Straight Thirty, Gay Dead

Well…here we are.

That second digit just went down a tick.

It’s a weird feeling when you reach another decade. Like all the birthdays from 21 to 29 didn’t really feel like a big deal and they’re more like throwaway years until you hit 30. On one hand I survived the curse of the 27 Club. Yes, I am actually a rock star. On the other hand I have officially entered daddy territory in gay time. And for some I’m basically as attractive as a corpse on an examination table. The only difference is that corpse is able to stay hard for hours. And has a heart.

Looking back in my 20s it’s really easy to slip in to a pattern of negative talk. The highlight reel in my head when someone asks me what I liked in my twenties is full of bad hookups, near-death experiences, drinking and snorting until I black out, and ignoring every single red flag slapping my face. I guess when you constantly wear your beer goggles all the red flags just look like cherry stems.

When I look at that highlight reel of mishaps and foibles and shortcomings my gut instinct tells me it’s nothing but failure. Fortunately therapy has told me that because I was able to survive one fiasco after another it’s really more of a sign of resilience, the ability to get back up after you’ve fallen. I can’t believe I’m paying him $140 to get me to spew fortune cookie nonsense. But it works.

Where I used to see failure I now see lessons learned. Going on a whole lot of bad dates and shitty hookups has taught me that I can’t settle for cheap dick. I deserve great dick. Prime rib dick. Life is too short for smelly dick. It has taught me about the sex that I like and dislike. Being a sex worker in my early twenties I was able to try almost anything and everything under the sun. And I was also able to learn that I wasn’t super turned on by scat play. And not just the shit fetish. Someone actually liked to scat like Jason Mraz while I railed him from behind. Granted not the weirdest thing, but it’s difficult to focus on fucking when all you hear is “Shooby doop dobby doop dobby dah dah doo dap.” Even more difficult when his safe word was “stop.”

Near-death experiences have taught me that I’m actually very careless to the point where it was almost as if I didn’t care about my life and the people around me. Most of those experiences were really suicide attempts rather than precarious accidents. I can’t just solve all my problems with killing myself just because somebody looked at me the wrong way. I mean, yeah, technically all my problems would be solved, but who would take care of my dog? I can’t keep weaponizing my life to make people do what I want. I need to do the normal thing like using bribery and blackmail.

The boozey nights and druggy mornings are kind of self-explanatory in their lessons. Don’t do it, kids! Stay in drugs. Don’t do school. Or…wait. Uhhh…. Nevermind. You get it. They were fun at the time. They still are. What’s hitting me like a flatbed truck stacked with lumber is that I can’t do in my 30s what I could do in my 20s. Yeah, drugs and alcohol is fine. But I guess in my 20s I didn’t know the definition of moderation. I drank and snorted to excess; so much so that there are nights when I couldn’t remember whose bed I woke up in. Or where my expensive Andrew Christians ended up. I also didn’t know the definition of therapy. Rather than channeling my emotions in a healthy and not self-destructive way like a well-adjusted adult, I would find a moment’s peace at the bottom of a bottle or the edge of a powdered mirror. I could have afforded a therapist then, but let’s be real; what’s more fun? Crying about your feelings for an hour, or hallucinating to the point where you think your reflection is a famous actress and you wanna praise her for her performance in Devil Wears Prada?

In all seriousness, I think the tomfoolery and the hogwash years that is my twenties is something that I will hold close to me. Regardless of all the mistakes I’ve made, the STIs I’ve contracted, and the men I let touch me I embrace these memories as obstacles that I have overcome. If it weren’t for my twenties being a full decade of being a complete idiot I wouldn’t have the foundational knowledge I would have now entering my thirties. Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a dumb bitch. I will always be a dumb bitch. I will be a dumb bitch until the day my soulless body is buried 69 feet under. But at least I wasn’t as dumb as I was yesterday.

My experience, my memories, both good and bad, are mine.

They don’t define me, but instead they’ve refined me.