Alphabet People - Letter L

“L” represents the ongoing love affair I have with the written word. L is the perfect letter. L truly is the embodiment of life’s dichotomy. During the day, in block print, L is stiff and unyielding in its angularity. But at night, in cursive script, L can be loose and loopy and sometimes languid. The letter L has birthed some of the greatest words in our language like “love” and “lust” and “life” and “lips” and “licking lollipops.” It has given us ladies and labials, lamebrains and lushes, laughter and lardasses. It’s given us lewdness, lexicons, and lesbians. And, some might say most importantly, it’s given us liberty, libations, and libidos. But, it has also brought us liars and lightning. And without L, we wouldn’t have limbs, linguistics, literature, lineage, or light. And we wouldn’t have lingerie! My god, can you imagine? Who would want to live in a world without lingerie? I’d give up limbs just to save lingerie. I could even do without litigation, locusts, and lobotomies, but lingerie? Never! Without lingerie, women would be stuck with just boring old underwear. And that would be lame for all of us. If we didn’t have the letter L, we could never lounge or lie down or get loaded and there’d be no lovemaking or lubricants. And, if that were the case, we would be feeling terribly lovelorn, low, and limp, but we wouldn’t even have those words to express what it was that we were experiencing. I mean, really, can you imagine a world without lunch? Or lyrics? Or librarians? Or LSD? And there’d be no land. We’d be constantly swimming! That would suck. I would get tired.

Alphabet People - Letter K

“K” is my girlfriend. K is my girlfriend now. We met in San Diego six years ago. And by “met” I mean I only remember meeting her for the first time six years ago. Actually, we had apparently met several times through a mutual friend over the course of years before that and she said I was dismissive each time. She said I acted like, “Who the hell is this blonde hanging out with me and my drinking buddies? She doesn’t belong here.” I guess I was quite the snobby drunk then. I don’t recall meeting her any of those times and one of them includes spending a whole day together at a Padres game. She said I was pretty preoccupied with the girl I was dating at the time. When we finally did “meet for the first time” six years ago, I had been sober a year and was hanging out with my friends. It turns out that our mutual friend had been trying to fix us up all those previous times and she had given up on me ever getting with K. Instead, she was now trying to hook K up with some other single guy she knew. I took notice then. I saw this idiot embarrassing himself trying to impress K and I could see that K was not impressed. And I remember thinking, “Who is that? She is super cute. I need to introduce myself to her.” So I cockblocked the idiot and introduced myself for what I thought was the first time. “Hi, I’m Greg.” “I know, we’ve met several times.” “We have?” We’ve been together ever since. A year ago, we moved to Portland and are now trying to have kids. People are always asking me, “Shouldn’t you marry her first?” I can never seem to get the order of things straight. But fortunately K finds humor in everything. Including me and the story of our “first” meeting.

Alphabet People - Letter J

“J” was my first “first.” J and I were going out and both virgins. I was a junior in high school, she was a senior. The guys I played ball with on the varsity baseball team assumed I wasn’t a virgin and I never corrected them. I didn’t want to undergo the ridicule that our left fielder underwent. He was a senior AND a virgin. The guys ragged on him so hard for his virginity and they laughed at him. And I ragged and laughed right along with them. Judge me if you must, but the guys gave me an out and I took it. I was only a junior and feeling fine that the seniors thought I was a plundering stud with a hot senior girlfriend. J and I decided to have sex and it was storybook. Prom night, all dressed up, and her parents were away. So clichéd. We went to prom and then I didn’t even know where to buy condoms. I called a friend of mine at a party that I knew was going on and asked him where to buy condoms and he laughed and told me to go to 7-Eleven. We went and got some and went back to her house. I was on top and tried to ease it in, but there was much awkwardness and she was in so much pain and I just wanted to stop, but she insisted that I continue. She continued to scream and I just wanted to stop, but she insisted that I keep going and said she was going to have to get used to it sometime. It ended up being bloody. That was my first “first.” We had lots of great sex after that, but that first time was traumatic. J and I split after seven months. I broke up with her when she went on to college. I was a selfish prick and wanted to be single entering my senior year.

Alphabet People - Letter I

“I” was a one-night stand stretched out over a weekend. We first met at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. She flashed me her tits, I gave her my phone number. Later, she flew halfway across the country to spend a weekend with me. She stepped off the plane with a bottle of wine that she had gotten for free during her flight and that she had already completely drank. She was swinging the empty bottle and dragging a carry-on along. My fantasy wore a short black skirt and Doc’s. This nightmare shuffled towards me in thick black heels and tight black pants that only went halfway down her shin. I had committed to showing her a good time, but felt immediately challenged. I drove her around for half an hour. I pretended to show her things and she pretended to care. I couldn’t wait to get her out of those pants and shoes for all the wrong reasons. We got to my apartment and I showed her around. I removed her shoes and pants and, beneath it all, she was very attractive. I looked into her eyes and they were beautiful. I actually wanted to be looking into her eyes while I was coming inside her. Her hair looked much better destroyed by my pillow than any way she tried to fuss with it. I tried to tell her that, but she refused to believe me. She didn’t need makeup either and I told her that and she laughed. Beneath it all – her eyes, her hair, the freckles on her nose – was true beauty. But then she quickly assembled her mask before we went out for food. After three days, we fucked nine times. She came nine plus, I came seven. She won. I couldn’t get her back on that plane fast enough. Sorry, but true. She sure was damn happy about that free bottle of wine, though. It made her whole trip.

Alphabet People - Letter H

“H” was my creepy landlord for many years. He was an older man in his late forties who struck me as the kind of guy who was gay but never came to terms with it and never came “out,” as if revealing so would have diminished his supervisory status somehow. Or maybe he had come to terms with it and it manifested itself in ways I’d prefer not to know about involving leather-clad role-playing with ball gags and blindfolds, or paraphilic infantilism and diapers. Of course, it may have just been my overactive imagination, since the guy was just a nice, doughy man with a goatee. But, it was my perception about his sense of purpose that had me on guard. He was serious most of the time, but other times he chuckled at the wrong things. H thought he was funny, but he really wasn’t. Fortunately though, H lived two blocks away and was not in the same building as me. However, I was not spared from other, more colorful characters in my building. One asshole that lived above me came down one night and accused me of raising the volume of my stereo in response to the volume of his television, as if I would rather engage him in some kind of perverse “my stereo vs. your TV” volume war than come knocking on his door and ask him to turn down his TV. I never even heard his TV, he was just a paranoid prick. And, as a result of his paranoia, I became paranoid myself in that “I’d-better-watch-my-back-or-my-neighbor’s-going-to-knife-me” kind of way. There must be a correlation between loneliness and paranoia. It seems that the deeper a person’s loneliness, the more elevated their levels of paranoia. That the ever-present “man” is always out to fuck them.

Alphabet People - Letter G

“G” is me. At age 3, my father took me out to teach me baseball and we started by playing catch with a real hardball. He saw that I was picking it up quickly and he kept taking steps back and throwing the ball harder. One of his tosses missed my glove and smacked me right in the nose and knocked me on my backside. I was crying and my father was mortified. He figured I’d never want to play baseball again. He said, “Sorry about that, Bud. You okay? You want to go home?” I sniffled and said, “No. I want to keep playing catch.” My dad was so proud. I ended up playing baseball through college. At age 5, a dog nearly bit my nose off. I was running through the neighborhood with a blanket tied around my neck pretending to be Batman. I saw the dog on the neighbor’s porch and I had pet it before, but only when the neighbors were there too. I didn’t know any better and as I slowly approached, it leapt off the porch on top of me and took a bite into my nose. My nose was hanging there barely by a flap of skin. I ran home screaming to my mom who was horrified. She took me to the hospital and a surgeon stitched me up. I had to have gauze shoved up my nose for a month, just to make sure the nostril kept its shape. You wouldn’t even know anything happened unless you move in really close and I point out the faint scar. My mom thought I would be fearful of dogs the rest of my life. I’m not. I love dogs. When the property owner heard about what the dog did to me, he promptly shot the neighbor’s dog dead in his yard with a gun.

Alphabet People - Letter F

I’ve, unfortunately, crossed paths with many Fs. And by “Fs” I mean fuckers. We all have, they’re abundant and unavoidable. F is that guy who stands too close to you in the grocery store checkout line. F has no understanding of a respectable distance and constantly invades your personal space. F is that really tall guy who stands right in front of you at a rock concert. F cuts you off on the highway and flips you off for good measure, as if the act of cutting you off isn’t aggressive enough, he has to punctuate it with a fist shake and a middle finger. F is that baseball fan who purposely bought a front row seat beyond the left field fence when the Giants were in town so he could yell really smart shit at Barry Bonds every time he took the field. “Hey Barry, you need another needle?” and “Hey Barry, you’re a bum!” and “Hey Barry, your career’s going to be one big ass-trick!” F is incapable of pronouncing the word “asterisk.” That same F is also a face painter when it’s football season. But not all Fs are male, some Fs can be female. F is that shopper at the front of the line on Black Friday right before they open the doors and thinks that any trampled casualties on that day are just “collateral damage.” F thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to be a bitch to anyone and everyone because it is her (sweet sixteen party) (birthday) (wedding day) (bad hair day) (Monday). F is that drunk chick who’s trying to dance, but instead elbows you incessantly with her flailing. F answers her cell phone when she’s at the pharmacy window being attended to by the pharmacist, even though there are a dozen of us waiting in line behind her.

Alphabet People - Letter E

“E” was my first crush. I was twelve. She was in my class and we rode the same bus. She had a bright smile, full cheeks, and feathered hair. It was the 80s after all. Everyone’s hair had a slightly feathered style, guys included. E and I were boyfriend and girlfriend for one day and held hands for the duration of one bus ride. The next day, she sat next to someone else and I guess we were over. That’s all I remember. I wonder what she looks like now. Where is she? What does she do? How many people have passed through your life that still pop into your mind from time to time? For me, E is just another funny story that happened in my life. It’s funny because I remember thinking she was cute and how nice it would be if she was my girlfriend and we might have even shared a peck that one day we were together. For me, E will never age past that day. I could strain myself trying to imagine what she went on to do, who she went on to become, or what she went on to look like, but why bother? What would be the point? Maybe she’s a pediatrician now who ends each visit with a lollipop reward and she’s married to a nice handsome doctor herself and she lives in a suburban home with a Golden Retriever named Max and she still styles her hair with a feathery flair and still has cheeks you want to pinch and vacations in France. Or maybe she’s a shut-in who’s ballooned to eight hundred pounds and surrounds herself with 37 cats with names like Tabby and Bean Dip and her favorite color is Blueberry Slurpee. But, back in 1982, she was my girlfriend for one day only and we held hands on the bus the whole ride home.

Alphabet People - Letter D

“D” was my first French kiss. D was in 7th grade, I was in 8th. It happened at her birthday party and resulted from a game of spin the bottle. It seemed the whole objective of the game was to get me and D alone and, eventually, there we were locked in the laundry room and it was dark. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat on the dryer and tried to sound cool, “Well, I guess they expect us to kiss or something.” She surprised me when she moved in close, placed her hands on my legs, and said, “Yep, I guess so,” and proceeded to French kiss me. And I liked it. I had never French kissed before, much less kissed at all, and there we were, her hands rubbing back and forth on my legs and she had her tongue in my mouth and it was phenomenal. We eventually emerged and I went and told my friend Vince that we kissed, and not only did we kiss, but that we French kissed, and that was my first French kiss. He was so amazed and shocked by this fact that he decided to announce it to the rest of the party, “Hey everyone, that was Greg’s first French kiss!” I was so embarrassed by the silence that followed. D spoke up and said, “Oh really, I didn’t even notice.” And I decided that I really, really liked this girl. I felt proud. We went out for awhile, but she was much more experienced than me. I was pretty intimidated. We would be sitting watching TV, she would be lying in my lap with only a pillow between her head and me. She’d take my hands and place them on her chest and I didn’t know what to do next. So, there were my hands doing nothing else but just lying there, desperately wanting to know what the next move was.

Alphabet People - Letter C

“C” and I had a class together in college called “The Modern Novel” with coursework slanted by our lesbian instructor. I didn’t mind, I was introduced to Jeanette Winterson whose work I still love, but the overall homoeroticism in the air was charged and pervasive. The class brimmed with gay men and gay women, and me. I sat in back as if banished from the circle by my straightness. I remember seeing C, in front, sitting next to a guy who was always flirting with me relentlessly. I tried to ignore his looks and stares. I knew he was trying to hook up. By association, I assumed C was a lesbian. I ended up getting a C in that class (no joke). Fast forward to summer and I was working as a concierge at an upscale mall. I wore suits and had to know things. I was chummy with the security guards. We acted like we owned the place, walking around with our chests puffed out, acting superior. It was fun. One day, I was on break and chatting with Chick (that was his nickname) when I noticed C working at the costume jewelry store. They specialized in high-end jewelry reproductions. Still do. I spun back around to Chick and said, “Holy crap, I know that girl. We had a class together. She’s so beautiful. But I think she’s a lesbian.” Chick said, “No way. C? A lesbian? Really?” My break ended and I returned to my desk. A few minutes later, Chick came running up to me, laughing hysterically, “Yo man, I was just talking with C. She said she remembered you from that class too. And she thought you were gay!” C and I went out for three years after that.

Alphabet People - Letter B

“B” was my best friend in high school. B and I met after a girl lured me into joining the drama club. I had no idea what I was doing. When girls pointed, I pretty much followed. I couldn’t act or sing, so I was drawn to the crew. B, who was also a junior like me, was the guy working the sound board and lights from a booth built above and behind the audience. We’d hang out up there, do some work, but mostly we checked out girls. One day, when there was a lull in the action, we snuck off to 7-Eleven and bought a pack of Swisher Sweets Cigars. Even now, I can close my eyes and taste those cigars. We returned, climbed up through the ceiling, and onto the theater’s roof. We then smoked through that entire pack of Swisher Sweets. I lacked any sense of moderation and kept lighting up one after another. I’m not sure precisely what happens physiologically when two teens smoke through an entire pack of Swisher Sweets in a short period of time, but it made us wired. We started running sprints back and forth across the roof like we were experiencing wind for the first time. Meanwhile, our drama instructor Mr. B (no relation to B), who was leading rehearsal, started waving his arms and shushing everyone to be quiet. He then turned his head and listened as we ran back and forth above him. We were oblivious to the din we were making. Only when Mr. B’s bald head breached the same opening we had climbed through did we realize we were busted. He gave us a “What are you morons doing?” look and made us get down.

Alphabet People - Letter A

“A” broke my heart. I met A through a married friend of mine. The married friend wanted to get with me, but I didn’t want to be “that guy” again. She hooked me up with her cousin, A. I was immediately attracted. A had naturally curly blonde hair, was tall and slender, and wore smart glasses. She also possessed a sarcastic wit and was flirty as hell. We met and had dinner and then she took me back to her place. I think I fell in love while we did a crossword puzzle at her dining room table. I know, it’s not the most stirring of romantic activities, nor was it a dirty dance mating ritual, but it worked. There was something about the proximity of our bodies, the leaning into each other, the banter, the teasing, and the thrill of getting the words right. I caught scents of her and I wanted to plunge into her neck. And then finally, we kissed. It started in the kitchen, rolled into the living room, and went on for hours. When we finally came up for air, the sun was rising. I had to leave. For the other coast. We attempted long distance, but it was tough. When I returned months later, she had already started a relationship with another, but she neglected to inform me of this. We spent an evening together where there was no kissing, which made no sense to me. “I want us to be friends,” A said. “I want to pick up where we left off,” I replied. She said, “We should work on being good friends first and have a good base.” I was dumbfounded, “That foundation was laid months ago. You were at the groundbreaking. Don’t you remember?”