Out & Proud vs. Consequences: The Gay Erotica Writer’s Conundrum
In the past year I have composed severalpublished works of gay erotic fiction which has been met with rave reviews and some criticism. Most of my feedback has been positive, and I am glad to hear positive responses to my work. I received a letter from a Mother who stated that her Son recently wrote her from college to let her know that he was gay. He mentioned that he read my short story “Blue Soldier,” which is far from “erotica” and more romance and decided that he wanted to be free of any shame of his sexuality. Interestingly enough, the Mother wrote to me that “while repulsed by the sexual activities between two men, I admire that fact that you have been a part of my Son’s self discovery.” She then writes, “I will never understand homosexuality, but I was able to read your book and do see that two men are indeed capable of loving one another.”
Is this an oxymoron or is that just me? ”I will never understand two men being able to love, but I do see that two men are capable of loving one another?” Is the capability and the action two variants or are they one and the same? It raises the awareness to me that I am ultimately responsible for what I write, and that sometimes I must choose my words carefully – both in fiction, or on my blog. I have heard from my readers who have shared their stories of their losses from gay friends who have committed suicide, and those who have read my books and found them exciting. Yet, I am most shocked when I get an email such as this one that reaches out with a compliment with an indirect “jab” disguised inside.
I didn’t hear much more about the Son’s letter, nor did this “Mother” speak to me in regards to anything positive in his life, which raises the question to me on how she will respond to her Son? Will she give him the support he needs to grow up with a positive outlook on his life, or will she throw a wedge in his spirit? What was it about “Blue Solider” that made this college man come out to his Mother?
I guess I should say, clearly, that my book is about two men during the Civil War that fall in love. It’s a metaphor, based on the idea that they were fighting for freedoms that indeed they would never see – that we still have not seen – because of the mentality that the “Mother” shares. This mentality is that on one side of her mouth she speaks of acceptance, and on the other she speaks with ignorance. It’s a stark contrast, much like the struggles of the characters in my book and if she did not understand that after she finished my story, then I must not be a strong enough writer. Or am I too strong?
The point I am trying to make is that all of my stories carry weight, and from those stories come real characters in real life situations who are gay. There should be no excuses have to be made for their lifestyle, but rather explanations for why more people have such a hard time understanding that two people can love each other regardless of gender. Parents, most importantly, have a responsibility to make sure that they set an example for their children who may indeed be growing up feeling like an outcast. It will prevent them from, ultimately, becoming a statistical example of the gay teen suicide epidemic.
I recently learned that a girl I knew in my past, who was really very sweet, committed suicide because she was having trouble accepting the fact that she was a lesbian. A high school student, very bright, and I knew that she was a lesbian – even though she never told me. I never said anything to her other than that I was supportive of gay and lesbian people, because she was a friend of a co-worker, but now that I look back I think that I should have said and done more. I had no idea what I was saying to her was “right” because for all I knew, she could have just been a very butch young lady. Putting myself out there MORE what the right thing, and instead I hopped around being subtle about the topic instead. I should have been her “flaming beacon of hope,” instead of a “extinguished” smoking wick in the rain. That smoldered light doesn’t shine bright enough for anyone to see, and it makes for a dark wake up call when you realize that light was NEEDED, and I could have provided it – but I wasn’t there.
Yes I know, I cannot blame myself. I don’t think that I am, but I want to make sure that it doesn’t happen again for ANYONE – including you, my readers. If you are supportive, then you need to put yourself out there to be supportive. BE AN ADVOCATE, and don’t see it as a shunned lifestyle that should be kept in the dark. You never know if the person you love the most may one day be gone, because they felt isolated and alone.
Actions have consequences….. all actions. The only thing we can do is learn from them, and move on. Because of this, I am putting it out there – don’t be the one to say “I should have,” but instead say “I did.”
In friendship,
Jake
The Andrew Compton Case Injustice
This is the truth. Andrew Compton’s case has been mishandled, and now the media has picked up their frenzy regarding the case with a “new” disclosure that flesh was found in the landfill search for his body. This “disclosure” comes as a shock from the Prosecutor who wants the “flesh” DNA tested to see if it indeed is “Andrew’s body.” Listen, I hate to put a damper on the issue, but what if this “flesh” is not Andrew? What if they stumbled across something else, what will that do to the case? In short, if the Prosecutor has caused this media stir regarding the DNA testing of some “flesh” found in a landfill, and it turns out to be someone’s leftovers that they tossed out and NOT anything as being human – then the case looks better for Gregory O’Bryan. Human remains, or that of what may be Andrew Compton, is not the issue here… the issue is that Andrew’s body is still missing and the case is very weak.
How weak? So week that O’Bryan’s case has been postponed endlessly and for what? According to WHAS 11, Commonwealth’s attorney Thomas Van De Rostyne stated that “the most important thing is to return Andrew’s [body] to his family. It’s important to them and us.” Seriously, if there is a movement to be proactive to find Andrew’s body, then I want to have Van De Rostyne prove to me that he is actually doing so. I don’t believe that ANYONE is being proactive to find Andrew, because this evidence was collected during the initial search which has now been going on for far too long. If you have been reading my blog since Andrew went missing, you will know that I have been an advocate for the public to be aware of the case, and for people to come forward to FIND ANDREW.
The flesh that they have may very well be Andrew’s, but if it’s not it makes for an embarrassment to the “case” that has been haunting me since Andrew’s disappearance. That is because without Andrew, without his body being found – and sincerely continuing the search to find it, the case is based on a mentally unstable O’Bryan and a DNA test that “may” prove to be something other than human remains.
Just sayin…. I’m an advocate for Andrew’s family, and only want to represent what is good and right in the World. What is good and right is the truth, and we may never know that without having those responsible own up to not pulling their weight on this case. They “the LMPD,” and those in the judicial system continue to drop the ball and need to pick it up and make it right.
I pray that the DNA test returns the results they were looking for.
Sincerely,
Jake A. Wheat
Enchilada Pie Recipe (Main Dish)
| Enchilada Pie |
- 2lbs of ground beef
- 1 Large onion
- 1 Green bell pepper
- 1 Red bell pepper
- 1 Can of “Cream of Mushroom” soup
- 1 Can of “Cream of Chicken” soup
- 1 Can of Enchilada Sauce
- 1 Bag of shredded Mexican cheese
- 1 Package of flour tortilla shells
- 1 Casserole dish or disposable aluminum casserole pan
- Brown ground beef with onion and green peppers
- Strain grease from ground beef mixture
- Mix in can of “Cream of Mushroom” soup & “Cream of Chicken” soup to the ground beef mix
- Grease or butter entire surface of casserole dish (or pan)
- In the pan add the following layers:
- Layer of ground beef mixture.
- Layer of shredded cheese
- Layer of flour tortilla shells
- Layer of ground beef mixture
- Layer of shredded cheese
- Layer of tortillas (which will be the top of the casserole dish)
- Over top of the last layer (top of the tortillas) pour the can of enchilada sauce, and then top with the rest of the shredded cheese.
- Bake in the oven at 350 minutes for one hour, or until cheese is bubbling on top
- Take out of the oven, and let cool for 10 minutes and serve!
Stop. Rewind….. Restart.
A friend from the Netherlands wrote me a message on Facebook which reads:
I just read your post on your website. What is this Jake, grab yourself together? Getting drunk? writing a lot of bla bla bla on your website? Nobody really loves me? Yeah, they are all fake Jake. they just say they love you, like you. Nobody means it. What is this, self pity? If you want to be alone for the rest of your life, well please go on like this. It’s not that people don’t care about you, you don’t care about them, you are turning your back to them. Have another glass of wine, that will solve your problems. Go to bed Jake. Get some sleep. You ventilated all your frustrations ,lets hope they are gone now. I don’t know you, I’m too far away from you to be called a friend but the moment I remember the first time I saw your picture I liked you. I still like you Jake. Please get well.
My response to that is that right now life is fun, it’s great. Life is a blessing, and I know that. I am not a person who is perfect all the time, and I do make mistakes. I make big mistakes, and then learn from them – often times after it is too late. There is a side of me that is projected, and a side of me that I project to others. My biggest problem is that I often times make my life an open book, and I am too easy to read. People tell me all the time, and it’s either in my voice or can be read on my face like a huge billboard in Times Square. I can’t help it, it is one part about myself that I have not learned…. I don’t know how to build up a wall of protection to keep me guarded, and I live each day to help others. My issue is not present day, and the issue of me “turning my back” is one sided and very unfair. I have to turn my back sometimes, in order to ensure that my own self is protected – and then when I do I feel so guilty that I am unable to cope with it. I have never, ever, never been in the business of hurting others. It is not a possibility for me, and I cannot deny the fact that I can be the opposite of loving.
Last night I was living in a void, and I hardly drink. I am a lightweight when it comes to anything alcoholic, and when I drink I become emotionally unguarded and it stimulates the part of me that knows where I am wrong. I am projecting forms of self pity, but I am also full of major improvements in my life that have come from recent events which threw me off course. I am a man who understands that no matter how much you love, or are loved – in the end all we have is ourselves.
Friends like you who reside online, in a whole another Country see inside a window to my heart. You see a glimpse through the curtains that place a subtle veil of who I really am. I am most innocent, and yet the most guilty at most things that transpire in my heart – and for that I hate myself right now. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I am afraid to move forward in my life, with my love, because I am afraid of self-destructing. I am afraid of self-destruction. This is not self pity, it’s the purest form of self expression I have right now.
I am but alone, comfortably numb, and slowly learning how to build my wall so that no one can see what I am feeling anymore. It will change me, perhaps concern or anger others, but in the end I have only myself to think about right now – because the alternative is that I will end up being physically ill – and I cannot allow that to happen again. I am tired, my friend. My heart is tired.
You are my friend, even in the Netherlands far away, and I thank you for sending me your message which shows that you care. I am a work in progress right now, like many others, and I will make the right choices in the end come hell or high water.
Love,
Jake A. Wheat
No One Knows.
I keep it hidden well, but I am one depressed mother fucker these days. My life has been just shipwrecked since September, and I am wore out from picking up pieces and trying to find out how to glue all of this back together. I don’t know how. Part of me is scared, because what I want everyone tells me is not what I need. My heart feels so damn empty all the time, and no matter what I do to try to change this, I seem to get more torn up every day while I keep a smile on my face. Underneath it all, I am soulless – which is probably why I feel so alone. You’re probably tired of my gloomy posts, but this is where I can vent freely and no one will ever be able to judge me or comment back with come cliche’ response. I am sad.
It’s funny, right now I have a large glass of red wine and I just had one and am already catching a buzz. This makes for an interesting display of my grammar, as I continue to write and you continue to read. Sorry. My motivation each day is driven by success, and ultimately uncontrolled failures which have blocked me at each stage of my life – and yet, somehow I have managed to keep smiling and waving to everyone showing love. I show fucking love to everyone, and in return I get the wave and a smile, but never the grasping comfort of knowing that I am loved in return. I kick myself intently for even trying to project such an image, but I was raised to be a better person than that.
OMG I am listening to Guns & Roses “November Rain….” what the hell is in this wine? My depression has taken me into this weird throwback of sad wrist slitting songs from the 80′s, 90′s and present day which tells me how incomplete of a person I am. I know that I try way to hard to please and to love, but my nature is so programmed that I can’t throw up a wall to be mean or evil to anyone. I am a spirit of nurturing and forgiveness, which blocks me from getting hurt myself along the way. What is this life that I have chosen? What is this shallow agony that I am not able to dig out of?
No one knows, well no one unless they read this.
I would hate it if someone read this and came to me with some fucking retarded answers, or tried to help anymore – it won’t help. I am sincerely damaged goods, and no one in this World is going to want to be with me anymore. I am going to live out the rest of my life alone, and I am going to end up “walking in the cold….. January rain…” omg. Fuck this wine. Everybody needs some time on their own, and maybe I should just pull the plug and forget the World exists. I could become an acrophobia individual who never leaves their home and isolates themselves from the World, but there is joy there – somewhere there is a joy, I just don’t ever feel it exists and I know it does.
There is a third glass of wine inside me, I am surprised I am still writing this shit. Sometimes “Jake” needs to be alone, and needs to tell the World to fuck off and quit messing with my heart and my soul. Sometimes “Jake” wants to be held and comforted, even though the veil of love is jaded and thick. Sometimes “Jake” requires a guide to get him through the fog instead of being the leader, and no one is there – the path is mine alone to walk. Fuck that, fuck everything.
Nevermind the darkness Jake, you have to keep plugging through the damn stupid life that you life and try to make the best of it. Even though you are worthy of such greatness and joy that no one can see and that, to me, is the biggest waste of a person that could ever have been created. No one cares, and so I turn my back and face the wall. I put myself into time out, and seal the door shut. I continue to drink glasses of wine until my head spins from the lightweight that I am, and I enjoy the feeling. I will be drunk before this night is over, and I don’t care.
Don’t buy my books, don’t support me, and don’t reach out a hand when you know I am hurting. Don’t give a shit when I walk into the room with a smile on my face and force joy upon the room. Don’t expect me to have a lantern lit for all the paths, because it’s too much pressure for one person like me to have. What you see is what you get, and I am as sincere as they come. Unfortunately, no one puts much worth into sincerity anymore and they only see themselves. Sometimes what is right in front of you is the best that you will ever have, but we always want more – the grass is certainly greener on the other side.
I am here in physical form, but inside I am running away. I am not inside myself anymore, and I don’t care if anyone knows now. This is the me inside that has forced itself out, and finally is able to bang the bottle on the carpet floor while crying.
Everybody needs somebody, and I need someone.
Shell,
Jake
My Eyes Have Died.
Over and over again I stare at the wall.
It teases me like a white canvas which I can’t paint, and is a metaphor for my life.
The seasons change day by day, and as the rain falls I can hear nothing but the dull patter of the water.
The dull patter of the wetness.
It has taken the life out of my eyes, for there is no color.
Angels harps play discords, which warp my ears in the lack of sunshine.
There is melancholy instead of joy, and a piece of me inside lays dormant – I am but a lifeless being.
Rapture dreams, and blessings go unnoticed as I make my way down the wet street. Carrying what I can, lifting what I can.
The empty being that once was a smiling soul stares off into the distance, not making a peep. My soul tries to keep me calm, but the voices in my heart cry out like a screaming newborn and I shutter to think that anyone can hear it.
What is this void? What can make my soul complete and bring color back into this cold damp room? Isolation.
I catch a chill and miss the warmth of your smile, and ache at the thought of you going away. I am illuminated by my joy, and stabbed by my happiness. Being blinded is a jaded perspective of love, and a insignificant pity covered with anger.
My eyes have died, and I can’t see anymore.
An Excerpt From My Book In Progress…
I didn’t used to believe in angels, and I was admittedly religiously skeptical until I almost died. It was an awakening that bound me into a journey that I will never forget, and while the light of what I experienced still lingers in my memory, it has escaped me never to be seen again until I leave this Earth.
I shake. Trembling in the bed sweating, and not knowing much of why I have been inflicted with such a horrible sickness. The sweat rolls off of my head into pools on my nightclothes, and soaks my sheets. I look around the room at the paintings that hang on the walls, and reach out to one in particular – that of a moon looking down on the World. I wish that I was inside that painting, and that I was not shaking and trembling alone in these wet sheets. The moon does not answer, and my stomach twists in a knot again and I fall out of bed onto the floor. Vomiting, I cover myself in bile from my stomach which comes from my stomach which has been empty for days, because I cannot eat. I cannot drink. I find myself crawling to the bathroom, and lay in the tub in my clothes, and let the water from the shower pour over me, and I begin to pray that I will survive this.
My toes are curled, and I notice a rash forming on my feet, which then spreads to my legs and travels to the rest of my body. I am covered in red splotches, which appear out of no where and I begin to cry. The water from the shower rushes over me, and I feel so weak. “Why are you punishing me God,” I cry out?! I lift up my head, and my Mother rushes into the bathroom with my Stepfather to pick me up and carry me out of the tub. Mom strips me naked to get me into clean clothes, and I shiver and can barely stand.
There is an ambulance, loud sirens, and I feel the stick of an IV in my arm. The Paramedic is reassuring me as the blood pressure cuff squeezes on my arm, and I find myself drifting in and out of my reality. Lights and sirens blaring, and the roughness of the road remind me that I am still alive, but I fall short of being able to keep my eyes open. I feel a hand hold mine, and the Paramedic says something reassuring, but I fail to make out his words. I black out, and wake up in a hospital room with the sound of a heart monitor and my Mom at my bedside. I can tell she is beside herself, and I smile at her and then close my eyes. I feel groggy, tired, and I secretly wish for this pain to go away by means of death. There is, in my mind, no question that I am not going to leave this bed a breathing being and I position myself to be comforted in knowing that the life I have led is a fulfilling one.
Morning arrives, and I am whisked to various tests and find myself hating the hospital for making me stand, move, and telling me that I cannot eat anything. I am given liquids, and I can’t stand the smell of whatever it is that they try to offer. I am repulsed by the thought of food, drink, because I have given up on wanting to live. They tell me that I have a rash that has some exotic name, and then ask me if I have visited any foreign countries. I shake my head no, and the Doctors continue to consult and pound needles into my veins time and time again – I wonder if I have any blood left to give them.
My name is Derek, and I am dying. I want to die, and pray to God to let me go. Please let me die, I want to die now. I don’t want to feel this weak anymore, and my soul is ready to break away from this collapsed shell of a person I used to be. I want to get up and run, but I can’t. I want to jump out the window of the hospital and land on the parking lot below, but I can’t get out of bed. I want to rip out all of these IV’s and bleed to death. I am too weak to move.
At 4am a Doctor, old man, shakes my leg to wake me up and tell me that I am not going to die today. Reassuring at best, but what about tomorrow? He doesn’t answer, but swiftly leaves the room. I acknowledge the fact that he knows better than I, but I look around my room and notice that I am alone again and no one is around. I look at my arm which is broken out into a rash, which looks more like a burn, and I begin to cry. I cry so loud that a Nurse comes in to check on me, and she takes my hand. “What is happening to me,” I ask? She gives me a smile, and tells me that the Doctors do not know yet, and that they are running more tests. I close my eyes and pray again, and this time I ask God to find answers. I ask God to let me have a new lease on life, and I promise to change everything about myself. I won’t smoke anymore, and I won’t do anything to my body that is toxic. I’ll start going to Church, and I will exercise every day! I will begin to run my life in the appreciation of my body, which is a fragile vessel now. I wonder if God will hear me.
God. If you are there, either take my life or make me stronger. I can’t exist in this purgatory much longer, and will end it myself if something doesn’t change. Nothing changes, and as I lay in this same bed for days on end, people visit, and the coming and going of people starts to make me bitter. These people are able to enjoy life without the fear that I have, and I continue to stare at never ending unopened food trays that contain liquid repulsion.
At Every Occasion I Am Ready For The Funeral
My life has been a full of surprises, joy, and a lifetime of regrets and failures. This is how one lives, and truly knows that they have lived. One a great life this has been for me, and what a time in my life to sit here on my laptop writing again to people all over the World who have come to know me from my blog. Indirectly, my heart aches and beats solely for the happiness of others and I have come to realize that I am always waiting for the axe to fall. I wait each day for another pain that stabs me in the heart, or another sickness that will take me down under and knock me to my knees – I find myself more and more falling into an abyss of fear of the future, and not knowing what the next day will bring.
When I was in the hospital I saw God, and I met an angel who gave me the second chance that I prayed for while not knowing if I would ever be able to eat again. My bargaining chip was to overcome lives obstacles, and to be the best person that I could be. I was also dubbed as a nurturing spirit, one with the ability and disability to please others respectfully, and that is a part of me that I will never change.
My loneliness lingers in a transitional period in my life where my soul has an open void, which can never be filled by the likes of any other person. I sit waiting patiently for the time when that hole in my heart will be comforted, and given the greatest gift to be awarded – but it is most certainly not deserved. The tenderness that I feel, and the warmth that I have come to respect has grown tremendously in my soul, which is guarded by a sense of my own dignity. I am but a vessel now, given a new lease on life to take my own personal pathway and guide myself into this vast space which is both unknown. It’s a crossroads, and I do not know which direction to take, and my guide is my heart which tells me that the direction I should go is the path traveled by the foolish and unwise. So I sit, waiting at the crossroads for a traveler to come by, and show me the way.
The axe will fall again, because it lingers close to my back and waits for the perfect moment to strike. I can feel it each day that I exist, and crawl into my bed alone wondering why at this time in my life I have this void in the first place. There is so much love in the World, and so much to be experienced and treasured, but the path less traveled by is for the guarded and weak, who chose the easy road only to find that it leads to a cliff – and the only way out is to jump to their own demise.
They drown.
I fall to pieces and tear up in my own void, and the only thing I can do is prepare because every occasion I am ready for the funeral. It’s the song by “Band of Horses” – The Funeral – that is my personal mantra, and is the reminder to “stay golden,” and true to my spirit that through all of this fog there is a hand here, and it is reaching for me.
“To know me is hardly golden, is to know me all wrong they warn.”
Sitting At The Crossroads,
Jake