Love of Hot Shaves Does Not Define Your Sexuality.
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This is a guest post by The Naked Redhead.
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When Trey asked me to write an article on what it means to be metrosexual, I thought, “Oh, Trey...so dreamy,” and THEN I thought, “Hm, what exactly does metrosexual mean?” So I looked it up on the ever so handy-dandy dictionary.com. Here’s what I came up with:
Metro (met-ro) –noun
The underground electric railway of Paris, France, Montreal, Canada, Washington, D.C., and other cities.
Hmmm...curious.
Sexual (sex-u-al) -adjective
1. Of, pertaining to, or for sex: sexual matters; sexual aids.
2. Occurring between or involving the sexes: sexual relations.
3. Having sexual organs or reproducing by processes involving both sexes.
My astute powers of seduction, er DEduction, then led me to this definition of metrosexual:
Metrosexual (met-ro-sex-u-al) -noun
An underground electric railway that also likes to have sexual relations with humans, specifically, male humans who enjoy the finer points of pampering, like facials, hot stone massage, and 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Curiouser and curiouser...
I gotta be honest, I think using the term “metrosexual” to describe some dude who uses hair gel and gets manicures is--like the definition above--pretty ridiculous. I don’t like labels for the sake of labels just because people can’t be comfortable with blurred sexual lines, e.g. “THESE are my HOMOSEXUALS and THESE are my NOT HOMOSEXUALS.”
To wit, here’s the evolution of the metrosexual in the American mind:
“Wholesome” Television and Theater Era: America sort of knew there were men who loved other men. They didn’t want to necessarily see or know these men in person. Scary times.
Pre-Basic Cable Era: Gay men began appearing more and more in mainstream media. The most famous ones were nearly always portrayed as flamboyant, slightly feminine, and obsessed with grooming, hair, nails, etc.
Basic Cable (Pre-Brokeback Mountain) Era: America began accepting this feminine, groomed version of the gay male. They could handle this gay male. He was non-threatening, and more like a crazy older sister, rather than some dude who liked to jump other dudes’ bones. This gay male was a caricature, sure, but an acceptable one, at least.
Bravo Era: Straight dudes start caring about their appearance in a more open way. Modern, “I-like-to-spit-and-scratch-myself” males are confused by this behavior. Manly men don’t use lotion! What is this “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” television programming? Change my sheets? I’ll change your face...with my man fist!
Modern Day Era: America’s mind explodes because they discover that men can both love lotion and ladies, but they can’t handle this kind of person being categorized as a “normal” person, so they label him, “Metrosexual.”
Look, you can like nice lotion, manicures, pedicures and a hot shave and still be straight. You can like your collars popped, your shoes European, and your socks silk and like ladies. You can be an outright slob and be gay. You can like feathers and boas and high heels, and like all genders. WHO CARES. I mean, really, who cares? What you do with your outer appearance has little to no bearing on your actual sexual orientation (though I don’t deny that some sexual sub-cultures have a style of dress. High five to you Furries out there). Stereotypes are belittling and limiting, so let’s not, mkay?
(Just...dudes...please, for the love of all that is holy, please, please groom your business. It doesn’t make you gay to groom your business. It doesn’t make you “metrosexual” to groom your business. It’s just nice, dammit.)
The Naked Redhead
The Naked Redhead and Trey once shared a steamy moment on camera for a photo shoot. It lasted but a few brief seconds, though it changed both their lives forever. When TNR is not mooning over their captured moment, she’s writing up a storm on aptly named website, The Naked Redhead.com. She likes when people are honest, when things are funny, and when communities get together to do the Right Thing.
For more wit and lies about her enjoying my company, click this stupidly large text:
I dig old chicks.
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Eh, maybe I should clarify. I dig oldER chicks.
Still not good enough you say? Fine.
I have a strong affinity for women who are older than I am. Whether it be by one year or by twenty, there is undeniably something about them that drives me absolutely insane.
Perhaps it's me growing older and maturing my taste in women, or perhaps it's the old tale that women who have had more opportunity to experience life tend to know what they want, how they want it, and are certainly not afraid to go after it; and whatever it is, it's incredibly sexy.
And so today I was reminded of what some would surely call my perversion when I met the beautiful and talented Sarah McLachlan. I would like to note that I am not one who is starstruck by celebrities or musicians. I've met my fair share and none have fazed me to this point, but when it comes to physical attraction, it becomes a whole new ballgame.
So as I spent the morning photographing Sarah as she performed an acoustic set at my day job, I felt a strong infatuation festering within. Each striking note of "Angel" tugged at my heart, and in more than one way. It could have simply been because I was watching a legendary musician perform one of her greatest hits five feet from where I was sitting, or it could have been the blossoming of a true love; far be it for me to say which it was, as I fear I'll never know.
Just know this, at 42 years young, she is a woman that I wouldn't be afraid to call my love.
I feel like I'm coming out of some sort of proverbial closet here. Whatever. Cougars, take your best shot. I'm officially game.
Pictures from Sarah McLachlan's Acoustic Performance
Can you guess which picture is my favorite? Hint: I'm not in it.
Comment below!
TV killed objectivity. Or was it The Buggles?
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'Twas a long time ago in a mindset far, far away in which I began to discover a self that was unlike any other self I had up until that point known. It was an angry and demented demeanor that had unleashed itself after a decade of frustration. I was mad at what only my previously written words can tell you, and I was Hellbent on changing the world, one blog post at a time.
With this, a new me was born. This was a me who was wise enough to know that the world around him would grant him no favors yet naive enough to think that it was only he and no one else that the world was after. I truly became an enraged, angry and mad wordsmith. Words became my vice, and they were all I had.
I mention this today, because today is truly a monumental day, for this very blog post makes TreyKauffman.com my most active blog of all time! With a mind-blowing nine whole posts to boast about, I have no intention of discontinuing my good word. This is a feat that is unprecedented, and for someone who fancies himself a writer, it is one that really, truly should not be bragged about.
Perhaps I just get bored with the same-old same-old, or perhaps it's due to personal growth like the above suggests, but regardless, up until now my old outlet housed my personal record of eight blog entries on a single domain. To celebrate the legacy of my previous love, I'd like to [re]share with you my most cherished and under-appreciated posting from MadWordsmith.com.
Objectivity is Dead
This is a post that was inspired by a dream and a dream girl. The day leading up to the dream, a dream that I won't likely forget in this lifetime, I had auditioned a most fantastic female singer to play the role of Cadence in a film that I wrote titled LUCKY.
Needless to say, I wanted no one else for this role, or for my love.
[Chapter 6] Dreaming.
To dream is to bestow obscurity, for dreaming is not intended to exuviate perspective. Dreams encrypt our psyche while unequivocally embellishing our deepest reveries. The primer, hidden deep within our subconscious, is the quintessential missing link.
.:.
My gaze is transfixed. Paralysis has clinched victory over myself and my body reeks of insecurity and unease. I try to look away, to look away before she senses my ineptitude. Staples clasp my eyelids to my brow. A droplet of blood trickles down the posterior of my nostril, crying freedom as it drops into a blissful oblivion.
I’m elevated, not floating, merely elevated. My stomach wrenches, either infinitely or finitely, I’m unable to tell as I prepare to become one with the earth. The earth rudely evades me. A lonely gray surrounds me; #999999 in its consummate essence. I’m only able to sense the earth floating below me as vertigo waits to settle in for the evening.
What a treat it is to see that Death has come rapping upon my chamber door, only to dash my pessimistic hopes and prayers once more.
“But why not me?” I implore.
“After you I am not, it is Her you are for.” Death responds as the shrouded black hole sanctimoniously diverts its stare thievishly upward.
Her chestnut locks compliment Her hazel eyes. Floating graciously above me, she stares ostentatiously through me. I want to look away, to close my eyes; crimson tints my vision.
Her mouth opens as if to scream, but instead a stereo of heavenly melodies is exuberated into the air about me. She sings. Oh does she sing! To say that Her aria brings warmth to my soul would be to belittle each striking note. My pain is diminished and my gray incubus gives way to a blessing dressed in the bluest of skies.
As swiftly as bliss rises, bliss sets.
Men from all angles are drawn. They are drawn from thin air, from above, and from sides all around. Doctors, lawyers, architects, and stockbrokers; they surround Her. They approach from above me. I try to fly but I am grounded. I outstretch my arms, but the length of my reach falls short by a distance that would otherwise be deemed negligible.
Silence.
She stares at me. I stare at Her. A moment of understanding. Is this emotion that she bequeaths? Longing? For fear I will never know, as she is engulfed by the offspring of everlasting dreams.
I’m falling; Death has granted my wish. Whether ‘twas a moment or an eternity, ‘tis not for me to know. Purgatory has relinquished my soul.
My blue is trumped by my gray which gives way to my familiar black. Hope of waking is confused with that of dying.
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Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith
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Check out http://MadWordsmith.com
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