SEXpert adVICE ~ ur man's EX-men

Last night, I hosted a Salon series at my theatre company. For those of you not in the Gertrude Stien know.... "A salon is a gathering of people under the roof of an inspiring hostess or host, partly to amuse one another and partly to refine their taste and increase their knowledge through conversation and readings, often consciously following Horace's definition of the aims of poetry, "to please and educate" (aut delectare aut prodesse est). The term is commonly associated with French literary and philosophical gatherings of the 17th century and 18th century, though the practice continues today in many cities worldwide."

And that practice was continued last night at the Celebration Theatre in WeHo. We had everything, from lesbian poetry, dialogue scenes and music to gay monologues, haiku's and short stories. I was hesitant at first, as gay theatre folks in LA can sometimes be a mixed bag of tricks. (Literally!) But the talent level was amazing, and I was so proud and inspired by each performance.

But enough artist education. Back to me. Me, me, me!

I read a short story from a book (you guessed it... all about me, me, ME!) called: My Soulmate Dumped Me for Jesus on Valentine's Day and Other Musings of a Desperate HouseBoi! I just wanted to share the piece. (Warning: This is only a first draft. My writing, like expensive cheeses and fine wine, only gets better with time.)

The Ex-Factor
by MiCHaeL aNTHoNY

Call me idealistically crazy; but after my man and I said our (not legal, but still just as meaningful) “I Do’s”, I firmly believed that he would go dead from the waist down. Not when it came to me (and my subsequent cumming), of course. But as every other blonde piece of bottom ass-trash flirtatiously sauntered passed my Better Half’s now-coupled path, I truly expected him to ignore their advertised (and obviously unsanitary) wares.

And he did… at least while me and my bunny-boiling gaydar were within range.

Today, however, nearly three years into our monogamously committed West Hollywood relationship, my asexual ideologies have eased. In fact, I’ve even come to accept the fact that a little flirtation does a gay-soul good. Heck, if it weren’t for that mischievous wink from my favorite Starbucks Barista’s ever morning, I’d never rouse from under the comfort of my cozy bed covers!

Yes, it’s true; an innocent assignation a day, keeps the inner-cheater at bay. And together, my man and I have learned to incorporate the best parts of being a gay individual with the optimum aspects of a healthy relationship; in short, we’re all flirt and no touch. There was, however, one “ex”-tenuating circumstance that I could not, until recently, wrap my envious intellect around: my man’s Ex-Men!

At a mere 25 years of age, the who’s who of my dating history has been quite trite. Aside from a torrid 4-month affair with a Pentecostal minister and an on-again-off-again tryst with an American Idol reject, my past relationships have been relegated to vodka-induced college hook-ups and what-was-I-thinking MySpace tête-à-têtes. Plainly put, I don’t have a “First True Love” or a “One That Got Away”. My partner is my first, my last, and my greatest romance; yes, cheesy as it may sound, he is everything that matters when it comes to the matters of my heart.

That same statement of soulful solidarity, however, cannot be said for my boyfriend’s checkered past. Simply stated, he’s had a few years on me; more accurately articulated, he’s had two decades, two years, and two weeks on me. (But who’s counting, right?!) And in those 8,050 days before our ethereal “us”, he’s managed to fill his not-so-little black book with a colorful cast of former flames and bygone boy-toys.

I called them his Ex-Men.

He called them his friends.

And they called me The Devil or, to be exact, “Boy-lzebub”.

Although we had never spoken more than ten sober words to one another, ours was truly a three-way triangle of love-hate relations; we loved to hate each other with all of the passion of a Bette-Davis/Joan-Crawford biopic. Our three-ringed circus of cattiness managed to coexist via polite-enough snubs and barely-civil cold shoulders; contact was kept to a bare minimum, and we made certain to cycle in separate social circles.

But all that changed one fated morning when I walked into a temp job, only to be greeted by my new boss, who also happened to be my boyfriend’s ex-lover of 10 years. (How’s that for an ironic kick in the proverbial pants?!)

At first, I executive-assisted my arch nemesis with a two-faced helping of subversive sabotage, adding full-fat milk to his skim lattes and deleting ever-important back-waxing engagements from his Outlook calendar. But as my steady 9-to-5 gave way to overtime, something scary started to happen; my man’s Ex-Man and I began to bond. The more time we spent together, the more we unearthed uncanny commonalities.

An OCD-esque need to have all things alphabetized, an inexplicable hatred for Andie MacDowell, and a sick love of conjoined twin Discovery Health Channel docu-dramas were just the tip of our indistinguishable icebergs. We ordered our CPK salad with the same hold-the-crouton, extra-cheese-please modifications and conducted ourselves with a mirrored take-no-prisoners, no-boardroom-bullshit work ethic. If opposites truly do attract, it was easy to see why we had both been drawn to the same man; we were more alike than repellent magnets, and we made for beautiful business associates.

My temp job eventually came to an end, but my new-found fondness for my man’s former flame has only flourished. To this day, we still meet for drinks and guffaw over the inside jokes that my (and his ex-)boyfriend “just wouldn’t get”.

They say that it’s important to keep your friends close and your enemies even closer. But I suggest taking a good look at yourself and an even better look at your man’s Ex-Man. You just may find a super-man in your romantic rival; after all, “ex”-traordinary minds think alike!

-----

Anyone else smell a Pulitzer?!