Juice with Junior

Hello. My name is Junior, and I am addicted to straight men.

Hi, Junior!

I guess the way this works is that I tell you a little about my recent experiences with straight men and you guys help me heal or grow or something, I guess.

Tell us whatever you’d like.

Okay, I can rationalize it, I swear. I have explanations for why I seem to be attracted to strange semi-sexual encounters with men who are dating girls that I happen to like.

That’s fine, but for now, why don’t you just tell us what made you realize that you had a problem.

Okay. I can do that. Let’s start with:


Kevin, or “My Sugarhill Sweetheart"

I met Kevin at my last last job, and he was a friend of a friend of a friend. Basically, our connection was weak. As I have decided that I would like to begin being a crotchety old man now, I made no effort to introduce myself to or speak with Kevin in any way beyond saying hi.

He was six years younger than me, had a full mop of gorgeous black hair, and seemed happy in that way that young people often are that I can’t stand. However, we kept running into each other at outings and we’re forced to share the same space. Whatevs.

Then, one day, a friend asked me if I would DJ her birthday party. She liked my taste in music and thought I could hook up my laptop to her speaker system and give her some good tunes for the night. I jumped on the opportunity to be a professional DJ like Jazzy Jeff or Lindsay Lohan.

So I DJed the party, and Kevin was there.

We started talking about music. We discovered that we had the same tastes. Sufjan Stevens. Phoenix. Vampire Weekend. Then, we discovered that we both loved jazz. It was over from that moment on. Miles Davis. Dave Brubeck. John Coltrane. He talked to me about music the whole night, and despite the fact that I took my metaphorical “let’s not be delusional” pills, I was becoming smitten with him. Cute. Young. Likes music. Wonderful. Kevin and I shared phone numbers (mistake #462) and began texting and making actual plans with each other as well as other people we knew.

One night, we all went out for drinks and Kevin, with his adorable puppy dog face, told me this awful story about how he met a girl online and proceeded to fly across the country to be with her and it worked out well for a little while but then she turned cold and he ended up stranded in Portland, Oregon (he’s from New Jersey). I was horrified.

Who was this B to hurt my little Kevin this way? I would never hurt you, Kevin. Never.

Then, the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” came on the jukebox at the bar. Kevin, a white boy with surprisingly fluent rap skills – not that Sugarhill Gang is that hard – jumped up and yelled “I love this song!” Much to the table's delight, he began rapping along in perfect sync. But then something happened. I started rapping too. Then Kevin and I started rapping together. Then Kevin and I started rapping at each other. It was like that scene from Ghost with the wet clay pot except in my case the pot was “Rapper’s Delight” and my hair didn’t look as good as Demi Moore’s. So we’re rapping at each other, fingers in the air, staring at each other. When it was over (it’s a long song), I needed a cigarette. My friend leaned over, “You two are so cute.”

Don’t encourage me. Next case.


Todd, or “My Non-Sex Boyfriend”

He opened the door, turned to his friends, this group of sexy young people smoking a hookah, and said “This is Junior, my boyfriend.”

I am not his boyfriend.

He, Todd, one of my very good friends who I’ve known for a little while, is not even gay.

He had a girlfriend named Monica who I liked very much. Then she broke up with him to have a life, and Todd has been sleeping his way through the 18- to 24-year-old New York metropolitan female community ever since.

There may even be a Facebook page.

“No, he’s joking,” I interjected. “I'm not. Nice to meet you, I’m Junior.”

“I was about to say,” said Clarke, one of Todd’s sexy friends, the sexiest in fact. “I knew Todd hadn’t gone gay since the last time I saw him, not that you’re a bad looking guy to go gay with.”

Don’t encourage me. Anyway, I have been staying at Todd’s house for the past couple of weeks as I look for a new apartment. It’s easier than being around my parents in Pennsylvania. One night, Todd and I are watching Tosh.0 like a family, “What’s funny is that my other friends, the ones you met, really didn’t think that it was a joke when I called you my boyfriend, especially now that you’re living here part time.” Why are we talking about this?

“I am not living here part time,” I said back. “I’m just staying for a little while.”

“We both know that you’re just gonna end up moving in with me.”

“We both don’t know that.”

“I’m gonna bake some cookies.”

He then proceeded to actually bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies that were deelish, and I ate them because I’m fat. He leaned back in his chair.

“Everyday could be like this if you lived with me, Junior,” he said. Does anyone hear me when I say ‘Don’t encourage me.’? Todd then got a call on his BlackBerry and headed out. I’m pretty sure the call was from a girl, but he wouldn’t tell me like he was ashamed of his heterosexuality.

When he left, I started snooping around his house (I never promised you a rose garden). It’s a nice house for someone my age. What I found curious was that I couldn’t find any porn. Porn would remind me how straight he was, and I needed the reminder. I opened a drawer. I found a box of Trojan Magnums. Now I know using these condoms makes guys feel better about their junk, but now I can’t help but wonder: does Todd’s junk need Magnums?

Now I can’t stop thinking about his junk. Like really thinking about it.

I will have to find another place to stay, I think.


Marty, or “What Do You Think About When You Masturbate?”

Marty is a friend of Todd’s who I only know through Todd, and whom I never really spent that much time with before staying at Todd’s house. I should mention that Todd’s house is something of a sausage-fest.

He has dozens of young straight guy friends, and as he’s the only one with a house, they converge there most weekends. Women of the world looking for clean, attractive, fairly respectable boyfriends who mostly have jobs need to GPS his house like yesterday. Anyway, Marty is the comedian of the bunch.

He’s one of those guys who after 15 minutes of being around him, you think “Why doesn’t this guy have a stand-up special?” He’s that funny. He doesn’t really tell jokes. Instead, he maintains this general air of slight drunkenness while he tells off-color observations about the world around him.

Like this one while we were all watching “X-Men 3”: “If Rogue takes people’s energy when she touches them, what happens when she touches herself. Does she take her own energy and it goes back inside her? That must feel amazing.” Oh, Marty likes to talk about masturbation, a lot.

One weekend, I was at Todd’s and Marty was there already half into a story about masturbating and his mom walking in on him (he lives with his parents—it’s hard being drunk all the time and holding down a job) and him not stopping. “We both know what’s going on, lady.” is the punch line (it’s funnier when he tells it). I sat next to him on the couch. I never considered Marty attractive, he has a pudgy face with dark deeply set eyes, but as he kept making me laugh that night, all my pleasure sensors started firing. As the night went on, Marty got more and more drunk and as Marty got more drunk, he got handsy. Next thing I know, every time I laugh, his hand lands on my thigh as like a punctuation of the fact that I’m laughing. Laughter. Hand on thigh. Don’t encourage…

The story that was making us laugh this time had something to do with being able to travel through time via masturbation. Like every time you had an orgasm, you ended up in another point in time. I have no idea how anyone started talking about this, but Marty talking about orgasms and his hand on my thigh every 30 seconds was making me all kinds of aroused. Marty’s point was that what if you masturbated and ended up in the middle of a war.

“It’s be kinda hard to get one out if you’re staring down the barrel of a gun,” he laughed. “But you have no choice if you want to travel to another time.”

I was laughing so hard, I couldn’t breathe. Hand on my thigh.

Then, the other three people in the room got up for various reasons leaving me and Marty alone on the couch. “Is it just me?” asked Marty, leaning even further over to me than he already was. “I thought all people thought about things like that. No one's ever wondered even for a minute? Junior, what do you think about when you masturbate?”

“Boys, split up,” this girl, Kellie, that we both knew came back into the living room holding a glass of CVS Merlot. “I wanna sit between you.”

Obviously, I couldn’t see my face, but I’m pretty sure that it looked like this…


Begrudgingly, I shifted and let Kellie sit between Marty and I. Then, I got up. Realized that I was acting ridiculous and left. I now sit on the other side of the room when Marty shows up drunk.


Davon, or “My Cosmic Connection”

We’re both in the car, and we’re both crying. Not a little bit crying, but a lot crying. He has just finished telling me about when his mom died, abandonment, his inability to connect. I have just finished telling him about my distrust of people, my sexuality, and that both of my parents are crazy. It’s a collective cry.

“I love you man,” he said. “We’re cosmically connected. We were supposed to meet and support one another. If anything happens to you, good or bad, I am here for you. If anyone tries to f*ck with you, I will beat them up, you understand?” I barely know Davon. I met him at second last job and while we were friendly, I had only hung out with him a couple times. To him, I was a “cool dude” whom he needed to be friends with.

Hey, whatever. I have long since given up.

“You’re such a great person,” I cry too, mostly because the act of hearing a man say that he loves me is too much for me to handle. “I know you’ll find someone whom you can connect with and you’ll be happy. I know it. [Blubber] I know it!”

Smash cut to a few weeks ago. I haven’t heard from Davon in weeks. I get a text asking me to help him get his car out of impound (the one I almost got arrested in when he was speeding down the FDR drive. “Act cool,” he said as the cop approached. “Act cool about what, Davon!?” I scream. I made it a life edict to never get into his car again.) Then I get another text about him having a party at his apartment with some girl who’s name I’ve never heard. Whatevs.

I am dragged to this party because the whole car thing and the whole crying car thing made me look at Davon with a crooked eye. When I get there, I find Davon, this girl I have never seen before who doesn’t seem that bright, and all my other friends huddled around. I insert myself into the huddle. Davon is recounting the night that he made me cry. Oh hell to the no.

“Ha ha, yes, very funny. I just want to add that Davon started crying first after he told me that he loved me so there,” I said.

Never again. Never. Again.


Errick, or “My Project”

I've known Errick through friends for a little while, and I don't not like him. He just talks too much. He talks a lot. Like a lot. More than me by far (and I talk a lot case in point).

He talks so much that by the end of a conversation, you realize that you haven't said anything. You also realize that neither has Errick. He's one of those guys that could literally talk about the color of the sky for an hour, beginning each sentence with "Well, you know..." like he's about to impart some otherworldly knowledge on you. This is partly why I've learned to cut our conversations short. Unfortunately, other people reel me in. Is he cute? Maybe, I guess, a little.

In a group of people, someone mentions to Errick that I am a professional writer/editor. "You are?" he asked excitedly. "Would you mind reading something for me? You're a cool kat and I dig your style so I think we're probably on the same wavelength, so if you could read my short story and let me know what you think, I'd appreciate it."

Did I mention that Errick says words like "kat" and "dig" and "wavelength"? He may also not bathe all the time. Details.

"Sure, Errick," I said. "I'll edit your story."

The next day, Errick sends the story. It is 62,000 words.

WHY DO I DO THESE THINGS TO MYSELF?!

I start reading it, and after a page, I realize this is not going to be possible.

It is, I think, about him and a girl planning for a date except every other page breaks off into a new tangent about football or racism or tigers and other jungle cats. Plus, the sentences are non-traditional. They break- IN. wEirD... Plllllaces...!!!... And make no sense whatsoever. The story is like Errick and I do not want to delve that deep inside his mind. Thus, I haven't finished it yet let alone started editing it. Doesn't matter anyway. Errick is on a mission in South America. I don't know what the mission is, but here's hoping it never ends.


Andrew, or "My Assistant, Maybe Not Really"

I love Andrew. He's one of those straight guys whom women complain don't exist anymore.

He's tall and handsome with a full head of hair, the nicest personality of almost anyone I've ever met, kind, generous, just an all around great guy. He's one of those nice guys who would have sex with you and apologize for it while it was happening. Just I'm sorry I wanted to do this so much. Thank you for letting me. Great great great guy. I know him through Charlie (we are not talking about Charlie) and he's so wonderful I always ask him why he's not married yet. Anyway, we're at lunch. He's paying. He always pays for me, for everyone.

He could have two nickels and he'll still find a way to pay for everyone. I love Andrew so much!

Anyway, we're at lunch and he's talking to me about the economy. He just lost his job. Times are tough. I can't deal with Andrew looking sad (see Kevin above). I must make him happy. He's so wonderful. He drove me to lunch!

I must do something. "Why don't I see if I can get you to be an assistant where I work?" I said it before I thought about it because if I thought about it, I would have realized that I don't have that kind of power and also, we're not hiring.

"Would you?" Andrew asked happily, and I felt like a big 'ole douche. "I'll send you my resume right now. I can access it on my phone. If you could pass it along, I'm literally always available so I can come in for meetings or interviews and I'm professional and have experience..."

He kept talking and I kept wanting to evaporate. But I was excited about getting to see his resume. You know when you know someone, but you don't really know them.

Like I knew Andrew's full name and what town he lived in, but his resume would tell me his current address, where he went to college, and his entire past work history, which could clue me into if he's ever lived someplace else, his interests, etc. I was a jerk for basically lying to a desperate man, but the deed was done so let's enjoy the spoils.

So Andrew sends me his resume. Andrew, you in danger, girl... of never getting a job ever again! The document was not good. I don't even mean the actual document, which wasn't good, but the content. I'm surprised he's been supporting himself this entire time. There were job titles on that thing I'd never heard before at companies that I'm pretty sure didn't exist. Not that he made them up, but that someone told him that's where he worked and he fell for it. Andrew...

For the past few weeks, I've had the pleasure of seeing a variation of the following email in my Inbox:

From: Andrew
Date: Tue, 16 Aug 2011 13:04:11
To: Junior
Subject: Any word?

Hey, just checking in to see if you got any word on my resume? I know HR must be bogged down, but I was hoping that with your influence, you could get me in. Yes, you do have influence! Don't sell yourself short, man! Hope ur well, Mr. Editor.

A

Don't you both want to punch me in the face/spend the rest of your life with him? I know, right? I don't yet know how to break the news, but it will most certainly involve me paying for his meal.

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Okay, I have to tell you why I decided to write this. I realized that I really do have a problem. I turn to straight men to make myself feel better when gay men reject me. It's my pattern and I'm owning it. This post is my way of acknowledging the truth, putting it into a little ball, letting the ball become a dove (don't ask questions), and setting the dove free.

I realize what I keep doing and realize that I have to change.

But because I can never do anything alone, I have questions for you:

Do you have any embarrassing strangely sexual but not really encounters with inappropriate men? Would you mind sharing those so that I can feel better about myself? Do you think that I purposely act this way/allow this to go on because I know straight men will never be with me therefore I can never be rejected (whoa, I just broke it down Oprah style)? Can I be healed? Is it too late? Is it just Zebra Cakes and personal entertainment videos in my future?

Would you please not answer that last question.