Binge

I never knew that love didn’t hurt. My childhood was spent navigating divorces and custody battles, and in my head, love was war. You fought and you made up, and those highs and lows were called passion. But I’m opting out of that mentality. Sure, relationships include arguments, but pain is not a side effect of love. Sometimes frustration or confusion, okay, but I don’t think pain is going to be a part of my love ever again. If someone is harming you physically, mentally, emotionally, or sexually, that is not love.

  I’m young, and I don’t have all the answers. I’ll probably make a ton of mistakes before I figure it out. But none of them will involve tolerating abuse in the name of love.

  beyoncé for the day

  1. GO DOOR-TO-DOOR—It’s incredibly important for me to use this day to freak people the fuck out, and there’s no better way to surprise people than to show up and ring their doorbell. When they open the door, I’d simply say in a sultry voice, “Yes, I’m Beyoncé.”

  2. PRETEND AN ALBUM IS COMING—When Beyoncé was recording her secret album, Beyoncé, she shot some footage for the video in public. To keep her new music a mystery, she had headphones in her ears and walked around lip-synching to a camera. Now that people know this, I’d walk around everywhere with earbuds in and a cameraman. Keep those other, basic pop divas on their toes.

  3. SING INTO A MIRROR—Beyoncé is obviously one of the greatest vocalists in the world. Although being Tyler Oakley does have its perks (I once was a guest on The Ellen DeGeneres Show and Cher follows me on Twitter), being Tyler Oakley won’t get me front-row tickets to a Beyoncé concert. Thus, I would sing into a mirror to give myself the best seat in the house for a mini-acoustic set.

  4. OVERTHROW THE PATRIARCHY—Duh.

  5. SING THE NATIONAL ANTHEM TO THE LOCALS—Beyoncé has already snatched wigs at the inauguration of the president of the United States by slaying the national anthem, but if I were her, I’d take it local. Bust into some small-town football game, swipe the microphone from a local high school choirgirl, push her down into a puddle while I’m at it, and go out onto the field to deliver some patriotic vocal fireworks. I’d then drop the mic and make eye contact with exactly nobody as I exited through the stands.

  6. SIGN DOLLAR BILLS—Not everyone can get a Beyoncé autograph, so I’d sign a stack of dollar bills and go on a shopping spree at a dollar store. Put those Washingtons into rotation for the common folk. Y’all are welcome.

  7. CALL UP LATAVIA, LETOYA, AND FARRAH—Everyone gives Michelle and Kelly grief for playing second fiddle to Beyoncé, but can you imagine being LaTavia Roberson, LeToya Luckett, or Farrah Franklin? They were all also once in Destiny’s Child, and nobody remembers them. I’d call them up and give ’em some motivational pep talks. Lord knows they need ’em.

  8. CALL UP APPLE—No, not Gwyneth Paltrow’s daughter. The world needs a Beyoncé emoji, and if Beyoncé asked for it, Apple understands it would have to deliver.

  9. SASS PEOPLE ON TWITTER—As Beyoncé, I’d be interested in searching my indirects on Twitter (that’s when people tweet about you but don’t tag you, assuming you won’t find it) and sassing out people who talk shit about me. Obviously, I’d be very busy that day.

  10. TEATIME WITH THE GIRLS—I can’t be all go, go, go, all day long. I’m going to need to recharge. Oprah, Ellen, Gaga, Michelle Obama, Cher, Caitlyn Jenner . . . everyone’s coming to tea.

  11. BREAK RECORDS WITH BLUE IVY—If you’re the child of Beyoncé, you’ve got big shoes to fill, so I’d start Blue Ivy’s life out on the right foot. Help her break some Guinness records before she starts preschool. I mean, even when she was two days old, she already broke a record by becoming the youngest person to ever debut in the Billboard charts. Why not break some more records?

  12. POLISH MY GRAMMYS—There is nothing more satisfying than cleaning my Grammys. Obviously, I would then snapchat pictures of them to all my less talented vocalist friends. Not naming names, but just try comparing my mountain of gold to your MTV Latin America Award for Best Ringtone in 2009.

  13. DROP AN ALBUM—No, not in the way you think. Nobody can do that in a day. Well, okay, maybe Beyoncé could. But, no, I’d go to Best Buy, pick up a CD, clumsily let it fall to the floor, and then make a joke about pulling a Beyoncé.

  14. SELF-PROMO—I’d carry over some Tyler Oakley tendencies while being Beyoncé, and one of them would have to be shameless self-promotion. I’d be tweeting out my iTunes links, pushing the like button on my Vevo videos, everything. If you’ve got a platform, promote, girl! By the way, follow me on Twitter: @tyleroakley.

  15. ENTER A DRAG COMPETITION—Drag queens love to perform Beyoncé songs. They’re strong, powerful, loud, and dramatic. If I were Beyoncé, I’d go to a gay bar on a Friday night and compete as a Beyoncé-impersonating drag queen. Some queens are so good, I’d probably come in second.

  16. PROMOTE ARTPOP—Lady Gaga needs all the help she can get right now.

  17. RE-CREATE “LADY MARMALADE”—In 2001, Christina Aguilera, Lil’ Kim, Mýa, Pink, and Missy Elliott joined forces to put out “Lady Marmalade,” an all-girls single that slayed the charts, as well as my heart. A decade later, we need an updated version. If I were Beyoncé, I’d use my vocal powers and my impressive list of contacts to unite the voices needed to outslay the previous version. Gaga, Carrie, Nicki, Robyn, check your texts. I need you.

  18. GO TO STARBUCKS IN A MASK—I’d order my usual grande iced coffee with soy, and when they asked for my name to write it on my cup, I’d dramatically scream, “Beyoncé,” while ripping off my mask. Again, I’m very busy with my twenty-four hours as the queen of pop, soul, and R&B.

  19. DENY BEING BEYONCÉ—There’s nothing better than confusing people who are sure they know who you are by telling them, “No, but I get that all the time.” I’d pull this shit all day long.

  20. FOLLOW @TYLEROAKLEY ON TWITTER—This will actually have been the first thing I did on my day as Beyoncé. I would then make the hashtag #FollowTylerOakleyNow trend worldwide. This will be my legacy. I was here, world!

  holy matriphony

  EVERY WEDDING I’VE EVER ATTENDED HAS BEEN an absolute disaster. Sure, there must be some exceptions I’m forgetting, but the only one I can remember that wasn’t the worst was a same-sex wedding in New York City. The gays were cute, the ceremony was intimate, the food was everything you’d hope for, and the drinks were flowing. That wedding was so good that they even slow-danced to the first minute of Lady Gaga’s “Gypsy” as their first dance as a married couple, and when the tempo rose, invited all of their friends and family to booty-pop with them on the dance floor. I was a sobbing mess. And to think people thought we gays would ruin the sanctity of marriage.

  Wait, hold that thought. If I remember correctly, after the reception we all went to a gay bar. I totally lost my black crushed-velvet blazer while my hands were down the front of stranger’s pants. False alarm, yet another disaster for the records. Sorry, Billy and Pat, my personal misfortune lands your otherwise flawless matrimony into the flop category.

  The first wedding I ever attended was my mom’s second. She and my stepdad had always been cost-conscious, and their special day was no exception. The morning of the wedding, the six children from their combined previous failed marriages split into two groups, three of us picking up dog poop, while the other three were setting up lawn chairs on the uneven grass. It was to be a backyard wedding, with self-valet in the cul-de-sac.

  I was six years old, and apparently on that day I “wasn’t in the mood” to attend the wedding and “couldn’t be bothered” to put on my tux. My parents had selfishly scheduled their wedding during the same time as the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers’ second-season, two-part finale. How could they not respect that the Green Ranger, Tommy, had lost all of his powers and was about to come back as the White Ranger?! Unlike my mother’s nuptials, this television event was unprecedented. Mom’s second wedding? Essentially a rerun.

  Unfortunately for me, my future-oldest-stepsister couldn’t care less ab
out my TV schedule. She picked me up by my shirt collar, came within an inch of my face, and snarled at me through clenched teeth about how, at the age of six, I needed to grow the fuck up. I learned a valuable lesson that day: if your mom is getting married, no excuse will get you out of attending the event—not even the biggest plot twist in Power Rangers history.

  Since then, I’ve attended many weddings, but one of the best/worst was when I showed up to the wedding of a pair of strangers, and I was completely overdressed. Take a moment and imagine what that would even mean. Perhaps you’re imagining a top hat, monocle, and cane? Or maybe a wedding dress of my own? Well, strangely, none of the above.

  I was up in northern Michigan with my then-boyfriend Adam (see the chapter “The One That Got Away” for that shit-show), visiting for New Year’s. Over the long weekend, I was told we’d be making a pit stop to attend a distant relative’s New Year’s Eve wedding. I packed what I thought was appropriate: a suit, complete with nice shoes, a cute shirt, a skinny tie—just your typical, basic wedding attire. Adam and I loved getting dressed up, and a wedding was sure to make us both cry—so we were pretty pumped for the ceremony, even if we didn’t know the couple.

  When we showed up to the address, I quickly realized this ceremony was going to be a lot more intimate than anticipated. It was a small cottage in the middle of a neighborhood, and although we double-checked the address, sure enough, this was it. We walked up to the front door and were greeted by the groom himself, ready for the biggest day of his life, in blue jeans and a T. Immediately feeling completely overdressed, I began to sweat. They say it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed, and I assume that’s because while you’re sweating it out either way, a suit jacket at least conceals the fact.

  We were joined by about ten other guests, all dressed as if they were about to attend a garage sale. I made small talk with some strangers, but between having to act as if I were my closeted boyfriend’s platonic college friend and having to explain why I was wearing a suit, I was getting a bit anxious. So I did what any eating-disorder-recovering stress eater would do: I excused myself and made my way to the kitchen. Ahh, yes, food: my +1 for any event, my accomplice in any getaway. A full plate of cheese cubes, a few half-frozen shrimps, and a pile of tiny BBQ wieners to stuff my mouth with—nobody would find me unfrightening, much less approachable. I took my plate of snacks to the dining room, where I spent a conspicuous amount of time staring at a display case of collectible baby spoons. Then I moved on to repeat the tactic with a display case of collectible thimbles. I was the life of this party.

  After killing some time hiding in the bathroom and staring at myself in the mirror, I flushed the unused toilet, fake-washed my hands, and opened the door to rejoin the party. My boyfriend, Adam, approached me with disbelief in his eyes. We both had thought we were attending a traditional wedding, maybe at a church, and definitely with at least a hundred guests we could blend in with. Instead, he told me the ceremony was about to start in the living room, and we were about to serve as witnesses.

  We made our way in and took a seat in a La-Z-Boy love seat. Adam reached to pull the side lever to put up his footrest, and I slowly turned my head, wide-eyed, as if to communicate, Have some respect, we are at a wedding-ish. He let go of the lever and sat up straight, stifling a laugh.

  It was New Year’s Eve, 11:00 p.m., when a man put down his beer and stood up to ordain the wedding. Nothing about the ceremony seemed planned, and the groom even interrupted the “ceremony” a few times to chitchat with a man in a plastic, inflatable chair across from me. I was baffled by the blasé attitude toward it all, but more than that, jealous of the bride’s sweatpants.

  When it was time for the vows, the bride and the groom threw their final curveball: an utterly romantic and personal set of promises to each other. They held each other’s hands and looked into each other’s eyes, tears streaming down their cheeks while expressing their most personal affections. I sat in my recliner, holding in my sniffles while tears dripped onto my suit. I finally saw the situation as it was intended: no glitz or glam, just pure love. It was their closest friends and family, no more, no less, plus two gays. The ceremony was never meant to wow anyone or conform to expectations. It was a promise of love, plain and simple. I wept and stuffed my face with BBQ wieners.

  After the ceremony, Adam and I said our congratulations and good-byes before departing. We walked in silence down the sidewalk, and I reached out to hold Adam’s hand as the snow fell silently on the sidewalk around us. The moment we got into Adam’s car, we burst into laughter, speechless over how the night had gone. As Adam drove, I sat in silence, smiling while thinking about how when I got married someday, I could make my own rules too. If people got uncomfortable with how I celebrated my love, that was on them. Also, a bride in sweatpants? I bow down.

  Years later, when I was living in San Francisco, I dated a guy named Danny. He was a journalist living in the East Bay, and every date we went on, I took the BART for forty minutes to see him. He was funny, charming, talkative, and challenged my way of thinking. I liked him. The first couple dates we went on, I’d ride the train with a book on my lap, watching the scenery through the windows, wondering if this was something I could do long term. Turns out, it wasn’t, and we ended up fizzling out after a few months. All good, it happens. Afterward we saw each other every once in a while, usually at the Lookout when our respective groups of friends attended karaoke night. We generally kept to ourselves, but we were definitely cordial.

  A couple months later, I got a text from him, completely out of the blue. Hey! You in town next weekend?

  Yep! What’s up? I replied.

  Do you remember my cousin’s wedding I mentioned having to go to? So . . . I don’t have a date, wanna be my +1? I weighed my options as another text from him came through. No pressure or expectations, obviously, and it’s open bar. Come. It’ll be fun. I’ll get you drunk.

  I did enjoy free alcohol. . . . Sure, just let me know what to wear, I replied, wary of overdressing.

  Danny picked me up the afternoon of the wedding, and we caught up on the drive there. I glanced over at him as he drove. His eyes were on the road, and he smiled as he told a story. He was charming and handsome, and he caught me staring. I looked away and adjusted my tie in the mirror. Hanging out with someone you kind of broke things off with for no concrete reason is weird—you start to rethink why y’all stopped talking in the first place, and whether getting together could mean getting back together.

  That night at the wedding, Danny was the perfect date—he introduced me to everyone, made sure I always had a drink, and asked what songs I wanted him to request from the DJ. He treated me like a boyfriend. Is this what it would have been like had we stayed together? I watched him socialize at the next table over. At five feet four inches, he barely had to hunch while talking to a seated elderly couple. He was warm and kind with them, and adorable. He looked up, and we caught each other’s eyes. He winked and I blushed.

  “Okay, honestly, you guys are too much!” said his sister, sitting next to me, observing the interaction. “When’s it going to be your turn?” She spun her finger to indicate the wedding.

  “Oh, Lord,” I groaned, “don’t even say that.” I laughed. Hers was the reaction we were getting from most of the wedding attendees. Though it was flattering, I did feel a little weird. Not once did Danny correct anybody and say that we were just friends.

  “I think people think we’re together,” I whispered to Danny, while the best man gave his toast.

  “Let them. Let’s pretend we are. It’ll be fun.” Danny’s hand was on my lower back.

  A little smitten, I obliged.

  Not until I met Danny’s mom did I realize I was in too deep.

  “So this is the Tyler you’ve been telling me about!” she said. “I was wondering when I was going to meet you.”

  I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes at Danny. He laughed nervously and asked who needed a refill. People weren?
??t just incorrectly assuming. This little fucker was behind people’s thinking we were together.

  As he walked away with a few cups, I continued chatting with Danny’s mom and began cautiously investigating just how misinformed the family was about our relationship. Just then, a few of Danny’s cousins, whom I had met earlier, took the microphone drunkenly.

  “Thank you all for coming and helping us celebrate our beautiful cousin’s wedding,” they said to applause. “Now we’re all wondering which cousin is going to be next . . . Mason?” They pointed at one of Danny’s cousins who was sitting alone at his own table drinking, clearly still single. He put up his hands in surrender, shaking his head. The crowd laughed.

  “Maybe . . . Danny? And his special friend over there?”

  Suddenly, all eyes were on us. My face went completely red, and I was now positive that my presence at the wedding was no fluke. My invitation to be his +1 was no out-of-the-blue text. This was a trap.

  “We need to talk,” I whispered to Danny, as his cousins dropped the microphone and left the stage. “What did you tell—” A pair of hands gripped my shoulders and I let out a yelp.

  “Danny, do you mind if we steal this one for a few?” a cousin asked. I fixed a steely gaze on Danny. “We just wanna ask him some questions and get to know him a little better,” another cousin followed up. My stare bore into my date. If he let the cousins take me, I was done for. This would be the end of me.

  “Don’t be too rough with him!” Danny laughed.

  My jaw dropped as I was practically lifted out of my seat and guided out of the banquet hall. It was me and about seven or eight of Danny’s most intimidating cousins. They were straight, masculine, and muscled, and under any other circumstances I would have quickly volunteered as tribute to be taken into a private room with them. As we went through the front doors and into the hallway, I looked over my shoulder and caught one last glimpse of Danny, cringing. He was dead to me.