Spit Like A Man (With Eye Make-Up Applied, Ray Learned to Use A Drill)

“With eye make-up applied, Ray learned to use a drill.”

Written by Ray Ceo Jr.
Edited by Lisa Schulman
It was my first boyfriend or, The Joker, as I’ve referred to him long before the movie came out, who taught me how to spit like a man. He was three years younger than me, and certainly not what I would consider a man, looking back a decade later.

It had all started when I learned he had never seen the movie, Titanic. Although this fact shocked me beyond belief, it was all too common among anyone who was even remotely younger than me. I was far too young to see it when I did. But I had seen it at least three times in theaters, thanks to an older sibling’s obsession with Leonardo DiCaprio. Bless them. 

Looking back now, I wonder from time to time if that movie and the idea of never letting go shaped my expectation of romance and determined how I experience love.

It was upon hearing The Joker say this, while we were smoking a joint; me, half naked wearing nothing but a shirt and he, completely naked, wearing my sheets like a toga, and us fooling around and putting off studying for finals. We were both exhausted, having just moved all my belongings from one Tempe apartment, to another, less than a eighth of mile away. I sat there, with a half full (or empty, depending on your outlook on life) bottle of lube in one hand, genuinely shocked. 
He didn’t like the lube and I had said that Leo never taught me to spit like a man, so lube it was unless he felt he had enough saliva to assist. 

I thought at first the look of shock on his face was sparked from the idea of him needing to lubricate himself with his own spit. His look of horror made me think he didn’t believe he couldn’t produce enough spit to properly lather his ass, and we both knew this to be true. He couldn’t. It was later determined, he didn’t get my Titanic reference and sincerely thought I was having some sort of affair with a man named “Leo.” As if someone with my last name could pull that off without it being ironic and annoying. 

(I would never recommend only using spit as a lube. There are better alternatives)

Upon hearing this, I dropped the lube and went straight for my computer, bare ass and all, and immediately found the movie on some streaming website that I am sure was illegal to use. 

I hit play and played it in my makeshift theatre, with my television sitting on the floor, my tv stand barely together, wires all over, connecting I don’t know what to my computer and tv in ways I don’t know how. This was long before smart tv’s and mirroring your computer screen, and a fewer-wires mentality. I was proud I was able to put together this sort of mini home theatre all on my own. 
We watched Titanic together, never bothering to get dressed. And I made love to Leonardo DiCaprio in my head that night. And, considering The Joker’s weird obsession with breasts (which I never understood) I am sure he thought of Kate Winslet and that helped him get there. 

The next morning, he taught me how to spit like a man.

We stood on my patio, both of us in our boxers at this point, on that warm Sunday brunch hour, and spit. Our saliva seared as it landed on the scorching early May Phoenix asphalt, and we just continued to spit. After several tries I was able make it across the street behind my apartment, which was like 25 feet away. I was proud of myself. 

But I didn’t feel like a man then. 

And I didn’t feel like a man the night before when I was “the man” by the straight worlds terms of our sex life and the role I played. And that August, months later, I didn’t feel like the man when I spit in The Joker’s face, when he had pinned me against a wall, hands tightly pressed against my throat, maliciously intending to kill me. And even though I am proud I escaped him in that terrifying moment, I didn’t feel like a man even once. 

In fact, I never felt like less of one, especially when I had to force him out of my apartment with the use of a fruit knife. I felt awfully gay in that moment, but not like a man. 

In fact, I’ve never felt like a man, not once, in any of my relationships. Not when I was married and the major (or more often, the only) wage-earner. And I didn’t when I tried to care for my ex-husband any of the times I took him to an AA meeting or doctor’s appointment or hospital. Not even when I helped him collect a urine specimen the nurse had ordered. 

Being a serial monogamist is not something I aspire to be. I actually try really hard to be anything but. If I had my way I would have the same disconnect from love and sex as Samantha Jones from Sex and the City. I would be anti-marriage, anti-commitment, and I would choose myself and my pleasure before anyone else’s. 
But I am not built like that. I fall easily, I love sincerely, and I am stupidly romantic. I genuinely care about others, often to my detriment.
I remember when marriage equality became legal in all 50 states just a few weeks after I got married. So, me being me, decided to bring 50 roses to my ex-husband’s work, one for each state we were legally married in. It was like a florist’s shop in his office that day. Like I said, I am a hopeless romantic. I didn’t feel like a man in that moment though, no matter what the playbook says about courting and romance and who gives flowers to whom.
Often, these heartfelt, tender and emotionally driven qualities are those that we associate with anything but being a man. And for such a long time, I found strength in that.

I didn’t and don’t mind finding strength in femininity.

I was proud of it. Like Beyoncé found strength in her inner “Sasha Fierce” – it was in my less masculine qualities where I found my own. Pink hair? Yes! Pink shirt? Yes. I’ll wear it every day of the week, not just Wednesday. I often refer to my inner femininity as my inner Britney, because, well, as you know, I love Britney Spears, and she is the Pop Princess. 

But lately, as I have come to discover, it’s not that I have any problem with being associated with having feminine qualities; I mean I do find joy singing along to Britney Spears and I don’t mind biting my lip, and when my former coworker had her last round of chemo, I dyed my hair pink, and wore it with pride. (That is until I found my hair dead from the bleach, thankfully I found this amazing conditioner to help bring it back from the dead).

I really have no problem and will defend the color pink until my face is pink. I like cooking and cuddling, am ridiculously needy, I whine and am absolutely not afraid to cry and tell. And while I have a problem with the fact that being nurturing is considered a feminine quality, if you know me personally, you will feel compelled to tell me secrets and gossip with me like I’m one of the girls. 

But something happened a few weekends ago and it felt amazing: I felt like a man. 

It may not be the first time, but definitely was the first time in a long time. I woke up, showered, and as I got ready for the day, I eyed myself in the mirror. My under eye blackened bags were out of control, so I did what I do almost every morning and applied my eye make-up. It’s not make-up exactly. It’s more like eye cream that reduces their appearance. It’s by Clinique and my mom got it for me and now I swear by it. 

Seriously, boys and girls, it’s a life saver. 

You can even buy it on Amazon.


It works to hide the hideous bags from lack of sleep caused by staying up far too late to write blog posts for you people (where are my thanks?) and for being exposed to ridiculous allergens for far too long. 

And let’s not forget all the tears I’ve shed from being heartbroken one too many times. 

Thank God for Pep Start by Clinique

I then put on a tee shirt. It was a cute Britney Spears concert tee, but it didn’t fit me right. I felt bloated on this particular morning, so really everything I tried just wasn’t fitting right.
But I tried everything and I mean everything in my closet. I found a shirt I could live with; finally settling on a tighter button up that made my chest smaller so my man-boobs were less noticeable, and made my arms look bigger. As a man with weird curves, I take what I can get. I had already decided to wear what can only be considered panties, as they were extremely flamboyant and pretty tight. I liked them because they showed off my beautiful thighs, gave me a respectable bulge and made my butt look nearly bubbly. For a man with a flat ass this is all I can hope for. I then took a moment to appreciate the fact that no matter what size I was, my legs looked fabulous. By far my favorite part of my body. And frankly, I think everyone should find one part of their body they love and accent it when they can. 

Which is why I like to wear short-shorts whenever I can.

When I was finished primping for the day, I went and learned how to use a drill. A real drill. Like a power drill. 

The last time me and this drill had an encounter, I learned the hard way that drill bits get very hot and leave gnarly burns on your flesh. 

Fun fact: I burned myself on the same night I accidentally super-glued a bottle of superglue to my finger and used nail polish, hot water, and prayers to get my fingers to once again move independently of each other just mere hours after I lost health insurance coverage.

You see, I more or less branded myself while trying to put up an outdoor camera (you can thank the most recent man who broke my heart and forced my hand to set up my house to be as secure as Fort Knox). 

There was an incident once in a Home Depot with an old boss of mine who banned me from using any sort of tool whatsoever in the workplace. She told me shortly after, with great sincerity, “Please don’t ever renovate a house. I’m afraid you will die.” 

Well, the joke is on her and my branded flesh, as I learned how to use this power drill like a boss. I made that power drill my bitch. And I am proud of it. 

I realized that day, that feeling like a man has nothing to do with doing manly things. But it does have everything to do with confidently approaching a problem and aimlessly finding a solution, with an aggressive and stubborn determination that you are right. So what if the custom cabinets I was drilling into have extra holes in them? Nothing a little tender love and care can’t fix. 

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