The Zoo Series: Lions

Hi, my name is Guy Stefani, and I hope you like reading because I like writing. I once again have a laptop of my own, so I will not be forced to try and write these on an Amazon Kindle. My plan is to have them posted on a fairly regular schedule, and I would love it if you followed along.

When I last posted, I was just beginning the Zoo Series; and the point of that was to show that all men can be categorized into one of four titles. Men are either: peacocks, lions, gorillas or vultures. Originally I called the last title “bird of prey”, but I figured vulture summed it up nicely. The last post I wrote was the in depth explanation of what exactly a peacock is like, and how they behave. It was written very shortly after having broken up with my last boyfriend, who was a total peacock, and it is riddled with personal history. The next “animale” I am going to tackle is the lion. Honestly, I have very little romantic history with lions; they never gave me much attention in the past. They are the most heroic, athletic and wonderful of all men roaming around this zoo I call Chicago. They are proud and sexy and born leaders with big chests and smart brains. They can be firemen or bankers or the crossfit coach you always see on the Redline that you just know would be able to make you claw up the bedsheets while he sends your body into fits of euphoric rage. Yup, you heard me. Lions are the Captain Americas’ of the animale kingdom. They are courteous and adventurous and caring. They are the grown up boy scouts who are personable and damn sexy. Lions are fit, but not gym crazy, they want a body that will serve them well on their next adventure. They go to the gym to become more agile and more powerful, not to strut around like a puffed up gorilla. Which, coincidentally, will be the next animale I will discuss; so, stay tuned my fellow reading enthusiasts.

As I said, my romantic history with lions is not that in depth. I always admired them from afar, but never had the nerve to speak to one or thought I deserved one. I do however always make friends with the straight lions; the hetero-leos love me. While I was living in Grand Rapids, I shared a house with several other guys. It was probably the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Having gone through middle school and most of high school with no real guy friends, suddenly being immersed into a house full of them was wonderful. They took care of me, and gave zero fucks about that fact that I was gay and that I was not a basketball loving Xbox junkie like they were. We all balanced each other out. They taught me what it meant to have guy friends and what it meant to be a gay that a hetero could rely on and value. I could do a whole post on how much I miss them and how much they meant to me, but, lets save that for a day when I know there is a full Kleenex box in the apartment. The point being, I was living with several lions that showed me just how wonderful a lion could be. Lions are the ones that diffuse the tense situation and somehow make sure that all parties involved end up content. Lions are the ones that take charge with quiet power and assurance, and then lead the group to higher ground. Lions are the ones that you come home to after a funeral and let you cry on their grey hoodie while they hold you and say nothing. Lions do not need to be that vocal, because when they do open their mouths, people fucking pay attention. I lived with the greatest lion of all, and I also think that explains why I don’t normally go after a lion. One of the hetero-leo’s I lived with spoiled me so much; no other lion in the entire animale kingdom could measure up to him in my eyes. Lions are the men we dream of, the men dreams are made of; they are supportive and wonderful and solid. They are captivating and glorious and draw you in with their quiet strength. I want my next man to be a lion. A real Captain America of a man, someone who I know I can stand along side of through thick and thin.

And now, my favorite part, the visual representation of the lion man. Obviously, the first choice would be Chris Evans. Not only in his role as Steve Rogers, but also, from what I read, in real life too. The last time he was on the cover of GQ, the cover story inside was just delightful and a true testament of how wonderful he is off camera. The three Chris’ that make up the “Chris Trinity” in Hollywood ( Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth and Chris Pine) are all worthy of the crown of lion man. Maybe it has to do with the name. Siri, remind me to only date men with the name Chris. Another prime example would be Ryan Gosling. That man exudes quiet power; I don’t think I have ever seen him raise his voice or get ruffled during an interview or talk show visit. There is a model by the name of Parker Hurley, who is another perfect example of what a lion is. I follow him on InstaGram, and not only does he embody the physical aspect of a lion, but he also has the mindset of one too. I suggest following him if you do not already do so. Lions are the class president from high school that was handsome and personable, but still grounded and treated everyone with respect. A lion is the guy from your sophomore year film class that was a complete soccer stud and object of everyone’s affection, but still held the door open for you despite your poor social standing. A lion is that well dressed, strong looking father you see guiding his daughter down the street; and teaching her how to survive a crowded sidewalk. Lions are the ones that fold you into a hug and make you realize the world is not completely terrible. Lions are the sexy guy in a suit that gives his seat to the Golden Girl on the bus. Lions are the men who make friendly banter with the frazzled Starbucks barista. Lions are the men we are drawn to because they radiate confidence and security. Lions are the men that make the world a better place. There is a reason their families are called a pride, because a family lead by a lion is something to be proud of.

Stay tuned for more; next week I’ll give you a guided tour of the obnoxious, boisterous buffoon of the animale kingdom, the gorilla. Happy reading to you all.

The Zoo Series: Peacocks

Peacocks are apparently my favorite kind of man, or at least the kind of man I am most drawn to. I was looking back at previous posts and it is very obvious that I have been repeating history, I keep going after peacocks. You think by now I would have caught on or realized how dangerous and tragic they are; what's that saying about hitting your head with a hammer?
I'm not exactly sure what draws me to them, but I really can't control myself, they're just so sparkly and inviting to me. A guy classified as a peacock is lithe, exotic, fashionable, and artistic. They're usually skinny, like skin stretched and pulled taught over carved muscle skinny. They smoke. They stay quiet. They don't tell you what they really want. And they drink. A lot. All my peacocks were heavy drinkers, those peacocks love their sauce. They wear a lot of black, and their style is underground metro as opposed to Paris runway. Skinny jeans, skinny ties, skinny cigarettes, skinny shirts and fat boots. They're like artwork, because they're so beautiful and so sad looking all at the same time. The most important part of a peacock, is their ink. Peacocks have lots and lots of ink, that is their version of colorful plumage. The body of a peacock, the bird version, is a deep turquoise( which is pretty )but the real wonder is when they present and spread their tail feathers. The body of a peacock, the guy version, is the equivalent of the tail feathers. All the black clothes hide the colorful sketches and markings that race all over their white skin. If you're having a hard time imagining what I'm talking about I can provide you with visual examples, just Google any of these men: Josh Beech, A.J. English, Jared Leto, Adrian Brody, Tyson Ritter, and any guy in any Lana Del Ray music video. Another distinguishing feature of a peacock is their eye color, always so bright and brilliant with a touch or sadness. Crystal blue orbs with a fleck of depression. Or emerald green diamonds with a spark of sorrow. It's what gives them away, and what makes them unattainable. A peacock is a beautiful, alluring and delicate creature; but they want nothing to do with cages or companions. My Roman was a peacock, but he didn't want to be contained. New York was peacock, he also wanted to fly free. I've had and loved dozens of peacocks in my life, and it always ends painfully; so why do I keep chasing them?
They don't mean to be assholes, they're just fatally flawed, exquisitely handsome, feathered creatures. They're not mean on purpose, they just get caught up in the beauty they create, and then they end up breaking your heart and destroying your soul. New York was nothing but wonderful to me, and he was upfront about everything, I knew what I was getting into; but how the fuck do you resist a masterpiece? My Roman hurt me so deeply I am still bleeding on the inside, but it wasn't intentional, it was a side effect of his own pain. It's kind of like Icarus, when you fly too close to the sun you get burned. When I get too close to a peacock I get burned and they fly away. Peacocks are too perfect for their own good, they destroy everyone around them while they secretly try to destroy themselves. They're not bad boys; they're actually wonderful, but they don't know what to do with their wonder.

So, I keep hitting my head with a hammer so when I do stop it'll feel so fucking good. Maybe sometime soon I'll feel good again, and I can finally put down the hammer. If and when I do, it'll mean no more drunk kisses goodnight. No more special moments forgotten when the stars fade. No more dangerous evenings. No more second hand exhales. No more nicotine kisses. No more fall down Saturday nights. No more vodka bruises. No more Jack Daniels sex. No more puffed petals. No more broken feathers. No more peacocks. No more accidental tears.


"Go kiss the liqueur off his laugh" -Natalia Kills

This City is a Zoo

So, once again I am single in the city; how did this happen? Check previous post. Now that my sentence in suburbia has come to an end, I am once again navigating the metropolitan wildlife, just trying to stay alive. As daunting and surprising as all this has been for me, I have found benefits of being single in the city. So! Much! People! Watching! I think I've discussed my primal love of people watching before, so you know how seriously I take it. It's like a sport for me. Chicago is a wonderful place to observe the animal known as 'human'. My plan for the month of July is to break down and classify the four types of male humans, explaining in depth what traits and personalities and physical characteristics they have. The four types are as follows: Peacocks, Lions, Gorillas and Birds of Prey. Any man can be placed in either of these categories. You might not believe me now, but by the end of July you'll totally get it. I promise.

My Roman Was Defeated

My Roman was a warrior of feral tactics and vicious attitude. He was the one to rule them all. He tamed me, loved me and stripped me of what I knew. His ambition was boundless, he knew of no limits. He and I

ruled over an empire of our own design. No outside enemy could have defeated us, which is why it is so troubling to know we broke ourselves. Our insides made us weak. I clung to him while the fortress burned down around us. He sat and drank while the flames devoured our love. Our Roman Empire crumbled because of doubt and drink. My Roman was defeated by his own cup and my insecurities. The enemy on the inside greatly outweighs the enemy on the outside.

Couples Table Part Deux

We can all enter as one.
Legs criss-crossed over heels, with boots caught on bangles.
A several headed, multi-armed monster looking for fun.
When the music initiates the pairings, I'm the note that dangles.

It's not that hard to dance alone on the floor.
To have to serve and slide with just your own hips.
But remember to always have eyes on the exit door.
If you get overwhelmed by memories of opportunities missed.

They can all sit down as one.
Hands held over one another, with laughter bursting about.
You seat your nicotine scented self, exhaling for fun.
Silent prayers that the laughter, before the vodka, runs out.

It's not easy to sit at the couples table and be single.
But you do it, to be nice, and polite.
It's not easy to pin on a smile, laugh, and try to mingle.
But you do it, so you don't ruin the night.

They all nod their head and say you're next.
So you nod too, as they get up to dance.
They twirl about the room in all their wonder.
And it makes you realize, you've been acting like Blanche.

It’s not my fault that everyone I wanted to take me home is gone.
So I have the crown and title of being unstable.
I'm sorry, but not I'm going to drink until dawn.
Because sometimes it's hard, sitting at this couples table.


*** *** ***

"I'm single because I was born that way." -Mae West

I can't help but wonder, if I hadn't told so, so many men to "come up and see me sometime", would I be single now? The Blanche Deveareux regimen can wear you out some nights. Other nights, it's the greatest addiction I have. This way you can sleep spread eagle, with the bed all to yourself; and, at other times, you can sleep spread eagle on top of someone else. But still, what's it like to sit at the couples table and be there rightfully? I wonder.

Slice Life

I use to have so much going for me. And now I wake up and try to figure out how much longer I can stay in bed without having to skip brushing my teeth on the way out the door. I think I peaked when I was 20. I've been cut down. Now it's a slow decline into routines and monotonous errand running. When I first came back to Illinois I thought I would lay in the corner, lick my wounds, and then come back fighting. With new inspiration, new goals, new talents and a book deal. But in reality, my life is so common. So pedestrian. The one year anniversary of the attack quickly approaches, and it makes me so uncomfortable. I'm past the point of being 'o so thankful' for being spared of any bodily harm, these days I keep playing out scenarios of what would of happened had I just grabbed a knife and gone out there. The me of today would have started slicing and fighting. But, obviously, the me of then didn't do anything but sit on my bed and cower. Maybe that's why I'm so angry and muted these days. My frustrations may have turned inward, on myself. I didn't really want to fight for my life? Not my actual blood-flowing-through-veins life, but the built-this-from-the-ground-up life. If you don't have a life worth fighting for, are you living? I think that's from a James Bond movie. Or SuckerPunch. Or maybe it's a line from Alias. Either way. I chose not to fight for my life, and now, while living the results of said decision, I don't have much of a life at all. How do I fix this? Where do I pick up a gallon of passion, a dozen inspirations and a box of future? What aisle is that on? Doesn't Meijer sell everything? Maybe I'm past grocery aisles and Quik'E'Marts, maybe I need a trip to Oz. I would like my turn to stand in front of the great wizard, even knowing it's all a fake. At least it would be an adventure, something a little more exciting then my weekly charade. I'd choose fending off flying monkeys instead of avoiding errands.



"Mishaps are like knives, that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle." -James Russell Lowell

The Right Ghost(s)

It was seven years ago yesterday, that I lost the privilege to wear white. And I still see him everyday in my head. No bother though, I see a lot of ghosts in my head. My brain is the ultimate haunted mansion. I'll admit, lately I have been walking amongst the dead too much; I've been relying on all my dead memories to keep my alive. I sincerely doubt that's a good thing. Don't they lock you up for that? Listen to the wrong ghosts and they fit you for a straight jacket, listen to the Holy Ghost and they fit you as sane. Either way, we're all just listening to disembodied voices, spirits that float through our brain and sail through our ears. One could argue that we're all just, plain crazy; no matter the the origin of our ghost(s). If that is the case, and I do get my straight jacket, at least I'll get to wear white again. ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ "There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks Then it walks, then it walks with my legs To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet" -Florence + The Machine