Tag Archives: two guys

Leaving Bayonne – The Gays

Personal Bits, Queer stuff, Travel

On a ship of 3300 passengers, you’d probably think that some were gay. If you subscribe to the 1 in 10 theory then there should have been at least 300 gay people. Three hundred butch fems or flamboyant floaters should not be hard to find in two weeks of sailing.

As we were in line for embarkation in Bayonne, I scanned the crowd to see if any sisters were coming on board with us. PING went my Gaydar and I spied two gentlemen travelling together and wearing near identical jeans, t-shirts and male pattern baldness. Dead giveaway. As our line to the check in desk snaked by them a couple times I made three official efforts to catch their eye and smile, with the hopes of striking up a conversation.

All three times was met with them turning their back to us after a cautionary glance. Snubbed, but not let down I started to look around for more family. Fuck you, dudes, we’re not cruising, we’re being friendly!

Our first breakfast in the main dining room had us randomly seated with two women in their 70s on a bus/cruise tour who asked me outright if we were brothers. SharkBoy was not part of that conversation so I said “Yes,” and proceeded to let that lie fester in their heads a moment. I wondered if they wondered what the hell two brothers in their 40s were doing out on a cruise…

Two other occasions we were asked if we were brothers by passengers. I would say yes and hold onto SharkBoy’s arm in a confusing/awkward display of affection.

By day 7 I had given up looking through the crowd for possible homo contact and turned off my Gaydar. SharkBoy says there were at least two other couples on board that he could tell (I never saw them) and one lovely lad who was taking his mother on a trip (questionable at best but that just stank of a Tennessee Williams play). There was a bespectacled lesbian we sat with a couple times at breakfast (rainbow tattoos on her forearms!) but she refused to offer up anything other than “hello” and “see ya!”, but I expect she was painfully shy. The two guys spied at the top of the cruise still refused to make eye contact and I decided that they were on some sort of relationship rebuilding vacation after one of them admitted to a terrible admission to sex addiction.

Not that I wanted to be on a gay cruise. If I wanted to be surrounded by my own I would have booked an all exclusive vacation but to tell the truth, I have no desire to run with my own. Sorry StevieB, but I’m what The Advocate calls “Self Hating”. After years of working in a bar I can’t imagine an all gay vacation let alone being trapped on a boat for any amount of time with rainbow beaded, whistle blowing, Aussie Bum wearing party queens. Sure I’ve travelled en mass with other gays and have even done Gay Days twice at Disney World but, for me, to “travel gay” is like living in the gay village – ghetto gets you nowhere. You really need to get out there to experience other things. That being said, I was missing a bit of the old catty banter that comes with a fruity drink in your hand and a good gay by your side. Especially since we were in such a ripe environment for ridicule.

As we left Antigua (after the Prickly Pear Island) SharkBoy and I were up on the top deck watching the boat leave the island. SharkBoy says “This is a really good vacation, considering.” I know he means that despite the uncooth masses, he (we!) were having a good time. And I thought to myself “It is. A bit lacking in the gay companionship department…”

Suddenly a crew member came and stood beside us at the railing. We started to talk and within moments he revealed that he had a boyfriend on another ship within the fleet and that they were considering moving their home to Toronto. We spend a very long time talking as the ship sailed out and he told us a lot of stories which I will not repeat here to keep his anonymity. Not that he was shy about his status and his partner, he offered first, but I’m not one to leave trails of career shattering evidence all over the internet. He had us fascinated and laughing at the same time with stories of ship operations and shenanigans. It was a nice gay island in the vacation of gaylessness.

Leaving Bayonne – The Jersians


A tame version of one of the many

How was my trip?

Before I start I just want to say that I’m going to write some seriously scathing things about a group of people in a broad and general manner. I do so in 99% jest. I do so because it happened to us almost every time we came in contact with this particular group of people. I do so because these fuckers nearly ruined a perfectly good vacation.

If you belong to that group of people I’m going to mention, if you have an open mind and you find yourself amused (hopefully), then we’re cool. If you’re from that group and you’re pissed, fuck off.

My trip was great except for the roving packs of New Jerseians that seem to not understand the concept of decorum or social graces. There. I said it. I officially hate most of the population of New Jersey. I know this hate-on for a single state of people is probably shared with quite a few New Yorkers, but it’s new to me. I’ve not been exposed to this kind of rabble before. Nor do I think I wish to do so ever again.

Why this sudden slamming closed of my open mind? I’ll start at the beginning, shall I?

SharkBoy and I get to the port in Bayonne, NJ and enter the snakey line into the security screening area for the ship. As the initial excitement of getting on board faded while we stand in line for the metal detectors, I begin to notice things about the people that we’ll be sailing with on the 3300 passenger ship:

  1. Everyone is grossly obese. I’ll talk about that later.
  2. The majority of the crowd was well over 55. This wasn’t so much a problem for socialization as it was for mobilization. Often during the trip we found ourselves behind slow moving flesh mounds that didn’t seem to care that they just walked in front of two guys who could manage a human normal gait. This usually happened in line for the gangplank or the buffet.
  3. And finally, I begin to notice a lot of sweat pants. A LOT of SWEATPANTS. I use to think that air travel was a great time to dress up in presentable clothes but in the last few flights I’ve had, I’ve been seeing sweatpants on travellers with increasing dismay. Imagine my horror when I started to see sweatpants on travellers that should be wearing sport jackets and ascots and jaunty hats.

Actually, there was one couple in their upper 70s who did dress like they were going on the QEII but we didn’t see them nearly enough. They arrived at port wearing pink, her in pink furs and he in a pink leisure suit. I would have loved to be sitting at their table every night just to see the 30 year old Bob Mackie gowns. These two were the exception. The rest of the ship dressed like they were going to fix cars or watch Monster Truck rallies or fix Monster Trucks.

My fantasy of fine travel dashed across the rocky shore of plebeian fashion.

The outfit of choice for the men were “World’s Greatest Dad!” or “…Grampa!” t-shirts that barely contained their medicine ball sized guts. There were a couple 9-11 firefighter memorial t-shirts (worn ironically because they looked like they couldn’t carry a single axe without a stroke) but for the most part, the men all had that look that their wives dressed them using the finest polycotton pulled from seconds bins from WallMart. Most men had a look of long suffering or dour disposition etched into their faces, as if their wives, work and life in general had pulled their cheeks down all these years.

The women were cankel-riffic. Post-children obesity was rampant with the ladies on our cruise. By Day 3 I had decided that they were all part of the “Titanic Tits” set. We’re talking G cups that rested like deflating dirigibles atop of fleshy mounds of c-section scars. These ladies were partying like they were 16 again and many had shrill voices that could cut titanium. Mostly yelling at their husbands to get them more food from some buffet.

“Why Dead Robot! How can you hate someone based on their body size when you yourself are 40lbs overweight?” I hear you sputter.

I don’t fart on elevators.

A few times we entered an elevator that had been gassed. One New Jersian did right in front of me. Unapologetic, she let one rip and then without even a bat of an eyelash. Then she straightened the back of her t-shirt across her polyester-wrapped, newly relaxed ass. She walked off the elevator without a look back or “HA! Got you!” Nothing.

I don’t talk with food in my mouth.

One lunch SharkBoy shared a table with two couples: a mother/daughter combo who, after a few moments of conversation, we dubbed the daughter “Basement Girl” because it was evident with her constant announcements that she just bought the DVD of House on Amazon.com on Black Friday, that she didn’t get out much. The other couple maybe had 5 teeth total between them. At one point all four of them had spat food from their mouth as they complained about their TIVOs working improperly. But Basement Girl won the Oscar for Most Dramatic Performance of Spitting Out What Isn’t Mozzarella Cheese At All. One taste of the offensive cheese and she wanted all of us to know that her dear mom had tried to poison her with Brie cheese with napkin and gagging sounds. Pleasant! Meanwhile the other couple at the table just spat food from their yaws as they complained that they didn’t “get” The Office.

I don’t let myself get so morbidly obese I can’t raise my leg further than my knee.

At one excursion to a secluded beach, one of the Titanic Tits ladies got herself hip deep into the ocean only to find that the 2ft drop off past the surf break meant that she was trapped, unable to raise her bloated ham sized feet higher than her mid thigh. The weight of her gargantuan flesh would make the sand shift under her as she tried to get her foot high enough above the drop off. She eventually got herself into a sitting position and hauled herself up over the drop off and shimmied her ass most of the way back to shore. Not pretty. Quite embarrassing to watch but fascinating at the same time.

I can hold onto a conversation even if it means going down to the base level of discussing the weather.

Each breakfast or lunch that SharkBoy and I had in the main dining room meant that we were randomly sat at a large table with other shipmates. At every sitting we managed to get a few New Jersians with us and they never once started conversations with us. Did they know we were homosex lovers and could not bear to start a conversation with us? Or were they just socially inept that they couldn’t start a pleasant talk? I may be paranoid but I think it was a healthy dose of both. In every instance, SharkBoy instigated discussions with a deflating “This is my husband! I suck his cock nightly!”

No. He didn’t. But you could imagine my fantasy of that: To watch the table devolve into pandemonium, screaming and “Oh my lord!!”-isms. No this only happened in my head when the awkward silence we had to endure so many times during a meal suddenly loomed over the table. Sure I could have started some pleasant chit chat but I can only badmouth weather (something so out of our own control) for so long.

I don’t complain about everything under the sun for the sake of complaining.

On one excursion two heffers heaved their fat asses into the bus that would take us up the side of a mountain to see twin waterfalls of Trafalgar. The first thing out of the husband’s mouth was a long loud rant to the driver about how dirty the windows were. They weren’t, in fact, dirty at all. They had slight dew stains and dust but they were still viewable. Not that you wanted to see the edge of the road that led up that mountain. Yikes. This is only one example of the constant flow of complaints. As we walked the halls or swam in the pools we were privy to many conversations that compared the ship, the food, the weather, the floorboards to other places that were so much better than where we all were at that moment. After 12 days I am convinced that New Jersians like to complain about anything at all.

I know how to behave in a restaurant.

We had one nice dinner in the smaller restaurant on the ship called Portofino’s – extra charge is expected and there is a strict suit and tie dress code. There is one waiter per table so the service is personal and attentive. Half way through our wonderful meal they walked in. He was about 300lbs of back street muscle stuffed into an ill-fitting suit. She was wearing a Vegas whore black dress. They sat them two tables away and we could hear her drop F-bombs like the waiter was Hiroshima. I swear I can’t recall when the word “fuck” was used as an adjective, verb and compliment all in one sentence. I knew we were in for eavesdropping gold when she couldn’t pronounce “calamari” yet that fun faded to pity as she told the waiter to just bring her a “fucking margarita”. Her conversation poured over to the table next to us when she said “I saw you getting a massage! Your face was ORGASMIC! I was all like ‘I want what she’s fucking getting!'” The restaurant literally stopped. She didn’t. Near the end of the evening (we cut our meal short), the entire room learned that they were to be married on the beach the next day in a small eloping ceremony. I placed a silent bet in my head that the husband would be banging the babysitter inside a year.

I could go on. Know that I wanted to get through this post without using the word “class” because we all know that those who mention “class” usually have none. But I’m going to do it. New Jersians have no class. They may be the hard working backbone of the Eastern Seaboard, but they’d crumble in an audience with the queen.

More later.

Walter and Perry

Overheard, Queer stuff

Home Movies - Walter and PerryAt my gym, there are two guys who are dressing just as SharkBoy and I are arriving at the locker room. I will call them Walter and Perry, based on the two 8 year old homosexual couple from Brendon Small’s understated cartoon masterpiece: Home Movies. The cartoon Walter and Perry transcend homosexuality. They bring it to a new level of devotion, well into the “creepy” zone. Like couples wearing matching soft focus kitten shirts in Wal Mart.

Our gym Walter and Perry, however, are not as funny.

While I suspect they’re gay, they yammer on about stupid shit that may or may not identify them as being gay, while throwing in vapid “guy talk” that completely destroys their butch facade. They think this is hilarious and have their volume set so that the rest of the locker room can hear how much fun they’re having. Once I saw them outside the gym, throwing punches at each other in a manly, “lookit us be butch!” kind of way. I can think of many other ways to look manly, starting with passive aggressiveness.

Walter, the short 5’5″ muscle guy, obviously overcompensating for his height, actually struts around the locker room with his towel strategically placed just below the start of his ass crack. Hot? Not! This kind of thing might work at a bath house, but in a public gym? Yerk! Perry, an average height guy and the “brains” of the two, creates the suggestive butch-shattering situations to see how far he can push Walter. Like this little gem overheard this morning, two isles over:

Perry: Move your ass. (Pause) I bet you’d do it for money.
Walter: What? Fucked in the ass?
Perry: Yeah! You’d totally go do it for $5000

I have no clue why he chose $5000. I know plenty of straight guys who would not even touch buttsex at 5x that amount, let alone gay guys who would pay that much to have it done to them.

Walter: You wish! Nah man. Not me.
Perry: Come on. You wouldn’t do it for …5 minutes for $5000?
Walter: No man!

There’s a pause. Then some mumbling.

Not sure which: It’s all about girth, not length.