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Edited on Sun Aug-10-08 08:50 AM by BlueIris
I'd throw in an extra warning here about how I hope everyone understands that the terms of opprobrium used in this piece are used with irony and sarcasm to create an humorous effect, but I know the Lounge is too smart not to figure that out.
"Ex-Boyfriends Named Michael"
My mother has basically accepted the fact that I'm like, this unrepentant faggot. She's transcended that and moved on to other concerns, like have I found a nice guy to settle down with? She keeps asking me, she keeps calling me and bugging me, so Mom, there have been some nice guys who just didn't work out, and there have been some guys who have broken my heart, and then there have been EX-BOYFRIENDS NAMED MICHAEL.
Ex-Boyfriend named Michael #1
was a sheer mistake,
but we make such delightful mistakes when we are young,
you're supposed to learn from your mistakes, but heck—
Ex-Boyfriend named Michael #2—
I've washed him right out of my colon.
Just once, I'd like to date a man and not his therapist.
Ex-Boyfriend named Michael #3
said I had communication problems
and I said,
"Oh, go fuck yourself, asshole."
What I should have said was,
"Honey, I'm trying to understand your feeling of frustration of our seemingly inept articulation of our emotions, but I really do have some unresolved feelings of anger toward you, so please, go fuck yourself, asshole."
But maybe there's the off chance that he's right,
I've never been that great at communicating.
Ex-Boyfriend Named Michael #4—
I should have known better.
The first time we went back to his apartment to fuck,
his idea of fuck music was Dan Fogelberg's Greatest Hits.
I said,
"Could you change the CD, could you please put something else on?"
So he changed the CD to the only thing that could have been worse,
Neil Diamond: Live at Madison Square Garden.
"Coming to America" indeed.
But I stuck with him,
and every fuck at his place was sheer hell.
I tried to tell him that his taste in music sucked and I could seriously help him,
but somehow I lack the communication skills to do just that.
But then, I thought I loved him,
and I was young enough and foolish enough to think that love can overcome
Linda Rondstadt.
It cannot.
Ex-Boyfriend Named Michael #5
was suffering from a severe case of yellow fever
and dumped me for some little Taiwanese guy
fresh off the damn boat, two weeks in the U.S.
who somehow managed to find his way to Café Hairdo
to be picked up by his "American dream of homosexual romance!"
Oh, I can just see him sitting there,
legs crossed, working his non-threatening little third-world charm,
offering to share his table and newspaper—
Oh, I can just see them now,
sharing hair-care products, making mutual consensual decisions
about movies, dinner, sex and their emotional well-being,
and having deep, deep discussions about who has a better butt:
"You do!"
"No, you do!"
"Stop it, you do!"
"But yours is so tan and firm!"
"But yours is pert and angry!"
Oh, I can see them sitting on the sofa
with the dictionary in their laps
trying to figure out the difficult words in Barbara D'Angelo's, "Making Love Work"
video seminar and thinking about adopting a fox terrier named Honey.
What a pair of goddamn fucking freaks.
I would just like to see them in a big car accident,
crashing into an oncoming truck carrying a big shipment of Ginsu kitchen knives.
But hey, I'm not bitter,
I'm descriptive.
I'm not jaded,
I just have too many Ex-Boyfriends Named Michael.
Just once, I would like to see everything from my life with Ex-Boyfriends Named Michael
set out on a fat barge sent off to the Landfill of Affection.
I'll watch the barge ferry its way through the flotsam of therapy and craps,
dish soap and bad sex, shared shirts and worry, devotion and drugs, pissed-off night and legless drunken revelry.
I will wave goodbye,
and I will be fine.
—Justin Chin
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