Words you never said, in a text you never sent

Left alone in a dark room with nothing but your thoughts, you recount the things you might have done differently, and debate all of those unsaid words swirling through your mind like a tornado that never touched ground. One moment, you tell yourself you made the right decision, and that moving forward without the baggage is the best route. In another moment, you ponder whether that last text you sent – or rather, didn’t send, may have made the difference.

It’s a funny, funny world of communication we now live in.

Never has it been easier to interact with someone than it is today, and yet more and more, those words that we can feel slipping off the tip of our tongue still slide back into the back of our throat, thrust into an abyss of no return. Perhaps it’s because the choice to express emotion has been simplified to a text box and a “send” button, or perhaps it’s just because we don’t feel the need to take chances in the way we used to.

Finding myself in a bit of a predicament with my own texting experience, I received an out-of-the-blue message that left my eyebrow raised but my heart churning with excitement. It was the kind of text message you envision getting, but realistically convince yourself won’t happen. The text’s surface message was simple, but as most texts also are, complex in its hidden meaning. It goes without saying that no one judges a text based on its content as much as they do its context, and this was especially true of this case. My id dared me to indulge in the opportunity, but my ego saw me playing it safe and responding with words that I knew held no meaning, regardless of their context. The latter has left me contemplating how my love life might be different with a more ambitious response, with this case as well as the countless others that remain untold.

All of which begs the question of what you do with these texts that result in a racing heart and an apprehensive pair of thumbs; what you do with these hidden messages that lurk behind an actual message like a panther eager to pounce but suppressed by long-term tactics.

Our love lives are full of roads we’ve either bypassed or completely blockaded with “caution” signs and police sirens screeching with sounds of warning to steer you away from a desperate scenario. There are texts we ignore that could have developed into something more with a little more risk-taking, and conversations full of potential we intentionally lead down the path of simplicity out of basic anxiety. They’re all interactions with variables, with unrealized outcomes we may always be left to wonder about.

I once wrote a love letter to a person I was involved with, and found myself tempted to send it, knowing that the particular person appreciated handcrafted and heartfelt materials. I had the letter written, folded, and ready to go in an envelope, before something shouting deep within me sprang to consciousness and stopped my hand from slipping it into the mailbox. Sometimes, I wonder how that relationship would have evolved had I actually sent that letter. More recently, I consider how many more of these heart-protecting actions I’ve unknowingly taken, and particularly whether those words I’ve left unsaid in text messages have actually changed my life in ways I may never understand. Never has mankind had more opportunity to take a chance on someone, to put themselves out there with a few pecks from a twiddling thumb, and yet so infrequently do we take advantage of these opportunities to truly become close with someone.

It’s hard to determine whether an unsent text message (letter, email, whatever it may be) represents the life-altering scenario you envision in your mind, but it is nonetheless true that these represent chances not taken, and roads left unmapped. In some cases, it’s understandably just not worth it to take the chance, but as you’re driving down your road of mind-boggling love and infatuation, consider for a moment that your life is not limited to the roads laid out before you. As you drive yourself past these exits and pit stops, remind yourself that the road is your own creation, with a boundless array of unpaved roads left ahead of you that remain a mystery but hold the potential to be the most fruitful. Consider it a Columbus state of mind.

In the end, I beg this one thing of you: don’t leave yourself drowning in the words you’ve never said.

Have a question you want answered by Brotherly Lover? Send an email to brandon.baker@temple.edu or a tweet to @BrotherlyLover.

Five Reasons to Not Look Like Shit While in Public

I don't mean to channel the same uptight, prissy gay man stereotype you'd likely see in a Hollywood movie with a sass quota, but it would be great if some of Philadelphia's populace could do the city the great favor of not looking like shit all the time.

I get it: some of you are college students who wear sweatpants to class for convenience sake, some of you haven't done laundry in three weeks because you don't feel like journeying to the bank to get quarters, and some of you say you just don't have the money to invest in looking bang-able on a daily basis.

But get this: if the welfare girl on the street can afford maintenance of her weave, the SEPTA change machines can still spit out quarters, and your jeans can still button, you too can accomplish the great task of not looking like you walked out of a tornado. Even Dorothy managed to keep her hair in place after enduring a wind storm and crushing a gross-looking bitch witch with her hinterland house.

But I also get that looking good for your peers requires some incentive, so let's take a stroll down Alluring Avenue, where you just might find the cross street leading to Copulation Corner if you play your fashion-savvy cards right.

1. Walk it like you've got it. Newsflash: even if you don't look like Enrique Iglesias or Heidi Klum, that doesn't mean you can't fool the world into perceiving you that way. Feeling as good as you look is an essential part to changing the mood in the air. If you just rolled out of bed, don't walk with a hunch that conveys to the world that very fact; hold your head up high and walk with a strut. Mind you, "strut" does not equal "gay limp"; march down the street with confidence in your body and your known assets. Even if you don't find yourself all that desirable, someone else inevitably will - no matter how terrible you might look.

2. Don't be afraid to dress up for no reason. There's nothing shameful about wanting to look good. Take notes from Ryan Gosling's character in "Crazy, Stupid, Love"; he's a guy that knows what he wants, knows how to get what he wants, and also knows where to get it. Sprinkle in some conviction with your good-looking self. And if that's not enough motivation to get you to slap on that sweater you normally reserve for really nice events or tight pair of jeans you're embarrassed to squeeze into, think to yourself this: "What would Carson Kressley do?"

3. Even fate can't save a frumpy fool. If you're one of those "closet faters" who believes in the cosmos eventually leading you to your soulmate, consider that even your predestined beau may not want to "tap dat" if you're donning over-sized bluejeans and a coffee-stained t-shirt that screams "my backwoods mommy on crack dressed me this morning."

4. You never know where your libido will take you. Don't assume your hoo-has or your dark side are going unnoticed today. At any moment, you may find yourself in a promising encounter, which means you need to be prepared. Your sex drive is about as predictable as the boom-bust stock market; invest some time and effort into your body in case opportunity presents itself. It's like sticking cash under your mattress in case of an emergency.

5. Don't let the weeds cover the soil. Just because you're a pathetic loser in a dry spell and haven't had sex in more than a year, the world doesn't need to know that. Let Philadelphia - or whatever area you live in - know that your sexually radiant glow has not evacuated your body. You alone have the unique ability to control your aesthetic image communicated to those around you.

Or, basically, just don't look like shit.

Questions? Comments? Email Brandon Baker at brandon.baker@temple.edu or send a tweet to @BrotherlyLover.

'Why so single?'

There aren't many questions I get asked by people that throw me for a loop or irritate the hell out of me, but there is one that continues to swerve into my consciousness and circulate an endless loop of question marks around my brain.

"Why are you still single?" he asks as his eyebrows curve downward with puzzlement and his eyes meet mine.

From my point-of-view, there are a million questions I could ask in response. "Why do you care?" is the first bold rebuttal that comes to mind, though even I can't tell you why my first instinct is to take offense.

My actual response could either be viewed as much kinder or much more passive aggressive, depending on how you look at things. I answer with a smile and a glance to the side, 'You're not the first person to ask that question, and you surely won't be the last.'

And while he took the hint and backed off the subject of relationship statuses, I got the sense that he assumed I was somehow repressing some deep character flaw or erecting a wall of defense against insecurity with my vague answer. As it turns out, a person's not allowed to be single without a reason.

I never cease to be amazed by the men I meet who manage to do a complete 180 on their feelings about relationships after only one date or a briefly engaging conversation. The date starts with, "Well, I'm not really looking for anything long-term," and transforms into "I'm looking for the love of my life" within a few hours of "clicking" after only a semi-decent coffee outing.

Apparently, the key to finding a partner is to lie and claim to not want one at all. Are single people really just lying to themselves to feel better about their lifestyles, or are we genuinely comfortable with our status - societal stigmas and all?

A close friend of mine, who I will refer to as "Julie" for the sake of this blog entry, has a habit of saying one thing and doing another. She will declare in conversation that she has "written off" men, and by the time we next meet, have a plethora of dating stories to divulge with the eagerness of a hyena hunting down Simba.

It's not necessarily that Julie is a hypocrite or a fragile human being, it's more that it makes the idea of 'single and fabulous' that much less legitimate to the reigning members of the world. If you're single and happy, draw a line and stay on that side until the cosmos commands otherwise. If you're a dating addict that breathes new life upon indulging in a flowing stream of encounters, stick with it and hope for the best. There's no shame in wanting love, but don't pretend that you're a Miranda when you're actually a Charlotte. (Forgive me for the Sex and the City reference - I was bound to make one eventually.)

I don't know why I'm still single, and at some point it's better to realize that it just doesn't matter. I would rather endure the awkward moment of being asked the question on a date and loftily dodge the entire conversation than bother wasting time analyzing the details of why I can't find a person that sticks. Finding a "reason" for being single is nothing more than a scapegoat for the veiled insecurities you hide behind your hardened exterior - or at least that's how any vocalized explanation is destined to be perceived.

Live and learn, single people of the world: you don't need a reason to be single, and the closer you come to embracing your own identity as a singular being, the closer you may even come to never having to face the "single question" ever again.

Questions? Comments? Want to share your own calculated response to "the single question"? Brandon Baker can be reached at brandon.baker@temple.edu

Trouncing the trollop treatment

The definition of what makes you promiscuous seems to be distinctly different depending on where you travel in the glory hole that is the Keystone State. If you're a south-central Pennsylvania inhabitant, being on the prowl at Wal-Mart with a muffin top and a box of condoms lazily tossed into your diaper bag (sans baby daddy, of course) stand as strong indicators that - most likely - you're a bit of a hoe-bag. Traveling a little bit northward into the heartland of Central Pennsylvania will see a similar story being told - minus the baby and the diaper bag, and plus an eye-rolling "oh, you really think I'm cute?" ditsy attitude proudly boasted through a weekend bar crawl in the faux-urban depths of Harrisburg.

But Philly - well, anyone who lives in Philadelphia can tell you one thing about Philadelphian standards when it comes to sex: there aren't any.

At the very least, what level of sexual engagement is acceptable in our fair city varies between its different sections and numerous, wildly contrasting social groups. And while the latter is true almost anywhere you may find yourself, it's found to be especially true in the case of a city whose basic social identity is best defined as not having one at all.

Is it the "City of Brotherly Love"? Or, perhaps, the "City of Brotherly Sluts"? Who can tell.

I had a passing conversation with an Italian man from Long Island recently, who claimed to be looking for apartments in South Philly and attempting to take in the scene of the city in the process. Unsurprisingly, he didn't seem to understand the social breakdown of Philadelphia, but commented that he hopes Philadelphians prove to be less "slutty" than New Yorkers.

The poor, clueless bastard.

The word choice of "slutty," which immediately takes me back to my grade school gossip days of pointing to the bimbo in the back of the classroom who would intentionally leave her training bra at home, is what caught me off-guard. Why is it that, like our preceding high school years of whispering about the town whore, we still use sex-negative terms like "slut" to define the guy or gal that partakes in a fun and friendly one-nighter?

Granted, this guy struck me as immediately strange to begin with, particularly following his mid-conversation, out-of-left-field comments about wanting to "transfer his masculine energy" to his partner during sex. (Right, because a gay "bottom" must be in dire need of his partner's macho-man "energy" - OK.) Nevertheless, I'm baffled that even a New Yorker would treat the sexually active with a finger wag and a "tsk tsk."

Once upon a time, I would have told you how much I resented Philadelphia's hypersexual and notoriously non-committal batch of singles, but today I write as a Philadelphian who has seen the light. Living in Philadelphia and having a sex life doesn't make you a "slut" - it makes you human. Pretending sexual desires don't exist and ignoring impulses for the sake of avoiding being called "the S word"? That makes you naive.

Now, I'm not advocating hopping on the first guy that buys you a drink (there are diseases to be concerned about, after all), but I am declaring that sexual positivity is nothing to be ashamed of, and certainly is not something to be described with those dirty words our parents would formerly wash away with soap. (Perhaps our parents had the right idea for the wrong reasons?)

Modern studiers of sex and relationships consider "the hook-up" to be the new "first date," only turning into something deeper after the sexual test has been passed. In that case, Mr. Italian Man may find himself alone with his hand for longer than his libido desires, as the brotherly lovers of this fair city are loud, proud and ready to pounce.

PROFILE: Talkin' smack with the brain behind 'Gossip Gay'

Crying in the bathroom of the club over a broken heart? He's lurking in the stall next to you. Selling your body on the streets for a quick buck? He's around the corner with a camera. Posting a changed Facebook relationship status with your sugar daddy? You'd better bet it'll be on his blog within the hour.

Philly's now infamous gay "celebrity" blogger Kyle Shemelia has become somewhat of an anomaly in Philly's gay scene. He's the first of the city's gossipy gays to actually lay the hidden cards of the rumor-prone on the table with absolutely no desire to apologize for any harsh criticisms, public exposes, or Facebook creeping that some might consider borderline disturbing.

Shemelia's popular blog "Gossip Gay," which began as an experiment last June, has garnered more than 157,000 page views since its virtual conception and amassed a whopping 232 individual blog posts, some of which have been written by a selection of guest writers, but have mostly been written by Shemelia himself. To say it has been a runaway success might be an understatement.

"The night that I posted [my first post], I woke up to 8,000 views the next day," Shemelia says.

The blogger, who isn't afraid to label Lindsay Lohan as his role model and names television cult hit "Gossip Girl" and the trash-tastic "Burn Book" from the movie "Mean Girls" as his inspiration for the blog, seems to find success with the exact things critics pan his blog for.

A quick chat with some of the blog's readers instantly draws forth harsh descriptors like "filth" and "despicable," but Shemelia remains unfazed by his so-called "haters."

"They secretly want to be on there; they just want to make a big deal about it," he says. "They like the attention."

Shemelia says he receives as many as 25 to 30 emails per day, some of which provide "scoops" and others which (as might be expected) provide commentary on the ethics of the blog.

"I find insults about me to be... I mean, I don't like them, but I don't cry or get upset about them," Shemelia says. "I guess The Burn Book was pretty mean about me, at first."

The Burn Book, a copycat blog which arose as Gossip Gay's direct competitor and has since been removed, notoriously crossed a controversial ethical line that, to date, Shemelia has not: the posting of nude photos of local gay men intended to be private.

"I didn't like it," says Shemelia, declaring his own set of moral boundaries. "I asked him to take them down; I don't like to use naked pictures of people."



All the same, Shemelia admits to having his own set of favorite gays to pick at with scandalous pictures and write verse-like posts about, likening his blog to an ongoing local soap opera.

"I love posting about Tyler [Michael]," he says. "Gossip Gay, at this point, kind of has characters... everyone else in the show is an extra."

Shemelia cites his Facebook news feed as his primary source of information, expressing frustration in response to critics who condemn his posts as invasive.

"Everyone talks about everyone anyway; sometimes you just see something on your news feed and think it's funny," he says. "Quotes that I use... I don't just make this stuff up."

Despite negative feedback, Shemelia wears his blogger identity with pride, but not without the occasional hesitance of moving forward.

"I've shut it down [before], and I've gone through times where I haven't posted about anything," Shemelia says, additionally confirming that the blog is currently on hiatus. "I've thought about getting rid of it, but I like having it; it's my baby."

To be sure, Shemelia is a thick-skinned blogger not unlike the Web's reigning "gossip queen" Perez Hilton, who has faced similar attempts to have his blog fumigated by those discontent with his site's material. He posts with not only the same Mean Girl malice he references as his inspiration, but with the same amount of tactful calculation that keeps him on top as Philadelphia's own Regina George.

"It's hot," Shemelia says of his blog, in an attempt to sum it up in one word. "It's all what I see, hear, and what people [say when] they call in to me."

And asked whether he would expand his creeper-turned-researcher blog to a Perez Hilton-level platform given the opportunity, Shemelia had only one word to say:

"Definitely."

Have questions or feedback? Brotherly Lover Brandon Baker can be reached at brandon.baker@temple.edu

Confessions of a Grind-a-holic

You're laying in bed, bored to tears and ready to press "play" on your iTunes copy of "All By Myself," when you hear a distinctive "bloop" emote from your phone and/or tablet. Suddenly, things are turning around. The bloops keep on coming, your screen lights up with red circles in the corner of multiple scandalous (and sometimes comical) profile pictures, and you're left not only feeling great about yourself, but enamored and somewhat addicted to the alluring game of flirtation.

Yes, folks, we're talking about Grindr.

It hasn't taken long for dating dynamics to evolve with technology; the Western world has gone from participating in the relationship/dating-oriented online realms of OkCupid and Match.com, to becoming even more self-indulgent with casual mobile apps like Grindr and Blendr, which bypass the reading of profiles (which, admittedly, most people don't read anyway) and get right to the point. Within three back-and-forth messages with a person, it has typically already been decided what will happen. You will a) have sex, b) go on a date, or c) continue to flirt, but never actually engage in any in-person activities. The first is the most likely, the second is exceptional but possible and the last is probably the most entertaining aspect of the application(s).

Admittedly, I've quickly become a bit of a Grind-a-holic myself. It isn't very often that I actually meet people I interact with, but I continue to be fascinated and drawn-in by the unknown factors presented by a person whose identity is a complete mystery beyond their "stats" and profile picture. More unpopular, my curiosity is strangely piqued by those creepy, picture-less folk who typically are revealed as 50-year-old men who opt to skip the process of uploading a picture and instead fish for younger men in hopes that they will, essentially, be their self-esteem building tools. Note that I find these people worth mentioning because of the strange number of picture-less people I find that are closeted or discreet rather than sugar daddies - they're the "catch of the day" when they actually turn out to be good-looking, interesting individuals who happen to be on the down-low. Aloof, nonetheless... but intriguing.

Allow me to share one risk-taking experience I found myself involved in on a slow-moving Independence Day eve last summer, an experience that may make you rethink getting together with that curious person who continues to channel messages into your phone:

***

I sat at my desk on an unseasonably cool summer night, browsing through YouTube videos in an attempt to distract myself from a seemingly endless feeling of boredom. Hearing the hub-bub outside of my window didn't help, and I was left with an urge to do something - anything. "Anything" translated to creating a Grindr account, which I hesitantly did with no real intention of pursuing a get-together, but with every intention of using the app to keep my mind entertained.

An hour later, however, I found myself engrossed in conversation with an archetypical South Philly Italian who could be likened to - judging by the profile picture - the bulky "guido" appearance of Ronnie from Jersey Shore. Not exactly my type, but enough to keep my attention. By this time, he was already interested in meeting, which immediately struck me as sudden and, to a degree, sketchy. However, his nonchalance about seeing me that night mitigated much of my uneasiness, causing me to give in to his pleas and march my curious self south of Snyder.

Passing by a sea of Italian-style barbeques and parties, I safely knew I was no longer in the Philly territory I was familiar with. If it was a preview of what was to come, I was unsure of whether my adventure was actually one worth continuing. But pressing on, I finally found his home, stepping onto his dimly lit porch and reaching to press the door bell. Before my forefinger could mark the button, he opened the door, beckoning me inside.

Unfortunately, with the lighting minimal and my not-so-sensible self already a little buzzed, I didn't catch a glimpse of what he looked like until I crossed the threshold. Before me was a man whose spiked hair had been replaced with a dyed-black, receding hairline; a man whose pearly-white smile had turned into a set of chompers that might be better suited for an 80-year-old smoker; an elder whose smooth face had transformed into a wrinkly, contoured surface that made him look less like a lover and more like a father.

But he had beer, and I had time.

I sat down on the couch across from where he looked to have been sitting before I'd arrived, surveying my surroundings, which consisted of a dusty living room full of aged furniture, a kitchen that was loaded with empty beer bottles and boxes and a putrid smell of dogs that I still can't exorcise from my sensual memory.

But still, he had beer, and I had time.

He quickly grabbed me a drink and sat down, embarking on a Q&A session that promptly turned into the beginning of his memoirs. He expressed his life regrets and continued hopes within less than an hour of conversation, delving into the details of his rebellious teenage years (he claimed to have fathered two children and have lived on his own by age 16), and spending a careful amount of time on exploring the troubles of his many failed relationships. One such relationship, which he elaborated on with a special focus on his general willingness to "give," was with a former Temple student whom he gave plentiful amounts of money to and "supported through school." Naturally, the guy dumped him the second after he graduated. All the while I sat, a Temple student myself, understanding his intentions but - surprising even myself - not particularly caring. Why?

He had beer, and I had time.

Or at least I didn't care until the fifth beer came around and his lips took aim at mine. As I turned my cheek and his kiss landed to the left of my nose, he immediately inquired why I was so "guarded." Humored, slightly embarrassed, and becoming increasingly uncomfortable, I shrugged it off and excused myself to the restroom. I was becoming irritated with his tactics of deception and, finally, had decided to further excuse myself from his restroom back to my boring old bedroom.

I'd had enough beer, and had wasted enough of my time.

I bolted down the stairs, rushed to grab my things, and wished him a good night while narrowly avoiding another awkward sexual advance. Sobering up and beginning to feel anger swirl in my stomach like butterflies-turned-dragonflies, I went home and wasted no time deleting my account, continuing into a deep sleep to eliminate my stewing frustration.

I still receive messages from him every holiday.

***

This isn't to say that Grindr is a useless tool; the app serves its purpose for those seeking no-strings-attached encounters that are entirely and blissfully superficial. But for the innocent, naive user who believes in their ability to score a romantic date from the app, kindly turn off your phone when you find your trigger-happy finger an inch away from the "download" button.

I promise you, the free beer isn't worth it.

Why a New Year Should Never Mean a 'New You'

When the glitter and the Dick Clark stutters settle from the glamorous festivities of New Year's Eve, party-goers are left hungover, bummed about their inevitable return to work, and - for whatever reason - more self-conscious than ever. I'm here to shout it loud and clear: never develop a new you for a new year.

Our culture makes bank on the idea that we're not only (abruptly and dejectedly) imperfect beings when January 1st rolls around, but it counts on us admitting to being fat slobs, having the mind of a bumpkin and being more willing to sleep with the next thing that walks around the corner than Lindsay Lohan is to show her vagina to the world. The reality, is that new years should never be about starting anew; they should be about continuing all of those good things otherwise left behind in the prior year. What you need is not a new you, what you need is a better you.

Mind you, when I say a "better you," I don't mean that you should pick up the phone and order a Total Gym; I mean that you would be better off focusing on the things you know you already do well and nurturing those things rather than pretending you're interested in having Chuck Norris abs or making yourself "more organized." (Let's be honest, those folders are going in the trash the very second February rolls around.)

What's worse, is no one seems to be encouraging the "new you" for any of the right reasons. QVC is not selling you its workout machines and magic diet plans to make you feel better about yourself, they're selling it to you with the promise that your husband will love you more, or that you might finally pick up that guy at the bar who may have thought your muffin top wasn't quite as cute as your face. At the end of the day, like just about everything else in the world, it's about sex.

Similarly, the idea of you changing your entire physical appearance and emotional framework in a month's time is about as likely as any SEPTA platform evolving into King's Cross Station in the next ten years. It's not going to happen, and it's going to lead you through a disheartening loop...only when you make it full circle, you're going to be faced with a lonely Valentine's Day and an unopened box of Godiva's leftover from Christmas.

I am instead going to embolden the "better you" part of my theory: it's much easier and certainly more productive to challenge yourself to better the aspects of your personality and skill set you already know you're proficient with. In some cases, it may mean merely reevaluating how you view certain angles of yourself, and looking at those angles in a sharpened light.

For example, I have never claimed to be the most put together or systematic individual. My room is often a disaster zone, with clothes spread across my floor and an uncleaned wine glass sitting on my desk (admittedly sometimes for more than a week). Surely, I could opt to clean the glass and hang my clothes in the closet, but doing so isn't something that necessarily satisfies what I want, it just satisfies an imaginary person who I might envision criticizing me for maintaining a different lifestyle than what they lead. Lately, I look at my empty wine glass (or martini glass - I've been in a cosmo mood as of late), and approach it with a different mindset - a smile, even. The little bit of wine hunkered toward the bottom of the glass reminds me of my quirky unwillingness to finish much of what I start, and at the same time, the red "legs" left on the sides of the glass leading to the small liquid pool settled at the bottom call attention to how every unorganized, incomplete, batshit thought I have running through my mind eventually leads me to a pool of something.

My point, as ambiguous and untailored as it may seem, is that these small things are representative of who we are; they're reminders that we have our own primmed facets to our personalities that separate us from that archetypical hunk of "perfect" man meat displayed on that new treadmill. Don't succumb to superficial pressures under the idea that it will "help you get laid" or lure in your dream man. Uncovering the things you want from a date, a sex partner or relationship will mean equipping yourself with the qualities you want others to see in you, not the traits you're told others want to see in you.

And if your gentleman caller isn't happy with your flabs or your messy room, there is one simple and effective solution: throw your one-week-old glass of wine in their face.