“I Don’t Care if It’s Klingon or Na’vi”

Exhibit A
Exhibit A

Every now and again, I have a spike in visitors and views. Today is one of those days. No idea why, though. “Bailey Jay nude pics penis hard on” hasn’t even made an appearance (though after this post, I can guarantee that it will). So that just leaves a sudden interest in reading what I have to say, which, if you really want to know, is very little. Hell, most of this blog is just complaints.

Yesterday marked my first week of being a thirty-year-old. I have to say, I feel no difference from the time I spent being, say, twenty-six – mentally. Physically, I’m a wreck. The parts that I want working still function. I still have my hair and my sight. However, stamina and flexibility have gone out the door (get your head out of the gutter). However, that has little to do with age. It has more to do with my lifestyle up to this point. And age.

Gay Pride Parade 2007 NYC
Exhibit B.

And with age comes looking back to my younger self. I never beat around the bush (when asked) about my sexuality. That is to say, I claim to lack one. This isn’t admittance of being asexual (I have a child, though that doesn’t mean a think, actually). All I’m saying is, I don’t see things as gay, straight, or whatever. Why limited yourself, is all I’m stating.

I find myself attracted to several facets in a person, not just what’s between their legs or what decorates their chests. Some asshole decided to give this “non-subscription of sexual labels” a label. I’m a postmodern sexual being, or a PoMo Sexual.  Of course, I’ve discussed this before. Several times, actually. On various places.

Exhibit C.
Exhibit C.

In high school, if one were to ask me, I called myself bisexual. Now that isn’t true. While I did get the opportunity to kiss a boy I crushed on hard, it wasn’t him being a boy that turned me on to him. It was his charisma. Other men (post high school) that I found myself attracted to were philosophers in their own respect.

For me, love is one part sexual/physical attraction, one part intellectual attraction, and one part emotional attachment. If I can’t learn anything from you, it’s likely that there’s no future for us. Trust is big in any relationship, though I couple it with emotional attachment. Sexual attraction, though I’ve denied other wise, is also important. Usually, though, I attribute the animal urges to my attraction to the metaphysical. Though, as I’ve said, redheads catch my eye nine times out of ten. They’re trouble and I’m just attracted to the trouble. Moving on, though.

I’ve denied myself any relationship with someone of the same sex (that shipped sailed when I held one higher above the rest). Nor have I ever been with someone of the “third sex.” But people and their genders aren’t notches on a belt. It’s just realizations. Damn, I was young once. But that fun and fancy free bullshit wasn’t for me, anyway.

I’m sure I had a purpose to this post, but the poetry reading starts in about ten minutes. In summation, though, talk nerdy to me. Yeah. I’m sure that’s the moral of this post.

Bailey Jay at AVN Awards 2011
Exhibit D
Writing & Writers

I was a teenage mascara boy

During my A.D.I.D.A.S. phase (aka my Korn phase)

It’s a nickname – a moniker, if you will – given to me by an ex-girlfriend’s older sister. I don’t know where it came from. As memory serves me, I never once wore mascara. I wore eyeliner on occasion – mostly for Halloween. The habit of having Miranda dress me up like her masochistic Barbie doll played a role, maybe. It’s nothing to think about, just something that popped into my mind.

[There is a message here, but the signal’s breaking up]

Error 404

This disease eats people from the outside in. That way, their souls are the last to go. Some travel to Shangri-La for cures, only to find the land barren – a waste zone of decay and boredom.

For centuries we looked to the skies in hopes to find our significance. When nothing happened, we started making up gods and fictions to explain our higher reason. To mark our dominance over the terrain and fauna. Created rules. Social norms bestowed upon the people.

We covered our histories in myths. Fabricated our origins. Created messiahs. Sacrificed them to feel closer to our fictional creators. Then huffed the opium in.


“C’mon, you telling me you’re asexual?”

“No. I just don’t prescribe to sexuality.”

“Which means, you’re asexual. No?”

“No. I like sex. I don’t like to limit myself.”

“So you’re bisexual?”


Once I might have labeled myself. I suppose we all do at one time or another. If you deny this, you’re a bold-faced liar. Truth is, sexuality isn’t black, white or gray. It’s really not existent. It’s something we created.

I’m not sexually attracted to men. I’m not sexually attracted to women. I’m sexually attracted to humans, their minds. Their emotions.


Please don’t make me drink it. The force of the syrup slips through my lips, fills my mouth and slithers down my throat. I’m intoxicated by the flavor. I’ve been off the junk for weeks. Months. It’s hard to remember. The days here just bleed into the next. The clocks on the wall are all broken. They’re all stuck on the sixth hour. Lined up in a roll like that. They say that it’s a fiction here. We come here to forget. Some of us don’t even remember why we came.

My memories aren’t so erased. Not yet. The junk spews from every faucet, on every street. A buck fifty will get you the better shit. You thinking that things like this ain’t a big deal.

At the disco, forty-year-old men consort with the eighteen-year-old dancers looking for a good time. Their money isn’t worth shit here. They’ll suck out their souls, leaving behind the husks they’ve allowed themselves to become.

In the corner, the redhead tosses her head back in laughter. She’s seducing. She’s venom. She’s the moon. She’s the sun. She’s young and fishing. I knock back my drink and leave, escaping to the streets. Feeling nothing for  the others. Emotions aren’t here. They don’t exist. There is no guilt. Fuck it.

A couple of days longer and this will all be over, anyway. I won’t remember. I’ll be back on the train out of here. Memories erased.

Another Version of the Truth

Here I am. And yet, I’m not.