Satisfaction Guaranteed (I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change)

I want to go back. I miss it. I haven't been to Mexico in eight years. Since my last visit, there have been two marriages and and six births. People have moved away. Children have grown up. People have run for office. Businesses have been sold or bought or passed on to the next generation. Drug traffickers have moved into town and put everyone on edge. Threats have been placed against my family. Phone lines have been tapped. Cottages have been built.

It's a city where the men wear dress shirt at all times, the top three buttons always undone, no matter how formal the occasion, and the women all colour their hair and have nose jobs, or other any other type of surgery they feel necessary to enhance their appearance. Where the women are say every hello and goobye with a kiss on the cheek, and the men, a handshake. A city where everyone sports Louis Vuitton, Burberry, and Caroline Hererra. Where youth gather at country clubs on Thursdays and Saturday nights to party, drink obscene amounts of alcohol, and daddy pays the bill the following afternoon. A city where drivers are as young as fourteen, the streets have no lanes, and everyone drives SUVs. A city where the children are more well-spoken than most adults in Canada. A city where people marry and they marry for money, where Lebanese parents do not let their Lebanese children date Mexicans, no matter how much they love them. A city where the women turn a blind eye to their husbands cheating on them. Where no man shaves his chest, and boy are those men hairy. And I love it.

The trip was exactly what I needed. For ten days I spent absolutely no money, gained up to $1500, and rested. I seldom thought of my life at home. I had no troubles. I was loved by my relatives. I was given money and shelter and was not judged. I was comfortable. I didn't want to return.

I'm back in Toronto.

I don't want to be here. I can't wait to leave again. This is not the place for me anymore.

Don't Unmask Your Beauty To The Moon (Rockabye Hamlet)

So about a month ago I guess I must have put something out into the universe and the laws of attraction have been sending men my way. It's an odd thing. I've never felt unattractive, but I've also never had any delusions. I never pick up and rarely get looked at. I've always been cool with that. I like me. I never give out the I'm-the-guy-you-wanna-take-home-right-now vibes. Yet, a month ago, I was singing some karaoke and rocking it out, when a boy asked for my phone number. I was flattered, of course, but uninterested. I suppose I'd been feeling very confident around this time, but still was not looking to meet anyone new unless they suited my taste, which this fellow did not. After some mild pressure from my friends, I went over and gave him my number. He called me and we've been dating ever since. That's fine. But this dude really likes me. No, but like really likes me. And I... really like that about him. On our third date, we were kissing and he said "I really like you, Skinny-Rabbit." I can't say I was feeling the same so I sarcastically said "Oh, really, I couldn't tell." On our seventh date we had a talk were he told me that he thinks about me a lot and I reiterated what I told him on our fourth date, that I want to take things slow and not get serious too soon after meeting each other. We still have so much to learn about each other and don't forget, he asked me out. Therefore, from the get-go he's been more into me than I into he. We've just had our eighth date tonight. Things have been going very well. He's slept over a few times now and we kept our clothes on every time. We haven't even touched each other in our special areas yet! He did once accidentally and immediately apologized, and I just laughed at him. But seriously, how respectful, hey! There's nothing wrong with him except that I'm just not that into him. That doesn't seem fair, but it's true. I get to like him more and more every time I see him and I very much enjoy spending time with him. Both of us are planning to leave Toronto before the next year is over and he has admitted that the long distance thing has never worked for him. So where could this possibly go? I don't even have a nickname yet to call him on my blog, except maybe firecrotch.

Moving on to a slightly different, but still a related topic... Maybe it's because I know that someone wants me, but I'm now finding that I'm getting checked out everywhere I go. I may just be noticing it more because I'm checking them out in return now, which I never would have done before. Someone told me that the reason for this can be found in The Secret. Because someone is attracted to me, I believe myself to be attractive, therefore other people are attracted to me. What a theory! On our second date, I was approached by someone telling me that I am "extremely good looking" and another dude tried to follow me into the bathroom. I see a lot of cute homos at my work and they all like to check out me and the other gay hosts. I always smile back but never do anything about it. Today, after my date, I was on the streetcar home, and I turned around to see a fellow standing by the doors and smiling at me. He signaled that I should get off with him. I smiled, shook my head and turned away. I don't know. I might have gotten off with him. I might have given the cute boy at table 27 my number. I might have invited that drunk guy into the bathroom with me. But as long as I'm dating someone I don't feel comfortable doing anything more than flirting with a stranger. I have joked that I am going to keep dating this dude and use this law of attraction to land myself someone better. I'm kind of kidding though. Besides, I've never been the slutty type.

Don't Walk Away (Xanadu)

Tonight, I did what I've never done. I walked out on a waitress. So I was sitting in a diner with a friend after a movie. The service was as good as can be expected in a semi-trashy diner on College St. When the waitress came over to pick up our plates she asked if we needed anything else and my friend said no, just the bill, and pointed out a table that was trying to get her attention. She took a look at them and said "They can wait." She left, brought us back our bill, and didn't go to that table. She eventually did, I suppose, and they asked for a water, which, for as long as I sat there, they never received. Nor did we see her again. Despite the fact that my debit card was sitting on the little tray, she walked by us a few times and did nothing. More time passed and we were getting frustrated. My friend said "Well, I'm leaving," and stood up, putting on her coat, ready to leave me there waiting to pay. I had waited long enough. "Me too," I announced. I put my coat on. She asked if I was really going to dine and dash (we were both servers at the same restaurant and knew that walking out on your server is an evil deed), and I replied that if she wants my money she should come take it, and since she never came for it, she doesn't get it. So we left. We didn't run, we didn't look back. We were casual, normal people leaving of a restaurant. I wasn't afraid. Our waitress was an old dame. A foreigner, even. I didn't feel bad. The woman had bitch in her and gave bad service. Done. I could feel her presence behind me so I turned around and she was running after us. Now I felt a little bad. She ran out in her little t-shirt in the freezing cold. For a bill of less than $20. She said that if we walk out she has to pay for our bill. I walked back with her and explained that I'll gladly pay, but that I wasn't about to sit and wait for forty-five minute to do so. She apologized and said that she was having a hard time with a table that was complaining about their food and their drinks. I said, "That's fine, I'm a server too, but I always go back to my tables." I was very sweet to her despite having just given her a heart attack. She said "Do you want me to pay the bill." And I said no, I had no problem paying. So I paid and I even tipped. She's lucky. If I had waiting inside for that long and paid without walking out first, she wouldn't have received a tip. So I guess I did a good deed. I don't feel like an asshole about it, but I do feel very sorry for her. I wonder if she's always that shitty at her job, and if so, I wonder if she's good at anything. That thought depresses me. I'd rather not think about it. I'm not sure why I blogged about it.