It would be so much easier if I liked dick.

For those of you not close to me, I am (hold on to your faded Diesel boot cut jeans) a practicing heterosexual male. I, however, was raised almost exclusively by females (except for one or two exceptionally emotional men -- my father and my pussy whipped, albeit Buddha minded, grandfather) and this has made me very seemingly gay.

Count them: a fashion minded mom, two aunts, five girl cousins and a sister. From the day I was born they would talk to me, confide in me, dress me, take me shopping, enlist me in the kitchen, teach me how to dress, show me how to cut hair, apply makeup, and kiss girls. Like a duckling raised from birth by a Labrador Retriever, I wasn't any wiser. I was one of them.

My class photos showed it. My bangs were always curled and I wore a tie with a matching crew neck sweater. It wasn't until Sprague High School that I was allowed to dress myself, but by then I was fully equipped for such a venture. They gave me the tools to look fabulous. So fabulous that I attracted the attention of Chad Witt. He was one of the most popular boys in the school, but the football team had an obvious aversion to his pencil thin neck and lisp. Chad hadn't a problem sitting with me at lunch every once in a while. He envied my butchness and I envied his perfectly feathered hair.

I was well-built and naturally gifted at athletics. But, because of the way I looked, and because I got along so well with people like Chad, not a day went by that I wasn't called "faggot" or "gay". I can clearly remember standing in line for drills on the football field, looking at all the tight, muscular asses while they crouched in their four point and three point stances. I wasn't revolted.

Am I gay? I would ask myself. Maybe they're right.

Being a virgin and having very little real life sexual experience with women, I simply did not know the answer -- that is until I left for the a small, private Catholic school called the University of Portland.

I attended the nursing school and the college of arts. My days were full of breast exams and Argentinian authors. Ninety percent of my contacts were women, therefore I never had to censor my hand gestures or hold back tears. I was always in approving company.

In my Sophomore year, I lost my virginity to Jessica Gomez and the thoughts of possibly being gay went to the back burner. With our breakup, however, came thoughts of monastic celibacy. My effeminate and meditative side was only reinforced though as girls didn't shy away. I soon learned as I prepared myself for priesthood -- the last stronghold of closeted homosexual men -- that chicks really dig emotion and spirituality. Fellow resident assistants on the other side of campus reported to me that Mandy Morris would put on the reddest of lipstick before meeting me for late night tea and study. She'd say things like, "I'm off to defrock a priest." And in this rested the paradox: the harder I tried to be celibate, the more attractive I became, and the more sex I got (except from Mandy Morris* ).

In the end, the pussy beat Jesus. He hadn't a chance. And I don't believe Jesus didn't have sex while he walked the Earth either. Impossible. Jesus was HOT! Middle Eastern women are HOT! (Middle Eastern men are HOT!) Tanned skin, hot desert sweat, crowds of enthusiastic followers, and water turning to wine! Jesus was a rock star. It had to happen.

Jump forward a little less than two thousand years. Place yourself in San Francisco. Place yourself in my shoes, with my background, with my upbringing, my present rock star demeanor (just kidding). You are me and they accept everyone here. Why would I want to live anywhere else?

I still get called faggot and gay, but it usually lacks the malice it, er, packed when I was younger. Today, I can consider these labels as compliments. Although this is an overgeneralization, depending on the context, it could mean I'm a stylish, sensitive, educated, witty social pioneer -- even a survivalist. Is there a better compliment?

But I'm not gay.

It would be so much easier if I just liked dick. There would be less confusion. Most people have problems with gray areas. They like to put people into cubby holes. He's black. She's Blonde. He's gay. She's bi.



Christian, he's [This space intentionally left blank]



Men who ride the fence have the most trouble. I'm a self described 4 out of 10. One is completely straight. Ten is completely gay. (And that's just in theory because, in my opinion, nobody is 100% anything.) More than ever, it's socially accepted for women to be bi-sexual, but less so for men. I've found that many bi-sexual women can't fathom the idea of bi-sexual men. You're either one or the other they suggest. After I talk to them, I want to be bi-sexual just to prove them wrong.

I've kissed men -- I mean really deep kisses -- only at parties, and under the influence of either drugs or alcohol, or both. But I've never had sex with a man. I can think of two men I really love and possibly could even have sex with... and boom! That's where you go from a three ----------------> to a four, maybe even a 4 + on my human sexuality spectrum.

For those of you who know me, I mean really know me, this is no news to you. For those of you who think you know me, those of you who are still holding out for me to be gay, you are going to be disappointed. If you're family, or friends of the family, I really don't think you're going to be surprised. I've never hidden much from you.

My true friends know me for who I really am.

My name is Christian.

I'm a 4+.


* Not so with her flight attendent sister and friend the night before graduation.