Chronic Masturbation, the gay bar, and the cathedral

When it comes to beauty, Bologna curates a spectacular collection of Mediterranean and Renaissance magnificence. When it comes to nightlife, Bologna is somewhat of a university town and therefore offers an array of bustling clubs. Like art? Bologna owns a myriad of artistic styles, styles which can be found around the corner, on the façades of a back alley, hiding in plain sight. Art may be found in the museums offered to the community. Art may also be found in one of the most important places to an Italian soul:

The Kitchen.

My absolute favorite spaghetti sauce, Bolognese, received its name from this wondrous city.

Bologna is nicknamed the culinary capital and the heart of Italy; it is feasible to plan a full vacation purely around your meals in Bologna.

But oh you’d be missing out on this magical city’s succulent, titillating ability to produce infuriating and exciting passions.

Bologna is a young, vivacious, and historically significant city. It would be perfectly acceptable to assume that Bologna would pull hostelers and backpackers from all around. That assumption would be ignorant; wrong; foolish.

Unfortunately, this is not the case; Bologna has an apparent lack of hostels and the one it does have is located on the frayed edges of the city. The antiquated allure of Florence, Rome, and and exciting danger of Naples pull from the young, budget tourism of Bologna. Hopefully that will soon change, and travelers can spend more time in the country’s lesser known jewels.

During my time of travel, there were no relevant hostels. Normally, I’d skip the city for this reason, but deep within myself a yearning implored me to forgo the extra euros and book a room somewhere. I was forced to spend my first night in a hotel room instead of a hostel dorm. What an inconvenience!

I unlocked my hotel room’s door to find my very own loft. I left the ornately designed, metal key in the lock and marveled at the feather comforter laid upon my queen bed. I quickly inspected a clean and fully functioning shower. The sink was free of morning spit and phlegm. What was this mysterious paradise?

I certainly noticed a sizable difference between the quality of a hostel and three-star hotel. I free-fell into my cloudlike bed and peacefully napped to the lulling noises of a young couple in the next room furiously and angrily making love. This soundtrack played throughout my stay at the hotel.

In my established, habitual fashion, I began my journey by simply taking in the streets of the city. In its heart, every corner of Bologna breeds beauty; the sidewalks are roofed with decorated, sometimes painted, arches; the floors are tile, cobblestone, or marble. The shutter to my camera exercised to near exhaustion; every painted building and surprising detail deserved a flash.

Naturally, hunger began to set in as I explored the city’s innards. I found, near the main square, a cute little café serving up homemade pasta. I ordered the classic dish of bologna, Spaghetti Bolognese. I bit into the perfectly cooked, al dente (Italian for “to the teeth”) Tagletelle pasta with the intention of ravaging every ribbon.

Chefs who know how to cook prepare their pasta in this manner. Too often in America do I order pasta and find it highly overcooked. If I wanted a limp noodle, I’d just call up my ex. This approach to pasta is so ubiquitous in America that most Patriots, when they receive a plate of ’al dente’ pasta for the first time, think it to be under cooked.

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Travel is an escape in every possible bending of the word. We travel to grow and learn, to learn about the world around us, to learn about the world we came from, and to learn about the world within ourselves. To me, travel provided self-worth and importance, something I’d never possessed in my life because of my repressed inclinations.

All of my life, I knew I was “different.” I liked girly things. Sports bored me, and yet, I was obsessed with my weight and body. I enjoyed cooking and sewing. My formative music collection contained artists such as Britney, Aqua, and the Spice Girls.

Basically, it should have been no surprise to me or anyone else that I spawned from rainbows, sugar plums, and gumdrops. I am gayer that Chris Colfer in drag. I am gayer than Anderson Cooper’s giggle. I am gayer than Ellen DeGeneres at a lesbian convention center during cat week.

However, during those turbulent and cruel middle school years, I couldn’t muster the courage to admit that to myself. I instead labeled myself a metrosexual. Peers constantly hounded me about my sexuality, but as long as I defended my heterosexuality they held fragments of doubt in their minds.

These gay witch hunts created a negative connotation with homosexuality in my psyche. Out of a desperate ’need’ to fit in, I refused to entertain any natural homosexual impulses. It was near the end of high school, when my sexual confusion and frustration led to a case of chronic masturbation. I began to tell myself I would either have to come out or live the rest of my life with pathetic and secret imprisonment to C.M.P. Out of opportunity in Europe, I decided to test the waters to determine if I was actually gay, and this journey ended in Bologna.

Bologna is the central nervous system pumping the passions of its population in circles, like tiny platelets of blood. Bologna is very much the heart.

Bologna, the gay heart of Italy, offered a vibrant scene. Imagine a club on an island. Now imagine this island located in the middle of a lake. Now imagine this lake located in a park, and imagine this park located in a gorgeous Italian city. Welcome to my first gay club.

This club is not very obvious. No rainbow flags wave proudly in front of its entrance and no lights illuminate the entrance’s path. It closes at a strict 2:00 AM and is only gay on Fridays.

Through research I found the name “Chalet dei Giardini Margherita.” But I think the real name has to do with the organizers, known as the Easy Staff. Just don’t tell them I told you, Italians like to keep their dirty laundry private. Italy is still a very Catholic state. Have you heard the Pope’s stance on homosexuality and gay marriage lately? The popular notion is that chilling with the gays might result in better fashion, wittier dialogue, and a slight burning in hell. Two of my friends, of whom I’m writing, reached out and asked to be maintained anonymous. I am obliged to respect their wishes.

Anyways, if I had been on my own, I would have never found the club, and if I did, I would have been far too shy to enter. Luckily, knowing I would not be staying in a hostel, I used a gay dating site to meet a local who offered to show me around.

This muscle stud messaged me, requesting to hang out. His introduced himself (via PlanetRomeo messaging) as Pao, short for Paolo. Paolo, a muscular, tan, Italian had just graduated from university in Bologna. He was a film major and I was preparing to enter film school. He confessed that he made his money by working at a gay club and invited me to join him. I gladly accepted.

I felt like a contestant on the Bachelorette, (except not money-grubbing, psychotic, or an incredibly hot schizophrenic), like a male Cinderella, if you will. Pao hooked me up with free entrance to the club. We arrived before it officially opened to the public. Pao ordered me a drink- we drank free the whole night, and introduced me to his fellow staff. To an 18 year old, this backstage access fed the ego and proved addicting.

I, by chance, visited the club on the perfect Friday. This particular evening hosted the Mr. Gay Italia pageant. This pageant showcased the most beautiful boys from each region of Italy to vie for the title of Mr. Gay Italia.  They all paraded down the runway in tiny speedos, oiled and sprinkled with glitter. The hunk from Naples won.

“The fact of the matter is, they were all good. I wanted Milano to win, but Napoli was good as well.” Stated Pao.

“Omg, yea, Napoli was … really hot.” I said – at 17 I’d this was my first time talking so freely about boys.

I’d never felt so comfortable. First of all, the DJ played every tune I secretly cherished, mostly Lady Gaga masterpieces. Second, I could dance for the fun of it. I didn’t have to engage in pitiful mating games and wear a contrived air of masculinity. Third, I seriously felt a connection with Pao. He spoke comfortably in English, but retained his seductive accent. He turned me on even more when he spoke his lyrical mother tongue; Italian.  To be honest, he was my first crush. It seems, however, I mistook his credulity for flirtation. Later into the night, Pao jumped with joy and beckoned an older, tall man towards us.

“Jake, this is my boyfriend, Max.”

The bomb dropped and obliterated my fancies. My face reddened, I swallowed hard, and then composed myself.

“Oh. Ciao, Max. Piaccere.” I muttered.

I knew then I’d dried in the thickest crazy glue, stuck forever in the friend zone (life MUST be dramatic at this age). Despite the letdown, I spent the remainder of the evening dancing, flirting, drinking (for free), and finally understanding why people found it fun to go out to clubs.

At the straight clubs, I’d put on the pathetic hunter suit, searching for a potential mate. Flirting never worked out for me because I didn‘t desire the light at the end of that dark, swampy tunnel known as the vagina.

I awoke in my hotel room the next morning a little hung-over, alone, and confused. All I could do was dream about the night before. Soon, however, guilt filled my stomach and lungs- or maybe that was bile- FUCK that was a hangover.

I felt guilty for going to the gay club, I felt guilty for enjoying it, and I felt guilty for being gay. After coming out now, I realize it’s perfectly legitimate for a person to be gay and Christian, but before, I felt that if I were to come out, I would give up my salvation.

So I walked to the grandest cathedral I could find to search for answers. I used to pray daily, on the verge of tears, asking God why I was gay. I even used to make deals with him: “Please, God, if you just take this out of me, I’ll be the best Christian ever. I promise.” I could never understand why, if sodomy was wrong, God would have created me with that mindset and inclination.

I found myself in a gorgeous, stained glass cathedral, completely alone and pouring myself out in my one-way relationship with the foreign entity known as God. I practically meditated, concentrating hard and channeling my feelings to my environment, so much so that even the chipped paint on the cold, stone walls soaked up my yearnings.

“You WILL listen, God!” I must have been thinking.

I repeated prayers over and over, pleading with him, begging him, and crying for God to grant me clarification. I looked upon my past life and found it to be a blur. As if waking from a dream, I saw the true, enlightened world.

I realized that after experiencing gay life the night before, it would be nearly impossible to live a normal life moving forward. I knew I’d come to a crossroads. According to what was taught to me, I had to choose between my desires and my ingrained “beliefs”. God had never reached out to me before, but I wanted to offer him one last chance before giving up the desperate hope of a loving God.

I begged for him to take away my troubles and my sin. I wanted so badly to be good. I hated feeling guilty for who I truly was, and often felt jealous of my straight friends for being born so lucky. I sat in the cathedral for over an hour simply talking with God, and then, something amazing happened.

I spent all my energy fighting with God, blaming him for making me different, and resenting him for making homosexuality a sin.

I briefly became an atheist until I had a very real and tangible awakening.

As I sat in the middle of the cathedral, contemplating my existence, a warming ray of light landed on me. A stained glass window created a spotlight for me, and very well could scientifically be explained as a movement of the sun. In this ray of light however, I felt an external presence.

A peace and serenity washed over my entire body. I’ve never felt so at ease before, the intoxicating taste of paradise laced over my tongue. I suddenly felt something in my very inner being. This feeling that told me homosexuality was part of what makes me who I am. It was part of a plan to create diversity and test the acceptance and love of people. It was a beautiful gift to the world.

Okay, maybe that incredibly hot schizophrenic joke isn’t so far off…

No, it wasn’t a voice lecturing me or explaining. I didn’t hear any voices or anything, but the message was conveyed within a gut feeling, I finally felt true happiness, a feeling I had never known before that point. I just felt free, granted the permission to let go and just be. As if saying, do not fret on what anyone says, you are exactly as you need to be.

I’m not saying it proved the existence of a “God” in the traditional sense, but I am saying that it affirmed a higher power directing energies in our lives. That to me is a good enough reason to live a good life.

After this epiphany, I arose, exited the cathedral, and prancercised gaily through the streets of Bologna.

In one hour’s time, I had gone from complete self-pity and shame to complete self-acceptance and glee. Afterwards, I walked for hours, lost in my thoughts. I suddenly found a new path for my life, and yes, it was different, but I saw it as something to be happy about. “I am gay.” I proudly admitted this to myself.  It’s just a matter of fact kind of thing, like the existence of dogs or trees; it’s really a rather mundane statement.