I Get Paid For This?

I never would've thought that I could get paid to help someone initiate intimate relationships. If you want to get technical: I'm getting paid to get someone laid.

I lurve my job.

"To: Friend Doug"

It was a Friday, and this was my fifth and last client I had to see. I came to the client's apartment with a preset mind of stress. It was stress that I blamed on him, just like I did with the other consumers: The feeling that they don't need services; the constant calls about nothing but problems; the long drives to their homes to be told that they don't want to be seen; the lies they tell; all of the rescheduling due to petty reasons (My favorite one: "It's because I've been staying home all week from the weather and I've been lazy). With all of that considered, I forget why I do this job.

I come into this client's low-income apartment making sure I don't blow off steam on him, cataloging everything he's done to upset me throughout the whole week. I also make sure I come in with a smile, as always, though I'm eager to set off a calm yet stern-voiced lecture. All of my meetings start with me being an affable image, and this one was no different.

I'm glad I kept my cool, as he pointed to a dresser and told me there was something for me there. It was an envelope. The cover read: "To: Friend Doug." I opened it and pulled out a Christmas card with a greeting. In it was writing that looked like a six-year-old's construction with poor grammar and no consideration of spaces, but this was coming from a middle-aged man. It was the message that made me choke:

"I hope you have a safe trip back east to Virginia


Your Friend,
T**"


I smiled a big smile. I looked at him and made sure he knew how much I loved the gift. The gift wasn't the card with a nice message, but it was the thought and appreciation behind it. So, is this is what it feels like to be a teacher? To have a student genuinely acknowledge the work you're doing for them? Because I sure am proud to have someone realize that I'm not just there to give him a hard time and tell him what to do.

This isn't the only case that had me recognize (again) that this job is worth-while. I see improvements, goals being met, thanks being given and effort being put out through each of my clients. I still run into brick walls, but I recognize that it'll take a small drill to slowly get through towards the goal.

I love helping and I love my job.

Awwwkwarrrd

Twas a cool Virginia night, and it was our first night sleeping together. I've been looking forward to cuddle with Chris after a great dinner and all that jetlag.

Cuddling is beautiful: the intimacy; the warmth; the skin-on-skin contact. There's nothing better than having him as my heat generator as I wrapped my left arm around him. I felt soothed as my crotch was pressed against his buttocks and lower back, and my hairy ankles intertwined with his. One arm wrapped around him and pulled him closer to me as my hand stretched out on his hairy chest. I was content.

For two minutes.

My elbow was above his head, but my arm was awkwardly akimbo in the air and my hand started to get numb. It was most comfortable when I put my arm between my chest and his back, but that defeated the whole purpose of cuddling. Then I attempted to put my whole arm under his pillow, but my anterior deltoids prevent me from stretching out too much. I don't think Chris appreciated all this commotion as his head kept rising up and down.

I never really knew what the hell to do with my other arm. I've yet to perfect the art of the cuddle-er as I've always been the cuddle-ee. I'm sure this is a petty subject, like how to tie a zip-up tie. I did learn how to tie a tie with the help of Google. I wonder if Google can help me out with that. Otherwise, can anyone else offer any advice on how to cuddle?

I Only Contributed to History is All

I don't know what the big deal is. All I did was pop my voting-cherry by electing the first African-American president in American history. It's not like I contributed in a milestone event that would redirect the country's perception of what America is.

Profeshunnul

There is no real dress code for my job, but I like that I get the chance to wear slacks, long sleeves and dress shoes, which is totally appropriate for my job. I dress as if I know what I'm doing. There's a strong correlation between having nice attire and being smart, apparently. My clients think I know it all, so I must know it all -- or at least I should.

Let's Talk Business

I'm happy to announce that I've received my business license. It has to be the best business name in the world; Douglas *CENSOR* is pretty catchy. Really loving my job. I hope all's well with everyone in the blogosphere. I'll be in the Flickrsphere if you need me.

Putting it Out on the Table

I wasn't completely truthful with my mother when I came out to her just a couple of days ago. She asked if Mike was my boyfriend, and I said no. That was bothering me, as I feel like I'm in a position where I need to tell her the truth.

She came home from another 16-hour shift, tired, as usual. I asked her if I could talk to her, to talk about me. I shouldn't have asked; her work has drained a lot of energy from her, and I think the last thing she wanted to hear was my gay lifestyle.

"Ay! I don't know; I'm tired." I understood. I went to bed. After a long day of work, she always sits on the couch in the living room with her rosary, praying. I know she prays for the best for her family, especially when it comes to monetary terms. After coming out to her, I knew she added an extra prayer to her list of "good intentions."

Several minutes later while I tried to go to sleep, she walked into my room, making sure that I gargled with warm water and salt (I've had a sore throat for the past few days). She kissed me, and I said I loved her.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked.

"I just felt like I've lied to you."

"Put on your t-shirt." She walked into the living room, and I followed her as I put on my shirt. She asked what I was lying about. I told her that I'm not doing anything wrong; that I'm doing really well in life, like getting good grades in school and keeping myself busy with work. I worked to make her proud, but most of all happy, knowing that she has a son that she can talk to her co-workers about.

I let everything out on the table, confessing that Mike was my boyfriend, but not anymore, and that I'm seeing someone from another state. She knew that I had a boyfriend, yet she still prayed that I'd be straight (I knew she was in denial, though I convinced myself that she was that naive). My mom brought up how much she wanted to be "macho," and the times that I've made fun of my gay uncle; it was hard for her to grasp the fact that I'm gay and that I can throw a football without breaking a nail. I told her that my sexual orientation is not my personality. I made sure that she heard this: "Other than my sexual life, mom, I'm doing so well. Aren't I? Aren't I making you proud? Aren't I the one that's doing well in school? Aren't I the son that's making you proud?" She nodded her head, saying of course, but she still wanted me to be straight. She hated the idea that people she knew would talk about me. I reassured her that many already know, and she didn't like that idea either. And, again, I reassured her that other peoples' opinion about me being her gay son doesn't matter and doesn't affect my life or hers.

She cried. She asked what she did wrong. My mother did nothing wrong, and I told her that. I told her that I learned from my mother, the strongest and hardest working woman I know, and that I'm here to make her proud and happy; that I'm nothing like my older brothers when they were my age; and that me being gay is not going to change who I am. Yet she cries, still, hoping that I'll be straight. I won't force her into believing that I won't change, and in time she'll have to accept that.

It was a rougher talk than last time, but at the end, only one thing mattered:

She still loves me.