Throwing Poo

Even though I’m neither British nor queer, if there is any difference between the two, I am a great lover of tea.  On average I probably down four or five cups of this leafy, caffeinated, anti-oxidizing goodness every day.  As a result, I live an alert, productive and totally rust-free life.  But I wasn’t born a tea drinker.  In fact, given my childhood fear of the Chinese, abhorrence of the strong-arm tactics employed by the East India Trading Company, and deep-seated distrust of monarchies, my eventual fondness of this highly-civilized beverage was quite unexpected.  One might say that I began drinking hot tea in the same way inmates begin having hot man-on-man sex.  Necessity.

It was nearly fifteen years ago, when I was living in Texas, that I began experiencing severe stomach problems.  At the time I made a living importing component parts for U.S. manufacturers, where I spent my days scheming ways to screw people out of one or two more percentage points.  My boss was a scumbag and my customers were morons.    I absolutely fucking HATED my job.  Each workday required a massive dose of caffeine just to get me though, and each evening demanded an equally massive amount of alcohol to combat the self-loathing.

Seeing as I was in Texas, the home of the icehouse, jalapeno cornbread and the five-meat barbeque dinner, all of which I vigorously partook, pinpointing the source of my stomach problems was no easy task.  Then one day, after pounding a pot of coffee (I had my own brewer right in my office), I doubled-over, dragged myself to the bathroom, and proceeded to puke out my upper intestines and crap out my lower ones.  My body, it seemed, had decided that coffee was no longer on the menu.

Still, my genetically groggy demeanor demanded that I have something to get me through the day.  Since I couldn’t afford cocaine and crystal meth was just a glimmer in the eye of some young NASCAR fan with a chemistry set, tea was the only viable option. 

I really hated tea at first.  It tasted like someone put a handful of mulch into a cup and then peed on it.  But I needed a delivery system for my caffeine habit and tea didn’t knot my stomach like a Boyscout aiming for a merit badge.  I mean, if some guy has the guts to feed his addiction by shooting heroin into his cock, then surely I can tolerate an unpleasant beverage.  So began my journey.      

Fifteen years later, I have become a discriminating tea drinker, with the gratuitous inventory and horribly stained teeth to prove it.  My early mornings require a heavily-steeped cup of Twining’s English Breakfast Tea; a robust and full-bodied blend from Assam and Kenya.  A steaming cup of Twining’s Earl Grey, a bright blend of Indian and Asian black teas flavored with bergamot oil (sans the lemon slice, my way of sending a big “fuck you” back to the Queen Mum), gets my afternoon going.  Late in the day, I crave a simple Chinese green (even though they still scare me a little, what with their pointy throwing stars and mandatory abortions).  Any brand will do.

Still, as an American male who drinks tea, I face intolerance and discrimination on a daily basis.  The ignorant masses accuse me of choosing a depraved lifestyle.  The familiar barb, “If God had wanted men to drink tea, he would have given them erect pinkies and tiaras,” inevitably hits me in the back every time I order an Awake tea in a crowded Starbucks.

Believe me, I would like nothing better than to be able to grab onto a warm, inviting cup of coffee, insert my stick and gyrate until the cream spills out.  But I can’t.  Not because I want to be different, or because I hate God, or to get back at my disappointed father, but because it is physically repulsive.    

So the next time you’re in a coffee shop and a man orders a cup of tea, show some compassion and understanding; his story may be similar to mine.  We are not vegans, Scientologists or soccer fans.  We have not made a poor choice.  We have not made any choice at all.  We are simply being who we are.