Articles by B.B. Nichols

History will have us believe that Thanksgiving celebrates the first successful harvest after Native Americans helped Pilgrims acclimate to the new world. The “natives” introduced Pilgrims to corn, game, and tobacco, while the Pilgrims bartered with gun powder, whiskey, and syphilis. It’s hard to say who got the better deal. I like to imagine that gay Pilgrims were intrigued by the Americans’ toned bodies, darling beads and headbands, and leather ensembles, while the latter admired the former’s sensible style, including felt hats and patent leather shoes that put form before function. Regardless, they came together on that special day to give thanks for what the earth had given them, and express hope that it would carry them through the winter. 

The end of the harvest: what better metaphor to describe this time of year for dating in New York? We spend the summer carelessly tossing seed and sowing our oats wherever we can, wantonly checking here and there to see if anything will grow. The traditional fields: bars, clubs, mixers, and parties, are then fallow; the real cash crops are all being cultivated on Fire Island or other summer getaway locales. So we wait for the heat to fade, the Labor Day parties to die down, and for our schedules to return to normal. Our phonebooks filled with one night stands, or summer crushes, now seem to taunt us with loneliness.

But even before the summer warmth truly fades, the urban routine and back to school sales shake us into reality. Autumn has arrived, and it feels like a new beginning. A new “semester” has begun and new opportunities for love begin to grow. As crops spring up around us, we take time to survey our options. The new transplants, or students in the New York soil, are often not developed enough, and won’t repot into relationships very well, so it’s often best to let them grow, weather the winter and succeeding seasons to see if they eventually mature. More… »

I, like apparently the majority of gays in New York and America, did not think that Prop 8 had a chance of passing. This was our year. Sure, Hillary and David Archuleta lost their respective, albeit unequal contests, but for all of us liberal, non-God-fearing, cultural elitists, change was on its way. We didn’t expect that some change would not be moving us forward, but rather, reversing the California Supreme Court’s decision that allowed their gay and lesbian residents to marry. Were we simply riding the wave of optimism that washed across the country and foolishly thought that the victories in Connecticut and previous wins in other liberal strongholds would guarantee our success in the Golden State?

I can’t deny that I was aware of Prop 8, or that I was asked to contribute money to help support its defeat, but I honestly didn’t think that California, as vast and diverse as it is, posed much of a threat to my rights. Prop 8 has once again put gay marriage on the national stage, after an election that made it much less of an issue than four years ago. So what does this mean for us now? Our generation seems trained, if not poised to expect that gay marriage will be a guarantee for all in our lifetime. And while part of me thinks that still holds true, I think it may be time we reevaluate not only our expectations but our actions. 

Don’t get me wrong, I want nothing more than for my rights to equal my married, heterosexual siblings, co-workers, and neighbors. I want my relationship to be considered a valid expression of love and companionship in the eyes of the law and for my eventual wedding not to feel like an exercise in alternative living with a scaled down version of a marriage certificate. But perhaps, Huffington Post contributor Johnathan Wilber is right, along with others, when they say that it is time to stop pointing fingers at the alleged minority voters and Mormon Church who are accused of being solely responsible for Prop 8’s success. Perhaps it’s time we point our fingers to the mirror. More… »

I was 17 when I came out to my best friend, a little more than six years ago. She was a year older than me, already a freshman at a nearby college. I don’t recall how the actual conversation took place, but I know I wanted to tell her about a boy I had a crush on at the arts high school in town, and had finally reached that point when I couldn’t bear to be silent any longer. Luckily, she took it well, wasn’t surprised and treated me no differently than before, but her acceptance changed me remarkably. Whether she noticed or not, I felt like an enormous weight had been lifted. Soon after, I told a couple other friends, my family would find out six months later, and by the time graduation had ended and the summer leading up to college began, I was out to the world.

Some of us may have been outed; a video, magazine, or website link left carelessly around provided the evidence for a parent or sibling to confront the issue. Others may have had friends merely guess or assume, and the dramatic scene never needed to be acted out. But no matter the circumstance, the bond we form with the first few friends who accept our true identity is something that alters our view of relationships and serves as a milestone in our maturity that can’t be shared by heteros. I would argue that it is an event that rivals the entrance into puberty or the loss of virginity for dominance in a gay’s development. Acting alone or with another in gay sexual thoughts or acts, can easily be denied or ignored, but when we come out to a friend, it seems to materialize. More… »

The last time I walked home from my friend’s house, after a party she threw for the Super Bowl, cars drove by honking and cheering for the Giants. Though I have always been more interested in the commercials, fried foods, and beer that accompany the big game than the event itself, it was fun to get caught up in the excitement and reverie of the neighborhood, and celebrate the home team’s victory. But we were all merely spectators; none of us did anything to contribute to the outcome of that game. As I walked home from the same friend’s house on after she hosted an Election night party, though my hood was a bit more sedate then some, even the smiles on the faces of the young people I passed imbued me with a sense of camaraderie. I felt like we were all part of a winning team that had elected Obama, even if they hadn’t voted for him, or voted at all, as Americans we would all be greatly benefiting from the majority’s decision.

Forgive the obvious allusion, but dating today is so often like the election process. When we aren’t reviewing potential candidates online, analyzing their activities, photos, and group affiliations, or vetting them as potential running mates through their quotes, educational and work information, and ‘about me,’ we may be actually getting to know them in person over dinner or drinks. In either case we’re looking for someone who matches our values and interests, and can keep us happy for the term of a relationship. The apparent differences being that our choice for mates is seemingly endless (though nevertheless barren simultaneously), we never know just how long a term we’ll be electing them to, and the real kick in the ass, they have to choose us too.  More… »

When I was in 2^nd grade I got married on the playground. Her name was Lauren, and it’s fair to say she was one of my first loves, at least a close second to Missy, whom I explained in Kindergarten what sex was (or what I thought it was) when we got to share the class tent at nap time. You see, I’ve been doing this for a long time, in fact I explained sex to my entire class in third grade, quite clinically and accurately I might add, like that kid in Kindergarten Cop, but I digress. I don’t recall much about our wedding day except that it was spring; the trees were in bloom, and next to our impending First Communion, planning our Honeymoon was of utmost importance.

Why little kids act out adult rituals or situations would probably not take a child psychologist to explain. As a means for understanding their world, children constantly are encouraged or decide on their own to care for stuffed animals and dolls, play with miniature cars and sporting equipment; even fake kitchens and restaurant supplies seem to rank high among items in children’s playrooms. Kids learn the basics of being a grown-up from a young age and seem to relish the responsibility of preparing a meal of rubber eggs and imaginary tea for their teddy bear. More… »

“Your cum tastes sweet,” he told me after my Saturday morning blow job. Barring all pretense of conceit, I am used to graciously accepting compliments for attributes beyond my control, but this was a new one for me. I was dumbstruck, not that it was insulting or I suppose a surprising thing to be told, but by the fact that my jizz was deemed sweet. I crave cheese and salty snacks when the afternoon slump rolls around, only accept dessert at birthdays, weddings, or three course meals, and even drink diet soda because I find regular to be too decadent. I take no special health measure to ensure the savoriness of my spunk, so if I had to guess I would assume it to be every bit as salty and aggressive as my diet and attitude.

They say that blowjobs are like the gay handshake, but what happens when you find yourself spending time with an ex whom you obviously already know quite intimately, when a BJ is out of the question, a real handshake seems too informal, and a kiss on the cheek can still feel a bit forced? In today’s culture it seems that most often attraction, physical chemistry, and sexual compatibility form the foundation for our relationships, so when those elements are removed, how do we even attempt to rebuild a connection? More… »

They say that every bride must have four things on her (or his) wedding day: something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. We know this because it has been repeated and used for comic effect in movies and television shows our entire lives. Though I don’t think they ever explained it, and I won’t bother to research and share the history of this arcane tradition, I would like to argue that perhaps these four metaphorical items, most often manifest in jewelry, garters, handkerchiefs, etc. represent the constant presences in our love lives.

Though maybe it can’t be said about every day, weekend, or week in our lives, it is hard to deny that whether you are single or in a relationship each of these themes appears on a somewhat regular basis, whether you are plagued by ghosts of relationships past, constantly trying to keep up with somebody new, borrowing your coupled girlfriend for brunch and shopping, or bemoaning the bouts with depression brought about by loneliness or boredom. More… »

My brother left New York more than a decade ago, and returned for the first time last weekend. He came back to find that he could barely remember exactly where on his block he had lived. The East Village is now capped with a luxury high rise buildings and nicer restaurants than he’d known in his time there. Though he wasn’t surprised to see what had changed, throughout the weekend he continued to wonder what his life would have been like if he’d stayed. I surmised that at 31 he’d probably still be single, or at least not married with two kids, as he currently is, and also that he’d probably not have wanted to stay in his tiny apartment, which we all thought to be a dump back then, even though it is now quite desirable address for people my age.

It made me wonder too what my life will be like if I remain in this town for the next decade. Will I still remain scraping by in an apartment in the eastern boroughs, and consider every 2 week to 2 month relationship as significant as the marriages my friends from back home and high school rushed into after college? Their marriages may take years to unravel, resulting in relentless analysis and heartache, but in New York our love lives seem to barrel along the path to destruction much faster, allowing us to pack countless romances into the space of our twenties with as much acumen as we pack a lifetime of belongings into studio apartments. More… »

Before I ever set foot in Italy, I had heard of the Trevi Fountain. Like the Statue of Liberty, or Eiffel Tower, it is one of the iconic landmarks and most popular tourist destinations in the world. But unlike Lady Liberty or la Tour, I had absolutely no interest in visiting it. What eventually enticed me to go see it during my four months in Rome, in addition to my parents’ insistence, was hearing about the legend of its coins. Being a sucker for astrology and superstitions in general, I was thrilled to learn that it was commonly believed that throwing coins into its depths could not only ensure that one would come back to Rome, but also find love.

From the outset it seems obvious that the promises could take years to be fulfilled, and my only case example I had was my parents. They waited more than 2 decades before they returned, and though they had already found love, their marriage endured and flourished throughout that time. So with nothing but a couple cents to lose, I tossed the pennies over the appropriate shoulder and hoped for the best. A few weeks later, one of my best girlfriend’s in Rome, best gay friend, an American studying for a year in Germany, came to visit. She had told me about him before and he and I had even chatted online before his arrival, but whether we would connect in person was yet to be seen. More… »

I had a threesome in a hot tub when I was 22. It was spring break, and I was in Palm Springs, CA. I was staying at an all-gay-men’s hotel with one of my friends from work. While the stranger we brought home from the bar attended to us, I noticed that one of the hotel owners was watching us through the bushes, and then more brazenly right next to the hot tub. Usually one’s reaction might be to grow shy and insist we take the party to a more private location, but at that time, and in that setting I did what I think every young, gay man, freed from the mores of society would do in that situation. I arched my back, pursed my lips and locked eyes with the voyeur while the stranger went down on my friend and I.

There is a mentality about public displays of affection that every gay man is at some point forced to address. Those of us fortunate enough to live in a big city where gay couples are more predominant may think less about kissing our boyfriends, or our dates on the street, but for so many others it is not even an option. When I first came out to my family, my mother, not surprised by this revelation, was chiefly concerned that I would end up wounded or killed if I expressed this sort of affection for another man in public. My immense naiveté at the time shrugged this sentiment off as simply ignorance on her part and an example of just how outdated older generations’ thinking could be. More… »