was tripping my balls on ecstasy so hard I just wandered the full parade route in just my Calvin’s and was met by side-eye and questions if X was a thing so far back and if Calvin Klein was alive back then. 


Do not; I repeat, do not forget why we as a tribe have pride events. And, do not think that it is no big deal. It is a huge deal. To be able to stand in the sun and declare yourself to the world.

Monday, May 29, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Silver Spoon In My Mouth

By StevieB

After we moved in together I got a phone call at work. “Steve, I was cleaning up and found that a piece of my grandmothers silver is missing.” Now when I looked over at the Eagle leather bar and saw this muscle bound Italian decked out in his leather I never dreamed that someday he’d be asking me about his Grandmothers silver. 


Go figure. 


Uh, okay where did you use it last? Maybe it’s stuck in the dishwasher?” “Okay, first silver does not go in the dishwasher. Second I have not used it. Have you? Not having a clue what I was about to get into I replied “I only use the knifes to screw in the switch plate covers.” 


Wow that really was the wrong thing to say. 


It’s a spoon Steven (I love it when he calls me Steven) One of my grandmother’s silver spoons it has been in the family for generations. 


I really have no concept of having things ‘in the family for generations’ because Mormons are always melting their shit down to make some sort of new temple. Buy some damn drywall freaks.


Suddenly it hits me; Fuzzy is accusing me of pilfering the silver. Oh my god! Okay so he wasn’t accusing me. Just concerned that I pawned his silver spoon to buy crack. He asked, “Maybe you took a spoon to work to eat lunch and forgot it?” I love that he loves me so much that he quickly built an alibi to cover me to protect me from my self. Suddenly I thought, I could have killed a man and Fuzzy would nervously stammer. “ Ummm He jumped forward and fell on your spoon…. seven times… yeah that’s it.” 


“No, I don’t use your silver to eat my lunches and no I have not touched it, I would never, I know how much it means to you. This ended the CSI interrogation. I promised I would help him look for it later that evening. We did not find it and sadly Fuzzy came to live with the fact that the family silver was not whole. So neither was Fuzzy. 


So on a completely unrelated note, Yesterday I was finally cleaning out my desk and digging out my files when I reach back to the back of 2007’s files and pull out a spoon. The spoon. I am in SOOOOO much fucking trouble. I think I’ll just slip it into the solid oak velvet lined box with the family crest upon the top. Maybe he won’t notice. And while we’re keeping secrets let’s not tell him that I hold the dog up so he can play piano with his paws.

Monday, May 22, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: RLF (Rabbit Liberation Front)

By StevieB

Outside of the grand metropolis of Denver, Colorado is God's country. Well, I am unsure if it was God himself who declared this statement upon a massive billboard next to the interstate just out of where civilization ends and farms begin.  Yet, I passed this billboard in my unyielding quest to do what I've done non-stop since school let out; shop for a new car. This visit to the countryside brought me to a dealership that specialized in over sized Dodge farm trucks.
I was; however, not there for the farm trucks. I was there for the Jeeps. This particular dealership had Wranglers in spades. So many that they were not on the dealers lot, but on a grass knoll next to the sprawling complex.  I climbed the grass knoll to look for a Wrangler with my tight, and unquenching list of "needs" like, the correct radio, automatic climate control, the best color.  Sometimes I feel I should do what BMW owners have done for decades. Fly to the factory, pick their new car up straight from the assembly line, drive around Germany, and have it shipped home. Although, instead of zipping around Munich, I'd be touring around Toledo, Ohio.  No difference, really.

As I peered into window after window I noticed something strange under every Jeep. Cages? Those humane trap cages used to capture feral cats. Since this was God's country and there was noting but fields around the dealership, I was intrigued as to what they were capturing. Then, I saw a cage with a huge rock in it. Wait? A furry rock?  A huge furry rock with ears? Bunny!!!!!!!!
The dealership had a line of fuzzy bunnies in cages. All looking scared as they pretended to be rocks. As the facility was closed, those bunnies  would be there a long time. This is when I snapped. I grabbed the cage with a terrified rabbit inside and began to dislodged the bunny. Shaking the cage like a ketchup bottle.  Upon freeing three bunnies,  I had trouble with the fourth cage. As I struggled with the door, the bunny inside and I locked eyes. This is when I said out loud, "I'm going to get you out of here" in my best Indiana Jones voice. After shaking the cage like a cereal box the bunny went bouncing to the ground. I'm sure he thanked me as he ran for the safety of the fields.
I ran too. To my car. I'm quite sure there was video of a crazy man manifesting bunnies like a magician. They would of told me everything that everyone else has said upon hearing of my idiotic act.  That rabbits harbor disease, I could easily of picked up something. It is not like I licked them. I didn't even touch them. I was raised on a farm with pet rabbits, I do know all the precautions. Like to not mess with strange rabbits under Jeeps. As for buying a Jeep out in God's Country? No thank you. All their Jeeps have damn rabbits chewing up the wiring. They really should do something about that.

Stevie B. Bunny Wrangler.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

Nice to See StevieB: Camp


By StevieB


Now that the late Rocky Mountain snow has turned to rain. My thoughts turn to the summer and my favorite activity, gay camping. It’s gay, because it’s fabulous.

This time of year I begin to look forward to some weekend get-aways up in the mountains. Quick weekend camping trips, with a tent, a fire, and all my cool camping technology. Gay camping is, for me, about the propane cylinders and electric ignition on the camp stove, the lanterns with the fragile asbestos mantles, and all those bendy fiberglass poles for the tent. I believe I enjoy the folding camp chairs with the extra large cup holders just as much as the rugged, pine forest and rock cliff encrusted scenery.

You haven’t camped until you do it with a gay who truly enjoys his 15 piece, blue speckled enamelware cook set. It’s like All-Clad, for an open fire. This year I’ll be enjoying my new matching enamelware coffee percolator.

I can’t wait for the first chance to get out and truly rough it. Lying under the stars late at night, listening to the campfire slowly burn out. The feel of the sleeping bag and 700 thread count camping sheets loosely wrapped around my naked body. Completely back to nature.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: The Name Game

By StevieB

Could date a person with the same name as you? It is an odd question that truly applies to LGBT people. Could you date a guy or a girl with the same name. If I was chatting up a guy named Steve, I'm unsure how I would feel. Yes, there's the lame joke about screaming out your own name during sex, but seriously? I think I would really have mixed feelings whether I could ask out a guy named Steve.


What about dating? Would we be known as "The Steves?" Like when inviting people over to a fabulous dinner party one host would turn to their partner and ask, "Should we invite The Steves?" Or, when you are living together, a telemarketer calls and asks to speak to Steve. I've know Kathy and
Kathie, like the "y" changes things. I've known a Jim and a Jimbo, and a Mike whose handsome life partner was Mic. I really am curious how these couples know what Christmas stocking to grab on Christmas morning. How narcissistic would it be to stand around at work on Monday morning talking about how much fun you had with Sue. "Sue is soooo great at rock climbing. Sue is such a great cook, Saturday Sue made Spaghetti alla Carbonara."

What about dating a person with your Dad or Mom's name? Do you really want to quietly whisper your Dad's name into the ear of someone who passed out on top of you after hours of sweaty sex? My Dad's first name is Wilbur , so.... no trouble with that. I've never chatted up that hot bro leaning against the bar to find out his name is Wilbur. Would it be okay to be sitting at Thanksgiving and telling the family your new partner is also named Linda. "Linda and I are really romantically compatible."

Is it a deal breaker?

Monday, March 27, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Purgatory

By StevieB

If there is such a thing as Purgatory, in the afterlife, I know what my Purgatory will look like. If it is like the Catholics describe it; a place of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven, then I can tell what it looks like.

My personal purgatory will be spent wandering around the prepared foods department of a Whole foods. 


Hours are spent with me dazed and confused moving from one bar to the next. Approaching the soup bar to squish the ladle down in over-cooked chicken noodle soup, or white bean chili. Then, to the deli counter to gaze upon the chicken wraps. Starving for something, yet not sure how the normal people of the world make a decision in a sea of choices.

Last night, I approached the area with the intent to pick up dinner. The boyfriend quickly made some healthy choices, and disappeared. Leaving me to fend for myself. I had the look of an eight-year-old, who after hiding in the middle of a clothing rack full of women’s blouses, emerged to find his Mom, gone. I was alone in Hell Foods. I entered the Whole Foods convincing everyone around me that it was a “soup night.” Only to find none of the eighteen dozen soups to be quite right. Maybe salad…..? no. It was either malaise, or my fear of food commitment that sent me into the desert for a plastic-boxed food vision quest. 


What seemed to be hours later the boyfriend called out from the edge of the desert. “Ready?” He asked munching on kelp-kale fun crisps. I left with a tiny container of tomato soup. My soul still hovering over the olive bar.

Monday, March 20, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Demolition Man

By StevieB

There was just enough room between the last pole of the chain link fence and the side of the house. The fence was festooned with warning signs. “Keep Out” and “Guard Dog on Duty” but I knew there weren’t any dogs. At least I didn’t think so, at any point a couple of muscled watch-dogs could have leapt from the old Victorian house. I stopped halfway between the fence line and the massive edifice, hearing only my heartbeat and Interstate 25 humming off in the distance, I trusted that if there were dogs, they would have attacked me by now.

In my youth I did this almost nightly, just to look inside the hulking manors before they were ripped from the ground. My motivation was to be the last human to walk the decks of the Titanic before the rust and water pressure turned the iron to dust. Back then I would wander around theses houses thinking of the Silver Barons that built the brick and mortar, and within days the reception parlor and massive staircases would be gone from the Earth. These 1890’s monuments, sitting in the city’s once finest neighborhood were replaced by condo buildings to overlook Interstate 25 and downtown.


Now it seems the tide of obliterating our Victorian history has turned. The thinned out herd of massive mansions, with their stone and wrought iron filigree, do not get hunted down and murdered as they sleep anymore. Some survived. Somehow. In our new, enlightened and mature sense of preserving the past, the houses that once sat in the finest neighborhoods turned skid-row has now returned back to the city’s finest neighborhood.

“I hadn’t done this in years.” I thought as I pulled a sheet of plywood from a back window. I guess I didn’t need to. “They hadn’t torn down a Victorian house in ages.”

As I made my way through the house I could see a considerable change, this particular mansion wasn’t set for the chopping block; it was being prepped for “restoration.” Fifteen years earlier I explored the house that once stood next door. In a gaping hole in the upstairs bedroom I jerked off watching the city below me. Now condos “priced in the mid-300” have taken its place.

The feel of this house was different somehow. In the dozens of house I’ve explored I felt the Green Mile death walk sensation, this feeling was one of anticipation. Looking out of an upstairs window, out at the city, I started to jerk off. As I glanced over at the next-door condo building I met the eyes of one of the tenants on their balcony.

“Guess it’s all changed.” I said to the front parlor room as I kicked out the plywood on the front door. I ducked into a homeless shelter-turned-hipster club as the cop car turned the corner.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Four-Eyes

By StevieB

After what seemed an insane amount of shopping, I have finally bought new glasses. This is my first pair of bi-focal lenses. And, it's the problem I'm having. I spend most of my day unable to see anything. I am constantly looking through the top part of my lens, designed for distance vision, to read and text. Then using the bottom section to drive. The optometrist did warn me, but really. At this point I would see better without glasses at all.

I will; however, keeping trying. But, if you see me without my glasses upon my face, you know not to inquire to their whereabouts. If you see me with my glasses on, I won't see you anyway. So I'll probably step on your foot. I'll apologize now.