Thanks Old Faggot – Part Three

photos by jack slomovits

Him: So can I ask you one more question?

Me: Sure.

Him: Why are you still so sad?

Me: What?

Him: You said that you broke up with this guy a few years ago…

Me: Right.

Him: Why are you still so sad about it?

Me: I’m not. It was the right thing to do. We were starting to inhibit each others personal growth.

Him: That seems like a broad reason.

Me: There were other reasons.

Him: What?

Me: We hadn’t had sex in over a year.

Him: Ouch.

Me: I knew you’d balk at that one.

Him: I’m a Dirty Old Faggot. Sex is important.

Me: Well we had gotten to the point where sex wasn’t important.

Him: Then I see why you ended it. Do you still think about him a lot?

Me: What? I dunno. Maybe. I guess so…

Him: Haha. So, yes.

Me: I still live in the apartment we shared together for seven years. I feel like I’m living with his ghost sometimes. I find myself talking to him, saying things in this baby-talk couple’s gibberish we used to speak to one another. Sometimes I literally ask him questions, even though he hasn’t lived there for three years.

Him: Like what?

Me: Uh…  Lemme think.


Me: Well… The other day I was washing my hair in the shower.

Him: Mmm. You in the shower. Good visual.

Me: Gross. Anyway I was washing my hair and my eyes were closed and I guess he popped into my head. Some memory of some previous happy moment – and all the sudden, out loud, I said ‘When you coming home buddy? I’m lonely.’


Me: And then I said ‘Oh. Right. You’re never coming back. Ever.’ But that part was quieter. More of a self admonishment… Like, as if to say, stop talking to yourself, stupid.


Him: Michael… Can I hug you?

Me: Sure.


Me: Get your hand off my ass. And thank  you. For the gesture. The hug was creepy but the gesture was nice…

Him: But. But. Hey.

Me: What?

Him: What if he did come back? You wouldn’t want that, right?

Me: No. Yes. I don’t know. We were really miserable toward the end of things, which was heartbreaking because we were so  kind to one another for such a long time.

Him: If you think you want him back…

Me: I don’t. I’m not sure there’s a ‘him’ to want back. We’re both so different now. The person I’m speaking to in the shower is literally his ghost.

Him: Oh, Michael.

Me: You know what’s really funny? Is how small everything gets…

Him: What do you mean?

Me: I used to have big fantasies about him. About buying a place together. Maybe owning a small business. Adopting a child. Big fantasies. About the life we would have together.

Him: Okay…

Me: And I still have them. But they keep getting smaller. Like, when we broke up, I would fantasize about me growing and changing and about him turning things around. Maybe he’d clean up his act and so would I…

Him: Go on.

Me: The fantasy gets smaller and smaller.

Him: What does it look like nowadays?

Me: I…  uh…

Him: You don’t have to say.

Me: I have a fantasy about him. We’re in the park. And we’re sitting on a bench next to each other. And I’m not even looking at him, because that’s how fragile things have gotten. Even in my fantasy. It’s so fragile that if I look at him and see him, reality might seep back in and destroy everything.

Him: Like that scene in The Hours where the room fills up with water.

Me: Yes! But the exact opposite, because it would be reality destroying the fantasy.

Him: Right. So you’re in the park?

Me: Yes. We’re in the park. Quiet. Sitting next to each other.

Him: And?

Me: And nothing. That’s the fantasy. We watch a little league kid’s soccer game and sit next to each other. And we’re quiet. And it’s peaceful. And perfect. That’s my fantasy about him, now. Just to spend a quiet moment with him in the park.

Him: Michael. May I say something?

Me: Okay.

Him: Maybe you’re not perfect, okay? But you’re not to blame for all of this.

Me: I did break his heart, pretty thoroughly.

Him: Right, but he must’ve had a hand in things.

Me: He certainly did.

Him: And just by saying what you said, just now, you’ve sort of proved that you’re a being that’s capable and deserving of great love. So listen to an Old Faggot, okay?

Me: Okay…

Him: Let that love find you. You deserve it.


Him: I have to go masturbate now. Those internet twinks aren’t going to objectify themselves…

Me: Okay. Bye…  Oh. Hey.

Him: What?

Me: Thanks, Old Faggot.

Him: You’re welcome…


Him: Jerk.

RISK podcast

I got to tell a story at the RISK storytelling show a few weeks ago.

It was fun, and full of awesome, interesting people – including handsome, hilarious comic Sheng Wang.

I was worried about how my story would go, because it involved running around naked with my brother in a rain storm, and giving myself an enema in the front yard after taunting the neighbors. But the audience loved it – it killed!

RISK! is a live show and podcast “where people tell true stories they never thought they’d dare to share in public” hosted by Kevin Allison, of the legendary TV sketch comedy troupe The State. The award-winning live show happens monthly in New York and Los Angeles.

Notorious Rice Queen Kevin Allison

It’s featured people like Janeane Garofalo, Lisa Lampanelli, Kevin Nealon, Margaret Cho, Marc Maron, Sarah Silverman, Lili Taylor, Rachel Dratch, Andy Borowitz and more, dropping the act and showing a side of themselves we’ve never seen before. The weekly podcast gets hundreds of thousands of downloads each month. called it “jaw-dropping, hysterically funny, and just plain touching.”

I’m on this week’s podcast with one of my heroes – comedy goddess Kerri Kenny-Silver.  She is hilarious and if you don’t know of her, you’re an asshole.

You can download my episode of the podcast here.

Just to warn you, I do talk about giving myself an enema in public, and shooting a turd out of my butt like a poop cannon. You’re welcome, Mom and Dad.

Enjoy the RISK podcast.


Thanks Old Faggot – Part Two

Him: So tell me a little about yourself?

Me: What do you want to know?

Him: Well, why do you meet people online who are clearly lying about their age?

Me: Well. I write about it. I had a string of painful, awkward dates about a year and a half ago, and I started writing about it. People starting reading. Now, when I come across someone online who seems angry, self important, or blatantly deceptive -no offense…

Him: None taken…

Me: Instead of ignoring or blocking those people, I go out with them and write about my experiences with them.

Him: I’m not sure I like that.

Me: I’m not sure I asked for your approval.

Him: That’s why. That’s why I don’t like it.

Me: What do you mean?

Him: You’re being glib. Sarcastic.

Me: Do you think?

Him: I do. I think it’s a real problem with your generation. You roll your eyes at everything and you’re terrified of any sort of genuine human interaction.

Me: Doesn’t this particular interaction – me sitting with you on this park bench – prove your theory wrong? Isn’t this a genuine human interaction?

Him: Well it would be, except you have the ulterior motive of wanting material for your blog.

Me: And you have the ulterior motive of wanting to sleep with me.

Him: No I don’t.

Me: Come home with me and give me a blowjob.

Him: Okay.

Me: SEE!

Him: Okay fine, I concede that you’re right about that. But where did you meet me?

Me: On Grindr.

Him: Exactly! A site for guys to meet each other because they want to hook up…

Me: So?

Him: So – who’s worse? Me, the horny, dishonest old man?? Or you, the good-looking young liar?

Me: Jeez, Old Faggot – can’t we BOTH be awful people?

Him: HAHA. We can…

Me: And thanks for the compliments. You’re a handsome guy yourself.

Him: Thanks, can I put my hand in your lap?

Me: Twenty years ago you can.

Him: What an asshole.


Him: So why?

Me: Why what?

Him: Why put yourself in these awful situations? What do you gain from it?

Me: I don’t know. I like writing about things that are true

Him: Don’t give me that horseshit. You’re being sarcastic.

Me: I’m not! I’m just saying it sarcastically!


Him: So you started writing why?

Me: To process stuff. I was in a long relationship that ended. About a year went by with me being single. Then I started dating again. People were awful. Defensive. Petty. Small. I wanted to write about it. Kept me from getting depressed. After a while though, I started seeking out people because they seemed a little off. It got alienating. I don’t know exactly why I’ve kept doing it. I’m compelled to, somehow.

Him: Ugh.

Me: What?

Him: Just…  Your generation.

Me: What?

Him: You guys all feel shy, and alienated, and lonely, and yet you’re so very hyper-connected. It’s narcissistic. Everyone is squawking constantly, but nobody is listening. Nobody cares. And worse – you don’t just urgently need to communicate your awkwardness or your ironic detachment – you guys fetishize it.  

Me: I’m not sure I’d go that far.

Him: I would! What is an American Apparel ad, if not fetishizing awkwardness?

Me: Uh…  It’s…

Him: Or what about those movies by P.T. Anderson?

Me: … Boogie Nights?

Him: No, that’s a great film. I mean like Rushmore and the other one…

Me: Royal Tenenbaums?

Him: Ugh. Awful. So coy, and precious, and ironic…

Me: So you mean Wes Anderson.

Him: I guess. He’s all the things about your generation I don’t understand. He fetishizes that alienation you were talking about. He urges the rest of you to indulge in this glorification of the uncomfortable. Life doesn’t have to be so labored and ungraceful, you know. We used to just call it ‘going on a bad date,’ and it happened every once in a while, but we didn’t react by being glib or sarcastic on the next date. That was considered rude. We certainly didn’t write about it for the world to read.

Me: Okay fine. I get it. You don’t approve.

Him: I don’t.

Me: Well then don’t read.

Him: I certainly won’t.


Me: You know. You spent a lot of time calling me indelicate. But that doesn’t explain why you think I’m interesting enough to sit here and waste the afternoon with. Stop looking at my dick. It’s nothing special.

Him: It looks pretty nice, through your pants.

Me: Thanks Old Faggot.

Him: Can I ask you one more question?

Me: Sure. But you have to wait until Part Three.

Him: Why?

Me: I rarely blog more than 800 words.

Him: Why?

Me: It’s self indulgent, Jerk.

Thanks, Old Faggot – Part One

Him: Hello there. Are you Michael?

Me: That’s right… Are you –

Him: Ed. Edward.

Me: Which is it?

Him: Ha. I dunno. Whatever you like. It’s Ed at work, but I’m Edward to most of my friends.


Him: So…

Me: Yes?

Him: Don’t get mad, but you’re better looking in person than on Grindr.

Me: Thanks. I’m not mad, by the way. I don’t think it’s rude. I’m intentionally less attractive on Grindr and OkCupid.

Him: Why?

Me: I want to be a pleasant surprise, rather than an immediate disappointment.

Him: Oh no!

Me: No. NO. Stop, Edward. I was speaking only for myself.

Him: But I don’t look like my Grindr profile, do I?


Me: No, Edward. You don’t. But that’s totally okay. Okay?

Him: Yikes. Why don’t you be brutally honest?

Me: Edward. Your Grindr profile says you’re 35.

Him: How old do I look?

Me: How old is that photo?

Him: Guess how old I am.

Me: 45?

Him: Ha. I’m 51.

Me: Jesus.

Him: Is that old?

Me: No. But it’s older than 35.

Him: I know. Sorry.

Me: Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. Sit down and talk to me.

Him: Okay…


Him: You, uh…  You don’t seem that disappointed or surprised by this turn of events… People are usually relatively put out.

Me: Why’s that?

Him: Because they think they’re going out with a significantly younger man.

Me: Then why do it? Why post old photos of yourself and meet up with younger people?


Him: That’s complicated. A lot of reasons.

Me: Well… What are a few of those reasons?

Him: I didn’t have a lot of gay friends when I was younger. They were all straight. Now they’ve all got children, and lives, and some even have grand-kids at this point. I’m lonely. I miss being young. I like spending time with young people.

Me: And sleeping with them.

Him: Well, most of them don’t want to sleep with me, and I don’t blame them – but lots of them will spend some time with me, and I like that. And yes, some of them don’t care and will take pity on an Old Faggot.

Me: Ha. I like that…

Him: What?

Me: The way you say it – Old Faggot. Like a title.

Him: Well.  I started sleeping with guys when I was 16. I’ve been a faggot for 35 years.

Me: That’s an Old Faggot.

Him: Thank you. So, Michael?

Me: Edward.

Him: Why did you seem so unfazed by my appearance-slash-age?

Me: Uh…  I kind of guessed it – that you were Secretly Old.

Him: Secretly Old?

Me: Yes. Hiding your age online.

Him: I don’t get it? Do you like old guys?

Me: I wouldn’t say so specifically. I mean, most of the guys I sleep with are under 40. There have been exceptions, but mostly I keep it my age and younger.

Him: So why meet up with me, if you knew I wasn’t being forthcoming about my age?

Me: I do that, sometimes. I meet up with people online that seem off-beat, or troubled, or lonely.

Him: Why?

Me: I write a blog about it. About awkward dates.

Him: I see. So do you want to go back to my place and have sex, Young Man?

Me: I do not. But maybe we can sit on this bench and watch people go by and chat with one another?

Him: That sounds lovely.


Him: Can I say? You seem very kind and intelligent.

Me: Thanks, Old Faggot. So do you.

Him: You’re welcome Young Man.