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.

Check out my Tumblr page for my camping themed photos at ntssb.tumblr.com.

Meet the MileHighGayGuy Bloggers: Steven Bennet aka StevieB

Raised up going on missions for the Mormon Church, Steve now calls Denver home. Blogging at NicetoseeStevieB.com for seeral years, Steve writes about his mile high hometown, growing older and returning to college, and being a sci-fi loving, comic book reading, gym going, ex-Mormon.

He thinks hunky sci-fi nerds are cool.

Nice to See StevieB: Ready to Roll

By StevieB

I purposely positioned my bike next to the door I use every day to leave the house. This is to remind me the ease of grabbing my bike, and going for a ride. This week; however, has been rather torturous in the bike riding department.

Colorado has decided to not give up on winter and wants to keep the snow cranked up for a long as possible. Winter in Colorado is the Norma Rae of seasons. Monday I was the only student to show up to my American Civil Rights history class due to a massive snow storm. You would think the professor would cancel, but I guess he gets paid by the Microsoft slide show, so I sat alone in class and watched grainy photos of President Johnson, as I listened to Professor Nerdbear speak about President Johnson’s response to Dr. King’s response to Vietnam. It’s difficult to text during class when you’re the only one in attendance to a history professor verbally decipher the Lemarchand's box that was Johnson civil rights policy. On the way home from class I drove through 7” of snow, thinking how ready I am to put LBJ behind me and go for a bike ride.

Yesterday it snowed again. Yes, it is April. I am chomping at the bit (as President Johnson used to say) to slap my bike onto the back of my car and head out for a long bike ride on the Platt River biking trails.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: The Gay Flag

By StevieB

As I walked through the hotel lobby during my recent stay, I once again got the nod. That knowing affirmation that two men share when, in passing, they notice the signal that states that something is different. The subtle symbol of the elite club that sophisticated and distinguished gentlemen share.

The modern day gay pride flag, the Atlantis cruise bag.

If you’ve experienced the Christmas day like feeling of returning to your stateroom on the last day of your over-priced gay cruise, you know what it feels like to find that another Atlantis gym bag has been deposited, like magic, in the middle of your cabin’s bed. A collective squee can be heard miles out to sea as countless queens find their new gym bag has been left like a Santa filled stocking.

From that point on, you carry your bag like it's Louis Vuitton. This is because in retrospect, it cost as much as a LV gym bag.

A smile. A nod. Maybe a “I have that bag” can start countless conversations.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Man Uggs < Muggs

By StevieB

 

Three years ago, on Christmas morning, I unwrapped what would be a life-changing present. This amazing gift was from my good friends, Frank and Kevin. Who knew one gift would alter my life in such an amazing and comforting way. Sheepskin fleece lined slippers. Since then I have realized that there comes a time when you decide that comfort just might be more important than style.

In the past three years I have purchased dress shoes, five pairs of Pumas, Nikes, and several other running athletic shoes, yet what I ware the majority of the time, is my sheepskin slippers. Sometimes I did receive some gentle teasing for showing up to restaurants, house parties, Opera Colorado, dinner parties, the gym, and pick-a-part junkyards sporting house shoes, but hey; they’re suede leather, that’s fancy.  The only down side to this choice of pro foot comfort - sans style is that I had to resign myself to never achieving status as one of the cool kids. The jocks never sit at the cool-kid table kicking back in sheepskin-lined boots. Or do they…

Just as I had abandoned any hope of being one of the cool kids, I was standing in line at Taco Bell, in my most comfortable footwear, when a local high school gang of hot jock – athletic type dooods came poring into the establishment. I continued to text away waiting for my #7 as I pretended to not notice their tight jeans and clear skin. As I waited for my order, I noticed something… they were all pretty much wearing the same type of kicks.  I would of snapped a picture, but felt it wrong to be the forty year old guy that stands in Taco Bell, taking photos of seventeen year old boys. “No, officer! It’s just for my blog.”

With this level of encouragement, I now have worked up my self-image to publicly say that I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to wear Uggs. Man Uggs. Muggs. I have asked Santa for a pair of Muggs. All the sheepy softness to cradle my feet in a “I stopped caring about fashion, yet I really yearn to be stylish” kind of way. We’ll see if Santa agrees.  

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: I Just Want to Sleep

By StevieB

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number five: Do you hog the blankets?

I learned a valuable lesson from an incredibly sexy man (Steven Mies on Facebook) I quazi-dated in Dallas years ago. His philosophy was that if you forget to make your bed, it will begin a string of daily tasks you will forget. Meaning, if you get lazy and don’t make your bed, then you have a green light to slough off everything for that day. “Didn’t make my bed...guess I don’t need to floss either. Didn’t floss? Cookies for lunch.” Feel bad from eating nothing but cookies, crank it up on the toll-way. Bam! $200 speeding ticket. That $200 bucks was to take out that hot guy you’ve been stocking on Scruff for two months.

You have plaque, you’re fat, your car insurance is going up, and that hot guy wont go out with you because you had to cancel that one time, all because you didn’t make your bed. I’m trying to help you get laid here. Make your bed.

I live by this philosophy. When starting to share a bed with the Fuzzy Monster, my lifetime homosex companion partner, I quickly noticed two things, first was he believed in the “buy a set of sheets; put them on the bed; never take them off” concept. You know what I mean. Second, he is also is a major blanket hog. So is the bowling ball of a dog. If you ask Fuzzy, he’ll say he is not. He’ll vehemently deny that he even uses the covers. “I’m Italian, we’re hot blooded, we don’t need blankets.” Yet, for the first two years, I’d wake up in the middle of the night with a quarter inch supply of sheet. The majority of the blanket acreage would be balled up under the Shar-pei and the around the Italian’s legs. This is when I started to move to a new approach to making the bed.

I went out and bought a replica of our blanket, and began making the bed, by only placed my doppelgänger blanket only on my side. Genius! No one in the bedroom was the wiser. I had my comforter I could wrap around just me and left the original to my bed fellows.

It was just this Christmas that I switched my tactical operation. Tired of making the bed as one would make an Excel spreadsheet, I requested a new high-end comforter, in king-sized for the queen-sized bed. Now the dog and man can have their tiny amount barely hang off their side as my vast tracks of down comforter cascades down onto the floor. Heaven. I have also found it’s easier to make the bed in the morning. When I remember.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Oscar Pistorius Stumbles and Falls

By StevieB

In what seems a lifetime ago, I lived in a stone house along the Appian Way. During this brief time in my life I dated a Flying Dutchman. Named this because he was Dutch and an airline pilot. Although I always suspected he was a flight attendant. As after sex he would always attempt to give we warm towels.

One time, after a nice warm towel, and supplying me with a soda, although never giving me the whole can, he asked me who my heroes were. I was dumbfounded. I quietly realized that I didn’t have heroes to follow and use as guideposts though my life. From that night onward in the stone house along the Appian Way, I would always have some sort of hero or role model in my life to strive to be as good as and emulate.

Upon becoming addicted to watching the track and field portion of the 2012 Summer Olympics, I watched a small story about a South African sprint runner struggling to even participate in the men’s 400 metres sprint. Upon Oscar Pistorius competing in the London Summer Olympics as the first double leg amputee, and the controversy died down about his cutting-edge prostheses giving him an unfair advantage over able-bodied runners, I became obsessed with this amazing man’s struggle to overcome obstacles. When I got lazy about going for runs, I used Oscar for motivation. Tired and not wanting to drive to the gym, I would think of Oscar the amazing athlete.

On my birthday, I even turned into a crazy fan girl and asked via Twitter for a birthday wish from Pistorius:

So my other role models are a fictitious British 

TV character and a You Tube Vlogger. What’s to ya?

Quickly Pistorius replied via Twitter:

When he replied, I squeed. My running deity, whom I worshiped daily; and motivated me to be a better athlete, wished me a great birthday…. This buzzed lasted me until yesterday morning. When changing at the gym to go for a run I hear my heroes name on the locker room’s TV. “Oscar Pistorius accused of premeditated murder of girlfriend by South Africa prosecutors.”

I stood in my UA undies in stunned silence watching a video of Pistorius holding his head in his hands weeping openly in a courtroom as prosecutors said they would purse a charge of murder against the paralympic superstar.

Thinking back to being asked about heroes by the Flying Dutchman, in that house, on a street in Dallas, TX ironically named after the most important Roman roads of the ancient republic, I realize now how strategically important that turn in my own Appian Way was. To accomplish anything in life you need role models. Sometimes… dare I say, most of the time, your deity will fall.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Mopar Mistake

By StevieB

Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard stated, “You must do something, but in as much as with your limited capacities it will be impossible to make anything easier…you must, with the same… enthusiasm make something harder.”

I thought of this early yesterday morning when upon giving Fuzzy his birthday present, I discovered that I have proven Kierkegaard’s philosophical belief of what’s easy to obtain isn’t worth obtaining. See, I was very excited about my birthday present for my homosex companion partner. I had acquired this gift so easily and cheaply off the interwebs. A Mopar cold air intake for his Dodge Challenger. His 2012 Dodge Challenger. In case you're wondering what a cold air intake is, I’ve provided an illustration. It’s a butch air cleaner… it ups your fuel efficiency, but mostly makes you feel superior to other dudes that own the same car. Like wearing a store bought dress to prom, instead of having to sew your own.

The glow of happiness gleamed off the chromium intake nozzle as my mature partner bounced around the kitchen. Happy at his new toy he screeched “I could put it on right now!” He said as he gently stroked the giant “M” on the Mopar box. “Wait! This isn’t right.” My head turned sideways, like a grey hound attempting to understand the Electoral College. “This is for the ’04- ’10 Hemi engines. You know I have a ’12.”

I could not admit that I hadn’t the foggiest idea that they made this particular car accoutrement different for different year cars.Being too busy to actually walk into the Dodge dealership and ask, or even call my bud, Mike, a Chrysler/Dodge mechanic, I just pulled up Mopar.com at work one day and ordered what looked right.

“Anything worth doing, isn't easy, but that is what makes it worth doing.” I mumbled under my breath as I handed the box containing a cold air intake thingy by Mopar over to the lady behind the counter at the UPS store. The box on its way back for whence it came, and me on my way to the Dodge parts counter.
This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: The Down Comfort

By StevieB

On my Christmas list I had several things, the first thing I added was, “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.” This was not because I thought that my lifetime companion-partner would cheap out and buy an inexpensive down comforter, it was that after seven years, I know how he would feel walking into the bedding department of the local Bed, Bath, and Beyond store. Scratching his head through his Hemi engine themed ball cap he would like to just point to my scribble of “high end” and the salesperson would get the hint.

I desired a new down comforter because the one on the bed was fourteen years old. It had traveled in my move to Dallas, then back again. It saw every life event in the last fourteen years and was now just a shadow of its former self. In the last year, if you moved it just the wrong way a cannon of feathers would shoot out. A cascade or tickertape parade of down that would cover the dog an anything else the multiple holes were aimed towards. Parts of the ghost comforter where completely empty of down, just sad yellowing cotton held together by my determination.

I was odd how easily the request topped my Christmas list, as the ghost comforter did; at one point; mean the world to me.

In the fall of 1996 I was planning to set up house for my first, real relationship. We had decided to move in together and were scurrying like happy, gay crabs to collect things for our first home. Both his and my leases happened to end at the same time, until then we would shop for what we would need. Growing up with out the simple knowledge that bedding wasn’t all animal themed acrylic blankets, I loved that our first purchase together was “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.” The future seemed so bright snuggling warmly under that down comforter.

As life sometimes happens, he became ill. We, and life abandoned our plans to live together. Soon his family stepped in to help.

On a sunny day in June, 1998 I wandered through a garage sale. It was on a well-manicured driveway of the sister who stepped in to help six months earlier. The items were nothing exciting, just your average garage sale stuff. The kind owned by single man who had succumb to a non-disclosed disease. Maybe cancer. As I walked through the discarded household items, I could feel the weight of the entire family burn into me. When the sister had organized the clean out of his house, my cries that some of the items belonged to me and somewhere jointly purchased, had fallen on deaf ears. After filling a bag with my own clothes I picked up a down comforter lying on the cement. I quietly shelled out $50 borrowed dollars and walked down the drive to my truck. Even though it was June, I wrapped my newly acquired blanked around me and hopped into the cab and drove away.

For the next fourteen years that cotton bag of goose down was my remembrance of what had been and what could have been. It was a memory filled and my prized possession. As life sometimes
happens, the cotton turned yellow as it aged, and holes tore in the fabric and my memory.  Holding on like a gay Miss Havisham I clung to the comforter as if it actually held the memories of my long dead relationship. 

Material items cannot possess another’s memory. If you fall prey to this fallacy you create your own Great Expectations. I will always have my first love whether I cling onto an old blanket, or have the possibility to make new memories cuddled up in bed with my new down comforter, with someone I love.   

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Gymuary

By StevieB

Oh, Gymuary. It seems that every year I blog about this amazing phenomenon.  For six months, you can toss a dumbbell down the middle of the weight section and not hit a soul. Suddenly, on January 1st there is a warren of gym bunnies hopping around the place. This year; however, I am one of the unkempt masses wandering around a new gym.

I was really excited about by new employment being so close to the 24Hour fitness in Boulder. I reminded me of living in Dallas when I could walk to my gym. As I excitedly walked into my new home-away-from-home it quickly dawned on me, I was attending this new congregation on the first week of January. Just like everyone else.

It is easy to spot the “newbies” in three ways; the easiest is by their plumage. Sweatpants that are a little too tight, since it hasn’t been asked to stretch over the newly expanded frame. The “I just bought new workout gear and it all goes together” guy that’s sporting an all aqua and chartreuse Nike ensemble. Not a single natural fiber on his body, bless.  And my particular favorite way is the “I read a massive amount of information in regard to how to workout in a gym” guy.

And this is were by petty bitchiness kicks in, because with all the information out there on “how" to lift weights, and all the YouTube videos on pushing plates, there isn’t any information on how to be a considerate gym mate. A lot of YouTube videos will demonstrate how to super-set your routine, yet fails to mention that setting up five stations of weights around benches and stacking bars full of plates may help you, yet pisses off every bro that is forced to work around your inconsiderateness.  Just because you place a towel on a bench does not mean the bench is now your solvent territory. A terrycloth is not a British flag; the weight benches are not India.

Soon Gymuary will over and the routine will become just that, a routine. The dudes that need to utilize their phones to “check-in” with the office from the luxury of the incline bench will either fizzle out, or get tired of taking work calls with me in the background spurting, “Guurl, not a natural fiber on her! Sad.”  Like every year, February has us all back to being good, friendly gym mates.  

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Lawrence S. Kubie can Burn in Hell

By StevieB

I have to read several books in a very short amount of time. Over the weekend, after being disappointed that our local independent GLBT bookstore, The Tattered Cover, was wholly lacking any books on Gay Americans serving in the military, I found what I needed at the local library. 

I grasped my stack of books centered on “Don’t Ask; Don’t Tell” and headed for a nice quiet place to read. My gym. Attempting to read the struggle of Dan Choi while on a treadmill was problematic at first. Eventually I got into a rhythm and was able to knock out a lot of research. I did notice as I read about the military’s hypocritical and deviant policies towards Gay and Lesbian service members I started to run faster. Soon I was pounding away on the treadmill belt. During a particular chapter explaining that, during WWII the US Government had an ad campaign to advertise draft dodgers as weak, less-than-real-men homosexuals, that any man not wanting to serve wasn’t a “real man” and should be mocked, I realized that a part of our society's view on homosexuals is based on the government's need to recruit soldiers.

Around this realization, I was bucked off my treadmill.

Thankfully the gym was close to empty, so no one noticed. No one noticed me falling from my treadmill and shaking my Tim Gunn fist at the ceiling declaring, “Damn you, Lawrence S. Kubie, M.D. Damn you for characterizing men who don’t have blood lust as swishy sissies!”

I might be studying too hard.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Sigma Alpha Pie

By StevieB

Based mostly on my academic accomplishment and leadership potential, I have been asked to join an exclusive National Society of leadership and success, Sigma Alpha Pi. 

Based on my totally awesomeness, or as the form letter states, their decision to ask me to join the hallowed ranks of Sigma Alpha Pi was partially based upon my “academic accomplishment and leadership potential.” 

Whatever the hell that means. 

I’m sure it just got around campus that I’m just an all around righteous dude. The sportos and motor heads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads… they all adore me. They think I’m a righteous dude.

Or… Maybe it’s the eighty-five dollar registration fee. With the additional forty-five dollar charge to have my name on a wooden plaque. I do get a tee shirt. How cool will I be walking among my school's grass lawns with an eighty-five dollar tee shirt. 

Maybe I’ll act like any college student and blow that money on fast food. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: My Prestigious Award

By StevieB

I believe that I’ve finally found a person to cut my hair that I actually like.

I have a tendency to get my hair cut and then swear it’s the worst one yet. This is probably due to the fact that I hate to get my hair cut in the first place. Sitting still in a chair listing to some hair stylist drone on about their car troubles and the price of sweaters. It seems so girly to get your hair cut, and every hair cut seems to be more annoying than the last.

In 1986 I sat upon the curb in front of John Evans Junior High School. My Father had unceremoniously kicked me out of his truck hours earlier to attend the eighth grade awards ceremony. I really don’t remember the award I was receiving, probably something minor like Most Improved Attendance. Even then, I thought I deserved the award for Eight Grader with the Most Panache, as my style was so superior to my fellow male classmates. For the ceremony I was sporting a shirt with a handsome tie, well it wasn’t necessarily a tie, more like a scarf that I had taken from my sister and made into an ascot. The colors of my ascot were set off in my acrylic sweater vest. I held down my freshly blow-dried and feathered hair as I entered the auditorium, the other boy’s hairstyles being so horrible. I didn’t want my hair to be messy as I ascended the stage for my prestigious award. All in all, I was a fourteen year old man ‘bout town.

Finding my seat in the auditorium I noticed that there were actually three seats reserved. One chair for the Dad, one for the Mom and one for the student. All the families settled into their assigned seats. I sat in the middle seat and started to pretend that my parents were on a European holiday. Why else wouldn’t they be there to help me receive such an amazing career acknowledging award? It’s funny, nowadays when I feel completely out of place and awkward in public settings, I just click away on my iPhone, pretending I have really important people to talk too. Back then I sat and played with my perfect feathered hair.

As my name was called I went to the stage to make a speech, to find the Principal just handing the pieces of paper off the front like bales of hay. This is not how Marlee Matlin received her award? As I walked back to my three seats, a yellow piece of paper in hand, a mother of one of the other kid’s next to me took pity and acknowledged my good work, then smiled at my floral tie.

I ripped my tie off in the hours outside waiting for my Father to show up. I examined the gold seal on the John Evans Junior High award certificate and tried to not acknowledge that my Dad had forgotten to come pick me up. It was very dark out when I purposely messed my hair, trying to get it as un-coiffed as possible. Make it look like the other boys in my class. The other boys who were home, safe and sound.

For the first time I have found someone that cuts my hair and make it feel like something I want to actually participate in; of course, the person who took the guilt out me liking my hair is an alpaca breeding, Lesbian. This sandal wearing, alpaca owning Lesbian that makes me feel comfortable in my own skin. I think I might just grow my hair out.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB - Nerdiness: Check

By StevieB

How was your American Labor Day? Mine was spent ignoring a school assignment of reading a book and watching an assigned documentary on the American Revolution. Well, that and listening to my Mother make long, drawn-out diatribes about Mittens Romney being elected as America’s next ruler, and ushering in a new era or Mormon dominionism.


Last night I walked into my Western Civilization class to a fifty question test. On the American Revolution, not Mormon dominionism. Trust. I’ve had all the education I need on the spirit of Joseph “F-ing” Smith ushering into the White House.

The fifty questions in regard to the U.S. forefathers took a “why” instead of a “how” context. Without giving this assignment a single thought, I had to pull every fact from deep in my tiny brain. Seeing as my tiny brain had more important things to mull over; such as, was every Dalek really in the season opener to Doctor Who? And, was that really the new companion playing the part of Carmen? As these questions held the hexarchy of my thoughts, the name of George Washington’s big brother’s trading company was nowhere near the top.

I guess I did know the name of the trading company that set off the French/Indian war. I only missed one question. Yay! Let’s hear it for utter nerdiness. I, of course, ignored the comment from my fellow student when he inquired if I had “first-hand knowledge” of the founding of our country, as he is a hockey player that shies away from underpants.

So, if you ever need information on why the British and French used the Native Americans for their top hat lust, I’m apparently your guy. If you need to know why Mittens Romney will prepare us to meet Mormon Jesus, or why the Bronze Daleks are so high up on the Dalek hierarchy. Just shout. This, of course, cements into place my utter nerdiness, leaving all hope of me as cool dead outside of a crashed space cruiser.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Apples to Apples

By StevieB

When we stepped across the threshold of the Moroccan Bazaar that is the Apple store I could hear the moan come from Fuzzy.  I was determined to finally go for the thirteen inches I so desperately want before school starts again in the fall. Fuzzy, my homosexual lifetime companion partner was tired of his thirteen and wanted to finally move up to fifteen inches.

Remember when the Apple store was an all white, quiet sanctuary, not unlike the world of Logan’s Run?

Now the store is more like the original Star Trek…

With all the choices and options it soon became too much for the Fuzz man. He began looking towards that door and the safety of the Cinnabon counter.

That’s when, after a Red Shirt asked if we were the ones asking for an Apple Specialist that spoke Espanol, it dawned on me that we needed an Apple crewmember that spoke Loud Italian/IML Finalist. An individual that could relate.

This is when, no doubt smelling the fear of solid-state fused hard drives, our specialist found us.

Manson.  Finally a Mac Specialist that spoke gay.  A smartly dressed lesbian, that quickly explained to Fuzzy that he could pop all his favorite X-tube vids onto the bedroom TV. 

If it were not for Mason, I’d be the proud owner of Microsoft Office for Apple. Thinking I needed the program for my school papers, Mason explained that Apple has thought of this and made Import/Export options for it word editor.

As Fuzzy and I sat later at Cinnabon, I thought again about the experience with our sales-lesbian.  If you have questions, find the right person, the right person that also understands you.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Cool Spot

By StevieB

My eyes opened to find the other half standing beside the bed staring directly at me. As my vision and my mind began to clear I could tell he was saying something. Since it was morning of our six year anniversary, I looked down his body to find the tray of breakfast and piping hot coffee. He has never brought me a breakfast tray in the entire six years we’ve been together, so it’s strange that I looked for this. As I came around, I focused on the warm anniversary morning greeting he was exhorting to me.

“The refrigerator is dead! Everything in the freezer is ruined.”

He turned and marched from the room to let me process the death that has befallen our house.

After much caucusing between the two of us and the dog as we stood over the corpse of our 10 year old Kenmore, it was decided that we had to go appliance shopping. This is when I returned to my theory that domesticity isn't pretty. You just might spend your anniversaries driving from massive appliance store to massive appliance store in hopes to find a great deal.

“Ok, so we need ice and water through the door” I said after the third store.

“Yes, but we’re to the point in our lives that we deserve a really nice fridge. So, freezer on the bottom and French doors.” My spendy partner said as he attempted to sell me on the 3,000 stainless models.

As I walked down the endless variety of ice boxes, I couldn’t help thinking of Scruff. There were things to consider: Bottom mount. Top mount. Side by Side. Dear God, who knew there would be so many choices just to keep my OJ cool.

“This will be our anniversary present to us” actually fell from my dear man’s lips as the salesperson attempted to ring us up. “Oooooo, like a trip to London, yet better. And colder. And a fridge. Without us leaving the house.” I said to the cashier as she attempted to sell us an extended warranty.

We decided on a nice black Kenmore Side by Side. It has ice and water on the door, because we’re fancy, yet not pretentious enough to have French doors on our fridge. I’m excited to take vacation photos of it, because … well it’s my summer vacation. And my anniversary present.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission. 

Nice to see StevieB: Colton Ford Hates Me

By StevieB

As you know I have a soft spot for Colton Ford.

And by “soft spot” I mean … you know what I mean.

Sometimes I just sit and think about him, his hard furry chest, his silver screen career, and his oddly misshapen cranium.

I'll sit for hours writing his name on my Social Studies book. Mrs. Colton Ford, Steve Ford, Mr. Steven Ford ... over and over until the bell rings.

So, I’m readily prepared to casually run into him out in public. In Denver. Colorado. It could happen; maybe on at trip to Aspen we could unexpectedly get the same chair lift. See, it could happen.

Like a normal evening Dalton and I had gone to get some sushi, then we wanted gelato. Somehow, instead of Italian ice we ended up at a cute little French place in Cherry Creek North eating crepes.

Oooh-la-la!

I ordered what seemed to be a crepe banana split. This is what I got. A super gay French dessert extravaganza! It looked like a gay ice-cream hat ... chapeau, sorry. A saucy bonnet.

It didn’t help that, when the sommelier set it down I screamed “Viola” as in VIE-OOLA and then proceeded to asked Dalton twenty times;”Aren’t crepes ‘spost to be soft and squishy?"

As I sat there with my defile of chocolate syrup I thought “great, this is when Colton Ford would walk in. He turns to me and thinks, “Wow! look at that flaming gay chocolate covered, strawberry filled mess. Eating that huge dessert.”

I’d try to impress him by smiling and puffing up my chest wall but he’d just notice the line of melted ice-cream dribbled down my shirt.

I’d try to chase after him screaming “Colton come back! I’m your biggest fan; I have all of your albums, even the really bad ones! Glenn…..Mr. Soukesian……” but he’d be gone.

The funny thing is, when I was playing this all in my head staring down at my crispy crepe, I suddenly realized that music was beginning to swell:

Dunn-de dunn
Boom-be-boom

Quietly at first, then louder.

If I only could make a deal with God……

It was so familiar, yet ... I couldn’t place it.

I’d be running up that hill……


Was that... Kate Bush?

Why was I having a daydream about Colton Ford and Kate Bush coming up as the scene fades out?

Beats me.

I just finished my ice-cream as I enjoyed the night air talking to Dalton about being back in Denver with Kate Bush playing in the background.

…..and if I only could, I’d make a deal with god

And I’d get him to swap our places

Be running up the road, be running up the hill

Be running up that building
Say if I only could…….

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Colton Ford comes to Denver on Friday, June 15 for PORNSTAR PRIDE presented by DJ Tatiana and Manhunt.net and sponsored by MileHighGayGuy.com. Denver's hottest party, PORNSTAR brings beautiful people, sexxxy staff and the finest superstars of the adult film industry all together under one roof.

Nice to See StevieB: Corey Hart

By StevieB

On Sunday afternoon I did something I hadn’t done in years. I cruised down the aisles of my favorite used record/CD store. This is when it hit me; I hadn’t hung out at “my” music store in millennia.

The morning host of satellite radio’s GLBT channel informed me last week that the weekend fell on “Record Store Day.” This is a day to celebrate independent record stores across the world. On this day and age, with the huge conglomerate music stores long vaporized, we seem to have only these smart and passionate, independent music stores. This niche market is the only choice other than the streamlined online purchasing of your favorite tunes.

As I flipped through the racks of aging CDs I couldn’t help thinking how long it had been since I had graced a music store. I became an iTunes zombie immediately after a birthday present of my first iPod, way back in 2004.

Since then, the plastic jewels cases filled with artist’s presentations have vanished from my world. The convenience of clicking “Buy” took away this simple, yet religious act of digging through the racks of albums, making me forget how the act was incredibly cathartic.

Standing in the musty air of music’s ancient temple, I thought back to my first album. The very first record I ever bought was Corey Hart’s second album, Boy in the Box. I had just moved to Houston, Texas and discovered a record store in Houston’s Galleria Mall.  The attempts to hide the album from my Mom led to her think it was satanic “devil worship” music. 

Little did she know, the attempt to hide album was because I was desperately in love with Corey Hart and was convinced the 3^rd track “Never Surrender” was written just for me. "Never Surrender" was Corey’s attempt to convince me that it was okay to be gay. That I should never surrender; soon I would be out on my own with the freedoms that would go along with being an adult. 

Of course, that was not the case. Corey was just a Canadian musician, who still to this day produces music with his wife. He will never know how he got me through my freshmen year of high school. Yet, discovering a scratched-up jewel case with his sneer looking back at me, I asked him. Does that even matter?  He gave me my theme song, not just for a Polo and acne covered freshman, but really for life.

I sat in my bedroom last night, listening again to Corey Hart’s album.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

The Best of StevieB: Growing Up Beige

By StevieB

Growing up as a good Mormon boy I had a lot of idiosyncrasies. Being the youngest of seven kids probably compounded this. Let’s just say it was like Equus but with Jell-O after dinner on Saturdays.

Part of living in a big house on a big ranch in the middle of nowhere is when a sibling got married and moved out everyone got to move up to a better bedroom. After several basement bedrooms that have scared me for life, when the last sister got taken away for marriage, I got to move upstairs. A room with a window, no longer to be a subterranean dweller. Which to this day has made me hate basements.

Being the youngest also means I got the painted furniture and painted walls from countless sisters wanted bright happy colors. The room I was to inherit had been pink, blue, yellow, and puke green, along with all the furniture. Now, after kicking six other kids out of the house the Mother didn’t care at this point what the hell I did, so she sent me into the Kmarts with fifty bucks and told me she would wait in the Kmart Kafe, sucking down ham sandwiches.

Having the urge and twisted desire to be grown up like Steven Carrington I went about decorating my room. Beige walls, beige sheets and pillows, brown paint on the furniture and I ripped down the flowery curtains and installed beige mini blinds. It looked like the inside of a cardboard box. The only thing my Mom said was “It looks like the Goddamn underside of a Goddamn mushroom” and she was right. But my yearning to be normal made me want to be bland. Unlike the flamboyant little boy with an UnderGear magazine hidden inside the beige sheets.

The funny thing is, although I still use the design esthetic the Steven Carrington’s “bachelor pad.” It’s taught me that even when you cover up things with beige paint you’re still the flamboyant boy underneath.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Obsessed with Scott From Obsessed: Still

By StevieB

I wrote a somewhat innocent blog post back on the 21 of July, 2009. This particular day I had watched the pilot for the TV show Obsessed on the A&E channel. The post was how I was obsessed with the first storyline, “Scott” an incredibility hunky germaphobe dealing with mysophobia, a pathological fear of contamination and germs, and how the phobia was overcome by therapy.

Observe the creature in its natural
environment. *

I was obsessed partly because of my own bizarre cleaning rituals that rule my life. It is completely fair to say that I was also enamored by the utter hotness of Scott. Who knew that two years later it would still be the third highest linked/Googled post on my blog? Hundreds of hits have turned it to the top Google result. This has supplied me with endless emails asking if I know anything more about this Scott guy.

I have received stolen snapshots of Scott shopping for produce, driving, and buy Apple products. It’s like he has turned into a gay Big Foot. Sightings from his natural environment, blurry photo evidence of vague existence. An urban legend for the muscle worship crowd.


It is kind of odd how stalkerish behavior works. Once a month I receive an email pleading to share any information I have, to swap photos and share details. Each time I respond with, “If the guy wanted to release information, I’m sure you’d be the first to know…” I receive some sort of response requesting that I keep them in the loop. Loop? There’s a loop?

So go forth hunky gay big foot! Be free to wander quietly in your natural habitat. Don’t let the muscle worship Queens hunt you down. Run free! 

*The above photo appears to be the property of Scott Barnes Photography. No infringement is intended. Please visit sbarnesphotography.com 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.