The one about penis size.

A tiny little protective bubble was shatterred earlier today, as I realized someone that I was seeing had freakishly only been with other asian men with exceptionally large penises.

Now, I'm no giant or anything. There is no tree trunk hanging from between my legs, but I'm used to being told by my partners that I'm large. According to studies, I have a slightly above average penis size, but no one really knows how reliable the studies are considering that the smaller men are less likely to volunteer such information. Small Joe with the 3" penis is more likely to pass up the survey and go get a cup of coffee, while Big Swinging Joe, sporting his 10" embodiment of self-esteem would be more than willing to share this private info with anyone willing to ask.

So if I can convince myself and anyone who reads this that I am perfectly happy with the size of my penis, what is it that scares me so much about a guy who has only had larger guys?

I asked him earlier before I had even found out about his sex-life before me, what he thinks is most important in a relationship: sex, physical appearance, conversation or general compatability. His order-general compatability (1), conversation (2), sex (3) and physical appearance (4).

As far as 1, 2, and 3 go, I would say the two of us score very high. So, if I'm roughly the same size as half of all american men, and he ranks appearance as the very last of the four things I could think of that were important to a relationship (I threw out love... the variable), why am I freaked out?

Part of it is in the pure competition of it. You put any guy in front of me that I don't want to sleep with myself, and I'm going to wonder if I'm smarter than him, better looking or better in bed. But it has to be more than that...

Tonight may be the last night I see him for a while, unless he does call on Thursday. And I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't considering how I acted like an insecure idiot today. While he took time to assure that my size was more than enough and that the sex really was great and that I lasted way longer than his other lovers, I was only moderately appeased.

I guess there's only so much someone else's appreciation of your body can do for you, when you still don't really appreciate it yourself. When I look into the mirror, what do I see these days? Am I seeing light reflected off an object or am I seeing myself? More importantly, what the hell am I looking for?

Reading an article online about penile enlargements, I began to play with the idea. What if I did it? One of the natural exercise programs, which probably doesn't work, had a size calculator. It asked you what size you were and how long you would use the program. I entered my size and a year. When 8.25" popped on the screen, I laughed. Which made me think, what about if it were 7"? If I could change the size of it right now with no consequence would I take the extra inch or two?

Probably not. I've been in enough situations where I was already too big for my partner, and we just end up doing something else or lying in bed... a little bit frustrated. I've never topped a guy who didn't seem satisfied, which makes me wonder if gay men fake pleasurable bottoming experiences as straight women do orgasms. It was at this point that I realized I wanted an incredible anamorphic penis.

With this amazing anomaly of human anatomy I would shift larger to match the previous partners of J, and become smaller and more comfortable with the partners that seem to have difficulty taking what I currently have. It makes me think again, what is it I'm looking for when I look into the mirror?

Do I have an idea of who I want to be or what I want to see? Or is that constantly shifting as I date new people? Thinking back, my most successful relationships have been with people with whom I've never second-guessed my own appearance. With Steven, I just knew (or at least felt) he was happy with me just the way that I was. It was the same with Jeff, as well.

I'll go to sleep tonight uncomfortably wondering... Is it that I should only be with the people who never make me question myself? Or is it only the people I truly care about, that can make me this insecure.

Sometimes, I'm just the sidekick.

I drop him off at his place around five in the morning. Turning around his corner I stop at a 7-11 and pick up a bottle of gatorade. As I'm headed out the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the sliding glass. My hair pops out on the sides, and more closely resembles the bowl cut of my elementary school years than at any time in my adult life. I look like shit, but I feel great. I smile as I think to myself... this is quintiscentially LA.

Yesterday, I was having one of the best first dates I've had in a while with a guy. Let's call him J. We didn't actually do anything since it was so late, but we talked and laughed a lot. Anyway, I told him about how I was so amused that I had so much in common with Carrie, Sex and the City's thoughtful bombshell. Among our other conversations was one about how I was fascinated when people ate alone, and how I felt proud at the times when I could do it without being embarassed.

We go home and watch an episode, and 45 minutes later at the closing, Carrie gives a short monologue as she eats alone without the armor of books or something to do. She just sits and makes peace with being single.

It's not the first time I've found myself identifying with a popular heroine. Perhaps they're popular because they're so identifiable. I like to think that I'm a little bit more in sync with them than most--that the writers have been through and thought the same shit that I do on a regular basis. Watching another episode today, I realize that she's shorter than the other cast members... which proves my theory. Height and intrigue are inversely related.

When I was in High School, I found comfort in a little journal they sold at Barnes and Nobles. On the very front was the saying, "I am the hero of my own story". It made me happy. If it were true, it would mean that there was always a point to what you were going through. Stories didn't exist if they weren't saying something, and heroes weren't written if they were static from start to finish.

As I spent the night with J, I had realized I was rewriting my story again. Or at least the part about love. We went to Life Plaza in massively asian Rowland Heights, and I remembered that I had been there at one point with all of my previous boyfriends. Did the memory of my first three lovers get fainter when I brought him there? If my life is a story, and each of them are a chapter how does one analyze the change in me? Life Plaza, this place I used to hate, becomes some kind of landmark. It's the only thing they all have in common.

The thought brings me to J. He's seemingly perfect for me, or at least he is for the time being. But, of course, I'm leaving Friday and he know's it too. The last time I was in a one week relationship it ended horribly and I had a broken heart (or at the very least a broken ego). I look at J and he's nothing like that other guy, which makes me feel happy and even a little safe. But then I consider for a moment, do I really need to do a personality check on the guy, or should I dedicate more time to restraining myself?

I've never been able to just be a fuck or a fling. It's always about emotions with me. I'm going to get attached, and we're going to part ways and I'll be sad for a while. Had the city of Shanghai not existed, I might be in Los Angeles from now on. I might have had the chance to see where it would go. I know that the chances of me being in an actual relationship in China are much lower, and it makes me glad to know that. Maybe now I've earned so much distrust in my decisions that I've decided to put an ocean between me and temptation.

I'm always the one getting hurt these days. After I came out I enjoyed a brief period of invincibility where it seemed like no one would say no. But more likely I probably just didn't give a shit about the people back then who would. Carrie speaks of masochism in Season 2 and the exquisite pain. After thinking about it for a while, it starts to click. What a great adjective for pain. How can an adjective so seemingly positive come out of something as abjectly miserable as a broken heart? The word "exquisite" hints at hedonism--to indulge in something rich and full. But doesn't it matter what it's full of? What is it that some people find so incredibly delicious about hurting themselves. What the hell is so tasty about sulking and bathing in your own misery.

How is it that there is comfort in heartache? I used to believe, coming out of my depression, that I loved the pain because I had lived so long feeling emotionally and mentally numb. When you live in a world where you go to the gym to get the exercise you're not getting because you're working at a computer all day... and you pay $4 for a cup of coffee to make up for the rest you didn't take, crying becomes one of the most rewardingly natural things you can do. So, I wonder if it is really possible to feel good when you feel like dying, simply because you've spent the last couple of years feeling already dead.

I worry about myself a lot, but I think from his side of the story. If I were writing his biography, I would be the fling who comes in for a part of a chapter and maybe even appears a couple times later through the book. Maybe I'd change things or maybe I'd just provide contrast. I learned from my last boyfriend that while you may be the hero of your own story, others will quickly cast you as the comic-relief, the catalyst or even the villain. It's experiences like those that really ground you.

You begin to realize that you don't have to come out on top all the time, because when you're not the hero of the story, it doesn't matter where you end up as long as you're not dead.

What the hell is closure anyway?

Every relationship ends with the search for this particular thing. Good or bad, if your boyfriend cheats on you or if your husband dies, you look for this. The trouble is that it's very different for each person, and for one person it changes over time.

The first time I looked for closure was when I was trying to get over my high school crush. Of course it wasn't really getting over him. My idea of closure was trying to get him to fall in love with me, even though he turned out to be straight. And every time I got beat back down and he wondered why I cared so oddly much about our "friendship", I found a reason to fight again for him. Maybe it wasn't so much of a reason then as it was an excuse.

After that I gave up on the idea: one last conversation, one last look or one last kiss. It was all bullshit to me. What is supposed to be the last for me always ends up getting twisted into the first of a new beginning. I think that in a very wierd way I'm too optimistic. I keep dreaming of something I know will never come.

A month ago, my idea of closure changed again. I wanted him to say he loved me back after all this time. I wanted him to say that he made a mistake. I wanted to be able to walk away from him the way he walked away from me. But that's foolish. I know that if he had asked me back, I could walk away... but I could never do it the way he did. Sometimes I think I was born to give him the advantage.

This week, my concept of closure changed once again. I sat on this computer and wrote an e-mail to him. I wanted to say goodbye and sorry. I wanted to apologize for making my problems his and wish him well in his life. The letter was a good one. It sounded optimistic, civil and genuine. But as I got towards the end, I couldn't press the send button. A thought occurred to me. What if he replied? Is there anything he could say that wouldn't make me feel worse? If he said too little, would my heart break a little like it used to? Maybe he thought of this too.

The problem is I'll never understand how he felt about me, or if he felt anything at all, so I don't know why he hasn't tried to get in touch with me. Maybe he is concerned about my feelings or maybe...

I looked at his pictures on facebook. The ones tagged by his boyfriend and besides for the pleasure of masochism I took from it what I found to be closure. Or at least what I will find to be closure for he and I. I saw how happy he was over in New York with his boyfriend, and I decided not to send the e-mail. I figured it would just remind him of a time when he was unhappy. I mean, isn't it sad when you are personally serving as a reminder to someone of a really bad time. And really, what was I looking to get out of it? I think I wanted some validation that things have changed, and that he still looks at me with some amount of affection. Or maybe I just want him to think of me as much as I think of him... maybe I just don't want him to forget about me until I can finally forget about him.

It's hard when someone you cared about moves on so much sooner than you did yourself. I guess that's been the case for everyone I've ever needed closure from. It's always been excuses to draw them back into my life, even after they're gone.

To end a relationship - beyond the last kiss, last hug or last knowing look - what do you really need from the other person? Does he have anything to say that will set me free? Or does he only have things that I want him to say?

I've come to understand that the only way for me to walk away is to accept all my losses. To take the humiliation and the heartache, and appreciate the part of me that dared to love another in the first place.

Signs of change.

I had another one of those dreams where the people change on you. This one was about my dream guy. We were away somewhere and sharing a room. I didn't know if he was gay or not, so I didn't get interested until we got close to each other. Our beds were pushed together, and slowly I reached around and held him in my arms.

This was my dream guy. You know the one with no face but a nice body. Sometimes I imagine him to be the Taiwanese boy sitting next to me in my marketing class. He asks me to help him read the projection because my professor's handwriting is bad. I like to lean in closer to the board and then to him as I whisper the lecture notes to him.

It's amazing how happy, having nothing, can make me feel... as long as I have the hope that it will one day be something.

The way, that I felt in my dream... I haven't felt like that since Brian Tagiku, way back in high school, during those awkward moments where I would hint to my interest him and in my mind pretend that he returned those feelings, even if only secretly.

So the dream guy changed on my halfway through, thankfully after we had messed around. In another part my brother changed into my dad. I think there's instability in my head.