I wore underwear as a child, and I assumed everyone else did, too. Like kids who grow up speaking three languages or practicing cannibalism, it seemed normal, the thing to do.

Thanks to our maid, Marsha (née Marshalene Ducksworth), my Hanes briefs were kept as white as Sean Hannity’s teeth and as tight as Olivia Newton John’s pants in that last scene from Grease (which I never really bought, because, okay, I get that’s she’s a changed woman, but that just seems a little psycho, and if I were John Travolta, I don’t think I’d get into any car with that crazylady, much less a flying car). I assumed that was my lot in life: to squeeze my fat ass into bleached-out, too-snug tighty-whiteys for the rest of my days. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered that there were other kinds of underwear to choose from.

I was probably in third or fourth grade the first time I saw my father in boxers. We were (and are) a very modest family, so we tend to roam the house in work clothes or weekend clothes or pajamas or, when we’re on vacation, swimsuits and yards of terrycloth. But then one morning, dad needed mom to iron his pants, and I glimpsed him in plain, white boxers. I remember looking closely, trying to figure out what the hell he was wearing. They weren’t shorts, that much was certain. They weren’t PJs. They were something altogether different.

Eventually, I asked my mother about them. She told me they were for grown-ups. Dad concurred and said he’d buy me a pair when I got older — which was too bad, because he used to tell me that I shouldn’t sleep in briefs (“They’ll give you a rash”), and since I hated pajamas and the thought of sleeping nude was far too weird/foreign/erotic for our house, boxers would’ve been a perfect workaround.

Dad never got around to fulfilling his promise, so when I got to college, I bought a pair myself. I still have them, somewhere: red and white stripes, somewhat fitted. (Considerably more fitted now.) I thought they were hot. In fact, the sensation of hanging loose, paired with memories of my father — and by then, other men I’d seen on TV — sometimes made it hard for me to walk out the door right away. It was exciting.

That excitement lasted all of two months. Girls, let me tell you: boxers may look perfectly comfy — and they are, to sleep in — but under pants, forget it. It’s like wearing a slip that’s two sizes too big underneath a tailored black dress. You can never get everything adjusted just right, and you’re squirming all day long.

Boxer briefs became popular after that, and I gave them a whirl. They were better than the other two varieties, but by then, I was out of college and living on my own, which meant I was doing my own laundry, and since I HATE doing laundry (almost as much as I hate  glazing windows, which is an accursed job, don’t let anybody tell you differently), I decided to cut back — not on doing laundry, but on what I wore. Underwear was one more thing to wash and keep track of, so I got rid of it altogether. Socks, too, mostly. Adieu, adieu.

At first, I ran into some of the same, um, stimulational problems caused by boxers (which in certain crowds, worked to my benefit). But as with all things, eventually I got jaded and forgot about it. I’ve never looked back.

One guy I dated thought that freeballing was gross. I failed to understand that. Cheesy, maybe. Tacky at times.* But gross and unsanitary? I mean something’s going to get dirty either way, right? Between pants and underwear, I’d rather have pants take the abuse. They seem sturdier.

My commando conversion happened long ago, so I don’t think much about underwear anymore. But then I stumbled across Gawker’s expose on Jon Hamm’s box, and I thought, “I still have issues with Mad Men, but damn, I feel vindicated. I AM NOT ALONE.”

*I should point out that I DO wear underwear with linen and with sweatpants, because hey, I’m not completely tasteless. Most days.

By now, most of you have seen the video clips — the ones recorded as part of the “It Gets Better” campaign. On the off-chance that you haven’t: the campaign was begun by author Dan Savage in response to the recent spate of suicides by LGBT teens. Savage conceived it as a way of assuring those kids that, although life may seem rough now, things will get better.

So far, most of the clips in heavy rotation have come from celebs — and that’s to be expected. But there’s a local element to “It Gets Better”, too, which gives everyday people like you and me the chance to share advice, encouragement, and coming-out stories. And it’s coming to New Orleans this weekend.

This Saturday, October 16, cameras will be set up on the patio at Cure (4905 Freret Street) from 5pm – 7pm. There, you’ll be able to record a testimonial of your own to share with LGBT teens. The event is being organized by Megan Hargrode, who’s put together a Facebook page to publicize the local element of the campaign.

Admittedly, I’m not a fan of Cure (or any place with asinine dress codes). And holding an event like this at a hipster haute-cocktail lounge isn’t the best way to ensure diverse representation from the local LGBT community — nor is it the best place to generate sober, intelligible testimonials. However, Hargrode deserves tons of credit for pulling it together, and Cure earns a begrudging pat on the back for allowing her to do it.

If you have time this Saturday evening, drop by and say a few words — tomorrow’s LGBT leaders need to hear them. Just be sure to dress appropriately.

[via BlogOfNewOrleans]

Dear Gays:

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are a growing number of teabaggers trying to win our votes. It’s happening in dribs and drabs — at events like last month’s (mostly failed) Uni-Tea roundup and through the Libertarian Party’s half-assed attempt to play up something called “battered gay voter syndrome“. And what’s creepy is that their rhetoric makes sense. At least, on the surface.

The message we’re getting from these small-government-obsessed scam artists is that Johnny Law should butt out of our lives, including our bedrooms. Sounds great for the Gays, right? Sounds like freedom.

But of course, a hands-off approach isn’t what the LGBT community needs. It’s not what women needed at the turn of the 20th century. It’s not what African Americans needed in the 1950s and 60s. If the government hadn’t stepped in and said, “It’s not okay to discriminate”, how long do you think it would’ve been before colleges integrated? Before women got the right to vote?

They — the teabaggers — sidle up to us now, as we’re frustrated with the lack of progress that we’re seeing on DOMA, DADT, and other fronts. They whisper softly in our ears, “Hey, if our side wins, we’ll be governed by the will of the people. When the public decides it’s time to stop discriminating against gays or blacks or Jews or anyone else, the discrimination will end!” Of course, what they don’t say is that if the public wants to discriminate, it’s a-okay in the teabagger universe.

America experimented with a similar laissez-faire social philosophy after the Emancipation Proclamation gave African Americans “freedom”. Nearly 100 years later, so little progress had been made, Congress had to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Without that, chances are pretty good that my family in Mississippi would still be eating at segregated lunch counters.

Look, I don’t like bureaucracy any more than you. I hate forms and lines and convoluted ways of doing things. But if I have to choose between that regimented life and the gunslinger-style anarchy that the teabaggers propose, I’ll be happy to fill out that requisition in triplicate, thankyouverymuch.

Bottom line: teabaggers aren’t our friends. Like Richard Socarides told Keith Olbermann earlier this week, teabaggers are just social conservatives in fiscally minded clothing. They’re promising a revolution, a “return” to government by the people — which sounds nifty, but I think the last time that happened, the Romanovs fled Moscow. Sure, it was fun at the time, the bonfires at the winter palace were faaaaabulous, but then gays and lesbians started showing up dead, which kind of put a damper on things. (Side note: I wonder what Glenn Beck would think about me comparing him to the Bolsheviks?)

What was my point? Oh yes: fuck the teabaggers. Fuck them.

And also, two other things:

1. I still don’t get the obsession with small government. Government is there to make things happen. They’re not all good things, but you know: baby, bathwater.

2. How can we believe that progress in science and medicine and technology is a good thing, but want to stay the status quo on social issues? Highly illogical.

My final coming out — the real one, when I was 20 —  was gut-wrenching.

I had a girlfriend at the time, but she lived in Texas. She’d come down with a semi-serious illness our sophomore year, and after she recovered, her parents withdrew her from Millsaps and moved her back home. I went to see her regularly, and she came to see me, but the relationship had definitely changed.

Or maybe not changed. It had become more transparent, more obvious.

When we lived on the same campus, Meg and I could pretend that we were romantically involved, and we both believed it. When we were separated, it became clear that we were very, very, very good friends, but nothing more. By the time I met Chad, I could see where things were going, but I didn’t want to admit it. Not yet.

Chad and I met on the dance floor of Bill’s Disco, the black gay bar in Jackson, which sat across the street from the white gay bar called Jack and Jill’s. Jack and Jill’s carded like a motherfucker, and of course, we were all underage. Bill’s didn’t care. Bill’s also had a speakeasy so they could serve beer after 1am. We spent a lot of time at Bill’s.

Chad and I hung out for several weeks. It was great. Then I introduced him to my friends. And one night, when I stepped out of the room for a minute, a friend asked Chad some questions about how we met. I knew that my friend could put two and two together, and that it was only a matter of time until she spilled the beans to Meg.

That wasn’t how I wanted it to end: ratted out by a friend, leaving Meg to wonder who was telling the truth. I wanted to tell her myself — so I did. I couldn’t muster the courage to do it over the phone, so I wrote a letter. It was about 10 pages long.

As I waited at the post office, one of my professors walked up and stood in line behind me. He was the only openly gay teacher on campus. He tried to strike up a conversation — I was in his Milton class — but I was so freaked about what I was doing, I couldn’t get many words out.

Then, the full weight of the situation hit me. There I was, sweating bullets over coming out, standing next to a man who’d been out for years, who had no idea what I was going through and was talking to me about mundane things like the weather and spring rush. I don’t know if you’d call that surreal or ironic or packed with meaning, but whatever it was, it made me laugh. My hands were still shaking when I handed my envelope to the mail lady, but I felt much better.*

My talk with Meg a few days later wasn’t smooth or easy; in fact, it was a little painful, but we got over it. And I thought, “Wow, that’s it. I’m out.”

But as we all know, coming out is something you have to do all the time. I come out as gay, I have friends who come out as fiscal conservatives, and I have a sneaking suspicion that my father will soon admit to me that he’s a Methodist. However, as everyone’s been saying the past few weeks, it does get easier.

Rarely is it easy. But easier, yes.

* None of that would’ve happened if I’d come out a few years later. I would’ve simply written an email and hit “send”. The result would’ve been just the same and just as important, but I wouldn’t have had that scene at the post office, which is what I remember more than anything now.

Directed by Jean-Paul Goude

You know, if John Slattery showed a little more leg (with garters, of course), I might be inclined to watch Mad Men. Until such things come to pass, I’ll spend Sunday nights wrapped in the warm embrace of Adult Swim.

Related funny image that just popped into my head: me as the photographer for this shoot, reenacting that scene from Fame where the guy is all like, “Take off your top, Coco!”, except I’d be like, “Drop the pants, Slattery!”, and he’d be crying and sucking his thumb, but he’d totally do it anyway, because fame and fortune are way more important than morals. America’s Next Top Model has taught us that, if nothing else. Well, that and smizing.

James Dean would’ve been 79 years old if Donald Turnupseed hadn’t veered out of his lane on September 30, 1955 and hit Dean’s Porsche head-on.

First, beauty:

Then, irony:

I should point out that Dean was never my cup of tea, but I can appreciate his position as an archetype. Plus, he got to cuddle with Sal Mineo — that’s something.

Jacques, the little deaf puppy, is now a big deaf puppy:

That face! Those abs! That half-done eyeshadow! What’s not to love?

Its 404 page:

Brilliant. But don’t take my word for it: try it for yourself.