The Fox is stopping to take a short break. He thanks you for your patience and will be back in touch soon.
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The Fox is stopping to take a short break. He thanks you for your patience and will be back in touch soon.
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JOHN: How do you do it man?
RUGGED FOX: Do what?
JOHN: Crawl into bed with these gorgeous women time and again? What is your secret?
RUGGED FOX: It’s really quite simple John, you just can’t touch them. Cause as soon as you do, it’s all over.
Life in a bachelor is one living plan that definitely has its perks. With a zero-month contract on a roommate, there is never any question as to whose turn it is to take out the garbage or clean the dishes overflowing in the kitchen sink. Other benefits included in the package are: free evenings and weekends to yourself, unlimited peace and quiet, and no additional charges for roaming around the apartment naked. However like any plan that sounds too good to be true, there are most certainly hidden costs. And written in the fine print of my contract, is the price I pay for living alone.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike living with myself. As far as I am concerned, the prospect of returning home to an empty apartment after a hard day’s work pumping out caramel macchiatos, is almost as delicious as the thought of eating extra olives with a dry gin martini. However, there are the occasional nights when this is not the case; and it is during these times that the sight of an empty mattress can be just as devastating as getting up from the couch only to discover the bottle of red on the kitchen counter is empty. It is in these moonlit moments that I am most likely to get in trouble, because I will do anything to keep from coming home.
Now I know what you’re thinking at this paragraph, and that is that, ‘gee Fox, you are a fabulous gay man, a fabulous smoking hot gay man that is, shouldn’t you just bring home a different boy each night of the week like every other gay man out there to fix your problem?’ And the answer is no. No I should not; because contrary to popular belief I am not that easy, and apart from that I have an irrational fear of syphilis. So, instead I take the hole less traveled, and either (a) try to convince the bartender last call is really just a suggestion or (b) dial up one of one my friends in the middle of the night pretending it’s not three in the morning.
Case in point: last Friday night.
After getting off work early, I invited my girlfriend Elle over to watch the first season of Sex and the City and drink the rest of the wine I had leftover from the night before. Elle is a twenty-first century power woman who is fiercely independent, crazy smart, and looks to die for in a Mad Men shade of red lipstick. Settling in to what was supposed to be a quiet evening, I poured us both a glass of wine, pressed play on the DVD player, and prompted a serious discussion on what matters more: length or girth (more on that later). However, one bottle of un-oaked Chardonnay and 46 minutes of Carrie Bradshaw-with-exposed-roots later, our low-key night called a cab and jumped about eight octaves higher.
Stopping at the nearest gay village (my choice), in less than ten minutes the two of us went from the kitsch of my apartment to the rainbow-flagged streets of downtown Davie. Pulling open the metal-rimmed glass doors to 1181, a chic bar/lounge where the bartenders always seem to forget their shirts, we walked into our very own episode of the HBO classic. Filled to the brim with homosexual men, the two of us breathed in the smell of pretentiousness as we weaved our way to open spot at the bar. Throwing my boyfriend VISA down on the vodka-stained counter like I could actually afford it, I started a tab with the two pecs in front of me and suggested to Elle we take our glasses to the back, where there was better lighting for my skin.
Sitting down beside a tripartite of fabulous lesbians, the five of us spent the rest of the evening talking, dancing and making fun of the people we were most jealous of - k maybe I was the only jealous in our party, but whatever. Everything was fine and dandy until the night began to wind down and it was clear I had drank six glasses of wine too much for an empty stomach. Feeling the lights would soon be turned on and I would have to go home, I began to panic. Home meant a dark apartment with me drunk inside of it trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Home meant having to set the alarm for morning in order to drag myself to work. Home meant the biting reality that I would have to go to bed alone, and at that moment in time, that was the last place I wanted to be.
And so, determined to sleep in someone else’s bed, I looked at the options under 40 before me, and decided to whip open my cell phone instead. Dialing the only person I knew who would still be awake (God bless servers) I was filled with delight when she picked up on the other line. Bidding adieu to Elle, who was off to meet her own after-hours man downtown, I caught a cab for Gastown and met Joy at the front door of her loft. Equipped with an extra pair of pajamas for when I arrived, she poured me a night-cap filled with water on the rocks, showed me to a toothbrush in the washroom, and readied a spot for me on the bed.
It’s funny how life seems to work out sometimes. As it turned out, neither of us wanted to crawl (or in my case fall) into bed alone that night. So it worked out well that she just happened to have her phone on while I just happened to be drunk down the street. Drifting off on the mattress next to her, I remember savoring the moment of what it felt like to have someone lying beside me, because I knew the next time I opened my eyes I’d have no clue where I was or how I got there.
]]>CHER: Mr. Hall, I was surfing the crimson wave, I had to haul ass to the ladies'.
MR HALL: I assume your referring to women's troubles, and so I'll let that one slide.
- Clueless, 1995. Amy Heckerling.
Alright so here is the latest development: I’m fairly sure I have a menstrual cycle. And even though I am fully aware I am missing all the necessary parts, namely: a uterus, vagina, matching sets of ovaries and fallopian tubes, and well pretty much the entire female productive system; I am still certain this is the case.
So after much hard-thinking this past weekend, I came to the conclusion that I have gaymenses. Allow me to explain. But like any good story of sexual development, first we must return to my childhood past.
At a young age, I learned that I was not like most of the other boys in school. This revelation first came to me in grade four, when my teacher selected me to provide a guided-tour of our school, to a new girl who had just joined our class. With characteristic enthusiasm, I took her to all my favourite spots, including the library and counselor’s office. Wrapping up the tour four hallways later, she turned to me just before we returned to class and asked, “Are you a girl?”
Immediately I replied "No" to her, wondering what school she had transferred from that gender was so ambiguous. Making a special point to show her the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles splayed across my chest, I interrogated her as to why she would ask me something like that.
“I don’t know,” she said casually, innocently shrugging her shoulders. “You are just not like the other boys I know.”
It wasn’t until junior high that I realized she was actually right. While failing sports - and pretty much every other “male rites of passage” course the school had to offer - I passed home economics with flying colours. The only student to graduate from my grade-eight class with top marks in cooking and wood-working, there was no question I would make the perfect housewife when I grew up. Fast-forwarding through the tragic mess that was my “all boys” “Catholic” high school experience, it was not until University that I began to truly embrace my atypical gender. Abandoning any hopes of following in the same footsteps as my father, I opened up the internal flood gates on a tidal wave stained crimson, and got set for the ride.
What grade-seven boy didn't have pictures of Sarah Michelle Gellar and the Spice Girls plastered all over his wall?
Now back to my gaymenstrual cycle. So it seems that for an average of six to eight days each month, my hormones follow a similar flow:
So far my research on the field of “gaymenses” has yielded no results. Even Wikipedia, which generally can be relied upon for everything, has nothing to say about the pressing subject. Because of this, I have decided to become the principal investigator in this psycho-sexual developmental instrumental temperamental (k now I am just rhyming) aspect of gay male life. For the next twelve to eighteen months, I will use myself as a test subject and record each monthly hormonal tidal wave as they occur. In the meantime, I have begun to control my surges using a mixture of Hendrick’s Gin and St. John’s Wort as a do-it-yourself form of gay-birth control.
]]>PASS THE HAT: If you like what you're reading, please help me grow my audience by sharing this post with others. Use the links below to post this page to your Facebook profile, tweet it, or email it to a friend. Thanks! - Sean Robert.
First base, I am happy to report that 2010 Calendar sales of “the misadventures of Rugged Fox” are through the roof. So far, other than the one I bought for myself, I have sold one more to a soon-to-be very happy couple in Winnipeg. Something tells me this fabulous Calendar is fast becoming a collector’s item.
Stealing second, to answer everyone’s apparent question about il postino: yes, he is gay. After posting the last update on him in which he told me I was adorable and had a great ass (alright maybe he didn’t say that last part, but it was a given he was thinking it), my phone was vibrating off the table with phone calls asking if he was actually gay. For the record, I do not fall in love with straight men (anymore), I just picture them on top of me naked in my bedroom. What il postino and I have is real… please take this moment to laugh. That reminds me, I simply must do a ring check next time he drops by. Don’t let me forget!
Sliding into third, another kitchen dance party is coming soon to Rugged Fox! For a sneak preview of what is about to grace your computer screen in the coming weeks, click here. I am currently rehearsing the video’s complex choreography and trying to find a white low-cut one-piece with matching rimmed sunglasses.
So on Friday night at my new job, also known as Starbucks, I was reading my training manuals in the lobby when I decided to pause for a moment to strike up a conversation with a girl seated beside me. With her laptop wide open and textbooks spread out before her, she looked as if she was in dire need of a good-looking distraction, hence me. Ensuring my legs were crossed first so she wouldn’t think I was trying to get in hers, I inquired as to what she could possibly be studying on a Friday night that would keep her in.
“I am studying to become a doctor,” she said casually, having successfully picked up on the fact that I was not about to ask for her phone number.
“That’s massive,” I said, thinking ‘if you only you were gay and my gender.’
“What are you studying for?” she then asked me, shooting a complete curve ball.
Stalling for a moment, I looked down at my manuals, and then mustering the most-confident smile I could, I raised my head and said, “I am studying to become a shift supervisor.”
When I became Buddhist for ten minutes last summer (as soon as I discovered monks can’t drink that was pretty much that), I read a passage in some new-age book stating that: in our lives, we should strive to find work that positively impacts the world and people around us. Reduced to its simplest terms, the logic follows that one should not be a murderer, because killing people is bad energy; but rather a person should be a doctor, because it saves lives. Pursuing a career as a server at the time I first read this, a chord struck with me.
After spending every Friday for the last six months serving the cast of Gossip Girl and the new 90210 in the trendy Kitsilano, I began to lose sight of myself in my role as a servant. After uncorking expensive bottle after expensive bottle after expensive bottle of wine for people each night who would barely look me in the eye, I became invisible not only to those I was serving, but also to myself. I was no longer “Rugged Fox,” but rather,“Can I get another?” Bending over backwards for men whose black AMEX cards weighed more than I could bench press, I ultimately reached the point in which I felt what I was doing was no longer good. It was then that I realized that no matter how much money a person makes in this life, if they don’t feel good about themselves each morning they wake up, they have nothing.
Is it just me or did this just get deep? Time to return to more shallow waters!
And so it came to me, three-quarters of the way through Under the Tuscan Sun and the bottle of red wine in my lap, that whatever you do in this life, you have to feel good about it. And whether “what you do” falls between the hours of 9-5 or outside that, when you are sketching in your notebook, taking care of loved ones, or simply just being you – then at the end of the day, that is all that matters.
And as for the doctor and shift supervisor-me, I came to the conclusion that night, that other than an extra-digit in salary and change in uniform, we are not so different; because in a sense, we are both saving lives. Cause see, when it comes right down to it, I am what happens before Grey’s Anatomy. And if it wasn’t for the fact that I was up at 5:00 a.m. to prepare venti-triple shot lattes, then my doctor friend would never stand a chance of making it through her scheduled five-hour open-heart surgery.
]]>BEFORE WE START: In light of the devastation in Haiti right now, I am hesitant to post a blog about wine bars, ex-boyfriends, and sleepovers with girls that are not men. Since the massive earthquake occurred, I have been glued to my television set trying to fathom the horrific event. But I can’t. If I thought I could write something that would help, I would. But instead, I have decided to share this link, which lists a number of organizations we can donate to, to assist the relief effort. Echoing the sentiment of my friend’s Facebook status update yesterday: don’t hesitate to donate! My thoughts and prayers and every loving word of support that I do not know how to write go out to all those people who are suffering because of this tragedy. – Sean Robert.
This time last year I was batting a painful case of shingles. This time this year, I am reveling in a most delightful bout of singles. Now for those of you die-hard reader(s), you will remember last summer when I diagnosed myself with chronic singleitis. The result of which landed me in a relationship with a tree. Well, I am happy to report that singles is not nearly as depressing as singleitis; for on the contrary it is actually quite the opposite.
According to the official dictionary at RuggedFox.com, singles is defined as the fabulous mental condition one finds themselves in after being free from heartache and relationship envy for more than six months. It affects primarily the central nervous system and results in a euphoric feeling of warm and coziness and a heightened self-esteem.
Just like in coupled life, we all experience times when we are happier to be locked down than others. Well, in terms of my single life, I cannot remember a time when coming home to an empty bed felt so good.
This past month I have been maximizing all the benefits of being a full-fledged singleton. Like a latte boy whore, I have been bending over backwards for every doctor at work who orders a grande Americano. That said, after a small boy-fight broke out this afternoon with me involved, it appears I am going to have to start treading a little bit more carefully. I swear it was really an innocent mistake, but apparently I barked up the wrong stethoscope when I made eyes at my fabulous assistant manager’s white-coat regular. Oops!
Next week I am planning to wear a t-shirt to work that says “CAUTION: HOT” on the front with my phone number and preferred cup size written on the back.
Carrying on with the whole single and fabulous thing, when I am not steaming lattes or scrubbing toilets, I have been hosting impromptu sleepover parties with my girlfriend Joy and catching up with the Ex. Not once, but twice this past month I have woken up in bed beside a girl. I swear, if it weren’t for the flaming picture of me to the right of your screen, and forty-three seconds every other night before bedtime, I’d think I was straight!
That is of course until I take into consideration that I am not.
Anyways, luckily I had an extra toothbrush for her the next morning because I always keep one on-hand in the advent my future husband sleeps over.
In terms of my four-month check-up with the ex, I am happy to report that I am no longer running to the nearest wine bar after our appointment is over. That said, I am still remembering to look smoking hot at all times just incase he forgets what he is missing.
Prior to meeting him downtown for drinks, I received a phone call from my girlfriend Perry who asked me what I was planning on wearing. I told her I planned on looking unavailable, which in my opinion is the most attractive quality in a man. “Because when it comes right down to it,” I confided to her, “the difference between looking desperate and unavailable is just a slight adjustment of the face.”
Sitting across from him on a couch one sky train later, I made sure to maintain my unavailable face while reminding myself not to shoot back the glass of red wine in my right hand. As it turned out, once we finished “catching-up” I ended up running to the nearest wine bar anyways. Some habits never die.
But unlike previous times, this time was different; because this time I was not alone. Receiving a text from my favourite West Coast couple just after I parted him adieu, I made plans to meet the two of them at UVA for a night-cap. Traversing the twelve blocks in my Jay Brannan cowboy boots to get to the blue-lit lounge, I walked inside and felt for the very first time like I was actually Carrie Bradshaw, without having to fake it. Spotting the two lovers in a leather booth at the back, I felt the most gigantic smile grow on my face as I sat down to join them. The lady of the two, Rose, who is a Sommelier-in-training and my Cranium Pop Five partner all-star, ordered a five-thousand dollar bottle of delicious Pinot Noir for the three of us to share. Now that I work at Starbucks and am no longer a baller, I could only contribute $10 towards the final purchase. Cheers-ing we drank, talked and laughed the rest of the night away.
Waking up the next morning, I must admit I felt the most unfortunate side effect of singles: feeling as if you were just hit by a truck. Stumbling to work for a venti-size dark roast with double-shot of espresso before starting, I prayed to Meryl Streep they did not put me on bar; but sadly, she must have been too busy filming to hear me. Because five minutes later I was gunned down by a barrage of empty white cups shooting at me from every direction.
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My first barista job. Click on the photo to see more of the Fox at work!
$20,000, six years, and one Bachelor of Arts degree in English later, I find myself working on the assembly line of the 21st century at Starbucks. Having completed my Barista 100 Certification this past week, I am now qualified to steam, blend and call-out a number of delicious beverages the company has to offer. After putting on the green apron for the first time last week, I could not help but think that after frequenting the coffee shop almost everyday for the past three years, I would’ve found my career path sooner.
Beating the sun to work before my very first shift, my body froze outside the two polished glass doors that led inside. Peering into my future, I watched the green aprons fly by while a steady line-up of people shuffled in and out with the white-cups in place of their hands. Terrified, my legs became numb the second they tried to run. My arms listless, I willed myself to open the door but could not move a finger. I was paralyzed by the fear I was making the wrong decision and filled with doubt I could not change even if I tried. Looking up for some clarity to the overcast skies above, I begged the clouds for an answer to my question: is this for me?
Well it appeared someone was listening; because at that exact moment the cutest medical student with the biggest backpack literally knocked the sense right back into me. Misjudging his reach for the handle on the door, he accidentally side-swiped me with his backpack. Good thing for me though, because as he turned to around to apologize, the second his homosexual eyes locked mine I found the answer I was looking for.
The blood rushing back to my head, I managed to get my bearings and proceeded to walk through the front doors which the boy in question was holding open for me. Clocking in five minutes later, I felt as if I was not only starting a new job, but also a new chapter in my twenty-something life.
If I have learned anything in the workforce these past ten years, it is that a job can provide a person with much more then a steady paycheque (if that!). My decision to jump ship from the restaurant industry, or at least try to, was spurred on by the fact that I am looking for certain things in my life at this moment, that I cannot achieve working the hours of a server. At this point - and keep in mind after four months of working full-time for ten bucks an hour I might be singing a different tune! - I am seeking routine, stability and structure. And after dropping $400 at the dentist in November, I am also in search of a job that provides benefits.
But above all else, and most importantly, I am looking for a husband. And because I chose to apply at the Starbucks in the hospital, I can practically sit back and take my pick of any doctor, nurse, or med student who walks in the door.
I can see it now...
RUGGED FOX: Here’s your tall dark served extra hot Mr. Unavailable Doctor Man.
POTENTIAL DOCTOR HUSBAND: You have just what I need.
RUGGED FOX: *girlish squeak* I know, I know. I have a fifteen coming up, on-call room in ten?
I would be a tall double-long, nonfat, six-pump ginger-spice latte with extra foam served 180°
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The perfect package. Get your very own copy of the 2010 Rugged Fox Calendar!
Alright so here’s the deal. Running fashionably late I managed to wrap up the design for “The Misadventures of Rugged Fox” 2010 Calendar just before Christmas. (I tried changing the start date for the Calendar to February 1st but apparently that was “not allowed.”) Anyways, fearing the printed version may cut off any part of my beautiful face, I ordered a copy for myself before putting it up for sale.
This morning when I woke up I poured myself a cup of coffee, downloaded the latest episode of The Good Wife (love that show!) and then thought to myself “where the heck is my calendar?” Literally, one second later (I wish I was making this s*it up folks) there was a knock at the door.
Dressed in my pajamas the shirt of which was on inside out, I thought “Oh Gosh, here we go again.” Drifting over to the door, I opened it up to find Il Postino (1) (2) on the other side.
(I really wish at this moment I had any other “love department” update to write you but unfortunately this is it. The only blast from the past I can give an honorable mention to is the fact that I had to serve Matthew (the boy who stood-me up) at the restaurant on New Year’s Eve. In reference to that uncomfortable experience all I can say is this: one should never have to serve diet coke refills to men who have taken a chip off their heart. End of story. )
So I open up the door and with a big smile on his face, The Postman says, “Hello Fox. Happy New Year!”
Taken aback by the fact that we were already on a first name basis after six months, it occurred to me that he knows a lot more about me than I do him. Not only does he know my name, he knows where I live, what magazines I subscribe to, and what I look like before I apply my face.
My breath coffee-stained, I replied to him with my right hand positioned strategically over my mouth, “Happy New Year to you too!”
Passing me the package, I thought, Oh my god if only you knew what was inside this box, and debated passing it back to him. However, then it occurred to that giving him a Calendar of myself before the first date might be a bit much, so I decided to keep it.
Wishing me a great afternoon, he turned to head back to the elevator and then I did what I have never done before: went after him.
Stepping out into the hallway wearing my mama-bought flannel bottoms, I stopped him just after he had pressed the elevator button and said, “I don’t even know your name.” I swear I was this close to reprising my still-talked-about-high-school-role as Marius Pontmercy in the 2002 St. Mary’s Academy production of Les Miserables and breaking out into “A Heart Full of Love.” Fortunately I didn’t.
“Dylan” he replied, returning to shake my hand as the elevator door opened behind him. His grip was firm and tight, while mine was flexible and submissive.
“It is nice to meet you officially Dylan” I said, practically exchanging my vows.
The elevator door just beginning to shut, he broke his grasp and stopped the door just before it closed. Stepping inside, he stuck his head back out just before it closed again and said “I think you are adorable.” And then the door shut.
Bouncing up and down like Laura Linney in Love Actually I decided I was not going to let my mentally deranged brother come between us. So it is official. The next time I report back to you on Il Postino it will be in regards to our first date. No more lying down and rolling over for Rugged Fox. Is it time I start taking a hint from the cream I spread all over my face day and night and be Proactive. I am thinking of leaving him a note in my mailbox with my phone number and an invite for drinks: what are your thoughts?
NOTE: MY STORE IS GIVING ME TROUBLES AT THE MOMENT. ALL ITEMS SHOULD BE UP FOR SALE WITHIN THE NEXT HOUR. IF YOU DO NOT SEE THEM, PLEASE RETURN TO THE STORE AT A DIFFERENT TIME. I WILL KEEP WORKING ON IT.
And oh yes! Before I forget! The much-anticipated 2010 Calendar for “The Misadventures of Rugged Fox” is up for sale. You can purchase your very own copy as well as a companion coffee mug and mouse pad by clicking here. (I apologize about the ridiculous shipping cost but the final product delivered to your door is well worth it.)
James Dean Feb 2010 next to Rugged Fox July 2010
As far as future posts are concerned, here is what you can expect in the coming weeks!
Hope you are well lovers! Best in the New Year!
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The Perfect Stocking Stuffer. 2009. M.F.
Happy Holidays from Rugged Fox!
]]>“What did you expect? Coffins and dungeons and moats?” – Edward Cullen
After my civilized dinner party last Friday night ended at an uncivilized hour Saturday morning, I decided to take the rest of the weekend off to watch movies. Stumbling to the local video store, I returned home late Saturday afternoon with a Venti-sized dark in one hand and Cool Hand Luke and Twilight in the other. Postponing my clean-up duties until the following week, I cleared enough space on the couch to sit down and inserted Mr. Newman into my DVD player.
Paul Newman as Luke Johnson.
126 minutes of Paul Newman without a shirt on later, I was officially hot and bothered. Now generally I like my men to be as unavailable as they can get. That is why it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I have been known to lust after one dead movie star or two. [Just so we’re clear, I am not about to break into a morgue anytime soon – God knows I could never afford enough lube for that.] But for reasons of mental health, after the film was done, I decided it was in my best interests to fantasize about someone still alive. So I switched discs to Twilight.
Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen.
Starring Robert Pattinson (of Cedric Diggory fame) as Edward Cullen, Twilight is the story of what happens to a girl when she falls in love with a boy who refuses to eat meat. As a former member of the closet, I completely understand the devastating effects repression can have on a person. No wonder Edward can’t sleep.
Well, once the movie was over, my stomach became mysteriously upset. At first I thought it might have had something to do with the fact that I had only consumed red wine and black coffee in the twelve hours previous. But then I realized it was much more serious than that. My insides were churning because I couldn’t decide which version of masculinity I was attracted to more – the dirt-beneath-the-finger-nails image of Lucas Johnson or the perfectly-manicured “Vanity Fair” cover of Edward Cullen?
In the last decade it seems the image of “the pretty boy” has taken Hollywood by storm.
On the one hand, I give Mr. Pattinson absolute props for making pale-skin look hot again. I have been waiting for this moment to come since the Victorian Period! Now all I have to do when I go to the bar on Friday night is apply a light shade of red lipstick and put on my Edward Cullen face that says “I want to suck you."
But when it comes right down to it, I think I would rather marry a man who could eat 50 eggs in one sitting then one could fly me to the top of a tree. And so, to every Twilight fan’s dismay, Cool Hand Luke takes this Fox’s heart with a Royal Flush.
Give me Rock Hudson over Gene Kelly any day because when I grow up I want a man’s man. A man who can hang up shelves at the same time he refreshes my G&T. A man who smells like Brut and freshly-mowed lawn rather than Dolce and Gabanna and oil-free moisturizer. What I want is a man who can get his hands dirty … and is preferably still alive.
Alright kids, here’s the deal – if you can fill in the blank to the following Fox phrase, I will buy you a glass of wine*
I like my men like I like my __________: unavailable.
*Glass must be six ounces or less and eligible wine must be classified as ‘house.’
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The Dinner Party
Rugged Fox is being given a makeover and will return shortly. He apologizes for the inconvenience. In the meantime, click here to read Sean Robert's new blog.
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