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Sayonara, Suckers!

Tue, 10/05/2010 - 1:47AM by coaboytoy 0 Comments -

NEW BLOG: Confessions of a Boy Toy

My Tumblr has been redesigned to be my main hub where I'll be blogging more frequently. I've transferred my columns, original commentary, and multimedia projects over to my new space.

Make sure to follow me (http://tumblr.com/follow/oscarraymundo), or if you're not on Tumblr, sign up for my newsletter (http://oscarraymundo.tumblr.com/oscarquarterly).

The original writing on Confessions of a Boy Toy will remain intact here.



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Love Retrospective

Sun, 02/14/2010 - 8:45PM by coaboytoy 0 Comments -

It is universally acknowledged that a boy toy in possession of a good fortune must be in want of true love.

And he will look in all the wrong places before he finds it...

Bridge Builder tried to get me to cross to the other side. But in matters of the heart, pushing and shoving only results in a halt. Even though we might be uncertain as to what we want exactly... it's always helpful to pinpoint what we do not want. And I knew that this relationship was going nowhere.

"Pretty soon, his calls and e-mails turn into a form of suffocation—a commitment I'm not ready to make. Maybe because he is 28 and I'm 21 or maybe because he has built a life in Chicago and I still want to go to New York. Or maybe because I enjoy being on my own. Or maybe because I know that he isn’t the bridge that is going to get me to the other side. Not now, anyway."

So I began casually dating. I'm sort of traditional, so getting hammered and making out with strangers on the dance floor was how I met most of my Chicago paramours at this time. That's how I met Canadian Stallion, DJ Dreamboat and Straight Guy. And even though we all fantasize about meeting that hook-up that hangs on to our heart, one-night stands rarely commit into the morning after.

"For one minute I let myself get caught up in the moment: the good boy with the lazy smile making breakfast while watching the morning news. A moment he would never recognize, a moment I'm ready to own."

The carefree fooling around continued when I went to study abroad in Madrid for six months. My next-door neighbor, Chico Rock, impressed me immediately with his Euro-cool and in-the-know approach. But he turned out not to be as solid as I had hoped.

"I open my hand and see that he’s given me two pills. I take one and hand it over to Chico Rock, but he shakes his hands and says, 'They’re all yours.'"

I took a little detour to Paris for a week and found myself in trouble once again - having to sneak into my flight back after almost getting caught in a ménage á trois.

And then - back to the states. This time, New York City after landing an internship with a magazine. The city was a whirlwind. I went out almost every night and met the most fascinating, life-driven individuals: polysexual party monsters, Wall Street trophy husbands and beautiful boys I should have had the courage to gone up to introduce myself.

"But if we genuinely feel the sparks and believe that the scruffy guy to our right is right, right now, then what’s stopping us from going for it, not like a mindless missile but like on a mission? The worse that can happen is old and rusted rejection. But we’re all big boys here. We can deal."

New York was not all frisky, no strings attached. I began hooking up with my roommate, Sunny D, and getting dangerously close in our convenient, yet comforting relationship. He could see right through me, but it took him being jealous of a certain Toy Soldier to show it.

"'So is that really what you think of me?' I ask as I begin to walk back towards him. 'That I just use guys? They’re totally disposable to me? Is that what I thought of you?' The last question is particularly poignant because I’d recently expressed my feelings for him. He’s silent, so I continue. 'What the hell was that all about? You have a boyfriend, remember?! So just… leave me alone and let me fuck whomever I want. Let me be the giant slut you think I am!' I drunkenly shout on Avenue A. For some reason, no one thinks it’s weird."

After all the conflict, I let the dust settled, Sunny D went home and I moved to a new apartment on the Lower East Side. And when I least expected it, I found my superhero... ironically, right before we were both about to jet to somewhere else. He went to California, and I went back to college in Chicago.

My Summer of Love ended, and after the roller coaster ride that was Europe and New York, I started feeling displaced, belonging to nowhere and to no one. I began to crave security, no more casual affairs, but a genuine connection. But that got me in even more of a predicament, because things are rarely what they seem. Denim Boy and Mr. Danger proved that.

"And I was so certain that this real boy would be different. He would care and be kind and not play games, not lead me on and resort to me whenever he wanted, like some plaything that would be available to him whenever he wished. What happened to the good old days when a boy kissed you because he meant it, not to just show that he could?"

But my search was not all a bunch of disillusions. For even when things appeared the grayest, I met a boy that would brighten up my world in multicolor.

After graduation, I moved to San Francisco and realized that my high school crush, Peter Pan, hadn't grown up at all while I was gone. Chico Boricuo taught me more about myself in one night in a hotel room on Valencia. And I got caught in yet another bizarre love triangle with a Potential Player and an All-American Reject.

But after everything I've gone through, I still refuse to give up. No matter how many terrible first dates, misunderstood text messages and heartbreak - I still full-heartedly believe there's a superhero out there for all of us. Not to rescue us but to fly high along with us. And we shouldn't settle for anything less that will keep us grounded.

Now that I'm done writing about toy love, I'm focusing all my creative energy to my new bi-weekly column for EDGE. HomoTech ponders the impact of technology on gay lifestyle. Here's my piece about why I decided to stop writing this blog. I've also re-launched my Tumblr, with a new focus on comic book superhero worship.

Thanks for flying along with me,

Oscar

(photo taken in my college dorm, circa 2008)



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Todo Acaba Como Empieza

Fri, 01/29/2010 - 11:21AM by coaboytoy 0 Comments -

It’s almost 3 a.m. and this late at night (this early morning) I have to take a cab if I want to go back to Chueca. I have no choice: I gave my keys to Chico Rock assuming we’d be coming home together. After all, we sleep a mere balcony hop away.

It’s pouring hard in Madrid, as if the city needs cleansing. The streets of Chueca are empty by the time I get there. The rain has scared off all the little animals that would otherwise be prowling up and down the streets. I’ve never seen Madrid this empty, this cold, this wet. Rick’s is still open of course, so I walk in looking around to see if I can find Rock, or traces that he has been here recently, but nothing.

I order a tequila Squirt and sit by the bar. I’ve come to learn that when looking for someone – friends at a bar, a boy to take home, a future husband, my absent father - it’s better to stay still rather than shoot off aimlessly into the darkness. About twenty minutes later, a man wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans slides to the seat next to me, smiles at me and asks me what I’m drinking. I let him buy me another tequila Squirt. It’s not too late to make friends, and there’s something wildly attractive about his stubble and the thin brushes of silver caressing his buzz cut hair.

We make small talk, I tell him about my time in Madrid, how I’m looking for my next door neighbor with my keys. He tells me about his job, accounting, how he lived in Germany for two years and how he wished he had met me earlier on my trip…

+++

I made my mother cry on her wedding day. It was completely unintentional, like most actions of a nine year-old tend to be. I had been crying that day too, for some reason too hard to decipher fourteen years later. I guess, I just wanted to see her one last time before the ceremony in the chapel was about to commence.

I remember one of my younger aunts escorted me, tears and all, to the room where my mom was applying last-minute make-up and taking control of her nerves. My mother saw me amidst distress, opened her arms, I ran to her, clinching to her satin gown. And I began to cry harder. I gasped for air repeatedly, wiping my tears and unable to complete my thoughts, let alone speak.

The church bells rang, and the maid of honor knocked on the door. “One second!” My mom said wiping my tears and then her own. She fixed my hair and then her own, and I finally managed to say, “They said that I don’t have a father.”

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you that!” She responded immediately and with maternal anger I had never seen before.

“But I don’t have a father,” I said not yet consoled.

“Of course you do,” she said now softly and with a smile. She was a beautiful bride. “Your father is standing right in front of you.” I stood back and smiled. I didn’t want to get any more tears on her dress.

+++

I excuse myself from the conversation I’m having with the handsome stranger at the bar and head to the restroom. I take the last urinal and unzip my pants. The small restroom smells like urine, beer and cologne.

As I start fondling my boxers trying to find the opening, I notice through the mirror the stranger walking in and taking the stall next to me. We are alone. He begins whistling, but I just brush him off. I can sense that he’s looking straight at me, and I keep staring straight in front of me at the light blue wall graffiti’ed with telephone numbers scribbled in black sharpie. I feel his hand grab the back of my neck, so I rush to finish and zip my pants back up. “Don’t be scared, daddy’s here,” he whispers, and my Spidey senses shoot off tingles down my spine. I wriggle out of his grasp, step back and turn to him – give him this angry, disapproving look. He’s pathetic.

But rejection is always hard to take face on. The stranger's face gets flushed with aggression, and he pushes me with enough force that I stumble back into the stall behind me, my chest and my back harden with the pain. I push him to the side, trying to get him out of my way. He punches my face, and I taste blood, like liquid copper, trickling down my throat.

A flamboyant skinny blond boy storms in to the restroom, confused as to what he has just encountered. The stranger rushes out, and I go to the mirror to fix my hair. I’m bleeding out my nose, and I clench my fists because I don’t want to cry.

+++

My mother’s wedding was not a big spectacle by any means. In fact, I remember her making it clear that she wanted something intimate. Because when it comes to love, no show can ever be big enough to ever encapsulate what’s happening internally. After my tears dried up, I took my seat in the front row and looked around. All the people my mother had ever met were there, my old family and my new family, meeting and smiling, so proud of the union. They were happy. And I was happy too.

My mother and my stepfather stood together, said their vows and kissed. And they have been happily married ever since.

And I remember feeling like my heart was going to explode. As a child, I enjoyed projecting myself into the future. And that day, I sat and gazed at the beauty of it all and thought, “that’s what I want.”

+++

Outside the restroom, the party at Rick’s is still going strong. Bloody and teary, I walk out and see Chico Rock making out with some guy on the crowded dancefloor. I walk up to him, unconcerned with interrupting, and ask him for my keys.

“Oye tio, y que te paso? (Hey man, what happened to you?)” He asks. But I don’t answer, I ask for my keys again. He reaches in his pocket and hands me my keys.

“Estas bien? (Are you ok?)” He asks, and now I can tell he’s worried. I reach out and cup his smooth jaw with my hand.

“Estare bien. (I’ll be fine.)” I say and force a smile.

I leave the bar and walk to the nearest metro station. It’s still raining, not has hard, but I don’t care. I stand outside for fifteen minutes, waiting for the trains to start running. It’s a brand new day, but I still feel like last night. I lift my head and let the rain splash on my face and drain down my body; I need the cleansing.



Boy Toy Manifesto

NEW BLOG: Confessions of a Boy Toy

In sex, dating and relationships, the word “casual” often implies insignificant, convenient or fleeting. But for me, these unexpected encounters have taught me everything I know about modern romance. Most times they just lead me straight into a guy’s bedroom and underneath his sheets.

But every once in a while, they lead me somewhere deeper...

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