I stared at the man who asked me that question. He had a handlebar moustache curled similar to how David Suchet shaped his moustache when he played Hercule Poirot. He was known in the leather community as Sir Dart. From what I read in his online bio and from what I heard from others in the leather community, Sir Dart seemed to be a respected player and educator, and a leatherman who was very much about protocol.

He was also one of the 7 judges for the Mr. Leatherman Toronto 2010 competition. Out of the seven judges, I thought Sir Dart would be the judge who would like me the least since I seemed to breach leather protocol in general. For instance, I didn’t think he would approve me wearing my black top with the big golden sequin dragon at my interview. Not that I cared about what he or other leathermen would have to say about style choices.

I stared at Sir Dart while trying to figure out the answer to that question. So I bided my time.

“What do you mean by a ‘player’?” I asked. “Do you mean like a card player? A game player?”

“What type of BDSM player are you?” he clarified.

Crap.

By this point, I hadn’t really done much. I remember when I was in first year university, my fag hag at the time got into kink with a couple she dated. I even remember seeing her getting bent over a bench, flogged, and had a Wartenburg wheel rolled on her back during a Halloween fetish night at Holy Joe’s. At the time, I thought to myself that being kinky wasn’t for me.

I mean, I dabbled a little bit with restraints, a little bit with breathe play, a little bit with waterworks, a little bit with humiliation. However, these incidents of kink happened far from often, and that’s not enough to qualifty me as a player.

The only area where I did more than just dabble was with spanking. But I don’t think being spanked by drag queens on a semi-regular basis on stage at George’s Play for entertainment qualified me as a player.

I hadn’t been around the Toronto leather/kink scene long enough to meet people who could teach me all about play, let alone actually play. At the time, I just met most of the leathermen within the last few weeks when I competed for bar titles. Some of the leathermen still had trouble grasping with the idea that I could be one of them.

I had to be honest with myself. I had to be honest with the judges. So, I had an answer – an honest answer.

“Well, I don’t think of myself as much of player. To be quite honest, the reason I don’t think most leather would play with me because most leathermen view me as a bit of a princess.”

* * *

Not long after MLT, I asked all the judges for feedback, and the feedback was suprisingly unanimous: I did well during the interview and the competition, but the only negative against me was my lack of experience.

Out of all the judges, the one that surprised me the most post-MLT was Sir Dart. After he and I started following each other and chatting on Twitter, I realized that he didn’t dislike me as I initially thought, especially after he messaged me one day and said, “And btw…in case you haven’t noticed, I’m kinda taking you under my wing.”

I looked to Sir Dart and other experienced players I met during and after MLT for answers regarding things I didn’t understand about BDSM play. I attended MLT’s “So You Want To Be Kinky” workshops and St. Marc’s Spa “Casancta” workshops which I hosted as part of my title as Mr. St. Marc’s Spa. I dove in and tried anything I felt comfortable with for the sake of my leather education (or “leather-ation”, as I called it), which incidentally led to my unexpected first attempts as a fisting and flogging top at different workshops.

Sir Dart and I messaged back and forth on Twitter about different things. We talked about the endorphin rush that came with heavy play. We talked about breaking restrictions and going past pain thresholds. Then, one day, somewhere around my birthday, I mentioned about getting my ass paddiwacked for two of my birthday events. Sir Dart said he wanted to try “something” on me that he witnessed at an event called Lupercalia in Edmonton. He said he wanted to try this “something” with me for the next Rough House event, which was a BDSM play event run by the Eastern Canada LeatherSIR/Leatherboy (ECLSb) competition. I asked what was involved. He said he would show me closer to the event.

Closer to the event, Sir Dart and I ran into each other at a Dress Code Night at the Black Eagle. I brought up about the “something” he wanted to try, and he obliged me with a demonstration. He asked me to spread my legs, which I complied. His fist then connected with my thigh, and then he repeated this connection. After a couple of hits, he stopped and said that’s what he had in mind for me. The next day, he asked me how my thighs were on Twitter, and I responded that my thighs felt tender, but had no bruises. As Rough House drew closer, Sir Dart advised me that this was an exploration for not only me but for himself as well. He admitted he didn’t know where this was going to go. He advised me that I should wear something that would keep my thighs exposed and that there would be marks.

* * *

The day finally arrived. It was March 21, 2010. I had brunch over at the MLT monthly Leather Brunch held at the Firkin prior to coming to Rough House which took place at Goodhandy’s Pansexual Playground.

I remembered what I wore – my title vest, my leather top with the metal loops on the side, my jeans, my Fluevog snakeskin boots, and my leather underwear with a slit on the back. The underwear did what Sir Dart requested – it was enough to expose my thighs once I took off my jeans.

I remembered there was a leather swap, and I bought this thick aluminum chainmail for $40. I thought it would look great with my gladiator skirt for the MLT’s Resurrection event that was happening in a few weeks.

I remembered that one of the ECLSb guys carried an electro device that he shocked people with. I remembered going up to him, extending my arm out, and asking to be shocked. He jolted my arm a few times. I felt the stings, but I didn’t flinch. One woman, Mistress Victoria Windsor (who is another greatly respected player in the Toronto leather scene) exclaimed in shock at how I was able to take the electro shock so well.

I remembered hanging around my “sis”, David Ivey. I think he could feel my nervousness and tried to calm me down. I said I couldn’t drink alcohol, that I wanted to be in complete control when everything goes down. He took care of my baggage when I was ready to go up on stage.

Just before play time, Sir Dart spoke to me and asked if Mistress Victoria could join us on stage for this play scene. I agreed. Mistress Victoria was one of the first people I met when I entered the scene, and she was always so kind to me. She was also one of my judges at the Mr. St. Marc’s Spa Leatherman competition where I emerged as its winner. And she definitely indicated that she would be willing to teach me as well somewhere down the line. I couldn’t ask for a better person to join in at my first play scene. And I knew she needed something to distract her from some sad things she recently learned about a good friend of hers.

And then the time came to play. My jeans and vest came off. I walked towards the stage, sat in the chair prepared for me. I saw the implements that were going to be used on a sling next to the chair. I couldn’t remember all of the implements. I remembered seeing a shoe horn, a mini-flogger, some paddles, and a billy club. Sir Dart and Mistress Victoria circled around me. Sir Dart stood in front of me. There was no announcement, no explanation of what was about to happen. I don’t remember if music played in the background. I don’t even remember if he asked if I was ready. I spread my thighs wide-open, exposed. I gripped onto the sides of the chair.

And Sir Dart threw the first thigh punch.

* * *

Photo taken by IrrationalMachine

But I did scream. I didn’t scream like a little girl like I thought I would. It was more guttural and loud, deep and roaring. And the screams bellowed throughout Goodhandy’s.

With each punch, I clenched up and closed up my thighs. Sir Dart and Mistress Victoria asked to open my thighs when I did that, and I slowly spread my thighs for the next volley. Then the next volley of punches came. Some light. Some hard. Some with aid of an implement. Others with just their fists.

And I screamed. I gripped my chair harder.

I remembered Mistress Victoria kneeling between my thighs and saying to me, “You are the Dragon. You’ve proven it.” Something like that before I roared after the next volley.

I remembered Sir Dart saying to me to give it to him, to let it go. I tried to hold in the pain, but I let go. And I screamed. It felt like I was on a rollercoaster. Whenever I was on a rollercoaster, I would scream to push through the air pressing on me. Except the pressure wasn’t from air; it was from the pain shooting from my thighs.

I sometimes chanted to myself to keep myself together: “By the power of Jo, I will let go…. By the power of me, I’ll be set free.” Something Charmed-like like that. Thankfully, no one in the audience heard me say that. Thankfully, the two of them didn’t laugh or tell me to shut up.

Sometimes, with each surge of pain I felt, I wanted to channel it through my hands and shoot fireballs through my hands into the audience. Don’t ask me why that thought flash in my head.

With each phase in this scene, the implement got more heavy-duty. Some felt like slaps. Some felt like really heavy poking. Some felt really heaving punching. Sometimes, I felt tingly, especially when Mistress Victoria applied her nails onto my bruises. It felt oddly good when she did that.

I surprisingly didn’t fall out of my chair, or fall over while in the chair. But this wasn’t a scene that called for prat falls or other physical stunts like when I improved with the 404s. This was different. I had to keep myself in my chair and hold on. I had to remain strong and withstand this. I wanted to see how far I could go and how much I can take.

I wanted to see who was watching. I would peer into the audience at times. I could see silhouettes of people I recognized through the bright spotlight. But then Sir Dart would ask me to focus back on both of them. I immediately turned back and stared at whoever was in front of me. Their gazes upon me felt intense, and I returned the gaze with as much intensity as I could muster. I felt I needed to connect with their eyes. Especially Sir Dart. As much as this hurt, deep down, I knew he would take care of me and get me through this.

And then he put his foot down – or more accurately, his boot – into each thigh. It was over.

* * *

Comments and congratulations swirled around me after I strutted off stage, across the floor, and onto a chair near the bar. David got me an orange juice to help gain some of electrolytes in my system. People came by to see me and see the bruises. I had someone take a picture of those bruises with my camera. I wanted to remember my first play bruises.

The comments reflected how I felt – from surprise and shock to being proud and impressed that I could take such a beating. Some said they couldn’t do what I just did. Some said that they were proud of my progression within just a few short months. Especially Sir Dart.

For the rest of Rough House, I kind of stayed put sitting on the tall bar chair, drinking orange juice, trying to regain my strength. I stared at my bruises, and wondered how the hell would I work tonight with these bruises on my thighs. After Rough House ended, I left Goodhandy’s with Sir Dart to talk about what happened and walked towards the Village. I felt like a penguin waddling on the sidewalk, and I had to stop a few times to rest as I struggled to walk on the streets. I remember at the Black Eagle, one woman Gloria asked me why I did this. I responded honestly that I wanted to see how far I could go in this and how much could I take.

Later at my overnight shift, I said to my co-worker that I felt a bit bruised on my legs after an “intensive workout”. I managed to work. I was just a bit slow as I waddled and hobbled around. By a week later, with constant applications of arnica and witch hazel, the bruising disappeared. But not before I took daily pictures to see the progression of Sir Dart’s and Mistress Victoria’s handiwork.

For the weeks that followed, Sir Dart and his boy (at the time) Scott both helped me process my thoughts and feelings around the situation. I thought about the connection and the trust that formed between me and Sir Dart and Mistress Victoria in doing this scene, especially for something that none of us had really tried before. I thought about how honoured I felt that Sir Dart would trust me to try something like this with him. I thought about my past where I undergone corporal punishment under my mother’s hands. I thought about how I always took on a lot of pain emotionally especially in the last year or so, I thought how nice it was to just release that pain during that scene.

For a few months after, that scene was talked about. Whenever I said I couldn’t bear to try something like saline injection or CBT or piercing, I would be reminded by others that what I went through on March 21st, 2010 was much worse in comparison.

Now, I didn’t exactly get a line-up of invitations to do other play scenes after that, but I did find that the educators at workshops I attended asked me if I’d like to come up on stage and try things. A step in a positive direction.

I may not know what type of player I am still, but I knew one thing for sure: The leathermen no longer viewed me as the princess too prissy to deal with heavy play; they now viewed me as the princess that could roll with and take the punches… literally.

For the longest time, I wanted to create the origin story of the Gay Dragon. The Gay Dragon is a superhero of my creation and fantasy, the first creation that I expressed more than once through costume and has been publicly associated with me. But like most of my attempts at writing stories, I have ideas for costumes and weapons, powers and plot lines, sidekicks and senseis, monsters du jour and big boss enemies of the season, but when it comes down to it, I can’t get the story started.

It’s been a while since I wrote anything in the fiction category. And even when I tried to write about something fictitious, I would base it on something in reality. The old adage applies, “Write what you know”.

Luck be a Gay Dragon

Well, what I know is that in this reality, the Gay Dragon started off as an accessory. A broach actually. A pewter dragon broach with crystals of different colours lining its main body. I found it one day at a little store that sold accessories and handbags at Eglinton Station. I was on my way to a free-roll poker game at Philthy McNasty, and I thought it would be an interesting charm to put in front of me during the poker game. I mean, if other poker players have special poker chips or little statues or knickknacks acting as card holders/good luck charms, then why couldn’t I?

So I bought it and placed in front of me during the game. The dragon was definitely a conversation piece for its new owner. The dragon definitely reflected the colourful personality of its new owner. And the dragon definitely brought good luck to its new owner. I specifically remember going all-in with a pair of fours and another guy called with pair of aces. I hit my set on the flop. The other guy hit his set on the turn. But then, I rivered a straight, and knocked the other guy out. The other guy was pissed that I pulled such a bad beat on him. And that type of luck continued right up until final table. I can’t remember much about what happened by that point, but from what I did remember, I managed to runner-runner a spade flush in the final hand, and ultimately win my very first poker tournament.

After that game, I christened my new lucky dragon broach as “Gay Dragon Luck”. This name would be used as my handle for that league and for every online poker room I signed up with. And like the broach, the name was definitely a conversation piece in some of the online poker rooms I played in, ranging from laughter to homophobic comments. But I didn’t let it bother me, especially when I kicked the asses of those who laughed at my handle on the table.

Even though I had a downward spiral in poker and gambling the year that followed (which in of itself is another blog entry for another time and which I later came out of), the name itself stuck with me.

Enter the Gay Dragon

During the year I started playing poker (around 2007), I also joined a queer colour guard group called ROTC Toronto (ROTC standing for the “Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps”). ROTC Toronto twirls flags, spins rifles, and dances to some of today’s hottest sounds in Pride and other festival parades throughout Ontario. One of those events we performed was Halloween in the Village. This was one of the very few parades where we didn’t wear our uniform; instead, we were performing in our Halloween costumes. Initially, I planned on being a leprechaun – with a vintage green leather jacket, a green Irish-like vest, and a one-of-kind top hat made with denim and green feathers. But as a newbie to ROTC, I wasn’t confident about twirling with a leather jacket on, or about knocking my $300 hat off my head with my head.

So I needed a new costume. And I only had a week to figure out that costume. And all I knew was that the costume needed to be flexible to perform in.

I perused around, and found an item at a store that sells Asian clothes and knickknacks near the Eaton Centre. It was a black sleeveless top with gold dragons on it. The top matched a pair of Pumas that was also black and had gold dragons on it as well. The shoes were given to me by an acquaintance I met during my year playing poker because he said they couldn’t fit him. I mentioned that the shoes were “cute” and the guy said, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought when I bought them…”

Anyway, not to sidetrack, I tried on the dragon top. And despite the top being cut originally for a female, the top fitted me. Thank God for women’s XL fitting me to a tee.

Next I needed something to wear something to cover my crotch and butt area since I didn’t think ROTC would have appreciated me flashing my pole while twirling a flag pole. That search led me to Priape. And in Priape, I found my first three pieces of leather – a black leather mask with a bit of an evil bird look, a pair of leather shorts with snaps on the sides so that I could show a lil’ bit of butt if I chose to, and a pair of cock rings known as the “Gates of Hell” which holstered a pair of Chinese dragon fans I found in Chinatown instead of holstering penises as they were meant to.

Mix the shoes and the leather and the sleeveless top and the fans and add a dash of gold seahorses bracelets, and voila, a new character for me for Halloween! I christened this character as “The Gay Dragon”, a superhero ready to shop, slay demons, and save dashing males in distress.

Evolution of the Gay Dragon

The following Halloween in 2008, I decided to re-use the Gay Dragon as a costume. I replaced the gold dragon sleeveless top with a more effeminate black Chinese top with rainbow dragons and phoenix symbols, wore one of those tummy-flattening pantyhose to help me fit into the new Chinese top, replaced the Pumas (which was getting holes all over) with another pair of dragon shoes I bought at C Squared on a whim, and upgraded the weaponry to include a toy ninja back pack holstering a pair of plastic swords and a pair of plastic sais. And thus, Gay Dragon, Version 2.0. was born.

During that week, I attended the weekly show, “Are You Smarter Than A Drag Queen?” in the Version 2.0 outfit. And one of the drag queens performing, Carlotta Carlisle, pulled me on stage, looked me over, and commented to the entire audience:

“It’s not the fact he’s wearing slacks. It’s not the fact that he’s in a Chinese silk blouse and it can only be described as a blouse. It’s not the fact that he’s carrying woman’s fans. It’s the fact that he’s wearing panty hose and a girdle and he looks more feminine than us and we’re in drag!”

On Halloween, I wore Gay Dragon, Version 2.0. However after being placed in too many situations (which ranged from being bent over and slapped in the ass with my swords to battling a guy dressed like Jigsaw to kissing a lesbian… don’t ask), my top busted open, my pantyhose had holes, my weapons either were bent or missing, and the screws in my fans fell out because my friend who dressed as Hannibal Lecter kept playing with them way too much. So much for the upgrades.

However, I would still use the Gay Dragon as inspiration for future costumes, but it would also help usher me onto a path I never expected to take.

Crouching Gay Dragon, Hidden Leatherman

One day, at a fundraiser I attended, I won a free ticket to the 2009 Spearhead Fantasy Ball. However, I faced two problems. The first problem was the date of the event, which coincided with a wedding I was supposed to attend in Quebec. The second problem was that it was a leather event.

It’s not that I didn’t think there is anything wrong with a leather event. I just didn’t think I would fit in at a leather event. When I was in university, I met friends who were into kink and fetish and leather, but I thought it wasn’t me. I was stuck on the notion that leathermen are very butch and macho, and with me as very, very flamboyant, I didn’t think it was a great idea to go to that event. I decided to give the ticket away.

However, at the last minute, my ride for the wedding backed out and I hadn’t given away the ticket. So I decided to go.

By that point however, I hadn’t really expanded my leather wardrobe beyond the pair of leather shorts, the leather mask, and the Gates of Hell. So I decided to use all the leather I had at that point combined with a black clubbing top with a large gold sequined dragon, the pair of golden seahorse bracelets, and a pair of brown and black winter boots (as I didn’t have a proper pair of boots at the time). And the Gay Dragon emerged once again to do battle… I mean, to debut in the leather community.

When I told a friend at work about what I was going to wear, he advised me that sequins and gold were big leather no-no’s. Despite my friend’s warning, I went to the Spearhead Fantasy Ball as the Gay Dragon, and hoped that the leathermen would either forgive me for my leather faux pas or keep their comments and laughter to themselves.

I was actually shocked at the response to my outfit. I was selected to participate in their costume contest. The judges (one of whom was Mr. Leatherman Toronto 2009, Peter Dillon) asked me to explain my outfit, and I told the story about the Gay Dragon. I don’t know if the judges were impressed with the unconventional mix of leather and sequins, the thought I put into my outfit, or the fact I used the Gates of Hell as holsters for the Gay Dragon’s war fans, but I ended up in second place.

Not only did I escape being a complete laughing stock among the leathermen, but I met some really nice people who were open to me and my unconventional style. I even had one visiting international leather titleholders pose with me as the Gay Dragon in a very hot shot. I held a long yellow whip, wrapped the end of the whip around the titleholder’s neck a la Wonder Woman, and placed one of my boots against his crotch. And that’s how I met International LeatherSIR 2008, Sir Raul Mendez.

The reception I received at that event encouraged me to go to more leather/fetish events (like the Northbound Fetish Nights and MLT’s Resurrection), expand my leatherwear wardrobe, and to continue take fashion risks with my leatherwear to express my unique style.

The Gay Dragon inspired many of the outfits I put together for future leather events I attended. The story about me debuting as the Gay Dragon at my very first leather event was used to explain how I became a leatherman in my MLT 2010 contestant application. At my interview for MLT 2010, the judges asked me to explain my outfit (which included my gold sequin dragon top), and I talked about the significance of the Gay Dragon since the start of my leather journey.

But the true success of the Gay Dragon revealed itself during the day of MLT 2010 competition. Postcards with all the contestants’ pictures on them were handed out to the audience as part of a vote for the People’s Choice Award. On each of our postcard, the designers pulled a phrase from our applications and listed the phrase under each of our names. On my postcard, the phrase listed underneath my name was “The Gay Dragon”.

Then one of my friends, Jamie who was handling for the first time told me about one of the pups he came in with – Ian. This was Ian’s first time doing this. Jamie told me that Ian is in his early 20s, very twink-like, a figure skater, and not taken seriously as being interested in leather.

A story I unfortunately knew too well.

Mind you, I’m close to my thirties, not skinny or at my best athletic shape. But I am… well shall we say “flamboyant”. And I was not taken seriously when I first entered the leather scene.

I went to leather events in Toronto, such as the Spearhead Fantasy Ball, the Northbound Fetish nights, and the Church Street Fetish Fair. But to me, that was more dressing up to go with the theme of those events.

My true debut to the Toronto leather community was at the Mr. Gladaman’s Den leather contest in October 2009. For my first outfit, I strutted out with a leather vest, a gladiator kilt, gladiator sandals, fuschia mask and fuschia gauntlets. Let’s just say the reaction in the room was one of dumbfounded wonder, as the members of the community looked at me and thought collectively, “Seriously?”

To be quite honest, I didn’t think of myself as a leatherman either. As I talked about in my speech later for that contest, I admitted that being yourself is very hard in the leather community, especially for someone like myself. All the people in it seemed so macho, yet I am so “flam”.

Everyone laughed.

But then I said that even though at my first major leather event I was wearing sequins with leather (which I was told was a huge no-no), the people I met so far seemed to accept me for who I am, and this community seemed to be about diversity and acceptance. And if given the chance, I would show others who are outside the box that they can belong in this community just like me.

Even though I didn’t win, I was told that I definitely changed a number of people’s minds with what I said and that it was the best bar contest that any of the leather people seen in a long time.

I continued to prove myself when by miracle of miracles, I strengthen my strengths, unmasked my mistakes, and won the Mr. St. Marc Spa Leatherman contest.

When competing at Mr. Leatherman Toronto, I remember one particular interview question about how would I view myself as a player. After making a joke clarifying what they meant by player (i.e. poker, games, sports), I said that I wasn’t much of a player because I felt most of the leathermen in the community viewed me as too much of a “princess”. During my introduction on stage, I did my best runway walk even after being specifically told by the contestant wranglers that I shouldn’t do that. During my speech, I talked about judgement and prejudice and oppression within the community during my speech, and ended my speech by declaring that “I’m here, I’m very very queer, and I am not going anywhere.” And by miracle of miracles, I ended up being the first runner up.

As time went on, I met members in the leather community who slowly became allies and friends. These allies and friends told me that they respected my ability to remain true to myself. They told me that they respected that I followed through with what I said I would do during my title year. They told me that they saw that I done a lot, learned a lot, and grew a lot in only a short period of time. And they said they are especially surprised and applauded at my ability to endure a lot of pain in my very first major play scene.

Suffice to say, they seemed proud of the “princess” that sashayed into the leather community many months ago.

So, I went up to Ian after he took off his makeshift pup mask and resumed being human. We introduced ourselves to each other, talked about how much fun Pup Nite was for him and how much I wanted to try it. Then I said, “I understand what you’re going through. They didn’t take me seriously either when I entered the leather scene.”

Ian hugged me. He asked, “What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” I responded. “It’s them.” And remembering what I went through, I advised him to stay true to himself, to jump in on what he’s interested in, and to prove to them that he – like I and perhaps many others before me – belongs here.

But didn’t last person who had that ability almost die?

Now, fast forward about 15 years later to the present. After a series of interesting jobs – each with its own set of good, bad, and ugly sides, I still don’t know what to do really. At the moment, I want to do social work. I help others through my work, and I felt good with the work I done in each of my social work jobs up to this point. But then again, like in any field of work, I encountered work environments where there was division, mistrust, gossip, bad mouthing, fear of reprisal, favouritism, and (like my current workplace) a need for a union.

For instance, I felt burned out by the toxicity at my current workplace, and I found myself admitting at one team building meeting that I’m tired of everything that was going on and of not knowing where I stood.

On a larger scale, I applied for multiple jobs at my workplace to ensure some permanence, some benefits, and some possibility of settling down with a good organization where I worked for 2 years full-time and who got me out of another toxic work environment where I was targeted. But I kept getting passed over for jobs that a lot of my co-workers felt I was qualified for and ultimately cheated out of.

And I start to wonder: Where do I stand? At work? After my contract ends in October? At life? Is this what my teacher had in mind when referring to my success in life?

Then one morning, as I left work, I ran into a high school classmate on the street. I haven’t since him in almost 10 years. He said he was heading to George Brown College for a video game programming program he is in. He said he wasn’t sure of what he wanted to do with his degree after university, so he tried a social work program. But then he dropped out of that program saying that he couldn’t do it.

“You have to really love doing this job,” he commented. “Basically, in the first year, you’re told that the people you’re helping don’t like you and you’re always being held back.”

Touché.

So my friend landed a position at an insurance company, and stayed there for the next seven years. Even though it paid well, and gave him new stuff to try every year, he felt it wasn’t enough for him. So he went back to college to do what he loved – video games.

It’s admirable to see people do that – follow their heart when it comes to their career. Even Confucius said, “Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.”

Unfortunately, even though I did well in most of my jobs and I love what I did in most of my jobs, I still don’t know what I want. I wanted to be many things in my life.

I remembered my family telling me that I wanted to be a mathematician when I was really young.

In my childhood and teen years, I wanted to be a criminal lawyer or a detective or a mystery writer.

During university, I wanted to be a forensic psychologist, but I didn’t bother preparing for the grad school tests and I didn’t I had what it took to get into it.

Just after university, I wanted to do research, especially in the field of sexual orientation/gender identity but I ended up doing research in a bunch of topics that didn’t necessarily fit with my interests.

Then about three years after university, I then fell into social work and working with the homeless. I liked the work I did especially in my first job felt made an impact on people’s lives. A lot of my friends admired what I did when I told them what I did.

But in the back of my mind, I wondered if this was what I really wanted to do in life. Especially when faced with not having a full time job yet again in the not-so-distant future. I mean, I will be able to work at my workplace as relief. But I’m broke and soon-to-be employed and turning thirty; I can’t keep living like this.

I wish I could settle with any ol’ job. But since I can’t seem to shake this ideal that the only job out there for me is one that makes me happy, I might as well go big or stay stuck at home for the rest of my life. Or am I being unrealistic?

However, I may have a clue of where I should turn next in my path. All through my recent job and other things I’ve been involved in, people kept referring to me as the “entertainer” or “performer”. True, I love making people laugh or stare or smile. I love how people comment about my performance when I perform. But I’m not trained as an actor, singer, dancer, or a musician. What could I really do in my life with that?

Perhaps when my contract ends, I have the opportunity to find out. Just hope I don’t have to keep doing this for the rest of my life.

About a half a year later, those same people still referenced that speech whenever they spoke to me or introduced me to others in the community. I even had a few of the IML competitors mentioned to me that they kept me in mind when they wrote and said their speeches. I felt speechless. I don’t know even know how to write the next line in this entry about that. I just never thought that a speech from the first runner-up would ever be remembered.

Since I’m overdue to write something on this blog, I decided to finally post that speech that gained me respect/infamy/whatever you want to call it. Now, it’s missing a few things like the Xena war cry I did after mentioning Xena’s name, or my final pose prior to delivering my final line, but here it is:

Friends, judges, and people in leather, I want to talk about judgment. We all judge each other. And for good reasons – to determine if someone is right for us to date, to determine if someone is safe for us to play with, even to determine who will be the next Mr. Leatherman Toronto.

But we also judge people based on other things – on how they look, on what other people say about them, on something they have done in their past. When we start using those judgments against others and we start to shame, slander, and exclude others, that judgment becomes prejudice, and that prejudice becomes oppression. And how can we as brothers and sisters in boots and leather do that to each other when we ourselves have endured that pain – as lesbians, gays, bisexual, transgendereds/transsexuals, women, people of cultural minorities, people living with HIV/AIDS, people with mental health issues, people with substance use issues.

When I started in these competitions, people in the leather community judged me just because I dressed up like Xena the Warrior Princess. They looked at me, and said, “Really? Him, a leatherman?” But then, they heard me speak, saw how I carried myself, and realized how serious I was, they changed their minds about me and embraced me.

And that’s what we need to do. We need to open our minds, our hearts, our eyes and our ears to people. If there’s something you don’t agree with about a person, that’s fine; we don’t all have to agree with each other. But don’t let your judgments sway other people’s. Let them judge for themselves what these people can do for this community.

And to all those who still judge me just because I’m not the “good” little leatherman, this is all I have to say: I’m here, I’m very, very queer, and I am not going anywhere.

It’s not the first time that I caught the bouquet or garter or whatever the wedded couple throws at single people. I remember one year, when Mark and I were together, I caught the garter at two different weddings. That should have meant that I was going to get married, right? Mind you, they were both straight weddings, and the only man I might have possibly married broke up with me.

And here I am again, I catch the bouquet. Would the superstition work better since I, a gay man, caught the bouquet at a gay wedding? And if there is some superstitious power behind the bouquet/garter catch, what’s its shelf life? I mean the last time prior to this catch was about seven years ago. So is this catch a renewal of an archaic agreement with the wedding powers-that-be that I’ll be next? Is it supposed to be a glimmer of hope in my hopelessly single life, or is it one big tease?

Then I looked at Nelson – a kind, generous person who loved Manuel so much that he would put all of himself in and bend over backwards for him. In Texas hold-em, that’s quite the gamble… Especially if you don’t know what’s ahead. I was a little jealous of Manuel since he’s found someone who’s willing to take that gamble, but I am happy that he married a guy like Nelson.

As I hear them repeat the vows that the justice of the peace to each other, as I see them exchange rings (and then re-exchange rings because of a mishap on whose ring went on who’s finger), I couldn’t believe that it finally happened. They got married. For better or for worse, as the wedding cliché goes. The cliché was never said but I can only think of those words as the justice of the peace announced that they were married. For better or for worse, Nelson will be there for Manuel. For better or for worse, Manuel will be there for Nelson. No matter what happens, no matter what they face ahead, no matter what gets thrown at them, they will go through it all. Together.

I wonder who would be willing to be there for better or for worse. I wonder who would be willing to deal with my active and diverse social life, and keep up. I wonder who can handle the closets I carry lots of my clothes and the baggage I carry daily on shoulders. I wonder who can deal with my knack to get into severe hang ups and into huge debts. I wonder who can handle my bouts of insecurity and my shifts into flamboyance. I wonder who can handle the fact my mother is an overbearing, controlling, stubborn, and hurtful person and the fact that (scary enough) I may turn out like her…

I wonder who would be really willing to be there for me through my “for better or for worse” moments. And could I be enough of a supportive, caring life mate willing to put all of himself in for another?

It’s quite the risk and quite the gamble. You could possibly lose a lot if things go badly. But if things don’t go badly, you could gain so much. Right?

I applaud Nelson and Manuel for taking the risk that comes with those rings. And to all those who take risk. And hopefully, I’ll find someone who will get down on one knee, present the most fabulous ring, take the risk, and ask those four special words as foretold by the gay bouquet I caught that night…

“You like this ring?”

I last wrote on this blog 21 days ago. And I’ve been trying to write this blog entry since then…

* * *

I’ve just been so busy. Busy with work, and hanging out with friends, and having fun, and helping with a leather social/fundraising event, and flag twirling. And when I’m not busy, I’m just too tired to do anything. On Friday, I actually came home early, vegged on the couch, and too busy to care about doing anything but vegging that night.

And that’s not the first time that “I’m too busy” has come up. It’s happened with friends. It’s happened with fun things I want to do. Heck, I think it’s happened with my lack of a love life. One of my dating potentials thought I wasn’t into dating because I always seemed busy.

I blame my parents. Isn’t it always easy to blame them?

Both my dad and my mother are work-a-holics. When we were all younger, they used to work all the time, and while they worked, they got our aunts to baby-sit us. My dad used to work two jobs, seven days a week, even on holidays. That is, before he had his stroke. Now, he only works part-time on the weekend.

Even when they were at home, they were busy doing stuff. My mother would always try to find something for me to do – clean, play the piano, vacuum, cut the grass. That would be great in terms of instilling a work ethic, which it did. But then, she would always have bad timing in asking me to do something when I’m actually trying to rest, and I would complain. When mother and I used to talk, I always felt I needed to be busy when she was around, or else she was going to give me something to do. Even at this age. When I was vegging out on the couch in the basement watching because I was truly tired from working, my mother would have the bad timing of coming down and asking if I could do something right at that moment.

But there came a price with that work-a-holicism. For most of my life, I hardly saw my dad or my mother go out unless it was to a family event. Mother had a few friends; Dad didn’t have any. Their free time was spent at home cooking, or gardening, or cleaning, or doing home improvement projects around the house. Not really enjoying life.

I swore to myself that I would not turn out like them – work-a-holics and boring and have no friends.

Now, look at myself – I’m hard working, I’m always highly involved with fun and social activities, and I’m always finding it hard to have time with friends or for myself. Wow, like that’s any better.

* * *

I only spend time with friends in one of three ways nowadays:
(1) if they happen to be involved with some of the same stuff I’m involved in,
(2) I pre-planned something a few weeks in advance. Like with my fag hag Amber whom I haven’t seen for weeks prior to us seeing RENT together this past Saturday. And I bought the tickets a month in an advance.
(3) a friend caught me luckily when I didn’t have anything scheduled last moment.

And then there are the hobbies I barely keep up on. Especially my writing. I mean, I already broke my New Year’s Resolution since I haven’t written a full blog entry in weeks. I mean I’ve been trying to write this entry on why I’m too busy to write this entry for the past few weeks. Instead I write it pieces. I start it but then I stop because something comes up or I’m too tired to write. And then I start again when I get a little bit of time to myself.

There’s a moment I have while I’m working at my current job when I absolutely do nothing. It happens between 6:00am-7:30am. While my shift partner is making breakfast, I just take that moment to veg in the office. It’s one of those few times in my very busy life that I just stare out into space. As I stare at my computer screen (sometimes it would have Facebook, the Toronto Weather Network page, or just the Windows Desktop with PROUD FM player hanging about), I do wonder to myself if I should really do something productive to fill that void of time, but after a quick to-and-fro in my mind about doing something – like writing, for instance – the urge fails to take hold, and I continue to stare away.

Vegging at that time or taking a break at work is one of those few times I get to myself nowadays. Otherwise, the only other time I get to myself is when I sleep. I miss those days when I was home alone and I could just watch TV and have no worries to be seemingly busy as I would when my parents (specifically with my mother) was around. With my dad, it’s not so bad; he leaves me alone so I cano do my thing. Like he is right now.

* * *

Occasionally I get questions from friends about my busy-ness. They wonder if I sometimes bite off more than I can chew. Sometimes I wonder if that is true.

Just the other day, this past Sunday when I had the night off from work, I went to Gladaman’s Den and just sat there. Everyone that knew me noticed how tired I looked. I just came back from Hamilton from a meeting between the 404s, my improv troupe and the Imperial Court of Hamilton to do a possible comedy fundraising event. The night before, I saw RENT with Amber, went to Military Night at the Black Eagle, and spent the rest of the night with a new potential. The night before that, I spent the whole day with my drag troupe rehearsing and performing at Asian Express’ 10th Anniversary. So yeah, I was tired.

While I sat there at the bar, I plotted all my events in my calendar for the upcoming months and noticed how my life continued to be busy.

This coming week, I participate in my first gay wedding, and I get to style one of the grooms. The following week I’ll be performing my first duty as Mr. St. Marc’s Spa Leatherman hosting leather sex workshops as part of a monthly series at St. Marc’s Spa. Then there’s the Eastern Canada Leather Sir/Boy competition weekend (not to participate but to watch) the following weekend. Then there are the future events that I haven’t even thought of yet – leather events, ROTC performances, people’s special days. On top of that, I work a full-time overnight job. I have too much going on. I don’t know how I’ve done it – past, present, or future.

And now, I’m feeling tired.

Don’t get me wrong, I do feel lucky that I get involved in so many interesting projects and events. At a recent birthday party for a friend (incidentally a friend whom I haven’t seen in a long time), her fiancé referred to me as someone involved with so many interesting things. That’s me.

The man with many interesting things to do.

The man who’s always busy with many interesting things to do.

The man who doesn’t know when to stop with his interesting things to do.

The man who doesn’t know what he would be like if he didn’t have those interesting things to do anymore.

* * *

Why do I do it? Well, I remember talking to my career counselor at university about that. I said to her that I always liked to do extra stuff to give some diversity in my life, to do something different from my day job (when I used to have day jobs), and to get out of the house. That last point was most important. I always felt that once I get home, I’ll never leave the house until I had to go to work the next day. And then at home, I dealt with my mother before we stopped talking. Now, after we stopped talking, I’m still busy. Now more than ever.

I wonder. Could this busy-ness really be a compensation for not moving out of the house? Or for not resolving or facing my real problems? Or because I want to be more than what my parents was? Or because by keeping busy, I’m keeping alive instead of stagnant?

Either way, no matter what the reason is, I always seem to keep busy. I just hope I get to stop and smell the roses one day. I just hope things won’t keep me busy forever and stop me from living my life as well.

For now, at least, I finally get to publish this damn blog entry.

These episodes reminded me about a guy I met two summers ago at George’s Play. When he said “Hello” to me, I kind of looked at him strangely, said hi, and turned back to head back with my friends. He persisted, and one of my friends pushed me to him – either accidentally or purposefully. We danced. I spent the night with him at his hotel room. He drove me home the next day. And he said he fell in love with me. He also said he was going to the Ukraine the following week to start a new job working as an engineer at a cement-making plant.

Prior to his leaving, we spent some time together, hanging out, eating out, cuddling and massaging, and making love. He gave me a leather man-purse (which I’ve worn out) and a butterfly paperweight with the tag, “Friends like you are a precious few” (that still sits next to my computer) after he came back from a reunion trip in the States. He bought my books and loved my writing.

He also suggested I move with him to Ukraine in a few months. I was a little shocked at the suggestion, especially since we just met. I mean, I couldn’t move to move to a foreign country all of a sudden, with my debts and my problematic job at the time and my insecurities leaving home, especially since my dad had only arrived home a few months earlier from the hospital after spending a few months there because of his mini-stroke. Plus I just met the guy. As much as he was very sweet and very good to me, that was too soon to commit to such a thing.

After he left for the Ukraine, he took me off his Facebook friends list saying that he wanted to remember me as I was. We tried to keep up via e-mail, but I always kept reading the e-mails he sent, reminding myself to respond, and relegating it to the back burner in my mind and my inbox. He came back to Toronto a few months later, and I tried to contact him to meet up, but we never met up. And then we just lost all contact altogether. I ran into one of our mutual friends and he told me that he saw the guy when he made a recent trip to Toronto that apparently I never knew about. The guy also brought along his boyfriend that apparently I never knew about. And that was that.

Then I remember about an army guy I met a few years before at Anime North. He and I met when I did a “Gay Sex 101” panel that went on for a very, very long time on Saturday night. He and I spoke afterwards while watching yaoi movies. He bought one of my books. We exchanged e-mails and MSN. We communicated and flirted via e-mail and MSN. Then, I remember getting an e-mail from him asking me if I would like to date him even though he was about to go and serve in Afghanistan a month later. I responded back by saying that I didn’t know if I could do a long distance relationship so soon after meeting him. We kept some contact after he left for Afghanistan, but eventually, he and I drifted.

When he returned to Canada from duty, he started dating someone for a bit, but then they broke up. And I believe he was still single when I asked him two years ago to come and do a talk with the youth at one of the shelters I worked at about his experiences in Afghanistan as part of Remembrance Day. He asked if he could bring some of his rifles to show the youth, but my bosses were not comfortable with that idea. I remembered that he and I talked about going to the gun ranges after we met, and he would teach me how to use one, and I probably said something about learning to use his “gun” instead. But it never happened.

When he came to my work, he looked so dapper and handsome in the beige suit he wore. He showed the youth pictures of his experiences on his laptop. He got a lot of questions from the youth there, and he handled himself really well. After the talk, he said he had to rush off since a friend came and drove him down from Hamilton (where he lived). Not long after he left, he sent me a text saying that I looked more sexier than he remember, and I responded by saying he looked really sexy too. I tried to suggest that we meet for drinks sometime, but he said he couldn’t afford to come down to Toronto. When he told me he was working a new job near where I lived, he said he might move down, but then he couldn’t afford it. I tried to suggest meeting up after he finished work before he commuted back to Hamilton, but we never met up. And then, he realized that his current job in the army bored him to tears, and decided to go back and serve in Afghanistan again. I don’t know if he left yet, and if he did, apparently I never knew about it. And that was that.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened had I actually tried to work it out with these two. They were probably the first two who actually wanted to date me since Mark, and I wouldn’t have minded dating them either of them if they weren’t fleeing the country not long after meeting me.

But then again, if I actually ended up in a relationship with soldier guy, it would have been hard to wait for him and wonder if he didn’t get killed during one of the many missions he went on and I would probably cheat on him since he wouldn’t be around a lot physically and that would probably just kill him (and me) inside.

And then again, if I actually moved to Ukraine with the engineer, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, especially since I didn’t know the language, I didn’t know anyone there (unless Mark has relatives up there since his mother is part Ukrainian) and I would most likely spend a lot of time clinging to the engineer as a security blanket and knowing how much of an attention whore and high-maintenance princess I am, I couldn’t just stay home and be the good little houseboy and I would be lost in the Ukraine not sure where I’d belong or where I’d shop to maintain my off-beat fashion style. I would probably be homesick, leave the engineer, and hopefully afford to come home.

Then, I thought about three others guys whom I got very close to physically and emotionally, and observers have mistaken us as couples. I wouldn’t have minded dating each of them, but the relationships never consummated beyond buddies and good times.

There’s the guy who brought new meaning to the term “drinking buddy”, as we would always meet up after both of us finished work and get smashed. He always managed to snag really cute guys, but not good jobs or places to live. Then, one guy from Vancouver came during Pride, swept my “drinking buddy” off his feet, and became the inspiration for him to move to Vancouver where he is happily living. He came to Toronto to visit one night en route to a wedding in Detroit. I picked him up at the airport. We went to George’s Play, but he ended up staying with another friend.

Then there’s the buddy whom I met on a Wednesday night at Goodhandy’s and we would meet there on many Wednesday nights at Goodhandy’s following our initial encounter. We would always stand or sit together, groping and snuggling and having fun together. Sometimes, we’d have fun outside Wednesday nights. In fact, he came with me to my first few Northbound Fetish Parties, and he’d kindly lend me his leather to wear at those parties since I didn’t have much leather at the time. But then, his work schedule changed as did mine, and we hardly go to Goodhandy’s on Wednesday nights anymore. I think the last time I saw this guy, I helped him pick a tuxedo for an all male choir he joined.

Then there’s the buddy who became more of a friend. He and I met on my 28th birthday at George’s Play. He wore my Wonder Woman tiara and I took his picture. He and I did the “Lady and the Tramp” moment with silicon anal beads that I just won as a prize. He and I kissed. He and I didn’t do much else for several months until one night at a drag queen pageant, we kissed again and spent the night together. But not much else happened after that. He was there for me during my bad times, I was there for his bad times. I stayed over his place multiple times, and we’d just cuddle and kiss and nothing more. Now, he’s going to marry some hot Latino guy, and I’m going to be his stylist. I already have his outfit picked out from my closet that he can borrow for his wedding.

So that makes five dating potentials in five years since Mark. And Mark and my first relationship would make up only two relationships in the entire time I’ve been out… correction, living. Add on top the millions of crushes I had on men – both straight and gay – that became “just friends”. And that doesn’t really improve my dating score. Just makes it more negative…

My only saving grace is that I’ve had sex since Mark. If I haven’t had sex since Mark, I would probably end up in a nice padded-themed minimalist room where straight jackets would be my only couture. I may have the fashion stylings of a Carrie Bradshaw, but I’d suck as a sex/relationship columnist. And to think, I started a sex column while in university for the campus newspaper called “Sex and University”, but that fell through. Like with every guy listed above.

Going down this memory lane is not helping me right now. Especially when I face another dating potential situation.

Just prior to Christmas, I met a really handsome man at a leather brunch. I asked him if we’ve met before because he looked familiar. He responded by giving me his number and e-mail to set up a time for us to have coffee and a chance to “figure this out”. Originally, I would be scared to try. The spirit of dating past always haunts me. But for some reason, I gave him a call. And he called me back. And we’re still trying to figure out when to go out for coffee even though I figured out in the end where I seen him.

I mean, I can’t turn down such an opportunity. How many opportunities do I have where a guy asks me out, and I’m neither creeped out nor disgusted at the guy asking? Obviously, not many.

And maybe with this dating potential, perhaps there is hope for me after all. I figured that if a poker player can literally make a come back with just a chip and a chair in a tournament and come out on top, maybe I can find my way out of the dating desert that I’ve been dragging myself around in for years with this glimmer of hope. And perhaps get on top of him… tee hee.

So if I had a drink right now (and I can’t have one since I have to work in a few hours), I’d make a toast. Let’s hope for the best in 2010. Let this be the year that a dating potential for me is finally realized and becomes a dating actual – or in most people’s vernacular, actually dating.

But then again, I may not have done any of that last night. I might not have been around to complain about my night to my co-workers or my boss this morning.

Last night, I could have died.

Last night, it snowed, it was extremely cold, and I was running late to work. In typical fashion, I called for a taxi to get to work on time. Like most taxi drivers, this taxi driver drove south on Mount Pleasant Road to quickly reach downtown.

But then the taxi did something strange along that route. The taxi suddenly turned left. The taxi headed towards a side street. I thought this was an unusual course correction to make when most taxis go south towards my work.

But then the taxi didn’t go into that street. The taxi glided onto the other side of the street. The taxi swerved and spun around. I then noticed a street light post closing in through my fogged-up window. I reeled back. The street light post almost filled my view.

The taxi bumped on the curb and stopped a few inches from my side (and myself) being slammed. And forcibly contorted.

I’d never be late again for work.

I’d be dead. How could I forget that possible outcome?

Neither the taxi driver nor I seemed visibly shaken. I asked the driver if he was okay, and the driver said he was okay. The driver slowly moved down the road at sublight speed. I called work to tell them I’ll be a few minutes late. I then sat while the taxi inched its way downtown. I would wonder what would have happened if that curb didn’t stop my taxiand that pole stopped us instead.

All I could think was, “Wow, I could have been dead.” Then I thought in another quantum reality, it probably happened. Thank you, Star Trek for that thought. And I could only about that.

I was surprised I didn’t go into my imagination, and think about the possible post-death scenarios. I’ve done it before. And for this entry – now that I’ve had a chance to sit and think about it – I figured my post-death scenario based on today’s events.

Well, there would definitely be a lot of work done to get my body back to something… casket-fitting. No… there would be a lot more work in picking the right outfit to be buried in. God, I hope the person picking my outfit is on my side. And the Six Feet Under people who prep me for the funeral better make me look good all around. No acne scars or weird marks from my cheap glasses on my face. Hell I won’t need glasses anymore since my eyes would be closed. But maybe if my body was too far gone, I could get cremated and then all they need to figure out is how accessorized should the urn be.

I would wonder about the media coverage on my death. Probably a quick entry in some newspapers, a quick newsflash on CityPulse 24, status updates among my Facebook friends, and tweets from my Twitter friends. Hopefully, a good writer would do me justice in a good obituary.

Then, there’s the funeral. The funeral would most likely be at St. Bernard de Clairvaux Parish. It was my home parish for many years. I haven’t gone in the last year… maybe two years. Many things got in the way – work, partying, life. And now the prodigal gay son (because I’m sure the whole parish community knew that fact, especially if they saw me marching in the nearby Weston Santa Claus Parade two months before with ROTC Toronto) comes back one more time.

I wonder who would come to the funeral. Well, definitely, family would be there. Especially Jun, Julie, and my nephew/godson, Jaime. It would be an unfortunately way to see his uncle/fairy godfather after not seeing him in over a year. Recently, during the holidays, I received a message from Julie saying that Jaime had only seen me once in the last year or so. And now, he would see me as this.

Oh, most definitely my parents. I wonder if any of my out-of-town relatives would be arriving in and staying at the house. I wonder how my dad and my mother would be. I hope Dad doesn’t have another stroke. I figure my mother would probably act all strong or act all loud and crying. I wonder if my mother would finally realize the folly in her ways when I’m gone.

My parents would probably invite my religion teacher, Mrs. Tullio to lead the singers to perform the liturgy. Mrs. Tullio been like a mum to me while I went to an all-boys high school, and surprisingly one of my most accepting allies when I was coming out in that school. I just hope my mother doesn’t have Mrs. Tullio sing “The Prayer” just because my mother likes it for her future funeral. She already tried to integrate it in my brother’s wedding by having me and one of my choir friends duet it for my brother’s wedding reception. Thankfully, the song was too out of my vocal range. Unfortunately, if I’m dead, I would not be in range to defend myself (and the rest of my family and friends) from “The Prayer”.

My best friends, Mark (my best male friend and ex) and Amber (my best female friend and fag hag) would definitely be there. Mark would hopefully contact everyone he knew through me via e-mail and phone. And if Amber got to my Facebook profiles before they got deleted, hopefully she would invite everyone on my profiles. That would be an interesting assortment of people to come to my wedding – my co-workers, ROTC Toronto, the 404s Eastsiders, the leatherpeople I started to know, the drag queens I’ve taken photos of, the people I met at different bars I frequented, my old classmates from elementary, high and post-secondary schools. That church would be crowded. And the congregation better look fabulous at my funeral. Otherwise I wouldn’t forgive them if they looked terrible.

Then there’s the wake. There are two places where it could happen.

One would happen at home that my family would hold. Hopefully, my friends – if they’re brave enough – would come over, pay their respects, gorge on Filipino food, and see the world that I grew up in. But it would be cleaned up since company would be over. Well, everywhere except maybe my bedroom. It would be hard I would think to clean up my room quickly. Too much clutter. Too many memories. Too many secrets to dig up. Too soon to do all that. I wonder how many of my friends/acquaintances that visit my home would see my room, or speak to my family, or out me to my family. Well… the family couldn’t do anything about it at this point.

The other one would happen at a bar. Hopefully, someone would organize a wake similar to the one that Miranda Hobbes’ dates did when he died before they dated in a season 3 episode of Sex and the City. I want it to be fun where people celebrate, people reminisce, and people drink in my name. Hopefully, they would all remember the fun, out-going, and fierce individual they all met when I met them all. I wonder what would happen to my camera. I mean, it’s going to be sans flash physically… at least from me. But at the very least, my flash would be with all of them in spirit. And hopefully, some of my biological family would be there – I would think at least, Jun and Julie. At least, they would see a part of me that the rest of my family has never seen.

I know it’s so strange to actually have thought about this. I’ve always wondered what would happen after I die. I’ve always wondered how the numerous people that I’ve met in my life would be affected – would it be like I was never around, or would there be a ripple? I’ve always wondered about it at the oddest time – usually not when I was under threat of dying. Usually, I get inspired by some of my favourite shows when the characters mourn a certain person’s death. Usually, it bubbles up when I’m deep in thought.

After surviving last night, I celebrated my lucky son-of-a-bitch break from death. I finished buying a Kozyndan art piece that I’ve been paying off since September. I took myself out to lunch at Terroni, a really great Italian restaurant on the west end, where I got myself a luscious lamb pasta and a tasty tiramisu, and thought I should take Mark or another friend or maybe a date there for dinner some time. I received a great e-mail from a friend telling me that he felt inspired by my writing, and felt inspired to tell me a little something about himself.

And after a safe taxi ride, I’m at home, watching Sex and the City, feeling much much better as opposed to a few days ago. But I do need to go to sleep.

Or else, if I wake up late, and it’s another cold and snowy night like last night, I would hate to take another taxi tonight….

A question that always arises from people not related to my biological or extended family is “Are you out to your family?”

My official response: “Officially, I never came out to my family, but they pretty much know I am; we just never talk about it.”

Before when I used to say “No”, my inquisitors would immediately respond, “How could they not know? Are they blind?” In fact, they still say that despite my more accurate response. Then again, I even admitted that people who don’t realize I’m gay or who don’t feel the burn of my flaminess upon meeting me must be blind, deaf, and dumb.

I’m not ashamed or scared of who I am when I’m around my family – immediate or extended. I’m pretty much the same around family as I am everyone else in terms of how I carry myself. I’ve just not comfortable talking about my sexual orientation or anything related to it around my family. If I do mention about my queer-related involvements like my queer colour guard group, the Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps (ROTC) Toronto, I just omit the word “queer” from the conversation.

The exception to that rule is my brother and my sister-in-law, Jun and Julie. I trust they will not blab to my parents about what goes on with me in that particular area. Since I live with my parents currently, I fear the judgment that they (especially my mother) would pass over me, their criticisms that would result, and the stress that I would endure from the pressure of those criticisms. And believe me, when my mother is critical, it’s harsh, which is why she and I have not spoken in over two months… but that’s another blog entry for another time. And if my dad goes critical on me, I don’t know how I could handle that since I honestly care about what he thinks of me. And so I keep silent about a lot of things I do on my free time with my family.

On the other hand, there are clues that my parents knew all along. My good friend Mark (who’s also my ex) told me that my mother asked him if I was a good kisser while he was waiting for me in the driveway, and my dad asked him how I was as a boyfriend while they were both waiting for me while I was having a check-up at the orthodontist’s office. My mother mentioned to me when we learned that Julie was pregnant that my dad is excited that Jun is finally giving him grandchildren; no mention about the possibility that I would also give Dad grandchildren (but then again, I’m not looking to have children at this point, and… well, that’s another blog entry for another day). And when my mother and I were talking, she would always come to me for fashion and beauty advice, and she would actually listen to me without me yelling and screaming at her.

But despite all this evidence, I’m still not “officially” out to my parents. And despite all the jokes and criticism from the peanut gallery, I stand firm with my decision to not “officially” come out to my parents. When I volunteered for Planned Parenthood of Toronto’s Teens Educating and Confronting Homophobia program, I learned that only I can decide when I’m ready to come out to the people in my life. And since I’m living still under my parents’ roof, I personally don’t think it’s safe for me to come out. Especially since I’m in a volatile situation with my mother currently. When I move out, then I come out to them… maybe.

As part of me being in the closet with my family, I tend not to come out with anyone in my extended family, including my godfather’s family. Well, at least, that was the plan.

When Mark and I arrived at my godfather’s place, one of the older gentleman at the party asked, “So where’s your boyfriend?”

I freaked. My godfather stood right in front of us.

“Um… well, my friend…,” I corrected, “…is right here.” I pointed at Mark sitting on the couch in the living room.

As an aside, Mark has been accompanying me to my godfather’s New Year’s parties for about 10 years ever since we first started dating, and we’ve continued going to that party together even after we broke up. And if Mark didn’t show up, everyone there would ask where Mark was. But typically, they would refer to him as my “friend”. This was the first time that anyone referred to him as my “boyfriend”, especially since that term hasn’t been relevant for 5 years now.

But it made me wonder: Did my parents refer to Mark as my boyfriend to the rest of these people? Or did these people in my godfather’s family figure that out for themselves since he has been coming to these parties with me for almost 10 years? No one really has asked me about my relationship with Mark aside from that one question. And no one really asked about it since that remark was made. Thankfully.

Before I left the party, one of my godfather’s granddaughters asked me to add her on Facebook. As a rule, I don’t add family members onto my Facebook (with the exception of Jun and Julie) for fear of what they might see and yip yap back to my parents. I already had one of my godfather’s son-in-laws message me on Facebook when he found me through a mutual friend, and I asked him to not mention to anyone in his family (not even to his wife) about my Facebook profile. I also had one of my cousins from my dad’s side try to add me saying that I looked “vaguely familiar” from the pictures that her mother brought back from Jun’s Canadian wedding, but I avoided adding, and responded, “Sorry, but I don’t know you.” But how long can I keep this up?

And if I was to add my godfather’s granddaughter, which profile should I add her to? The one that’s full of drag queen pictures? Or the one that’s filling up with mainly pictures from the leather world? Or create a whole new one that’s a bit-more family friendly?

At the brunch following the MLT 2010 competition, I was labeled as someone who’s unabashingly, unapologetically, and uncompromisingly himself. I had a member from the leather community say on his Facebook profile that he was about to create a separate “leather” profile for himself, but then he “learned a little something” from me: “Be unashamedly, unapologetically yourself. So I am.”

So what do I do? Apologize or act proud for who I am? Be bashful or be brave? Compromise for now (and possibly my profile) or courageously move forward?

For now, I can pretend I never got the text from my godfather’s granddaughter with her Facebook e-mail, and defer for another year (which is probably when I’ll next see her and the rest of that family again). Hopefully, I’ll figure out what to do.