Follow on Bloglovin
Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
Read Monica Here Too:
Search The Girl Who

A Very Public Apology

A little something I stumbled across.


It Would Suck To Be Straight

My Gay Ambassador Henry would henceforth like to be known as Marco.
"Henry doesn't suit me." He sulked after I wrote about him in Back When I Was Hot and referred to him as Henry.
"I don't look like a Henry do I?" He says 'Henry' in a nerdy, nasal voice, his lips puckered into a butthole. "You should call me Marco!" He purrs the word Marco in the same way one would say Antonio Banderrrras, the rolling of R's.. oozing sex appeal. "Mention my shiny, black hair" he tells me, "and my big full lips."
"Okay Marco. But tell me another story."

We're at work. It's 2:14am and we've just completed our various writing assignments. Me: riots in Brooklyn, Marco: the battle over where to build the new Yankee Stadium. Now we're trying to pass the time. Marco is eating fresh fruit as fitness conscious gay men do. I'm slobbering on miniature candy bars I stole from The Candy Drawer. Night peers in the windows that surround us, makes us feel like we're in a casino.

"Okay!" Marco doesn't need to be asked twice. He loves to dish. And I love to listen, as his weekend activities usually encompass more sex with strangers than my early twenties.
"So I was at the gym last Thursday...and I went into the steam room..." Marco trails off as an editor walks by. He waits until the coast is clear then continues in a hushed, conspiratorial tone that forces me to lean across the low cubical wall that separates us.
"So I go into the steam room and--"
"Were you naked?"
"Just a towel. The hot Latin boy I've noticed a couple times is already taking a steam."
"Yep. It's just the two of us. So, I sit down on the bench."
"Do you take your towel of right away?" I ask.
"Good lord no! You have to be subtle. If someone walks in all agressive-like, it ruins it. That's creepy."
"Even if they're totally hot and coming on to you?"
"Yes.. It's a subtle dance. Small moves. Eye contact. Body language."
"Smiling?" I ask.
"NO SMILING! It's not a bar. It's all body language"
"Okay, so keep going." I urge.
" He moves closer. I move closer. I get hard. He gets hard."
"When do the towels come off?" I shout. My co-worker, who is notoriously powered by Jesus, glances sharply at Marco and me whispering like two school girls.
"SSSSHHHH! Pay attention." Marco hisses. "It's all very subtle. I stretch, the towel slips a little, reveals a lot.. you know."
"No, I don't. That's why I'm asking. I've never picked up on a strange gay man in a stream room before. So it's like a little peep show?"
"Yes.. And the harder and more erect you get the more nonchalant you act."
"And you don't know this guy at all?" I ask incredulously
"Never met him."
"Haven't said a word?"
"Talking ruins it." Marco is staring at my chest. Your breasts look delicious today. I could hang pretzels on your nipples!"
"If you weren't gay I'd smack you! It's cold!" I slump and cross my arms protectively over my chest. "Now finish your story!"
"We start jacking each other off." He promptly continues.
"What if somebody comes in?"
"Well, you play it cool.. Wait to see if they're cool with it. It all depends. One time I walked in and eight guys were going at it! Once they saw I was cool with it they just kept going"
"Jesus..." I am agog.
"So now he goes down on me."
"No way!"
"Of course!" Marco looks offended that I might imply the strange man at the gym wouldn't go down on him. "So I cum pretty fast."
"Did he swallow? Do gay guys swallow?"
"There's a breed that does. I went through a spell where I did. But I don't so much anymore. Do Mormon girls swallow?"
"I do." I giggle.
"So.. I go down on him BUT HE DOESN'T CUM. He's taking forever and I am damn near dehydrating, sweating in all that steam. So finally I say 'let poppa take care of this' and I jam my finger up his ass."

I am speechless.

"Of course, he cums right away" Marco continues matter of factly. "And that was that." My Gay Ambassador casually takes another bite of his salad.
"Did you get his phone number?" I ask.
"Oh, honey, that's cute. No we don't talk. You never talk. It's all body language."
"Wow." I manage to sputter. "I cannot even begin to imagine--"
"I know. It would suck to be straight. Y'all are boooring."

Lost Love And Loneliness

His dark hands are gnarled. Ashy skin flakes from his twisted nuckles. The thick, blackened fingernail jutting obstinately from his thumb is nearly torn off, leaving jagged ridges of nail behind. He catches me looking at his dirty fingernails and instinctively curls them tightly around the pole, back into his hand.

He had shuffled smoothly onto the subway at 34th street. By smoothly I mean to say he didn't frantically hurtle through the turnstyle, like most folks do when the operator warns straphangers to "stand clear of the closing doors, please."

The old boy paid no mind to the overmodulated voice of the conducter crackling through the speaker. He continued to shamble steadily toward the sliding doors, dragging a black Hefty bag stretched to gray transluscence, and a backpack that had seen better days. Hell, this pack mighta seen better decades.

I watched, curious to see if he'd make the number one uptown train I was riding to work. As the seconds ticked by, his pace didn't quicken although anyone who has ridden the subway more than once knows when to give it a little giddyup or else miss the train. He knew it. But he didn't care. I guess it wasn't like he had an appointment uptown or anything. The train was just another way to pass the time, the cold night. If he missed this one another one would be along shortly. That's the nice thing about trains. Reliability. You can count on 'em. There's always another one coming.

The doors were seconds from banging shut. I was certain they would close before he made it, or worse, close on him, as they sometimes do, like a giant mouth hungry for humans. Then, embarrassed for him, we'd all have to avert our eyes while he struggled to shove them back open.

But he pressed on, ultimately stepping onto the train a split-second before the doors clamped shut behind him, narrowly missing his garbage bag. The whites of his eyes were tinged pink, his lower lip jutted out like Bubba the shrimp guy in Forrest Gump. But this man was handsome once. His scraggily salt and pepper beard belied the aristocratic plains of his Hershey bar colored skin.

We stand together, he and I, clinging to the pole while the train jerkily negotiates the underground of New York City. Other riders turn their backs, slink to other poles. Giving the man space, I assume, because of his disheveled appearance. That makes me sad. He seems almost tranquil. At peace with himself. In a better place than the rest of us whose minds are cycling through work trauma, relationship drama, money woes..

I wonder who he was before he arrived at this point, before life got away from him and time began it's dirty work, eating away at his once handsome face. He is a son, probably a brother, maybe a father.. That makes me sad too.

Slowly, as if a result of being jolted by the train, I slide my hand up the pole until the top of my hand is touching the bottom of his. I can feel his warm, dry skin graze my own softer skin with each bounce of the train. Although there is plenty of space to move his hand away if my proximity makes him uncomfortable, he leaves his weathered paw where it is. And begins to sing. A low, warbling lullaby, just loud enough for the two of us to hear.

Let's Get It On, Sugar

I was on the receiving end of oral sex last night. Strange, that hasn't been a part of the Bielanko repertoire lately. It should be. I get mired down in the funk of life and forget how nice it is to heed Marvin Gaye's wise words. Sometimes, when you're so tired you can't be bothered to wash your face, sex can morph into another item to tick off on the Things To Do list. That's when you desperately need to pull out the black platform boots and get busy.

I don't care who reads this blog. I don't care IF you read this blog. I can't not write what I wanna write because certain people are reading. Unless what I want to say is potentially hurtful to them.. but I have lines drawn in my head.

For mental release, thought organization, it has become necessary for me to type here. So I will continue to do so. There are some lines I won't cross... but really, I can't be bothered to worry too much about what you think about me, whoever you are. If you can relate, in any way, that makes me happy. If I give you cause to chuckle, that makes me laugh. If you think my writing is shit, you needn't feel obligated to tell me so. I have enough self doubt rocketing through my soul without your dose.. Just move on. Anymore there are as many blogs out there as stars in the sky. I'm sure you'll find something that lights your fire.

I actually got recognized walking down the street in Brooklyn yesterday. A pretty blonde girl yelled "Hey! I know you!" from across the street. The Surge and I stopped. I assumed she was a Marah fan and waited for her to cross Bedford Avenue to tell The Surge how much she likes his band. "I live in Manhattan and I love your blog" she says to me. I was stunned. And no S, my recent reticence about blogging is not due to your recognizing me. That actually made my day.

I've engaged in some pretty petty behavior lately. Makes me not like myself so much. I want to bond with women, share common hurts, lift each other up. Transcend the cattiness that was so much a part of our younger years. I want to meet a fanastic girl and celebrate her, not be silently jealous.

There is a woman I work with who is the most amazing, uplifting, positive person. I want to be like her.. Because while she is fabulous and wise, she still acknowledges the silly fights with her husband, googling ex-boyfriends and the like.. She is the perfect blend of woman.. sugar AND spice.

So I move on.. lessons are learned and you can only keep moving forward and try to be better the next time around.

Write On

I've got to write, before... before I don't know what. Lately, the idea of a blog doesn't seem so appealing anymore. But this here blog has had so many positive effects on my life. It's an outlet for letting off steam so I don't explode. It's a forum to practice my writing. It's a place to organize my life. Had I not written here, I wouldn't remember so many of the extraordinary events that occurred in the first year of my marriage and living in New York City.

Each entry to me is an episode from my life. Additionally, this is a way to connect with people all across the world who share the same hopes, fears, dreams, dilemmas.. All of it.

Today I feel vulnerable. Exposed. I made the choice to use my real name here.. many of you know me. Hell, my mom, mother-in-law and husband are just a few of the folks who log on here every day. There are also people who hate me who log on here every day. It's odd. I guess anyone who regularly blogs goes through this feeling. So I'm trying to write through the weirdness.

At midnight tonight I start two weeks of overnights. The Surge leaves for Europe Tuesday. Another month of touring. Generally, the graveyard shift coupled with The Surge's absence heralds the return of The Beast. The Demon of White Sadness.

Eh... I've got to power through this next month. Right now, on the front end, it all seems overwhelming. Stay cool.