Pudding Tears

It takes a lot of work to be me. A lot of caffeine, and if it were legal, I'd probably dabble in narcotics. I realized it today at work; when in the public eye of society, I can be unusually positive... almost optimistic to a fault. I can essentially be called ugly and will respond with, "But at least I'm alive!" It's obnoxious, but it's what people have come to expect out of me. That's why every morning before I go to class or work, I drink a Monster energy drink and eat at least two Little Debbie cakes. The sugar delivers me to my audience in a way that they would want. I work for everyone in my life, and they'd be devastated to know the thoughts that circulate through my head as I wear a nearly creepy smile on my face. The thoughts are mean. Vindictive. Sometimes illegal. And the worse the thought, the bigger the smile, until I look nearly Asian because I'm smiling so hard that my eyes are squinted closed. Don't thank me for my upbeat behavior. Thank the bottling company that makes Monster. Before I got out of the car this morning, I sang to my Monster... Let me give your heart a break, let me give your heart a break, there's just so much you can take. And as I sang, I began to think about the semester that I drank so many Monsters that I was nearly confident that my heart would explode. That's how I anticipate my death will happen: caffeine induced accidental suicide. I imagine that it will be in the next four months, but the closest I've gotten yet was sophomore year.

Sophomore spring semester was my Marissa semester.

Sophomore year of college was a rough time for everyone. I was trying to balance about seven different major life events at once, and in the midst of it, trying to be more and more personable with each passing day. I was juggling a life of about seventeen different student organizations, the aftermath of my parents' recent marriage debacle, an unrequited love that could never be matched, keeping the biggest secret of my life, being an RA, 16 hours of class, pledging for a fraternity, and the dissolving of my close friend group. In response, I just kept drinking more and more energy drinks. I was doing fine for a while, but then I started to crack. My grades began slipping, and I eventually started to give up on everything. One of my favorite fall-outs was the day that I skipped all my classes to go to a private Ingrid Michaelson concert. I'm sure that sounds a lot less rebellious than I thought it was, but you don't understand. She's so complex and different, like me, so skipping class and meetings to see her was essentially the most badass thing that I could think of. When I was confronted by a staff member about skipping the entire day and what would later be referred to as my Dale Earnhardt semester (I was on top of my game, then I crashed hard in the turn), I responded, Okay. So? What are you going to do? Kick me out? Not my finest moment.
I could see myself deteriorating. I was spinning out of control, kind of like Marissa on The O.C. Actually, it's pretty much exactly like season two Marissa. The pseudo-bisexual relationship, the dabbling in drugs, the complete dismissal of authority and everything that mattered in life. One could even say that the events at the end of the semester were somewhat similar to her shooting Trey. Nothing was making sense anymore; no one understood me, but I looked fantastic throughout the entire year. Marissa would have been proud, but I'm not sure anyone else was.

If you really need to deal with life, take a
cup of refrigerated Swiss Miss. Add chocolate
covered nuts to it. Eat it and cry baby. Cry all
you want. You deserve it.

I remember the day that it all came crashing down, or at least one of them. I like to refer to it as "The Pudding Disaster of 2010." I was in the middle of my pledging process during Signature Week; it may be one of the most hellish things I've ever been through, because like most fraternities, it requires you to chase down your future brothers and do mostly pointless tasks for their approval. At the time, I was also running for Student Body President, regardless of my recent apathy for student organizations... actually, apathy for my life all together. I had just gotten the news that I had been elected, and I came back to campus from a fraternity meeting; it was super humid that day... one of those days that you can feel the moisture suffocating you, Othello style. Like most days during the week, I went into my boss, Aja's, apartment and plopped down on the couch. Most of the time, I stared blankly at the television or took a nap... which in retrospect was probably inappropriate, but whatevs. But on this day, the air condition was out in her living room, so I sat there recently anointed successful college politician and DKE brother, and Aja appeared from her kitchen. You want a pudding? All I could do was nod my head.
I had spent most of the semester with a giant knot in my throat, hoping at some point, I could muster up enough saline to cry, but alas... it hadn't happened. She handed me the pudding, and I put the first spoonful in my mouth and immediately looked up at her with tears in my eyes. All I could say is This pudding is so cold. And then I cried. And I kept crying. And I'm pretty sure I cried that night for almost two hours. The energy drinks and caffeine and everything else had ran out, and all I had left was pudding. In between heavy cries and crying hiccups, I would eat another cup of pudding until Aja ran out. I'm not sure what happened, but like most humans... it wasn't my fault. I still maintain that theory, and I refuse to admit that maybe... just maybe... I had let myself get out of control.
Eventually, I replaced the energy drinks with cigarettes, and when people tell me how expensive they are or how they give you cancer, I've trained myself to smile and say I know, it's a bad habit. But the reason that I puff, puff is because of the people in my life. Look at what they've done to me. They make me smoke a cigarette like an emphysema patient gasping for oxygen, which is kind of ironic because that's kind of where I'm heading. But we all have our roles; I just happen to be the eternal optimist running on excessive amounts of B12 vitamin boosts and nicotine. And in private, I come out of the pudding closet and cry myself to death while watching the episode of Grey's Anatomy when Denny dies. It doesn't make me less of a man; it makes life a little more bearable, you know?

Being a Socialite: The Legend of Faux Hawk and Biggins

If there's one thing I pride myself on, it's party etiquette. I can't help it that I acquired my own unique set of social skills early on, and I'm kind of a special light when it comes to social outings. Most of the time, I like to entertain and only drink so much that I may not be inhibited in my entertaining duties. In the social event world, I'm a bit of a Betty Draper. Not fat, angsty Betty from season 5, but rather season 1 Betty that shot at the neighbor's pigeons... the Betty we were all rooting for. I've hosted a decent number of successful soirees in my day, and in my own mind, I like to think that I'm a bit of a legend. And imagine my surprise when I go to a social event, and I have to deal with those kind of people. I'm not talking about the standard kind of party-killers that most Southern gentlemen like myself fear: the homosexuals, the African Americans, etc. I'm a 21st century kind of host; I expect these kind of roadblocks. No, I'm talking about partygoers without manners... an issue that I've never personally faced. I suppose all of this would make more sense if I got to the root of the matter: the real story.
One evening during my college's January Term, colloquially known as "J-Term," further colloquially named "Play Term," there was an off campus event that I was invited to. I wasn't feeling up to par that night and didn't really want to attend, but I've always had an unbridled fear that if I skip going to a party, eventually I'll stop getting invited. Being a seasoned socialite, I couldn't imagine the thought. If I never got invited to another party, class itself would come to be obsolete in my friend circle. I had an image to maintain. Knowing that my one and only class didn't begin until 1:00 the next day, I decided to attend. My friend, Patrice, and I had a plan. Thirty minutes: in and out. We'd say hello, make sure that people had noted our presence, and then we were out. There was a movie night planned; all the party should have been was a preliminary pit stop on our way to a Disney movie night. However, after a couple cups of hunch punch (a disastrous mixture of grain alcohol and cheap Gatorade), I had lost Patrice. I agreed to drive, so there was no hunch punch in my future. I saw Patrice across the room, held up my wrist and tapped it, and watched Patrice shake her head with a smile on her face and run out the door.
The rest of my night could be likened to an episode of Where in the World is Carmen SanDiego because as small as the apartment was, she was no where to be found. Having seen Patrice on hunch punch before, I knew there was only so much time she had left before her insulin drained dry or she passed out somewhere, but my fear was that if she wasn't in the apartment, the location of her demise could practically be anywhere. Having seen some of my less than formidable male-peers, a passed out girl is essentially the same as a girl saying "sure, I'd love to hook up tonight." I stopped being a socialite and started being a dad. I needed to find Patrice, and it needed to be fast. But, like a true socialite, I can only oppress my social tact for so long.
I began to get more and more stressed out and my fear of not finding her quickly turned into annoyance; the party began to transform to a gathering of freshmen and sophomores who had no idea how to drink properly. And then there was me, without a drop of alcohol in my system. After failing to successfully reach the front door to search outside, I made my way to the back entrance when I was nearly knocked down by the door. The time had come: the return of the perfect socialite. A rather rotund sophomore and her flamboyant freshman counterpart burst from the entrance, smelling like they had already dipped into the finest bottle of Takka their combined nine dollars could buy. They acted as if they were Beyonce and Jay-Z, while appearing more like Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown... from the later years. Regardless, I responded, Hey guys. How are you? Faux hawk looked me up and down, pursed his lips together and laughed in my general direction.
Now, before we continue, let me explain that in socialite mode, no one, and I repeat no one, is allowed to give me the up and down. I'm a social rock star. And in the now obsolete world of class rank, I was a senior and these were underclassmen. Ignore the fact that those standings mean absolutely nothing in the real world, but in the world of college party-going, it carries a lot of weight. Without being conceited or arrogant (or redundant, apparently), running into a senior with a door (no matter how rude) is a privilege. Embark on it.
So, Biggins and Faux Hawk began to walk past me, and I had reached my limit. Without any kind of tact or previous thought, I spun around and yelled "HEY!" They didn't turn around; I had to do it. "Biggins! Faux Hawk!" That got their attention. "Party etiquette, please!" The room turned around and apparently saw the hatred in my eyes. I'm usually not one to remark on someone's weight or absolutely cliched and predictable hairstyle, but I'm also not one to run into people with doors. Kind of like corporal punishment or starving your children for a couple nights, sometimes it's appropriate to make an example out of common, careless rule breakers. I continued out the door, searching for Patrice and ended up coming back inside, making my way to the front door before it came flying open. The man on the other side screamed, "Where the f-ck is she?" and then I vaguely remember falling to the floor.
I can only imagine that the whole event must have been pretty rich for Biggins and Faux Hawk, in the same way that all those 1960s housewives would have loved to have seen Betty get clocked by a flying door with an abrasive, possibly abusive, man on the other end. The rest of the story has been pieced together by second hand accounts. Apparently, even on the ground, I had some pretty hilarious commentary, and I soon after found Patrice. I vaguely remember her singing "I Love You Like a Love Song" through tears on the way home. As for the rest of the night, I have no recollection as to what happened. I ended my night with a concussion and a bruised reputation as the premier socialite.
Since the event, I easily regained my title as esteemed party-goer, with more classy interactions than I can count. I've even had interaction with both Faux Hawk and Biggins; sadly, I can't say that either have improved. Actually, the interactions ended more disastrously than the original one. What I'm trying to say is that being a socialite is hard. If you've ever watched Gossip Girl and thought that it was overwrought and way too dramatic, it's not. Most people don't understand the trials and tribulations that people like Serena, Betty Draper, and myself go through. People expect us to be perfect, and in most situations, we are. But you can't help it when you get slammed to the ground by a stray door, and you can't help that every once in a while, you have a Biggins or Faux Hawk show up at an otherwise successful gathering.

And Milkman Makes Three

As I've previously stated, I've always been surrounded by many more friends that were girls than boys. It dates all the way back to elementary school when all the boys were playing [insert any sport here], and I was over somewhere chillin' with the ladies. I'd like to say that I was spitting some pretty mad game, but honestly, that wasn't the case at all. Most of the time, I was just going along with whatever everyone else wanted me to do. I didn't want to be alone because I saw what kind of ramifications that could cause. One boy in class, Jacob, used to get in trouble when he was by himself because he would always put paste down his pants and draw circles with lines in the middle and scream "I just drew a wiener! I just drew a wiener!" I don't know whatever happened to Jacob, but I can only imagine he graduated with honors. I wasn't ready to chance that kind of future, so I decided to hang out with the girls.
Our normal second grade group was the girls, myself, and Tyler. Tyler was a sparkling ginger of only seven years old. He was quite a shining star in our class, mostly because you could be blinded by his orange mane when the sun hit it; imagine it kind of being like Medusa. Tyler chose to hang out with the girls much more rapidly than I did; one could even say at times that he was the Regina of the group. Every day at recess, there was no option as to what we would play. It was house, and it was a serious game. When we made our way out to the safety hazard that we called a playground, we would be assigned roles. Tyler would bring out the high heels that our second grade teacher brought in for the girls to play with, and he would be Mommy. Mommy was an important role on the playground. Mommy served dinner (wood chips, or sometimes a worm), and Mommy made the rules. Mommy took care of the kids, and Mommy's most important rule was taking care of Daddy... Daddy and the milkman.
One of the other girls would be Daddy, and some of the girls would be daughters. If there were too many girls, they would be neighbors or aunts, but the role of Milkman, an understated but important role, was always reserved for me for some reason. The way our game would start is that Milkman would go elsewhere. He would watch the game from afar, and Mommy would walk around in heels a lot and take care of the children. Mommy would sometimes talk to the aunt-neighbors and when the kids were in bed, and Daddy had fallen asleep, Mommy would meet the milkman outside and hug him a lot.
Needless to say, Tyler and I hugged a lot during recess, and it didn't really strike me as something to be pondered upon until later on in life. There's actually a lot that should probably be considered at this point, considering that it was commonplace for Mommy to sneak out of bed and love up on milkman outside... either someone let their son watch way too much Days of Our Lives or the milkman was bringing something more than dairy products to the house. Regardless, I was being included, so I would hug Tyler for the last five minutes of recess, then we would go in and do Mad Minutes (a weird, time-based math sheet of addition/subtraction problems that literally made me tingle at the thought). I didn't love house, but I loved being part of a group.
In retrospect, I feel like there's some discussing to be done. There are psychological indicators all over the place. Let's start with the issues of the milkman to begin with. Looking back, I love the retro-feel to it all. Very mid-century. Very nostalgic. But beyond that, it's all very perverse; something more suited for inside of the psychologist's office than on the playground. Tyler eventually left our school, and I don't think I've seen him since about seventh grade. Even as a child though, I felt like there wasn't something awry with the whole milkman hypothesis. I didn't remember my mommy going to visit the milkman once everyone had gone to sleep, but then again, I didn't remember my mom insisting on always wearing heels. Mommy Kathy and Mommy Tyler were two different animals it seemed.
The biggest question I had once I had gotten older was why was I the milkman, and why were those hugs so long... so close... so... sensual... at least in the context of two seven-year-old boys. I always liked Tyler; some would consider us "playground bros," but I never remember all the other boys hugging like that.
I think that the prolonged hugging may have led to future issues in my life, including but not limited to physical distance and my continued role as the milkman (see Come On Skinny Love, Just Last... Like Two Days). It was dirty, uncomfortable, and exciting all at the same time. I was the man of the night, I was boy mommy's secret lover, I was the milkman. As for Tyler, I guess I'll never know what kind of deep-rooted issues were going on up inside that red headed skull of his, but I do know that somehow, I was on his mother's-other-lover radar, and for some reason, I kind of appreciated and feared the whole thing. Recess was our time to play an adult's game, and it was until I was actually an adult that I realized the gravity of the adult game we were playing. One is company, two's a crowd, and three is apparently the time of morning that the milkman came to get his hugging on.

Grocery Store Social Hour

Growing up, we had enough to get by, but like most families that lived outside of the subdivisions of South Knoxville, we didn't have a whole lot more than that. It never bothered me growing up because I didn't know any better. We'd make the occasional trip to the movies if we had it extra or maybe a trip to the mall, but I didn't know those things as a regular occurrence until I was older, once Dad stopped working construction and started his own business. In the meantime, our family would fill our Friday nights going to the grocery store or Walmart and mingling with the other families that would frequent the Chapman Highway superstores.
Most nights were pretty basic; Dad would get lost in sporting goods and find some hunting buddy from way back when or just some random guy who seemed to be buying the same box of shotgun shells as he was. Somehow, a conversation about a Remington 12 gauge turned into a two hour conversation, and we weren't sure what time we would get out of Walmart. Momma would get lost in the grocery aisles, and Casey and I would wonder aimlessly around the CDs looking at all the pop artists even though we were only allowed to listen to country for the longest time. The visits were pretty methodic; well, most of them.
I was about fifteen when we walked into the Walmart superstore; I was desperately seeking my way into the popular crowd and was making headway as a freshman, which was quite an accomplishment considering my wardrobe and the thickness of my wire-rimmed glasses. I was riding on a self-deprecating sense of humor and a dashing personality, and all of that had me barely holding on by a thread. Regardless, I was on my way to hanging out with the superior Christians of the high school crowd, and there was nothing that screamed success like hanging out with the elitist Christian crowd. I had met a couple of them from the soccer team I was on; the progress I had made without a pinch of athletic ability was nearly unheard of.
All was going well until that visit. I was never ashamed of my family, but I had heard the kind of conversations my dad would have with the people he met in Walmart. It was essentially like bar talk; nothing was sacred in the aisles of Tide and Nabisco cookies. If there was something to be said, my dad would state it as bluntly as possible, no matter the neighborhood the conversationalist hailed from. So when I saw Elizabeth, a very influential but B-list popular girl, round the corner, I knew that we had to get away as quickly as possible. I made up a crush that I had on Elizabeth so that we could try and avoid her family, but that only fueled by dad's flame. Momma knew the ramifications that could come from such an interaction, but I was too late.
My parents had known Elizabeth's from soccer practice. The discussions there usually revolved around us, or about the team, or who was bringing the Capri Suns for Saturday's game. There was never much concern of any personal details because at that time, they weren't really close enough to disclose that kind of information. It had been a while since soccer season, and Southern white folk like to discuss personal things with people they haven't seen in a while... even if they weren't that close beforehand. I stood there looking at Elizabeth and her family as everyone started to talk. I wasn't sure what was going to come, but I felt in my bones that something terrible was about to happen.
Elizabeth's mom always had something noteworthy going on in her life, and most of the time, it was something absurd. Someone she knew had driven their car into their pool or she witnessed a fight at work and was almost strangled. From the kind of stories she told, it sounded more like she belonged in our neck of the woods instead of the upscale subdivision they lived in. Nothing would top the story she told that day; the story that eventually led to my downfall from the elitist Christians.
When a mishap like this happens, it's hard to blame one individual party. My initial anger stormed toward my dad. He couldn't have turned the candor off for just a second, but eventually, I chocked it up to fate and elitism. It was as if Elizabeth's mom knew that I was gunning for a place in the elitist Christian circle, and as most people know, it's much more difficult to move up in rank than it is to move down. High school was not the place to move upward, and I should have known better. After a little bit of small talk, Elizabeth's mom started,
Well, things have been really difficult lately. I've been having colon problems, and I was actually hospitalized for a couple days. One day I was sitting at the house and then it happened. I felt something weird, and then I started... defecating... out of my mouth. It just backed up, and then I defecated out of my mouth.
There was nothing that could save us. Save her. Save anyone. I looked at my mom, and she gave me these eyes as if she were already apologizing to me. We knew that what come next couldn't be good, so we just waited until my dad responded through broken laughter. I'm sorry, did you just say that you... shit... out your mouth? Mom gently closed her eyes and squeezed my hand as tightly as she could. Elizabeth's mom turned to us, staring blankly as ever, Yes, that's what I said.
As if that wasn't enough, Dad needed clarification, So let me get this straight. You're telling me that you shit... out of your face. Startled, as if Dad had just made some inappropriate joke about cancer or a dead baby, she composed herself and responded, Well, yes. I guess you could put it that way. Dad couldn't stop laughing at everything that had just happened, and if I hadn't had so much shallow hope riding on the situation, I probably would have, too. It's not very often that our Friday nights were so spiced up with fecal stories, so it was an occasion to be had. Of course, Dad didn't think too much of the situation, but I was devastated. I looked at Elizabeth as if it were the last time I would ever see her again, and if I remember correctly, it wasn't long after that I was excommunicated to the other side of the classroom. My chair was gone in class and it was all at the hand of Elizabeth's mommy's potty mouth.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to those Friday nights and remind myself that the people I saw on Friday nights were probably much less important than I ever thought they were. Most of them are married with children now, living just a couple blocks down from the houses they grew up in. When I get lonely in the summers, looking for something to do, I find myself on the Chapman Highway Walmart looking around for another story that could rival some of the golden nuggets that I stumbled upon as a youngster. And in the end, I'm thankful that I never made it in to elitist Christian circle because if I had, I would be a husband, a father, and voting for Mitt Romney, and I'm not ready for any of those things.

A Series of Unfortunate Sleepovers

I've never been good at sleepovers. When all the boys my age were going over to each other's houses on Friday nights playing boy games and talking about girls, I was finishing up my weekly 10 piece buffalo wings from Domino's whilst watching a rerun of Reba on the WB. I had no worry about my life. I loved Reba. I loved hot wings, and I loved the plastic blue blow up chair beside my bed that I would eat them in. However, my parents always thought that I needed to have more of a social life. Sixth graders were supposed to get messy and disgusting. I always used a wet nap after finishing my finger foods. I wasn't normal enough for a boy my age; it was time for a sleepover.
The only truly athletic thing I've ever attempted was being apart of the nationwide soccer rec league, AYSO. That's where I would find my first victim, Matt. He was easily the most athletic guy on our team and was a hit with all of the girls. Eventually, we would become friends and as far as I was concerned... best friends. I was ready to use the title, whether he was or not. The only next step was the sleepover. To my surprise, Matt accepted. I had the whole evening planned out. I wasn't quite sure what happened at these events, but I knew if anyone could pull one together, it was me. I had watched Boy Meets World and Saved by the Bell on TGIF for countless lonely Friday nights. I imagined I would just copy all of the stuff that Cory and Shawn and Zack and Slater would do. Maybe a little rendition of "Barbara Anne" to keep things fresh, but it didn't seem to go that way at all. After shooting some BB guns and watching Nick at Nite all the way until an unbelievable one in the morning, we crashed in the middle of the living room. It all seemed to be pretty stock-sleepover until I woke up at four in the morning. At some point in the night I had rolled a good three feet across the living room and was lying directly on top of Matt. Being the rotund sixth grader I was, I had no idea how he hadn't awoken, but I was literally so close to his face that I could feel his breath on my cheek. What the hell had happened. I quickly rolled back over, placed all my pillows as a barricade between us and attempted to go back to sleep. It was no use. I had broken rule number one of bro code and sleepover etiquette: do not roll over on your bro and wake up face to face with him. I couldn't make eye contact with him the next day; Matt didn't understand, and I swore off all sleepovers as far as I was concerned. God help me if the other sixth graders found out, or even worse, the other guys on the team. This wasn't a risk worth taking twice.
I wouldn't sleep over with another person for six years. I was too terrified of my rolling condition. Finally, the summer of my senior year, I went over to my best friend's house. At eighteen years old, I had never tasted alcohol, let alone been drunk. Upon persuasion, I called my mom and asked if I could stay over for the night for a "sleepover." Years after the first catastrophe, I admitted the Matt scenario to her in a blind rage of guilt, as if I had molested him in the middle of the night. She was shocked to hear my request to stay at someone else's house and after some hesitation, she let me stay. Once I took my first shot of some offbrand of Wild Turkey... inappropriately named "Fighting Cock," I knew that I was in for the long haul. After an intense duet of "Killing Me Softly" and playing some weird abbreviated game of strip poker, everyone decided it was time to sleep. Lying in my somewhat drunken stupor, I laid there and my guilt overtook me. I carefully inched my way down the stairs from my designated room and found Zak cleaning up beer cans in his boxers. I asked if we could sit and talk. I began to cry and asked, "How mad is Jesus going to be mad at me for drinking?" I was devastated. I had sipped the blood of Christ outside of church, except this was in excess and not wine... it was whiskey, which I could only assume was the blood of Judas. After some time, Zak and his girlfriend calmed me down and eventually began "reading my aura" under the influence. For the record, I was blue. Look it up, it will blow your mind.
I didn't want to cry or roll over on anyone else, so I haven't attended a sleepover since. If I have, I've stayed awake until dawn and then went home and slept as soon as I could leave. Even in my first pesudo-sexual encounter, I asked my part-time lover if she would like to go home after the act. In retrospect, it probably seemed a little harsher than I had wanted it to come across, but I don't trust myself mid-sleep. My sleep dangers are just one of the reasons that I use to explain my lack of a successful relationship. I was actually astounded that in my last relationship I was able to sleep double and not end up rolling over smothering my significant other. I guess I would consider myself in sleepover remission.
When sitting with one of my pledges, Dave, during my senior year, he told me that he missed having sleepovers with his high school buddies. I kind of found the idea of having actual planned sleepovers in high school a little awry, but I wasn't going to ask. When I announced that I didn't have sleepovers, he was shocked. I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was because I was fearful of a developing habit of rolling over on people, especially considering that he pleaded to me not to fall in love with him when he was drunk once. Rolling over on boys probably wouldn't help with that repressed fear. I sometimes wonder how different I would be now if I had successfully achieved sleepover status as a child. Boys made me nervous and my own social absurdities made me more nervous than that. All I wanted was to be like the other sixth graders; I just wanted to sleep among among the boys and not wake up on top of one of them the next morning.

Visually Molested in the Walmart Bathroom

I've always believed that private moments are private for a reason, and being the recipient of a guilty conscience, I do all that I can to ensure that my private moments stay as private as possible. I do my damnedest to avoid changing in front of other people, the last thing you'll ever hear from me is that I just got done pooping, and anything that requires a bedroom door to be closed will be secured by at least one, if not more, locking mechanisms (which was apparently lost on my senior year roommate as I saw his girlfriend's vagina too many times for anyone's liking). Secrecy has always been a virtue in the Kirkland house, and as I got older and heard that parents actually showered with their children growing up, I cringed at the thought. We've spent enough time together as a family growing up; there was never any reason for Justin to see Daddy or Mommy's "things" in the shower. Gross.
Along with that secrecy though also comes a heavy feeling of guilt, as I previously mentioned. I'm actually kind of surprised that my family isn't Catholic. I've spent a solid 20 out of my 22 years of life feeling guilty for everything I've ever done. Even at twelve years old, I approached my mom with shaking hands and asked her to accompany me to my bedroom. I sat her on the bed, closed and locked the door, and began to confess my sins. I explained to her that I masturbated, as if it was some kind of pagan'istic ritual that I had concocted on my own. I began to cry, not understanding that pretty much every twelve year old boy in my life had a two year jump on this newfound pleasure activity. I asked Mom if she would pray with me, and I vowed to God that I would never do it again... which lasted for about two weeks. Mom made me promise to never talk to her about masturbating again, and even though I had vowed to God that I would stop such heinous behaviors, that it was kind of a normal thing. I refused to believe her, and it was those strong morals that became the basis for the atrocity that I experienced in the East Town Mall Walmart.
After a grueling breakfast at the International House of Pancakes or IHOP as many of you may know it, my family naturally decided to go to Walmart. Actually, pretty much any outing that I had with my family between the ages of 6-17 involved some frivolous trip to Walmart. Most of the time we didn't buy anything, but apparently there was something soothing about digesting our food in the aisles of America's largest chain store. However, the issue is that there are a handful of restaurants, IHOP being one of those, that sends me into intestinal fits. I always dreaded visiting those places, knowing that Walmart was undoubtedly our next stop. I told my parents to go on through the store without me; I needed to make a brief visit to the restroom.
I hate the concept of the public restroom more than just about any other social norm in life. People were not meant to defecate or urinate in the company of others. As far as I'm concerned, you use the bathroom before you leave the house or you deserve to do it on yourself. However, when I'm in a pinch and am forced to use these stops, I always prefer the handicap stall. It allows for more freedom and mimics a personal bathroom more than any of the other stalls. As I was doing my business that day, I looked over and found a folded up piece of paper. I imagined it was a sale paper or some discarded Christian pamphlet, but no. To my surprise, it was two naked women: one was fixed atop a man (I'll let you draw the details), and the other had apparently placed her chest in his mouth prior to the photo shoot. Uncomfortable and feeling more rushed than usual, I folded it up and replaced it on top of the toilet paper dispenser; someone would have more use for it than myself. I looked at the stall wall and saw a dark circle that looked as if it had been patched up. Something about this bathroom trip seemed unusually discomforting.
IHOP had really taken its toll, and in my boredom, I noticed the man's feet next to me. He had everything pulled down. I haven't studied the art of using the bathroom, but I do know that most people I've spoken with only pull down their lower body clothes far enough to get the job done. No need in pushing your jeans and skivvies down to the floor. The man began moaning, and I was hoping with all my might that maybe he'd just eaten something more potent than IHOP. I focused on getting the job done and stared ahead. No need to browse around the stall anymore. I looked back up to the wall, and like magic the hole was no longer patched. I could see straight through to the other wall. No person was visible, but the feet were still there. I glanced back down to find a man bent over, making repetitive grunting noises, staring into my stall.
I jumped up, covering myself, and ran out of the bathroom. All I could think was I just got spank banked in the Walmart bathroom. I thought I was better than this. I thought I was special. I asked the first customer service person what I should do. He went to get a manager. I waited outside the bathroom, unsure of what I would do if my attacker appea... there he was.

"Dude. What the hell was that in there?"
He looked frazzled, "I didn't touch anyone! I didn't touch anyone!"

He ran into me, nearly knocking me down and bolted down the toy aisle... the least reassuring aisle he could have gone down, in my opinion. I was sixteen at the time and had become a veteran to a slew of Lifetime movies. In some vain attempt to regain my innocence, I stormed after him, still unsure as to why I was doing it or what I would say. I just kept repeating in my head I'm not a victim. I'm not a victim. I finally saw him as he approached the exit of the Walmart, and I told the eighty something year old greeter woman to stop him. Obviously, not the best ally in this situation, but I used what resources I had available. He looked back and saw me, announcing to the valued customers once more, "I didn't touch anyone!" The woman turned to me, angrily, and asked, "What is the issue that made you scream across the store." Without any social decorum, I announced, "Well, the issue is that one of your customers was jacking off to me using the bathroom in the back of the store. That's the issue, m'am." With no defenders and still shaking, I left to find my parents.
I'll never know who my attacker was, but I'll always remember that face that stared at me so wistfully. I would later distract myself with questions like How did that man get so far bent over? That's an unusually low barrier; he must have been missing a rib or something. And to this day, I have never visited another bathroom at a Walmart franchise. I sometimes wonder, one day when I have the funds at hand, if I should hire one of those sketch artists to recreate his face, print it out on numerous fliers and post them around local East Tennessee Walmarts. I bet he's not even sorry about it, and maybe if he had talked with his mom about the guilt of masturbation at twelve years old, he wouldn't be creepin' under stalls checking out minors as he was finishing up a deed of his own.

Nam: A Virgin's Apology

The life of a virgin is difficult and complicated, and the older that you get, the harder it is to explain to people why you have in fact still not had sexual intercourse. I'm not really sure what explanation there is for the whole debacle. You don't want to be the virgin that goes around and tells people oh yeah, I've had the opportunity, but I've just decided not to because then everyone will just think that you're the guy that makes up stuff to carry on an image. In contrast, you don't want to be the guy that says that you've never had the opportunity because that's just... unfortunate. No one finds religious reasons nearly as charming as they used to be unless you're Mormon or Catholic, and I was raised Baptist; as everyone knows, Baptists do it in the youth group room at an early age, so I really have no backing here. In response, I just tried my best never to draw attention to the subject. However, sometimes, you just get cornered.
My dad has regularly asked me if I'm still a virgin since I was probably sixteen years old. At times, the question has been a little more than intimidating. For years, I would proudly say yes and use my moral background as a guidepost for my answer, but as the years progressed, I began to feel less comfortable about telling him that I was a virgin. Like most families, when the situation becomes uncomfortable you either avoid it completely, or lie. In this case, I chose the latter. My freshman year, I decided that it was time to lose my fake virginity. Sometimes I wonder if losing my real virginity will be as heartbreaking and emotionally trying as losing my fake virginity. Telling my dad about my not-so-real sexual encounter was nothing like I'd hoped it would be. The story didn't have candles or soft music, and we definitely were not in love. I always though it would be special, losing my fake virginity, but it wasn't. I'm pretty sure it happened in my dorm room, and when he finally asked who it was with, I froze.

Nam Dang. I had sex with Nam Dang.


Dad had met Nam before, and honestly, I don't think he believed me from the moment I said it. Nam is one of my very best friends and kind of hot to top it off. She was a solid choice, but possibly an unrealistic one. Nevertheless, I lost my virginity to Nam, and it was quite a story to tell. I promised myself that he would be the only person I would tell that Nam and I had sex, but like most of the promises I make in my head (I will go to the gym 4 days a week, I will never eat sushi again, I will never drink again; I will not call that person just to make out), I kind of lied.
I never expected to be in a fraternity in college, and when I say that, I'm not talking about the all too infamous Jappa Kappa mentioned in "The Juicy Details of Being in a Greek Organization." No, in contrast, I'm talking about my decision to join Delta Kappa Epsilon. I entered into this Greek collegiate contract knowing that it was against school rules and that I would have to live in stark secrecy, which wasn't too far of a stretch from the lie I had told about Nam. Most people would say that the most difficult part of being in a fraternity is joining it, or "the pledge process." In contrast, I found that the most difficult part of being in a fraternity is by far keeping the conversation going. During one of our cabin retreats, I was out on the deck enjoying a nice cup of whatever mixture of gatorade and grain alcohol was sitting in the kitchen when one of the brothers asked me, So, dude. If you could f--k any girl at school, would would it be. What a tricky, tricky question I had literally never given any specific thought to. The answer given could have major ramifications. Abby Ogle was always who I considered the prettiest girl I had met in college, but for some reason, Abby and this young man's coarse terminology didn't match up in my head.
More brothers began to gather, begging for my answer, and I began to feel cornered. It was just like middle school all over when it just came out. "Nam. Nam Dang." I would get a deck-full of approving head nods as they all exchanged glances with one another, acknowledging my fine taste in Asian women. He responded So, you ever get that p--sy? Let's make a bulleted list. I like those.

• A) That's a nasty, nasty word. I hate that word.
• B) I really thought people only talked like that in movies. Movies that starred Jonah Hill that I would never purposefully see.
• C) Just in case I didn't say it explicitly enough, I'm sorry, Nam.

So there it was. The moment of truth. Actually, I'd just rather not talk about it. The approving head nods were gone. I was just stuck there in fraternal judgment. Kirkland, are you a virgin, bro? I could hear the snide remarks under the breath, the giggles. I had to say it; I had no choice. Well, in fact, I lost my virginity to Nam. There was a roaring sound of "ohhhhhhhhh" across the back deck of the cabin, and then someone went and fetched me a beer. They were proud; I think. I would later stand on a toilet in the bathroom holding my phone up in a corner just long enough to get signal and explain to Nam via text what had happened. I was out of control. It was all so out of control.
Much like the conversation with my dad, I'm fairly confident no one believed the story once the alcohol had subsided. We've all graduated now, and too many people have gotten pregnant or married to have any inkling of the one (or several) times that I alluded (or boldly stated) that Nam and I had pseudo (or just fake) intercourse. In terms of my impending virginity, I don't think it's really something to worry about. I've chosen the graduated step plan, just like the one I've chosen to pay off my student loans. The way it works is that you start with the lower payment and work your way up to the really intense payments that will screw you hard one day. See what I did there? I compared student loans to sex; isn't that grand?
It's been a while since I've used Nam as my proxy sex partner or anything close to it. The only time it's come up lately is when the people at my country diner job asked me if I had a girlfriend. I immediately mentioned Nam's name and all my virgin guilt came rising to the surface again. You see though, in Seymour if you don't have a girlfriend or wife, you're either worthless, homosexual, or a worthless homosexual. Nam has always been my defender against the ways of narrow minded or overly horny people. I hope one day to return that favor even though I have absolutely no idea how to do so. I look forward to the days when there actually is a legitimate name to throw down when people ask me who I've had sex with; that special someone hasn't quite surfaced yet. But, if anyone asks, just tell them Nam... even if she does get mad, I have a solid two hour jump on her to get the hell out of dodge.