Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Merry Christmas, Baby ...
the Czarina Warrenina Joskes - Empress of All the Russias, Queen of the Steppes, Keeper of the Faith, a Living and Breathing Deity Who Has Deigned to Walk Among Us ... to Bring Us Grace and Beauty the Czarina - sat up in bed, topless and flustered. His hair was mussed, and his eyes only half open. It would be said that the Czarina looked a hot mess ... but such is often the result of a massive heart attack. His kidneys failed. His heart seized. And when Ova the Top, the Frenemy, and I went to see the Czarina, he was too weak to even turn his head. His wit was, however, still intact.
Of a screaming woman in the next bed, observed, "That is the Wailing Wall ..."
He was more critical but equally tired when I saw him the next time - commenting on the lemon yellow of my sweater, and the state of the turkey with gravy half-eaten on the plate before him. His hospital room - small, private - while nothing compared to the comforts of the Winter Palace had a certain vitality about it, which is perhaps the only reason I did not burst into tears.
I could not avoid them yesterday, though. I was having gay laundry day (wherein you put clothes on to wash, go have a drink ... return to switch the clothes from washer to dryer, and then go have another drink; ideally, you'll have a buzz as you fold and hang things, and after you put the clothes away, you can go have another ...); so, the Frenemy and I were doing laundry at one of the local gay bars, when a mutual friend of mine and the Czarina's returned from the hospital to say the he'd taken a turn for the worse. He aspirated in his oxygen mask, and there breathing trouble ... there is still breathing trouble.
And it set in suddenly that he might die. I mean I knew this, of course, but there is something so very awful and poetic about dying on Christmas Day. the Czarina expressed both a desire to stop living, several times before this most recent health crisis, and also a fear about dying on Christmas Day. It always struck me an odd fear, and now ... now, with Christmas right around the corner, and the Czarina back in the ICU ... it may be a very sad and lonely Yuletide.
I didn't put up a tree this year. Last year, I had four ... so maybe I get a pass this year. No lights. No tree. And the only gift I am buying is a scarf for my father's Secret Santa.
And the only gift I want is my friend, my dear friend, my gay dad, not to go away.
Mark
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Well-worn Path, or Sun(down) is the Darkest Hour
I have been down this road before - and the path, by the way, is so very ugly ... and sad.
I never believed my parents to be invincible, nor did I labor under the delusion they were perfect and all-knowing. They always seemed flawed to me - weak people who did very good things, and who smoked cigarettes and had sex (which they told me was dirty but did anyway). I corrected their grammar when I was five. I started to pay bills and run the house(hold) when I was 9 - after my mother died.
And, at that, she did die. She was imperfect because she left me.
Tonight, my father couldn't find me. I was working today - at a temp job, as I did last week. And, as happened last week, the shuttle from the job-site dropped me and my coworkers off at the office somewhere around 10PM. And like last week, I waited. And waited. And waited.
Last week, it snowed in the morning - although only a flurry, and this week it was raining and cold. There was a chill wind in the air.
And it cut to the bone ...
My father couldn't find me. He was confused. He was lost, and - though he turned on his cell phone and answered my call while driving - he was at a loss to describe to me either where he was or what he could see in front of him. He said it was allergies - that his eyes were burning, and it was hard to see, and that a big truck splashed his little car, forcing him off the road.
At one point, he said the name of a highway and a street more than halfway across town. And then he said that he'd passed me and was going to turn around. I couldn't quite cobble together where he was, or what was happening - because somehow it all just happened so quick.
Quickly - the grammatically appropriate word - isn't right. It was quick - as in "cuts to the ..." and I am at a loss as to what I do, or feel. Beyond, that is, a profound and infinite sadness that I remember what I forgot from childhood - that my father is not invincible, and that nothing golden stays.
I've been down this road before, and the path is very ugly and sad, and familiar.
Mark
I never believed my parents to be invincible, nor did I labor under the delusion they were perfect and all-knowing. They always seemed flawed to me - weak people who did very good things, and who smoked cigarettes and had sex (which they told me was dirty but did anyway). I corrected their grammar when I was five. I started to pay bills and run the house(hold) when I was 9 - after my mother died.
And, at that, she did die. She was imperfect because she left me.
Tonight, my father couldn't find me. I was working today - at a temp job, as I did last week. And, as happened last week, the shuttle from the job-site dropped me and my coworkers off at the office somewhere around 10PM. And like last week, I waited. And waited. And waited.
Last week, it snowed in the morning - although only a flurry, and this week it was raining and cold. There was a chill wind in the air.
And it cut to the bone ...
My father couldn't find me. He was confused. He was lost, and - though he turned on his cell phone and answered my call while driving - he was at a loss to describe to me either where he was or what he could see in front of him. He said it was allergies - that his eyes were burning, and it was hard to see, and that a big truck splashed his little car, forcing him off the road.
At one point, he said the name of a highway and a street more than halfway across town. And then he said that he'd passed me and was going to turn around. I couldn't quite cobble together where he was, or what was happening - because somehow it all just happened so quick.
Quickly - the grammatically appropriate word - isn't right. It was quick - as in "cuts to the ..." and I am at a loss as to what I do, or feel. Beyond, that is, a profound and infinite sadness that I remember what I forgot from childhood - that my father is not invincible, and that nothing golden stays.
I've been down this road before, and the path is very ugly and sad, and familiar.
Mark
Monday, December 7, 2009
A Mighty Wind
There is something in the air this time of year. And it is not simply the familiar, haunting melody of "Good King Wenceslas." It is cold out - wet and chilly, with a wind that cuts and, for a brief and wonderful, magical moments on Friday, it snowed. The tiny flakes did not linger long on the ground, but it was the end - at least for the time being - of the cold, cold air hanging over the city.
I was wearing a leather jacket - a fabulous and fashionable cordovan leather affair that a bartender once said reminded him of the backseat of a 1976 Bonneville. The jacket is sharp, snazzy, and soft as only old leather can be ... but it was no match for that lingering chill wind on Friday night. My father forgot me. Laboring, as I am still, under a suspended license, I relied on my father to drop me off and pick me up at a (temp) job site far from available bus lines. The drop-off, of course, was fine; however, the pick-up - taking place at around 11PM, in the dark of night, and with ice forming on numerous surfaces - my father couldn't find me, or the building in front of which I was huddling.
It was a long, cold hour ... and it was only after my father finally turned on his cell phone that the mystery suddenly made sense. He was sitting in front of the building where he dropped me off, or so he insisted. He asserted that I was the one who clearly was lost ... and as I debated the merits of this point, both in my head and on the phone, I started walking. He was two doors down - parked in a handicapped spot, in front of the Butter-Krust Bakery., the car running and yet covered in ice.
It took 2 days and more coffee than is decent to mention to get warm again. And then this morning - Ellen, who brought bacon and the promise of getting out of the house - lured me out into the cold.
And the absurd.
Central Market was abuzz with activity when we arrived. The ambulance and police cruisers may have had something to do with it. Ellen's and my first guess was that an ancient Alamo Heights woman had fallen beneath the weight of both her wedding ring and her Louis Vuitton bag ... but the wild-eyed, black woman with her shirt up around her stretch-marked mid-section, walking around in a zombie-like state with a large bag of Doritos and half a head of weave laying somewhere around her left shoulder blade.
Even the paramedics seemed unsure how to proceed, and several 09ers in designer clothes were clearly trying to figure out why someone's maid was wandering the local grocery high on something and badly dressed.
And then I saw Santa going through the trash.
Admittedly, I never met the man personally, but he had a belly that shook like a bowlful of jelly, a head of white hair - beard and mullet - wore Christmas-themed red suspenders, and a Santa hat ... and he was going through the garbage. No one did much about that either.
This reminds me of something Ellen said earlier in the day, from Miss Manners: "Regarding flatulence, as it is natural and everyone does it, the polite thing to do is to pretend not to notice." And so it went that when Santa went through the garbage and a stretch-marked, half-bald chocolate woman ate chips and paced around the coffee bar, no one blinked an eye.
Polite company is one hell of a thing, mind you. Ellen and I had coffee and cheesecake at MadHatter's Tea ... and I am very lactose intolerant ... so, upon arriving at Central Market, stepping from her decades old station wagon, I let out a fart so thunderous ... and sudden ... I nearly fell down.
It was a quiet parking lot, but I am grateful that in the Central Market parking lot, no one was there to hear me fart.
I was wearing a leather jacket - a fabulous and fashionable cordovan leather affair that a bartender once said reminded him of the backseat of a 1976 Bonneville. The jacket is sharp, snazzy, and soft as only old leather can be ... but it was no match for that lingering chill wind on Friday night. My father forgot me. Laboring, as I am still, under a suspended license, I relied on my father to drop me off and pick me up at a (temp) job site far from available bus lines. The drop-off, of course, was fine; however, the pick-up - taking place at around 11PM, in the dark of night, and with ice forming on numerous surfaces - my father couldn't find me, or the building in front of which I was huddling.
It was a long, cold hour ... and it was only after my father finally turned on his cell phone that the mystery suddenly made sense. He was sitting in front of the building where he dropped me off, or so he insisted. He asserted that I was the one who clearly was lost ... and as I debated the merits of this point, both in my head and on the phone, I started walking. He was two doors down - parked in a handicapped spot, in front of the Butter-Krust Bakery., the car running and yet covered in ice.
It took 2 days and more coffee than is decent to mention to get warm again. And then this morning - Ellen, who brought bacon and the promise of getting out of the house - lured me out into the cold.
And the absurd.
Central Market was abuzz with activity when we arrived. The ambulance and police cruisers may have had something to do with it. Ellen's and my first guess was that an ancient Alamo Heights woman had fallen beneath the weight of both her wedding ring and her Louis Vuitton bag ... but the wild-eyed, black woman with her shirt up around her stretch-marked mid-section, walking around in a zombie-like state with a large bag of Doritos and half a head of weave laying somewhere around her left shoulder blade.
Even the paramedics seemed unsure how to proceed, and several 09ers in designer clothes were clearly trying to figure out why someone's maid was wandering the local grocery high on something and badly dressed.
And then I saw Santa going through the trash.
Admittedly, I never met the man personally, but he had a belly that shook like a bowlful of jelly, a head of white hair - beard and mullet - wore Christmas-themed red suspenders, and a Santa hat ... and he was going through the garbage. No one did much about that either.
This reminds me of something Ellen said earlier in the day, from Miss Manners: "Regarding flatulence, as it is natural and everyone does it, the polite thing to do is to pretend not to notice." And so it went that when Santa went through the garbage and a stretch-marked, half-bald chocolate woman ate chips and paced around the coffee bar, no one blinked an eye.
Polite company is one hell of a thing, mind you. Ellen and I had coffee and cheesecake at MadHatter's Tea ... and I am very lactose intolerant ... so, upon arriving at Central Market, stepping from her decades old station wagon, I let out a fart so thunderous ... and sudden ... I nearly fell down.
It was a quiet parking lot, but I am grateful that in the Central Market parking lot, no one was there to hear me fart.
Mark
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Almost Doesn't Count ...
While anonymous sex is nothing to be proud of in this day and age, I found myself a little thrilled last night. the City Councilman, his cousin, a co-worker of his, and me went to HEAT. It was a typical Friday night; the transsexual porn star jiggled provocatively to "I Love Rock 'n Roll" (Britney, of course), young men cruised even younger ones, and everyone looked good in their jeans. I was in the midst of a cigarette and a story out on the deck when I spotted an old friend - Jack.
Jack is an old-fashioned song and dance man with dreamy eyes, a deep voice, and quite a nice ass, might I add. We met a thousand year ago, when he was still in high school, and I drove a periwinkle blue minivan - with power locks and manual windows. I was a freshman at Incarnate Word at the time, and he sneaked out of his parents' house to meet me - hopping into my minivan wearing the tightest jeans I'd ever seen clinging to a teenage body - note: this was before Emo and/or skaters. We danced all night, and I felt like a chicken hawk for wanting to see him naked. I never saw him naked, by the way - but we flirted innocently for a while before losing touch.
Eight years later, and in the company of several dozen of my closest homosexuals - I always see someone I know when I go out; I've lived here far too long - I reconnected with Jack, and we were appropriately all over each other. Perhaps it is that I am short, or otherwise soft and squishy, that people - men - always hug me, hold me, or otherwise tend toward affection with me.
This is often true with straight men.
So, when I saw the tall, skinny, somewhat awkward white guy standing by the pool table, I should have seen trouble comin'. the City Councilman and his friend were chatting up the tall, skinny fellow. He looked more dressed for a nice dinner with the wife at Applebee's than the hottest gay bar in town. And he was holding up a wall outside the ladies' room. He was looking for his wife ... and some dick.
Ryan and Liz are swingers. They were in town - from Wichita Falls - for Thanksgiving, and ditched the family to hit the nearest gay bar - in hopes of each picking up a same sex partner for a night of frivolity and possible switching. Liz was not doing so well, although she made a valiant effort to hook up with two drunken housewives (I think they were each there with their gay sons / co-workers), a bartender, and a particularly convincing rag queen. Ryan, on the other hand, had five hands in his crotch and two tongues down his throat by the evening's end.
But then, the evening didn't end. I went back to their hotel - the Sheraton Guenther - and was right in the middle of getting his pants down past mid-thigh when Liz started to cry. It had been her idea that we make out, and she watch ... and then she lost it. I excused myself to the bathroom so that they could talk. And then Ryan came to get me - asking me to talk to her. I crawled into bed, where she'd flung herself - sobbing, and rubbed her shoulders as I whispered sweet nothings about how her husband loved her, how I wasn't a threat and didn't want to be, and how I'd sit quietly and watch them go at it, rather than doing her husband often and with much fervor, as I'd originally intended. It worked well enough, but the momentum of the whole thing was off by then, so when she started crying again - something about not wanting her husband to leave her, not wanting him to be gay - I left.
Ryan, ever the gentleman, called the concierge to order a taxi - for which he also paid - and I left the hotel, with dashed hopes and blue balls, somewhere half past 4 in the morning. It was a night to remember - if only so that such a thing never should happen again.
Mark
Jack is an old-fashioned song and dance man with dreamy eyes, a deep voice, and quite a nice ass, might I add. We met a thousand year ago, when he was still in high school, and I drove a periwinkle blue minivan - with power locks and manual windows. I was a freshman at Incarnate Word at the time, and he sneaked out of his parents' house to meet me - hopping into my minivan wearing the tightest jeans I'd ever seen clinging to a teenage body - note: this was before Emo and/or skaters. We danced all night, and I felt like a chicken hawk for wanting to see him naked. I never saw him naked, by the way - but we flirted innocently for a while before losing touch.
Eight years later, and in the company of several dozen of my closest homosexuals - I always see someone I know when I go out; I've lived here far too long - I reconnected with Jack, and we were appropriately all over each other. Perhaps it is that I am short, or otherwise soft and squishy, that people - men - always hug me, hold me, or otherwise tend toward affection with me.
This is often true with straight men.
So, when I saw the tall, skinny, somewhat awkward white guy standing by the pool table, I should have seen trouble comin'. the City Councilman and his friend were chatting up the tall, skinny fellow. He looked more dressed for a nice dinner with the wife at Applebee's than the hottest gay bar in town. And he was holding up a wall outside the ladies' room. He was looking for his wife ... and some dick.
Ryan and Liz are swingers. They were in town - from Wichita Falls - for Thanksgiving, and ditched the family to hit the nearest gay bar - in hopes of each picking up a same sex partner for a night of frivolity and possible switching. Liz was not doing so well, although she made a valiant effort to hook up with two drunken housewives (I think they were each there with their gay sons / co-workers), a bartender, and a particularly convincing rag queen. Ryan, on the other hand, had five hands in his crotch and two tongues down his throat by the evening's end.
But then, the evening didn't end. I went back to their hotel - the Sheraton Guenther - and was right in the middle of getting his pants down past mid-thigh when Liz started to cry. It had been her idea that we make out, and she watch ... and then she lost it. I excused myself to the bathroom so that they could talk. And then Ryan came to get me - asking me to talk to her. I crawled into bed, where she'd flung herself - sobbing, and rubbed her shoulders as I whispered sweet nothings about how her husband loved her, how I wasn't a threat and didn't want to be, and how I'd sit quietly and watch them go at it, rather than doing her husband often and with much fervor, as I'd originally intended. It worked well enough, but the momentum of the whole thing was off by then, so when she started crying again - something about not wanting her husband to leave her, not wanting him to be gay - I left.
Ryan, ever the gentleman, called the concierge to order a taxi - for which he also paid - and I left the hotel, with dashed hopes and blue balls, somewhere half past 4 in the morning. It was a night to remember - if only so that such a thing never should happen again.
Mark
While anonymous sex is nothing to be proud of in this day and age, I found myself a little thrilled last night. the City Councilman, his cousin, a co-worker of his, and me went to HEAT. It was a typical Friday night; the transsexual porn star jiggled provocatively to "I Love Rock 'n Roll" (Britney, of course), young men cruised even younger ones, and everyone looked good in their jeans. I was in the midst of a cigarette and a story out on the deck when I spotted an old friend - Jack.
Jack is an old-fashioned song and dance man with dreamy eyes, a deep voice, and quite a nice ass, might I add. We met a thousand year ago, when he was still in high school, and I drove a periwinkle blue minivan - with power locks and manual windows. I was a freshman at Incarnate Word at the time, and he sneaked out of his parents' house to meet me - hopping into my minivan wearing the tightest jeans I'd ever seen clinging to a teenage body - note: this was before Emo and/or skaters. We danced all night, and I felt like a chicken hawk for wanting to see him naked. I never saw him naked, by the way - but we flirted innocently for a while before losing touch.
Eight years later, and in the company of several dozen of my closest homosexuals - I always see someone I know when I go out; I've lived here far too long - I reconnected with Jack, and we were appropriately all over each other. Perhaps it is that I am short, or otherwise soft and squishy, that people - men - always hug me, hold me, or otherwise tend toward affection with me.
This is often true with straight men.
So, when I saw the tall, skinny, somewhat awkward white guy standing by the pool table, I should have seen trouble comin'. the City Councilman and his friend were chatting up the tall, skinny fellow. He looked more dressed for a nice dinner with the wife at Applebee's than the hottest gay bar in town. And he was holding up a wall outside the ladies' room. He was looking for his wife ... and some dick.
Ryan and Liz are swingers. They were in town - from Wichita Falls - for Thanksgiving, and ditched the family to hit the nearest gay bar - in hopes of each picking up a same sex partner for a night of frivolity and possible switching. Liz was not doing so well, although she made a valiant effort to hook up with two drunken housewives (I think they were each there with their gay sons / co-workers), a bartender, and a particularly convincing rag queen. Ryan, on the other hand, had five hands in his crotch and two tongues down his throat by the evening's end.
But then, the evening didn't end. I went back to their hotel - the Sheraton Guenther - and was right in the middle of getting his pants down past mid-thigh when Liz started to cry. It had been her idea that we make out, and she watch ... and then she lost it. I excused myself to the bathroom so that they could talk. And then Ryan came to get me - asking me to talk to her. I crawled into bed, where she'd flung herself - sobbing, and rubbed her shoulders as I whispered sweet nothings about how her husband loved her, how I wasn't a threat and didn't want to be, and how I'd sit quietly and watch them go at it, rather than doing her husband often and with much fervor, as I'd originally intended. It worked well enough, but the momentum of the whole thing was off by then, so when she started crying again - something about not wanting her husband to leave her, not wanting him to be gay - I left.
Ryan, ever the gentleman, called the concierge to order a taxi - for which he also paid - and I left the hotel, with dashed hopes and blue balls, somewhere half past 4 in the morning. It was a night to remember - if only so that such a thing never should happen again.
Mark
Jack is an old-fashioned song and dance man with dreamy eyes, a deep voice, and quite a nice ass, might I add. We met a thousand year ago, when he was still in high school, and I drove a periwinkle blue minivan - with power locks and manual windows. I was a freshman at Incarnate Word at the time, and he sneaked out of his parents' house to meet me - hopping into my minivan wearing the tightest jeans I'd ever seen clinging to a teenage body - note: this was before Emo and/or skaters. We danced all night, and I felt like a chicken hawk for wanting to see him naked. I never saw him naked, by the way - but we flirted innocently for a while before losing touch.
Eight years later, and in the company of several dozen of my closest homosexuals - I always see someone I know when I go out; I've lived here far too long - I reconnected with Jack, and we were appropriately all over each other. Perhaps it is that I am short, or otherwise soft and squishy, that people - men - always hug me, hold me, or otherwise tend toward affection with me.
This is often true with straight men.
So, when I saw the tall, skinny, somewhat awkward white guy standing by the pool table, I should have seen trouble comin'. the City Councilman and his friend were chatting up the tall, skinny fellow. He looked more dressed for a nice dinner with the wife at Applebee's than the hottest gay bar in town. And he was holding up a wall outside the ladies' room. He was looking for his wife ... and some dick.
Ryan and Liz are swingers. They were in town - from Wichita Falls - for Thanksgiving, and ditched the family to hit the nearest gay bar - in hopes of each picking up a same sex partner for a night of frivolity and possible switching. Liz was not doing so well, although she made a valiant effort to hook up with two drunken housewives (I think they were each there with their gay sons / co-workers), a bartender, and a particularly convincing rag queen. Ryan, on the other hand, had five hands in his crotch and two tongues down his throat by the evening's end.
But then, the evening didn't end. I went back to their hotel - the Sheraton Guenther - and was right in the middle of getting his pants down past mid-thigh when Liz started to cry. It had been her idea that we make out, and she watch ... and then she lost it. I excused myself to the bathroom so that they could talk. And then Ryan came to get me - asking me to talk to her. I crawled into bed, where she'd flung herself - sobbing, and rubbed her shoulders as I whispered sweet nothings about how her husband loved her, how I wasn't a threat and didn't want to be, and how I'd sit quietly and watch them go at it, rather than doing her husband often and with much fervor, as I'd originally intended. It worked well enough, but the momentum of the whole thing was off by then, so when she started crying again - something about not wanting her husband to leave her, not wanting him to be gay - I left.
Ryan, ever the gentleman, called the concierge to order a taxi - for which he also paid - and I left the hotel, with dashed hopes and blue balls, somewhere half past 4 in the morning. It was a night to remember - if only so that such a thing never should happen again.
Mark
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Problem of Polyester ...
Thanksgiving has never been my favorite holiday. The tendency to eat too much, the propensity toward football, and the provenance of sweet potatoes do not strike me as ideal ways in which to spend an afternoon. I suppose it is a lush's prerogative to prefer the drinking holidays - i.e. St. Patrick's Day, Christmas, New Year's Eve, both of my birthdays (long story), and two to three days per week of my choosing.
Nonetheless, I have much for which to be grateful this year, and I flung myself freely and wholeheartedly into this day - with all the aplomb, grace, and culinary skill I could muster.
I am grateful for my friends -
Ova the Top and Daddy are preparing for a big move; their lease is up, the house is built, and most of what can be packed - not the Coyote, the Caddy, the big-dicked, baby-faced queen (tenant) nor the two cats - is packed. I have been part of the process all along, and it is only by the grace of my severe allergy to their current house that I am not lifting, toting, or otherwise helping out.
the Czarina, whom I have not seen much of of late, is one moment closer to being an empress of a certain age. His birthday was last week, and I hear tell that he celebrated at La Scala - dripping diamonds and decked in fur. And because one should never dine alone - or have to pick up a check on one's own birthday, the Czarina dined with the Duchess, a diva who also wore furs and a few tastefully overdone gems. It doesn't count as a ring if at least two waiters aren't blinded by it when it catches the light from the crystal chandelier.
the Frenemy is still fumbling toward ... uh, romance. I think it's something in the air these days that everyone starts coupling, or trying to, when the holidays strike. the Frenemy's latest infatuation - someone who actually thinks that he's "a treat" is a part-time drag queen who copy-edits porn. That he lives with his ex-boyfriend, with whom he still has sex - and with whom the Frenemy intends to have sex - seems to pose little trouble for anyone involved.
Of course, my photo shoot frenemy, Joan, is still around. Though we've been (casually) acquainted for years now, and have some friends in common, talk mostly turns to the photo shoot - the people we met there, and the men about whom Joan still has moist dreams.
Maybe it's just the 4 months of captivity talking - or that I have had very little sex this year, but some of those men hold a special place in my crotch as well.
I just speak of it less often.
I am grateful for my family -
I made my first turkey today - a slow-roasted thing, fall-off-the-bone tender, and rather spicy - as I tend to prefer things to be. As I was pulling peanut butter cookies out of the oven, and sliding in sugar cookies, my cousin called. This is the same cousin - now 70 - who wrote me while at the photo shoot, the same cousin who used to say - often - 'love the sinner, hate the sin ...' and who told me, seemingly a thousand years ago, to go away and never come back ... that I had shamed the family being gay.
She told me she was proud of me today - that my cooking, hosting a gathering, taking care of a friend, was proof that I had come a long way from my selfish hedonism, and that the (family) traditions of gathering together and eating too much would not die with her. I know - my father in his middle 80s, and my cousin just turned 70 - that in less time than I expect or desire, things are going to change 'round here. And suddenly, I am part of - or leader of - that next generation of people who take care of other people, who love and provide.
A year ago, that didn't matter to me at all; this year, post-photo shoot and hell, introspection and bull-shit, it means a lot.
The turkey came out fabulously, as did the rest of the meal proper. The cookies came out great, too ... although there was an incident.
In the midst of bending over for brown sugar - which I am sure is a porn title somewhere ... in the midst of bending over for brown sugar, I suffered a blow-out. My abundant thighs overpowered my tight, vintage polyester pants.
I knew they were tight, of course, too tight, really ... but, given that I got them on and was able to both breathe and walk, I did not anticipate that my pants - from crotch to knee - would simply give in (and up). That the suit - a 3-piece suit, with reversible vest, pants, and jacket - with blue and beige plaid print on all three was a bit much (I was one feather-topped hat away from being 'Huggy Bear' - the pimp) means that the blow-out perhaps saved me from myself.
Sometimes, the mirror is your friend; sometimes, it's your enemy ... and sometimes, the mirror says, "C'mon ... I double dog dare you ..."
And speaking of clothes, I am going back to Macy's tomorrow. It's just another day at the races, and it starts at 5AM. I am grateful for my job - short-lived though it may be, and as tomorrow fast approaches, I am counting the rest of my blessings under the sheets.
Mark
Monday, November 23, 2009
This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things ...
I introduced my father to a new concept today - Goodwill ... not as in felicity, but rather the secondhand store(s).
However, speaking of felicity, I met one of my co-workers (at Macy's) in a rather amusing fashion. I walked into a back-room to stow the book I had with me for the long bus-ride home, and came upon a tiny girl - 4'6", 90-something pounds - whose name I later learned is Felicity.
Felicity does blow.
I recognized the deep snorting inhale associated with a straw and a line of powder. I recognized the wide-eyed twitchiness. And then there was the running nose, the frequent sniffing, and her great willingness to go stock things I was folding in the back-room.
I digress; my father and I went to Goodwill. We went to Boysville Thrift Store, where I bought Kenneth Cole pants that put me in mind of Haight-Ashbury. And the Frenemy joined us there. the Frenemy, by way of my kindness - and owing to the desperation of retailers during the holiday season - got hired on at Macy's. The timing was fortuitous as he just lost his job - his primary job - as a mortgage consultant. It was contract work but lucrative ... and then it ended. So, the Frenemy is returning to retail ... and to women's shoes, at that.
[Pause for amusement] Anyone aware of the Frenemy's tendency to transform into Tori for a 'linebacker in high heels blow-job sex romp behind dumpsters in certain West side bar parking lots' will imagine - but not for too long - just how bah his proximity to Carlos Santana shoes will be for the world at-large. Or just for men. Drunk, non-English speaking men.
But we - my father and I and the Frenemy, went to Goodwill. I found dress shoes, the Frenemy
found a shirt (and some guy who worked there), and my father marveled that there were so many varied items - including Archie Bunker's couch, a Brady Bunch bunk bed, and a TV that had surely seen better days. And then Dad found me a suit - a very serviceable black wool suit in my size. I wore it to work this evening, with a black shirt and a pewter tie - feeling a bit like a guest at a fashionable funeral.
My father is in a generous state; I think it is out of appreciation for his only son no longer smoking crack ... or it was the French vanilla cake I prepared this morning. I bake rather than beg when I want something.
So magnanimous was my father's state, hw bought groceries (the 99 cents store), we discussed my next car (my license is no longer suspended after mid-December), the guy I'm seeing (now), his thoughts on my career prospects (actually positive), and - last but not least - on throwing a party.
A dinner party.
Ellen - my dear friend who had hoped to reconcile with her ex-husband but has since come to her senses (and moved on - fabulously) - is going t be alone for Thanksgiving. The aforementioned ex-husband is taking their daughters for the day. So, I proposed a dinner party. Though my septuagenarian cousin has been supportive and kind of late (she wrote me - often - while I was away at the photo shoot with Lindsay Lohan - I am not necessarily ready for football, soul food, and small talk with her and her kin (my kin).
And - I just love dinner parties.
I am inviting Dr. Bartender (the guy I'm seeing now), but I realize that the prospect of a first date at Thanksgiving dinner might be a bit much.
I am wistful, and grateful, this Thanksgiving. It's been one hell of a year.
MarkI introduced my father to a new concept today - Goodwill ... not as in felicity, but rather the secondhand store(s).
However, speaking of felicity, I met one of my co-workers (at Macy's) in a rather amusing fashion. I walked into a back-room to stow the book I had with me for the long bus-ride home, and came upon a tiny girl - 4'6", 90-something pounds - whose name I later learned is Felicity.
Felicity does blow.
I recognized the deep snorting inhale associated with a straw and a line of powder. I recognized the wide-eyed twitchiness. And then there was the running nose, the frequent sniffing, and her great willingness to go stock things I was folding in the back-room.
I digress; my father and I went to Goodwill. We went to Boysville Thrift Store, where I bought Kenneth Cole pants that put me in mind of Haight-Ashbury. And the Frenemy joined us there. the Frenemy, by way of my kindness - and owing to the desperation of retailers during the holiday season - got hired on at Macy's. The timing was fortuitous as he just lost his job - his primary job - as a mortgage consultant. It was contract work but lucrative ... and then it ended. So, the Frenemy is returning to retail ... and to women's shoes, at that.
[Pause for amusement] Anyone aware of the Frenemy's tendency to transform into Tori for a 'linebacker in high heels blow-job sex romp behind dumpsters in certain West side bar parking lots' will imagine - but not for too long - just how bah his proximity to Carlos Santana shoes will be for the world at-large. Or just for men. Drunk, non-English speaking men.
But we - my father and I and the Frenemy, went to Goodwill. I found dress shoes, the Frenemy
found a shirt (and some guy who worked there), and my father marveled that there were so many varied items - including Archie Bunker's couch, a Brady Bunch bunk bed, and a TV that had surely seen better days. And then Dad found me a suit - a very serviceable black wool suit in my size. I wore it to work this evening, with a black shirt and a pewter tie - feeling a bit like a guest at a fashionable funeral.
My father is in a generous state; I think it is out of appreciation for his only son no longer smoking crack ... or it was the French vanilla cake I prepared this morning. I bake rather than beg when I want something.
So magnanimous was my father's state, hw bought groceries (the 99 cents store), we discussed my next car (my license is no longer suspended after mid-December), the guy I'm seeing (now), his thoughts on my career prospects (actually positive), and - last but not least - on throwing a party.
A dinner party.
Ellen - my dear friend who had hoped to reconcile with her ex-husband but has since come to her senses (and moved on - fabulously) - is going t be alone for Thanksgiving. The aforementioned ex-husband is taking their daughters for the day. So, I proposed a dinner party. Though my septuagenarian cousin has been supportive and kind of late (she wrote me - often - while I was away at the photo shoot with Lindsay Lohan - I am not necessarily ready for football, soul food, and small talk with her and her kin (my kin).
And - I just love dinner parties.
I am inviting Dr. Bartender (the guy I'm seeing now), but I realize that the prospect of a first date at Thanksgiving dinner might be a bit much.
I am wistful, and grateful, this Thanksgiving. It's been one hell of a year.
Mark
However, speaking of felicity, I met one of my co-workers (at Macy's) in a rather amusing fashion. I walked into a back-room to stow the book I had with me for the long bus-ride home, and came upon a tiny girl - 4'6", 90-something pounds - whose name I later learned is Felicity.
Felicity does blow.
I recognized the deep snorting inhale associated with a straw and a line of powder. I recognized the wide-eyed twitchiness. And then there was the running nose, the frequent sniffing, and her great willingness to go stock things I was folding in the back-room.
I digress; my father and I went to Goodwill. We went to Boysville Thrift Store, where I bought Kenneth Cole pants that put me in mind of Haight-Ashbury. And the Frenemy joined us there. the Frenemy, by way of my kindness - and owing to the desperation of retailers during the holiday season - got hired on at Macy's. The timing was fortuitous as he just lost his job - his primary job - as a mortgage consultant. It was contract work but lucrative ... and then it ended. So, the Frenemy is returning to retail ... and to women's shoes, at that.
[Pause for amusement] Anyone aware of the Frenemy's tendency to transform into Tori for a 'linebacker in high heels blow-job sex romp behind dumpsters in certain West side bar parking lots' will imagine - but not for too long - just how bah his proximity to Carlos Santana shoes will be for the world at-large. Or just for men. Drunk, non-English speaking men.
But we - my father and I and the Frenemy, went to Goodwill. I found dress shoes, the Frenemy
found a shirt (and some guy who worked there), and my father marveled that there were so many varied items - including Archie Bunker's couch, a Brady Bunch bunk bed, and a TV that had surely seen better days. And then Dad found me a suit - a very serviceable black wool suit in my size. I wore it to work this evening, with a black shirt and a pewter tie - feeling a bit like a guest at a fashionable funeral.
My father is in a generous state; I think it is out of appreciation for his only son no longer smoking crack ... or it was the French vanilla cake I prepared this morning. I bake rather than beg when I want something.
So magnanimous was my father's state, hw bought groceries (the 99 cents store), we discussed my next car (my license is no longer suspended after mid-December), the guy I'm seeing (now), his thoughts on my career prospects (actually positive), and - last but not least - on throwing a party.
A dinner party.
Ellen - my dear friend who had hoped to reconcile with her ex-husband but has since come to her senses (and moved on - fabulously) - is going t be alone for Thanksgiving. The aforementioned ex-husband is taking their daughters for the day. So, I proposed a dinner party. Though my septuagenarian cousin has been supportive and kind of late (she wrote me - often - while I was away at the photo shoot with Lindsay Lohan - I am not necessarily ready for football, soul food, and small talk with her and her kin (my kin).
And - I just love dinner parties.
I am inviting Dr. Bartender (the guy I'm seeing now), but I realize that the prospect of a first date at Thanksgiving dinner might be a bit much.
I am wistful, and grateful, this Thanksgiving. It's been one hell of a year.
MarkI introduced my father to a new concept today - Goodwill ... not as in felicity, but rather the secondhand store(s).
However, speaking of felicity, I met one of my co-workers (at Macy's) in a rather amusing fashion. I walked into a back-room to stow the book I had with me for the long bus-ride home, and came upon a tiny girl - 4'6", 90-something pounds - whose name I later learned is Felicity.
Felicity does blow.
I recognized the deep snorting inhale associated with a straw and a line of powder. I recognized the wide-eyed twitchiness. And then there was the running nose, the frequent sniffing, and her great willingness to go stock things I was folding in the back-room.
I digress; my father and I went to Goodwill. We went to Boysville Thrift Store, where I bought Kenneth Cole pants that put me in mind of Haight-Ashbury. And the Frenemy joined us there. the Frenemy, by way of my kindness - and owing to the desperation of retailers during the holiday season - got hired on at Macy's. The timing was fortuitous as he just lost his job - his primary job - as a mortgage consultant. It was contract work but lucrative ... and then it ended. So, the Frenemy is returning to retail ... and to women's shoes, at that.
[Pause for amusement] Anyone aware of the Frenemy's tendency to transform into Tori for a 'linebacker in high heels blow-job sex romp behind dumpsters in certain West side bar parking lots' will imagine - but not for too long - just how bah his proximity to Carlos Santana shoes will be for the world at-large. Or just for men. Drunk, non-English speaking men.
But we - my father and I and the Frenemy, went to Goodwill. I found dress shoes, the Frenemy
found a shirt (and some guy who worked there), and my father marveled that there were so many varied items - including Archie Bunker's couch, a Brady Bunch bunk bed, and a TV that had surely seen better days. And then Dad found me a suit - a very serviceable black wool suit in my size. I wore it to work this evening, with a black shirt and a pewter tie - feeling a bit like a guest at a fashionable funeral.
My father is in a generous state; I think it is out of appreciation for his only son no longer smoking crack ... or it was the French vanilla cake I prepared this morning. I bake rather than beg when I want something.
So magnanimous was my father's state, hw bought groceries (the 99 cents store), we discussed my next car (my license is no longer suspended after mid-December), the guy I'm seeing (now), his thoughts on my career prospects (actually positive), and - last but not least - on throwing a party.
A dinner party.
Ellen - my dear friend who had hoped to reconcile with her ex-husband but has since come to her senses (and moved on - fabulously) - is going t be alone for Thanksgiving. The aforementioned ex-husband is taking their daughters for the day. So, I proposed a dinner party. Though my septuagenarian cousin has been supportive and kind of late (she wrote me - often - while I was away at the photo shoot with Lindsay Lohan - I am not necessarily ready for football, soul food, and small talk with her and her kin (my kin).
And - I just love dinner parties.
I am inviting Dr. Bartender (the guy I'm seeing now), but I realize that the prospect of a first date at Thanksgiving dinner might be a bit much.
I am wistful, and grateful, this Thanksgiving. It's been one hell of a year.
Mark
Thursday, November 19, 2009
It is ... What it is ...
My father, the original old black man, encountered a problem today - a persistent and pernicious one that occurs more and more often nowadays ... shit stops working. I am not referring to myself, of course. I, as you know, have never worked ... but my father has been working since probably right before even he was born. And so it seems beyond him that things stop working.
Every parent tells stories about their childhood; my parents told stories about slave quarters, share-cropping, hog-slaughtering, and an all-black town in the Texas interpretation of the deep South - all of the hate and racism, plus heat and Mexican food. Apparently, for a quarter, my father and his four siblings could go to Luling's City Market and have lunch. It was the Depression.
He was the baby of the family, and I can picture my aunts and uncles - people who I did not know well, and whom I will never know - taking my Daddy's hand, walking along a dirt road in the damned hot sun. It was miles to the city (which is, even now, just a small, small town), and it was extravagant for my father's father - a quarter so the kids could take a break from working and walk into town or sausage and brisket, crackers, and a shared soda or two.
And so today, when the dryer stopped working, my father seemed confounded - not that it was another expense, another problem with which to deal, but that it was just so odd for something in this house to cease functioning. It is an old house; my parents moved in in 1954, and there are many things in the house that are older than that still. And they still work.
When I informed my father of the dryer, it was while blowing into the kitchen in my bathrobe, and in the same breath I asked him to give me a ride to work. I have a job now. I realize now that I somehow managed to miss that detail.
I am a sales associate in Men's - at Macy's. I keep thinking, fondly, of the British sitcom (BritComs, darling ... BritComs), "Are You Being Served?" ... or, in any words, "Mr. Humphries ... are you free?" I am, by the way, free.
And - at the wage they're paying - I am practically working for the sacred pleasure(s) of being near designer clothing ... and having another excuse to replenish my wardrobe. All black. It's required.
My father fixed the dryer; it was something about a screw and a plate a short somewhere, and a 220 volt plug.
The A/C's gone out. The garbage disposal stopped working. Faucets are leaking. An inch wide crack in the den wall, and another smaller crack in the hall ceiling indicate the house is settling. The dishwasher hasn't worked since the mid-'70s, and I am fairly sure that my shower isn't supposed to spit scalding hot water at me before it blasts cold. A rotting pipe somewhere pours water directly into the bucket beneath my bathroom sink, and my father no longer uses his own toilet because the water leak was challenging his "Mr. Fix-it" supremacy.
It is an old house, and it confounds him when things stop working - perhaps precisely because he never has.
Ova the Top and Daddy are closing on their house - a new house, rather large for a one-story, rather large for a leather daddy and his boy, uniforms for a fetish, coffee machinery for an obsession, a bitchy room-mate queen, a dog, two cats, and an antique Caddy - that I am certain is too large for the one-car garage.
I walked through the frame of the house, and it was just a frame (then), a few weeks ago; I marveled at the idea that people still build houses. The idea that at one point, more than 50 years ago, this house was new ... and being built for a couple who were not exactly young though they were hopeful.
I am applying to law school. I did this a few years back, but - as one might say of any non-traditional student - I am older, wiser, and paying out of pocket; so, it means a little more than it did when I was just a kid.
I am applying to only four schools. The decision was based as much on my chances of getting in as it was on my willingness to live in, say, Lexington, Virginia. It is also a direct result of just how much money I have to spend on application fees and the minutia associated with the application process. I applied to St. Mary's - as much because I am a native San Antonian as that I am nostalgic, and that this is still home.
It is late as I type this, and I am putting off studying once again - as I did the last time I took this test. It still doesn't work. But it's me.
Every parent tells stories about their childhood; my parents told stories about slave quarters, share-cropping, hog-slaughtering, and an all-black town in the Texas interpretation of the deep South - all of the hate and racism, plus heat and Mexican food. Apparently, for a quarter, my father and his four siblings could go to Luling's City Market and have lunch. It was the Depression.
He was the baby of the family, and I can picture my aunts and uncles - people who I did not know well, and whom I will never know - taking my Daddy's hand, walking along a dirt road in the damned hot sun. It was miles to the city (which is, even now, just a small, small town), and it was extravagant for my father's father - a quarter so the kids could take a break from working and walk into town or sausage and brisket, crackers, and a shared soda or two.
And so today, when the dryer stopped working, my father seemed confounded - not that it was another expense, another problem with which to deal, but that it was just so odd for something in this house to cease functioning. It is an old house; my parents moved in in 1954, and there are many things in the house that are older than that still. And they still work.
When I informed my father of the dryer, it was while blowing into the kitchen in my bathrobe, and in the same breath I asked him to give me a ride to work. I have a job now. I realize now that I somehow managed to miss that detail.
I am a sales associate in Men's - at Macy's. I keep thinking, fondly, of the British sitcom (BritComs, darling ... BritComs), "Are You Being Served?" ... or, in any words, "Mr. Humphries ... are you free?" I am, by the way, free.
And - at the wage they're paying - I am practically working for the sacred pleasure(s) of being near designer clothing ... and having another excuse to replenish my wardrobe. All black. It's required.
My father fixed the dryer; it was something about a screw and a plate a short somewhere, and a 220 volt plug.
The A/C's gone out. The garbage disposal stopped working. Faucets are leaking. An inch wide crack in the den wall, and another smaller crack in the hall ceiling indicate the house is settling. The dishwasher hasn't worked since the mid-'70s, and I am fairly sure that my shower isn't supposed to spit scalding hot water at me before it blasts cold. A rotting pipe somewhere pours water directly into the bucket beneath my bathroom sink, and my father no longer uses his own toilet because the water leak was challenging his "Mr. Fix-it" supremacy.
It is an old house, and it confounds him when things stop working - perhaps precisely because he never has.
Ova the Top and Daddy are closing on their house - a new house, rather large for a one-story, rather large for a leather daddy and his boy, uniforms for a fetish, coffee machinery for an obsession, a bitchy room-mate queen, a dog, two cats, and an antique Caddy - that I am certain is too large for the one-car garage.
I walked through the frame of the house, and it was just a frame (then), a few weeks ago; I marveled at the idea that people still build houses. The idea that at one point, more than 50 years ago, this house was new ... and being built for a couple who were not exactly young though they were hopeful.
I am applying to law school. I did this a few years back, but - as one might say of any non-traditional student - I am older, wiser, and paying out of pocket; so, it means a little more than it did when I was just a kid.
I am applying to only four schools. The decision was based as much on my chances of getting in as it was on my willingness to live in, say, Lexington, Virginia. It is also a direct result of just how much money I have to spend on application fees and the minutia associated with the application process. I applied to St. Mary's - as much because I am a native San Antonian as that I am nostalgic, and that this is still home.
It is late as I type this, and I am putting off studying once again - as I did the last time I took this test. It still doesn't work. But it's me.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Mark, and the Fat Man ... Or, Never Trust a Man Who Does Not Own a TV
I do not know precisely what I was expecting - through, whatever it was, I got it. Dan is a very sweet man whom I met less than a month ago, right after I got back from the photo shoot. He messaged me via gay.com, and I was pleased and intrigued. We spoke for hours the first night, and connected on at least a few of the right points (e.g., he is sweet, loves opera, reads voraciously, and does not own a TV).
It bothered me only slightly that he lives in College Station, and that upon first viewing a thumbnail picture of him, I mistook him for my friend, Maggie - with a beard.
It struck me as slightly odd that he was so effusive in his affections, and that his heart was so clearly emblazoned on his sleeve. It was worse than odd; it was familiar - reminiscent of the exact way I handled meeting a new guy when I was fat, before the cosmetic surgery, before my drug dealing, before all the experiences that got me to the page I'm on now. I could certainly have made better choices, but I am really rather immensely happy I put myself through the shit I did ... because I don't think I have to apologize or compensate anymore.
Dan asked if I minded him coming to San Antonio. I responded, "why would I mind? You'll love the city. There's so much to see and do. So, why are you coming to San Antonio? Do you have business here?" I should perhaps have realized that he was coming just to see me. He hemmed and hawed, and then sheepishly admitted that he wanted to meet me. It was innocent and clear, and a complete surprise to me ... and then I recovered, as I tend to do, quickly. So, the plans were made ... or rather, Dan made them - booking the hotel (right down the street from my house) early last week. I made plans - deciding where to go, what to see, et cetera.
In the meantime, Dan and I spoke every night. He made much of how he looked forward to meeting me, how he looked forward all day to talking to me each night, and it was sweet - initially; however, too much of what was sort of a good thing, still sours eventually. I answered his calls each night, maintaining the distractions of web-surfing, reading, and so on, and prepared myself for a few hours of him thanking me for talking to him, thanking me for being so very wonderful, and then listening to Dan's various and sundry woes.
Like me only a few years ago, and maybe me still ... in some ways, Dan wore his heart (and his pain) not only on his sleeve but on his forehead. He has had more relationship experience than me - he spoke of 4 ex-boyfriends, one of whom I apparently resemble. The first. He is overweight and gay and smart - which is only slightly worse than being overweight and straight because so many gay men worship at the altar of young, (very) thin, and (very) simple. He has a history of depression - there was mention of a suicide attempt. He always felt, and had heard before, that nothing was ever good enough.
And, like I did on my first date with Daniel - just 3 years ago, Dan confused getting to know someone with going to therapy. I listened to him talk about his family, his friends, his problems ... and it was not offered in the edited and considered, redacted and usually optimistic interpretation that is date appropriate; rather, he vomited his story. On me.
He got into town on Friday, and discovered that his paycheck - which he deposited rather than cashed - did not clear. He had no money - but he did have a hotel room with WiFi. I took my laptop along, mostly because I take the little thing everywhere, and I am glad of it. Initially, we stopped in at the hotel so that Sam could transfer funds ... but that did not seem to work, so when next I looked up, he changed out of the pleasant enough Dockers and dress shirt, and into a white T-shirt and pajama pants.
My Friday night, thus, involved crawling into a king-sized bed next to a large man dressed like a 6-year old at bedtime - he on his laptop, logged onto his school's message board, and me on my laptop, logged onto facebook.
Saturday was far less blase. We breakfasted at Jesma's - a wonderful neighborhood restaurant with Marilyn Monroe murals and grand home cookin'. Dan ordered, in addition to his heavy Mexican plate, a pork chop taco (it is a literally just a pork chop - on the bone - wrapped in a tortilla). Of my lengua plate, he observed, "Is that really tongue? ... No thanks, I am not eating anything that can taste me back." He enjoyed the food, but commented that the restaurant reminded him of the taco truck outside his work-place. This included a conversation about Mexican restaurants failing to maintain health standards ... or even have permits.
After breakfast, there was MadHatter's Tea - a gay-owned tea house with an Alice in Wonderland, topsy-turvy theme, in the heart of King William ... on Beauregard, in fact. He said that King William was just like the Heights, in Houston. Of what I consider a spectacular house on a corner near MadHatter's, he observed, "What a fucking architectural nightmare."
His opposition to modern art he made clear when, upon seeing "The Friendship Torch" downtown, he decried that it was a waste of good metal. The San Antonio Central Library drew similar reactions. Of the Riverwalk, Dan said ... "Only in America would people pay good to look at a river." I pointed out that the Riverwalk was a WPA project, and thus that it is very much a part of American history, and a source of tremendous tourism ... and that a number of cities have attempted to replicate the phenomenon.
By the time, we made it to the local gay bars, I expected the comparison to Houston (inevitable ... and his apparent only frame of reference). I called for my gays. It was on the third bar of the evening when I decided to call in the City Councilman and the Frenemy. They arrived with guns blazing, and suddenly Dan's perspective on San Antonio was all "It's beautiful. The people are so friendly ..." It struck me that had I been with that man all day, I may actually have had a good time ... instead of gritting my teeth.
But owing to the effects of alcohol, consumed in sufficient quantities, and a desire to salvage something of what was a weekend of very good intentions, when Dan made a move for me ... I did not object. I dove in - fully armed - and received for my troubles a faceful of pubic hair. Manscaping was not a priority for him. I was almost erect when I entered him, and a few strokes and groans later, he got off ... though I could not. He asked if it was because I was drunk ... and, at that moment, there was nothing left to say - save the truth.
So, I told him, still inside him, that I wasn't going to get off, that I was barely even able to stay hard, that he just wasn't my type.
Needless to say, brunch was awkward. We went to Candlelight. He was sweet to the end - respected the plans I set for us what seems like ages ago now. the Frenemy joined us, and I was glad of the company. Facing the awkward morning-after is never so awkward as when it is done alone, and in public. He dropped me off at my father's house, and we exchanged a few words -
It bothered me only slightly that he lives in College Station, and that upon first viewing a thumbnail picture of him, I mistook him for my friend, Maggie - with a beard.
It struck me as slightly odd that he was so effusive in his affections, and that his heart was so clearly emblazoned on his sleeve. It was worse than odd; it was familiar - reminiscent of the exact way I handled meeting a new guy when I was fat, before the cosmetic surgery, before my drug dealing, before all the experiences that got me to the page I'm on now. I could certainly have made better choices, but I am really rather immensely happy I put myself through the shit I did ... because I don't think I have to apologize or compensate anymore.
Dan asked if I minded him coming to San Antonio. I responded, "why would I mind? You'll love the city. There's so much to see and do. So, why are you coming to San Antonio? Do you have business here?" I should perhaps have realized that he was coming just to see me. He hemmed and hawed, and then sheepishly admitted that he wanted to meet me. It was innocent and clear, and a complete surprise to me ... and then I recovered, as I tend to do, quickly. So, the plans were made ... or rather, Dan made them - booking the hotel (right down the street from my house) early last week. I made plans - deciding where to go, what to see, et cetera.
In the meantime, Dan and I spoke every night. He made much of how he looked forward to meeting me, how he looked forward all day to talking to me each night, and it was sweet - initially; however, too much of what was sort of a good thing, still sours eventually. I answered his calls each night, maintaining the distractions of web-surfing, reading, and so on, and prepared myself for a few hours of him thanking me for talking to him, thanking me for being so very wonderful, and then listening to Dan's various and sundry woes.
Like me only a few years ago, and maybe me still ... in some ways, Dan wore his heart (and his pain) not only on his sleeve but on his forehead. He has had more relationship experience than me - he spoke of 4 ex-boyfriends, one of whom I apparently resemble. The first. He is overweight and gay and smart - which is only slightly worse than being overweight and straight because so many gay men worship at the altar of young, (very) thin, and (very) simple. He has a history of depression - there was mention of a suicide attempt. He always felt, and had heard before, that nothing was ever good enough.
And, like I did on my first date with Daniel - just 3 years ago, Dan confused getting to know someone with going to therapy. I listened to him talk about his family, his friends, his problems ... and it was not offered in the edited and considered, redacted and usually optimistic interpretation that is date appropriate; rather, he vomited his story. On me.
He got into town on Friday, and discovered that his paycheck - which he deposited rather than cashed - did not clear. He had no money - but he did have a hotel room with WiFi. I took my laptop along, mostly because I take the little thing everywhere, and I am glad of it. Initially, we stopped in at the hotel so that Sam could transfer funds ... but that did not seem to work, so when next I looked up, he changed out of the pleasant enough Dockers and dress shirt, and into a white T-shirt and pajama pants.
My Friday night, thus, involved crawling into a king-sized bed next to a large man dressed like a 6-year old at bedtime - he on his laptop, logged onto his school's message board, and me on my laptop, logged onto facebook.
Saturday was far less blase. We breakfasted at Jesma's - a wonderful neighborhood restaurant with Marilyn Monroe murals and grand home cookin'. Dan ordered, in addition to his heavy Mexican plate, a pork chop taco (it is a literally just a pork chop - on the bone - wrapped in a tortilla). Of my lengua plate, he observed, "Is that really tongue? ... No thanks, I am not eating anything that can taste me back." He enjoyed the food, but commented that the restaurant reminded him of the taco truck outside his work-place. This included a conversation about Mexican restaurants failing to maintain health standards ... or even have permits.
After breakfast, there was MadHatter's Tea - a gay-owned tea house with an Alice in Wonderland, topsy-turvy theme, in the heart of King William ... on Beauregard, in fact. He said that King William was just like the Heights, in Houston. Of what I consider a spectacular house on a corner near MadHatter's, he observed, "What a fucking architectural nightmare."
His opposition to modern art he made clear when, upon seeing "The Friendship Torch" downtown, he decried that it was a waste of good metal. The San Antonio Central Library drew similar reactions. Of the Riverwalk, Dan said ... "Only in America would people pay good to look at a river." I pointed out that the Riverwalk was a WPA project, and thus that it is very much a part of American history, and a source of tremendous tourism ... and that a number of cities have attempted to replicate the phenomenon.
By the time, we made it to the local gay bars, I expected the comparison to Houston (inevitable ... and his apparent only frame of reference). I called for my gays. It was on the third bar of the evening when I decided to call in the City Councilman and the Frenemy. They arrived with guns blazing, and suddenly Dan's perspective on San Antonio was all "It's beautiful. The people are so friendly ..." It struck me that had I been with that man all day, I may actually have had a good time ... instead of gritting my teeth.
But owing to the effects of alcohol, consumed in sufficient quantities, and a desire to salvage something of what was a weekend of very good intentions, when Dan made a move for me ... I did not object. I dove in - fully armed - and received for my troubles a faceful of pubic hair. Manscaping was not a priority for him. I was almost erect when I entered him, and a few strokes and groans later, he got off ... though I could not. He asked if it was because I was drunk ... and, at that moment, there was nothing left to say - save the truth.
So, I told him, still inside him, that I wasn't going to get off, that I was barely even able to stay hard, that he just wasn't my type.
Needless to say, brunch was awkward. We went to Candlelight. He was sweet to the end - respected the plans I set for us what seems like ages ago now. the Frenemy joined us, and I was glad of the company. Facing the awkward morning-after is never so awkward as when it is done alone, and in public. He dropped me off at my father's house, and we exchanged a few words -
"I am sorry things did not work out as you would have liked."
"It's okay. I'm used to it. There's always disappointments. Sometimes they're big, and sometimes it's just a lot of little ones. I'm used to it."I hugged him, and then he was gone. Another bad date memory. Sweet man.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
So Sayeth the Diva ... So Sayeth the Flock; Get the Flock Outta Here ...
Admitting that I was in rehab is not hard to do; however, it lacks imagination. I received from that experience gifts, insights and growth the likes of which I had not previously known ... and, accordingly, I am apt to do it better justice than referring simply to being "in treatment." At this point, the phrase my best friend, Ellen, employs - "away in Europe ..." touches the very edge of the glamor and grace with which I endeavor to live my life.
So, know that when I speak of the old black man, or go into detail about being censured for the way I walk, or that if I had had sex with a peer it would have been punishable by 2 years in prison ... think not that I was confined to rehab, but that I was at a photo shoot ... with Lindsay Lohan.
While at the shoot, I was reminded of something two decades of reading Vogue emblazoned upon my character - drug addicts are hot ... and lighting can make or break anyone. Though the range of my peers spanned 50+ years - from the 17 year old who followed me around like a talkative puppy to the septuagenarian narcoleptic we thought of as 'the Godfather' - these men had about them each a presence that was determined, defiant, a bit angry and yet kind, gentle in its enforced pacificism and rough around the edges.
The men who spent time in prison posed the most interesting challenge; they were clearly bored with talking about their feelings, tired of being threatened into respecting each other, the guards, the rules ... so, to pass time, they made hypothetical drug deals, waxed poetic about their street cred, and - in the spirit of compassion and open-mindedness, occasionally offered to rape us.
By 'us' I mean the gays. There is an old line of thinking, based on some outdated study or census, that one in every ten men is gay (the 10% rule). Out of 100 men at the photo shoot, only 3 were openly gay. But oh, boy were we open.
My own flame burns bright, and I received a measure of crap as a result. So, I was told to dial it down a few notches with my walk ... and then told again. I was threatened with 'consequences' if I did not respond. I was made to walk before half the facility with my new toned down shuffle, and I was celebrated for getting off the runway. I was reminded by counselors, guards, and even the occasional admin. assistant that I must respect my peers - e.g. no peeking in the shower or random humping of my neighbors. I do not recall any similar admonitions being given to my peers, but perhaps along with hip-swaying comes sexual predation. Note: the 2 actual sexual predators at the shoot, did not sway their hips.
I digress; I received a measure of crap and my counselor - the old black man - labored under the misconception that my problems with drugs and alcohol stemmed from shame over being gay. This is also part of the problem posed by my 'intellectual denial' - of my ongoing choice to see myself as "apart from, rather a part of ..."
And yet, I was a part of ... I was one of three out and proud men, and while we did not shout from the rooftops "We're here, we're queer ... get used to it," neither did we shrink from being bold, fierce, and scandalous.
Beyonce - not her real name - is a tranny. Somewhere between doing it for fun, doing it for always ... and shakin' yo' shimmy on a street corner, the 6'5" drag queen prostitute was just this side of a diva, and - to hear her tell it - not a crack-head, but "crack-ish." From the day he arrived on the set, the scene changed. Beyonce was in the South Dorm, a place known for its rascals - many of them young, Heroin-addicted, and street wise. Rather than violent and reactive, these boys proved curious and easily amused. Some of Beyonce's stories tended toward the risque, but they had one thing in common - they all and in each glorified the diva.
Joan attempted glory. Or self-importance. At times, Joan reminded me of Joan Crawford - languishing and grand, funny and severe; at other times, he reminded me of Joan Collins - dramatic and playful, selfish but generous (so long as it served a not-so-hidden agenda). We bonded over mutual friends - from the bars and high school friends.
Joan was my jail-house ... erh, photo shoot ... frenemy, though not nearly so self-serving as the Frenemy tends to be. I recall seeing Joan right after I had a particularly moving group therapy session. I was still sniffling from the racking sobs I'd let out moments earlier, with my eyes red, swollen, my voice shaky. He saw the signs of my anguish and asked if I was okay, but right after I choked out an "I'm fine ...hard group," Joan continued on about the object of his affection.
I do not mean to suggest that I do not still feel something when I talk about the worst, darkest moments of my life ... I feel anguish, sorrow, pathos, and the occasional tear rolls down my cheek; nonetheless, I will never let personal pain and sorrow stand in the way of good cocktail conversation. So, with heavy lids and moist eyes, I look out on those who are willing to listen ... and I sing out, Louise, for all to hear.
Mark
So, know that when I speak of the old black man, or go into detail about being censured for the way I walk, or that if I had had sex with a peer it would have been punishable by 2 years in prison ... think not that I was confined to rehab, but that I was at a photo shoot ... with Lindsay Lohan.
While at the shoot, I was reminded of something two decades of reading Vogue emblazoned upon my character - drug addicts are hot ... and lighting can make or break anyone. Though the range of my peers spanned 50+ years - from the 17 year old who followed me around like a talkative puppy to the septuagenarian narcoleptic we thought of as 'the Godfather' - these men had about them each a presence that was determined, defiant, a bit angry and yet kind, gentle in its enforced pacificism and rough around the edges.
The men who spent time in prison posed the most interesting challenge; they were clearly bored with talking about their feelings, tired of being threatened into respecting each other, the guards, the rules ... so, to pass time, they made hypothetical drug deals, waxed poetic about their street cred, and - in the spirit of compassion and open-mindedness, occasionally offered to rape us.
By 'us' I mean the gays. There is an old line of thinking, based on some outdated study or census, that one in every ten men is gay (the 10% rule). Out of 100 men at the photo shoot, only 3 were openly gay. But oh, boy were we open.
My own flame burns bright, and I received a measure of crap as a result. So, I was told to dial it down a few notches with my walk ... and then told again. I was threatened with 'consequences' if I did not respond. I was made to walk before half the facility with my new toned down shuffle, and I was celebrated for getting off the runway. I was reminded by counselors, guards, and even the occasional admin. assistant that I must respect my peers - e.g. no peeking in the shower or random humping of my neighbors. I do not recall any similar admonitions being given to my peers, but perhaps along with hip-swaying comes sexual predation. Note: the 2 actual sexual predators at the shoot, did not sway their hips.
I digress; I received a measure of crap and my counselor - the old black man - labored under the misconception that my problems with drugs and alcohol stemmed from shame over being gay. This is also part of the problem posed by my 'intellectual denial' - of my ongoing choice to see myself as "apart from, rather a part of ..."
And yet, I was a part of ... I was one of three out and proud men, and while we did not shout from the rooftops "We're here, we're queer ... get used to it," neither did we shrink from being bold, fierce, and scandalous.
Beyonce - not her real name - is a tranny. Somewhere between doing it for fun, doing it for always ... and shakin' yo' shimmy on a street corner, the 6'5" drag queen prostitute was just this side of a diva, and - to hear her tell it - not a crack-head, but "crack-ish." From the day he arrived on the set, the scene changed. Beyonce was in the South Dorm, a place known for its rascals - many of them young, Heroin-addicted, and street wise. Rather than violent and reactive, these boys proved curious and easily amused. Some of Beyonce's stories tended toward the risque, but they had one thing in common - they all and in each glorified the diva.
Joan attempted glory. Or self-importance. At times, Joan reminded me of Joan Crawford - languishing and grand, funny and severe; at other times, he reminded me of Joan Collins - dramatic and playful, selfish but generous (so long as it served a not-so-hidden agenda). We bonded over mutual friends - from the bars and high school friends.
Joan was my jail-house ... erh, photo shoot ... frenemy, though not nearly so self-serving as the Frenemy tends to be. I recall seeing Joan right after I had a particularly moving group therapy session. I was still sniffling from the racking sobs I'd let out moments earlier, with my eyes red, swollen, my voice shaky. He saw the signs of my anguish and asked if I was okay, but right after I choked out an "I'm fine ...hard group," Joan continued on about the object of his affection.
"He didn't even look at me. I saw him talking to the other guy last night, and they were all flirty and cute, and he is not even going to talk to me. I am so over it. We're broken up ..." To which I replied, "I thought you were already broken up? When did you start speaking again?"Joan came into the photo shoot with an agenda - stay busy, keep distracted, and get through the program without fuss, muss, or - most importantly - change. Despite being on a second, or was it third? DWI, Joan was neither open to change nor interested in what the program had to say about that. So, he did what several of us did - he acted as if, and in his down-time, he maintained a crush on one or two carefully selected pieces of eye candy. During treatment (i.e. working) hours, Joan took advantage of a tool that Joan Crawford, and many gay men I know, mastered - the ability to cry ... on-cue. What the old black man and the other dedicated counselors and support staff perceived as break-through (break-down) moments were - for me, Joan, and Beyonce the time to shine.
I do not mean to suggest that I do not still feel something when I talk about the worst, darkest moments of my life ... I feel anguish, sorrow, pathos, and the occasional tear rolls down my cheek; nonetheless, I will never let personal pain and sorrow stand in the way of good cocktail conversation. So, with heavy lids and moist eyes, I look out on those who are willing to listen ... and I sing out, Louise, for all to hear.
Mark
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
That Amy Winehouse song, or ... What Taylor & Fortensky Had in Common
There was bougainvillea growing over the razor-wire, atop the 8' high fence surrounding the compound. I saw the obstacle course first, and felt my heart sink into my empty stomach. I was just out of jail, and while I expected a kinder, gentler experience, I did not anticipate that there would be obstacles - at least not literal ones.
I expected them to shave my head, but not my face ... and then there was the cavity search ... Anyone who has ever been in a gay bar (after-hours) is perhaps no stranger to 12 men getting naked and bending over in front of a urinal trough ... but this was far from a happy, social gathering.
The 120 days which followed passed more quickly than I expected. There were dark moments, the likes of which have no parallel in my life prior to this point, and there were light moments, which were not unlike times I knew not so very long ago - when I was sober, having fun, and wearing very unpleasant pajamas.
The uniforms were not unlike those worn in jail - rough poly-cotton jumpsuits, composed of elastic waist pants and a short-sleeved top of the same material and color - Navy blue. Beneath these we wore white cotton boxers and white cotton T-shirts, over which we wore a colored shirt. White crew socks, and orange rubber or plastic sandals (slides) completed the look. The colored shirt was a marker, some might say a form of control - red when you first arrive into the program, dark blue as you progress on-course, green when you reach the pinnacle of your recovery knowledge, and orange if/when you do bad things - relapse, which referred in these cases not to returning to drinking or drug use, which was impossible there, but to breaking the rules.
Doing things outside the program was bad ... wrong ... not following the rules was relapse.
As I say it now, it sounds like I was brain-washed those 4 months. I was, I suppose, although I echo the learned responses of those who subscribe to cults and devotional communes, e.g. "It's not about brain-washing; it's about finding a new way to think ... a new way to live ..."
I was critiqued, called-out, for the way I walk. The swing of my hips was relapse.
It was a counselor who pointed it out first, a peer (that is what we called ourselves, 'peers' ... the sum of whom comprised the 'family'). My 50-man family lived together, in bunk beds - 25 along each wall - in the North Dorm. A peer called me out on my walk, and then another counselor. I felt stifled, targeted, literally uncertain of every next step.
But that was the point. It was made clear that my intellect would not become me in treatment, that it would lie to me, that it would allow me to lie to myself, that I was in "intellectual denial." Or, as my counselor (and several counselors) said:
It was ironic that the old black man reminded me so of my father for his particular way of counseling was to take client back to that moment in childhood from which point forward he became a dope fiend. Never mind that I did not start using drugs at 27, or that - unlike others around me - I never stole from my mother or wife or children, that I did not pimp out my girlfriend for another balloon or heroin, or that I had never had sex for money or drugs. It was said simply that I had not gotten there yet ... and so, the old black man had me write a letter. It was my first assignment.
I wrote a letter to my (biological) father. I told the old black man that I did not know my father, that I had nothing to say. He said, "That's good. You will." And he said it in that way the Oracle speaks to Neo in the first "The Matrix" movie, with the wisdom of untold ages - with being one of "the original programs." I wrote a letter to someone I made up. I sobbed a week later, when a boy named Billy read his letter to his (biological) mother. They, my group, offered me a hug.
I did not hear then the routine I would hear my counselor say so often in those 120 days. It would be a moment - in group, or in some other setting, the more public the better, when one of my peers got quiet, not knowing how to deal with a tricky emotion (or issue). My counselor would come in, moving quickly or not at all - bringing his voice in close, such that it gets inside your head and there is an expectation. "Go on. Let it out. Let that pain out. It's safe here. Go on. What do those tears need to say? What's behind those tears?"
And when the peer broke, when the sobs came heavy, or the voice cracked and he began to tell some ugly story, the old black man moved in - certainly, and with the wisdom of the ages, "Tell us what those tears need to say. Tell ______ what those tears need to say; she/he is standing right there." And without looking up, the peer visualized the loved one about whom the tears kept coming. And he'd meekly offer an "I'm sorry, Mama ..." or "I love you. Please forgive me." And the old black man was there ... yelling, "HE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" The peer would muster something from behind those tears and offer it again, with more force. Again: "HE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" and then the old black man sat back and let the sobs come. Time would pass in seconds or hours, depending on the depth of the darkness.
I said it to myself every night, said it often, lying on my top bunk - in my head - when the weight of the place got to be too much - asking for the gift of serenity, to accept the things I could not change / the courage to change the things I could / and the wisdom to know the difference. I say it still some nights, in my own bed, and it carries me to sleep.
I rediscovered ambition in treatment, and I rediscovered my faith (in God, and through my Higher Power, in myself). It was mostly for praying to get out, for praying that it would pass quickly, for praying that I would not 'relapse,' and making a deal. Bargaining is one of the steps in the grieving process, and perhaps I bargained because the part of my that 'they' said was a slow death was dying, because the party was over. I always got sad at the end of the night, or early morning, when the party was indeed about over, and the bodies on the floor or on the bed stumbled up and out.
I bargained, or haggled, or just made a deal (or just plain ol' prayed) - that if I got through it, if I danced the recovery dance and changed my walk, and did my best to think and be different, listened to the speakers, and suffered fools (gladly) that I would get out of there and find the world a different place - that I would be different.
Right before I got out, the weekend before I left, I find myself in a panic - 'freaking out' as they say, because I was no longer sure if I had, in fact, been playing all along or come to believe what I heard coming out of my mouth. Others went before me, who talked of sponsors and meetings and being ready for the dangers - for the tiger waiting just outside the gates. We heard from them in letters, reports drifting in from outside - filtered through the rumor mills, maybe cleaned up or left sullied.
So-and-so is shooting up again. You-know-who is already back in jail. The odds aren't so good.
I am lying in my own bed tonight. It was a good day, a productive. I am hoping for more of those. I declined an invitation to go to a bar tonight.
Tonight, I am just going to bed.
Mark
I expected them to shave my head, but not my face ... and then there was the cavity search ... Anyone who has ever been in a gay bar (after-hours) is perhaps no stranger to 12 men getting naked and bending over in front of a urinal trough ... but this was far from a happy, social gathering.
The 120 days which followed passed more quickly than I expected. There were dark moments, the likes of which have no parallel in my life prior to this point, and there were light moments, which were not unlike times I knew not so very long ago - when I was sober, having fun, and wearing very unpleasant pajamas.
The uniforms were not unlike those worn in jail - rough poly-cotton jumpsuits, composed of elastic waist pants and a short-sleeved top of the same material and color - Navy blue. Beneath these we wore white cotton boxers and white cotton T-shirts, over which we wore a colored shirt. White crew socks, and orange rubber or plastic sandals (slides) completed the look. The colored shirt was a marker, some might say a form of control - red when you first arrive into the program, dark blue as you progress on-course, green when you reach the pinnacle of your recovery knowledge, and orange if/when you do bad things - relapse, which referred in these cases not to returning to drinking or drug use, which was impossible there, but to breaking the rules.
Doing things outside the program was bad ... wrong ... not following the rules was relapse.
As I say it now, it sounds like I was brain-washed those 4 months. I was, I suppose, although I echo the learned responses of those who subscribe to cults and devotional communes, e.g. "It's not about brain-washing; it's about finding a new way to think ... a new way to live ..."
I was critiqued, called-out, for the way I walk. The swing of my hips was relapse.
It was a counselor who pointed it out first, a peer (that is what we called ourselves, 'peers' ... the sum of whom comprised the 'family'). My 50-man family lived together, in bunk beds - 25 along each wall - in the North Dorm. A peer called me out on my walk, and then another counselor. I felt stifled, targeted, literally uncertain of every next step.
But that was the point. It was made clear that my intellect would not become me in treatment, that it would lie to me, that it would allow me to lie to myself, that I was in "intellectual denial." Or, as my counselor (and several counselors) said:
"You don't know shit. You ain't runnin' shit. You are not smarter than this disease [of addiction]."I took to referring to my counselor, whom I loved and disliked, as 'the old black man' in letters out. It is the same term I occasionally use to refer to my father. The old black man reminded me of my father, of Dad, although he knows more words and isn't too Southern and religious and decent to turn a phrase. My counselor often said, of 'smoking dope,' "You know you done sucked that glass dick ..."
It was ironic that the old black man reminded me so of my father for his particular way of counseling was to take client back to that moment in childhood from which point forward he became a dope fiend. Never mind that I did not start using drugs at 27, or that - unlike others around me - I never stole from my mother or wife or children, that I did not pimp out my girlfriend for another balloon or heroin, or that I had never had sex for money or drugs. It was said simply that I had not gotten there yet ... and so, the old black man had me write a letter. It was my first assignment.
I wrote a letter to my (biological) father. I told the old black man that I did not know my father, that I had nothing to say. He said, "That's good. You will." And he said it in that way the Oracle speaks to Neo in the first "The Matrix" movie, with the wisdom of untold ages - with being one of "the original programs." I wrote a letter to someone I made up. I sobbed a week later, when a boy named Billy read his letter to his (biological) mother. They, my group, offered me a hug.
I did not hear then the routine I would hear my counselor say so often in those 120 days. It would be a moment - in group, or in some other setting, the more public the better, when one of my peers got quiet, not knowing how to deal with a tricky emotion (or issue). My counselor would come in, moving quickly or not at all - bringing his voice in close, such that it gets inside your head and there is an expectation. "Go on. Let it out. Let that pain out. It's safe here. Go on. What do those tears need to say? What's behind those tears?"
And when the peer broke, when the sobs came heavy, or the voice cracked and he began to tell some ugly story, the old black man moved in - certainly, and with the wisdom of the ages, "Tell us what those tears need to say. Tell ______ what those tears need to say; she/he is standing right there." And without looking up, the peer visualized the loved one about whom the tears kept coming. And he'd meekly offer an "I'm sorry, Mama ..." or "I love you. Please forgive me." And the old black man was there ... yelling, "HE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" The peer would muster something from behind those tears and offer it again, with more force. Again: "HE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" and then the old black man sat back and let the sobs come. Time would pass in seconds or hours, depending on the depth of the darkness.
You're as fucked-up as your deepest secret. Get it out. Take back the power.So, the peer would cry, and then it would be done. He'd hand over the letter he read, the effigy of a loved one to whom an apology was owed or forgiveness begged. Each group ended with a group hug, and the Serenity Prayer.
I said it to myself every night, said it often, lying on my top bunk - in my head - when the weight of the place got to be too much - asking for the gift of serenity, to accept the things I could not change / the courage to change the things I could / and the wisdom to know the difference. I say it still some nights, in my own bed, and it carries me to sleep.
I rediscovered ambition in treatment, and I rediscovered my faith (in God, and through my Higher Power, in myself). It was mostly for praying to get out, for praying that it would pass quickly, for praying that I would not 'relapse,' and making a deal. Bargaining is one of the steps in the grieving process, and perhaps I bargained because the part of my that 'they' said was a slow death was dying, because the party was over. I always got sad at the end of the night, or early morning, when the party was indeed about over, and the bodies on the floor or on the bed stumbled up and out.
I bargained, or haggled, or just made a deal (or just plain ol' prayed) - that if I got through it, if I danced the recovery dance and changed my walk, and did my best to think and be different, listened to the speakers, and suffered fools (gladly) that I would get out of there and find the world a different place - that I would be different.
Right before I got out, the weekend before I left, I find myself in a panic - 'freaking out' as they say, because I was no longer sure if I had, in fact, been playing all along or come to believe what I heard coming out of my mouth. Others went before me, who talked of sponsors and meetings and being ready for the dangers - for the tiger waiting just outside the gates. We heard from them in letters, reports drifting in from outside - filtered through the rumor mills, maybe cleaned up or left sullied.
So-and-so is shooting up again. You-know-who is already back in jail. The odds aren't so good.
I am lying in my own bed tonight. It was a good day, a productive. I am hoping for more of those. I declined an invitation to go to a bar tonight.
Tonight, I am just going to bed.
Mark
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I suppose it is simple
My darling and dear old friend, Ellen...she of the beautiful children and friends with benefits ex-husband...has kindly taken up the mantle of maintaining my blog while I'm away. I send her letters (from the great beyond), and she makes them digital and sends them to you.
I am in rehab--court-ordered, and a God send. I believe I need help--whether for drinking, drugs, or 'other'. I am getting it here...in addition ot adding pages to my life story.
The sentence, for the record, is 120 days (approximately 4 months). The alternative was 3 years in prison. I will leave here--healthier, having shed a great many tears, analyzed some 'issues,' and being sober (for the first time since Reagan left office). It will be October, late October, when I leave, and I am hoping for a celar day and chill winds. Something poetic...
Strange things come to mind here. I thought of proposing to Sean. I am thinking of it, actively; min you, I cannot keep my mind on him. I think of Sean and marriage, dysfunctional love, and then going back to church. I think it has something to do with his middle name being Christian, or that he is the antithesis of churchly things. I am ironic...and still in love.
The Frenemy and I visited my hipster haven before I turned myself in--Monday night at Web House. The Russian gave me a wry smile, surprised to see me...and the Straight Boyfriend hugged me between drinks. The guy I WAS seeing was there. He came over to throw a non-commital arm around my shoulder. We stood briefly hip-to-hip, exchanging tiny talk.
I returned to the Summer Palace (a season changes quickly--the transition marked by new landscaping and a switch ot wine spritzers). A gin and tonic is in order. I enjoyed that night--chatter with the Stable Boy, confessions and farewell(s) with/to the Frenemy, a pep talk and a hug from the Great Prince. And then I schtupped the Gardener.
It was a last hurrah...and it was good.
The Czarian drove me, and accompanied me, to court. The Frenemy joined us there. I was hand-cuffed, sitting in the jury box--alone. The Frenemy was busily hitting on the two young defendants across the way.
As I was to be taken to jail, the Frenemy and the Czarina left the court-room, and I cried like a little boy lost.
It is better now, of course. I know what I am facing, have an end date for my incarceration, but--more significantly--a healthy vision of the future...my future. I feel good today.
Small things are enormous at times; I feel good. My counselor--and old black man, who reminds me so very much of my father--gave me a hug. He is a precious child of God, and I believe.
Sabra here, guys. I will be posting more blogs as Mark sends them to me. He has asked for books--you know how it is there. So, if anyone has a spare volume or two--or can even write him, here's his address for the nonce:
Mark Hardeman #49
10975-A Applewhite Rd
San Antonio, TX 78224
Authors/books he'd like to read:
Agatha Christie
Molly Ivins (it pains me, as a Republican, to even type that name; I shall have to find some Mark Levin to send him)
Ann Coulter (oh, OK then!)
Peggy Noonan
James Joyce
Bill Bryson
Stephen Ambrose
Books:
Twilight series
vols. 8 - 13 of A Series of Unfortunate Events
Love, by Toni Morrison
"...and anything anyone wants to share..."
I am in rehab--court-ordered, and a God send. I believe I need help--whether for drinking, drugs, or 'other'. I am getting it here...in addition ot adding pages to my life story.
The sentence, for the record, is 120 days (approximately 4 months). The alternative was 3 years in prison. I will leave here--healthier, having shed a great many tears, analyzed some 'issues,' and being sober (for the first time since Reagan left office). It will be October, late October, when I leave, and I am hoping for a celar day and chill winds. Something poetic...
Strange things come to mind here. I thought of proposing to Sean. I am thinking of it, actively; min you, I cannot keep my mind on him. I think of Sean and marriage, dysfunctional love, and then going back to church. I think it has something to do with his middle name being Christian, or that he is the antithesis of churchly things. I am ironic...and still in love.
The Frenemy and I visited my hipster haven before I turned myself in--Monday night at Web House. The Russian gave me a wry smile, surprised to see me...and the Straight Boyfriend hugged me between drinks. The guy I WAS seeing was there. He came over to throw a non-commital arm around my shoulder. We stood briefly hip-to-hip, exchanging tiny talk.
I returned to the Summer Palace (a season changes quickly--the transition marked by new landscaping and a switch ot wine spritzers). A gin and tonic is in order. I enjoyed that night--chatter with the Stable Boy, confessions and farewell(s) with/to the Frenemy, a pep talk and a hug from the Great Prince. And then I schtupped the Gardener.
It was a last hurrah...and it was good.
The Czarian drove me, and accompanied me, to court. The Frenemy joined us there. I was hand-cuffed, sitting in the jury box--alone. The Frenemy was busily hitting on the two young defendants across the way.
As I was to be taken to jail, the Frenemy and the Czarina left the court-room, and I cried like a little boy lost.
It is better now, of course. I know what I am facing, have an end date for my incarceration, but--more significantly--a healthy vision of the future...my future. I feel good today.
Small things are enormous at times; I feel good. My counselor--and old black man, who reminds me so very much of my father--gave me a hug. He is a precious child of God, and I believe.
Sabra here, guys. I will be posting more blogs as Mark sends them to me. He has asked for books--you know how it is there. So, if anyone has a spare volume or two--or can even write him, here's his address for the nonce:
Mark Hardeman #49
10975-A Applewhite Rd
San Antonio, TX 78224
Authors/books he'd like to read:
Agatha Christie
Molly Ivins (it pains me, as a Republican, to even type that name; I shall have to find some Mark Levin to send him)
Ann Coulter (oh, OK then!)
Peggy Noonan
James Joyce
Bill Bryson
Stephen Ambrose
Books:
Twilight series
vols. 8 - 13 of A Series of Unfortunate Events
Love, by Toni Morrison
"...and anything anyone wants to share..."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
" ... but that is not this day. This day WE FIGHT ..."
This morning, we were awakened by the sound of one horn honking. The winter palace is located on a busy residential street - otherwise quiet, give or take the traffic, the cars roaring down the street from Ft. Sam Houston, and the occasional deceased house-pet.
Although the royal driveway is long, the fleet is large - and the Great Prince has a large supply of cars at any given time sitting on the street, in the driveway or otherwise nearby ... and so was the detriment of the Viscount of the Car-port. A Honda CRV came barrelling down the road today, and in the course of doing so, it took out the Viscount's car, a minivan behind it, coming to rest atop a Ford Contour one house down. It was the Contour's horn that blared at full volume as the SUV sat on its hood, the front passenger side tire passing rather eventfully through the windshield. I watched from a safe distance the mayhem one house down, until I was reminded of my legal status (the police were en route), at which point I wandered inside to resume my morning regimen of white wine, blogs, and web-comics. I had writing to do.
A few days ago, I would have made much of this incident; however, at the moment, it merely provides fodder for nostalgia and amusement. How often does one actually have one's parked car taken out by an Army colonel / nurse, or - in general?
I find myself reflecting on my 21st birthday, arguably the start of my Bacchanal. Sean and I started the day sitting in a quiet park, smoking a joint and drinking Sake screwdrivers. I was in awe that people did such things. I was in love with the boy across from me, who was my age and beautiful, brilliant and completely mad, and it was a kinder, gentler world ... did I mention that the night ended with, among other things, being locked in the trunk of my own car ... and, when eventually found and released, puking on a chartreuse velvet chair?
I still haven't decided - nine years later - if the vomit was a comment on Sean's boyfriend's choice in chairs, or a result of the 12 hours of drinking, or if perhaps it was just the inevitable and appropriate response to turning 21 (which likely combines theories #2 and #3 rather perfectly). In any event, sitting here at the Winter Palace, a plastic cup full of ice water on one side of me, my cell phone at the ready - for text purposes, and a small, crystal flute full of ice cubes and Gekkeikan (sake) on the other side of my $250 laptop, I find myself ready to face the evening, and the morning that will follow.
Meanwhile, there is still more sake, and the night is young ...
Although the royal driveway is long, the fleet is large - and the Great Prince has a large supply of cars at any given time sitting on the street, in the driveway or otherwise nearby ... and so was the detriment of the Viscount of the Car-port. A Honda CRV came barrelling down the road today, and in the course of doing so, it took out the Viscount's car, a minivan behind it, coming to rest atop a Ford Contour one house down. It was the Contour's horn that blared at full volume as the SUV sat on its hood, the front passenger side tire passing rather eventfully through the windshield. I watched from a safe distance the mayhem one house down, until I was reminded of my legal status (the police were en route), at which point I wandered inside to resume my morning regimen of white wine, blogs, and web-comics. I had writing to do.
A few days ago, I would have made much of this incident; however, at the moment, it merely provides fodder for nostalgia and amusement. How often does one actually have one's parked car taken out by an Army colonel / nurse, or - in general?
I find myself reflecting on my 21st birthday, arguably the start of my Bacchanal. Sean and I started the day sitting in a quiet park, smoking a joint and drinking Sake screwdrivers. I was in awe that people did such things. I was in love with the boy across from me, who was my age and beautiful, brilliant and completely mad, and it was a kinder, gentler world ... did I mention that the night ended with, among other things, being locked in the trunk of my own car ... and, when eventually found and released, puking on a chartreuse velvet chair?
I still haven't decided - nine years later - if the vomit was a comment on Sean's boyfriend's choice in chairs, or a result of the 12 hours of drinking, or if perhaps it was just the inevitable and appropriate response to turning 21 (which likely combines theories #2 and #3 rather perfectly). In any event, sitting here at the Winter Palace, a plastic cup full of ice water on one side of me, my cell phone at the ready - for text purposes, and a small, crystal flute full of ice cubes and Gekkeikan (sake) on the other side of my $250 laptop, I find myself ready to face the evening, and the morning that will follow.
Meanwhile, there is still more sake, and the night is young ...
Monday, June 15, 2009
Throw a big stick ...
Cable toss is a rather extraordinary event. Large, often hairy, men in kilts vie to see who can toss their big stick - the cable - the farthest. So, when I dreamed that I was attending a cable toss event, it occurred to me there were sexual overtones. The heavily-bearded men with bulging muscles (and bellies), woolly kilts, and a very casual relationship with deodorant are not my usual type, but my subconscious is always game for a challenge.
The dream ended with a bang, not a whimper ... as one of the hairy, kilted men lost control of his cable - crushing me beneath its massive weight.
In another dream, I was asleep on the Councilman's couch - minding my own, sleepy business, drunk as a frat boy (before his first gay experience), when I was awakened by a ruckus. The Chihuahua, the Beagle, and a strange assemblage of animals - a 'coon, a bunny, two beavers, and some chickens had somehow gotten into the house. There was a multi-species cat-fight going on just beyond the couch. I was confused. I was frightened. I had to fight my way out - the best way I knew how ... running from the beavers, using the bunny to beat down the 'coon, and choking the chicken(s).
Freudian(?) ... no, never, not me.
Frankly, though one has little control over the course, or the particulars, of one's dreams, I usually benefit from the sort of obtuse, impenetrable fantasies explored in numerous Kurosawa or Bergman films. They are occasionally in black-and-white. I think there was once a ninja, but that could merely have been an hallucination as that particular dream did involve the French Foreign Legion, the Sahara, and at least one camel in heat.
There may have been a mime ... but far be it from me to appear pretentious.
I have been remiss in my film class this semester. It's summer, and I am facing jail-time, so my focus is off - needless to say; nonetheless, I have seen every film we are discussing - among them: "Casablanca," "Spaceballs," "The Thing," "Spartacus," "Citizen Kane," etc. The picture is a standard one - the American canon, expanded somewhat to include Mel Brooks, a little SciFi, and horror. I think "Friday, the 13th" is part of the 10 weeks course. In any event, my paper on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," entitled: "My Favorite Bog: the Consequences of Knowing Each Other" was a hit, and the piece on "Casablanca" - "This is the Beginning of a Beautiful [Mess]" promises to raise eyebrows, if only for the suggestion that Peter Lorre is a desperate homosexual (another dream ... don't ask).
My own precarious legal predicament is such that I, perhaps, have desperation on the brain. It is not often, after all, that one actually finds oneself called to surrender one's own freedom - rather, it is often simply taken away - swiftly, cruelly, and without much warning (although often with much ado). That said, I find myself anxious but not desperate. I am eerily calm - convinced, if you will, that the God who protects fools, babies, ships named Enterprise (and bloggers) will somehow provide a little deus ex machina.
My awareness of the desperate - for now - is tuned upon those around me, although degrees of desperation vary from one to the next.
Ova the Top - for example - is intent on buying a house. He is intent on owning a home, and being able to move into it when his fiance, Daddy, arrives in town in a few weeks. Any number of people, including the Czarina, the Great Prince, the Frenemy, and myself think he could do better, could otherwise find a better deal than the one into which he has now entered; nonetheless, what Ova's doing is far from desperate. If anything, it fits him - practical, reasoned, and while there is compromise, it's not in the way of sacrifice. He is getting a house - which will eventually, quickly - I'd say, become a home. He will live in a subdivision, and there will be children (evil things, really ...) at play nearby, but short of living in a bath-house (to which he and Daddy might not be completely opposed) there are not a great many alternatives.
On the other hand, the Frenemy - who recently decided to rebirth his alter-ego, Tori - is not only desperate but also horny. It is said that one should never shop for groceries when hungry. If men are groceries, the Frenemy is always hungry ... and thus should perhaps never shop. Nonetheless, despite drives to Floresville for 3AM hook-ups, the acquisition of an entire S&M wardrobe for the sake of an (expensive) encounter with an escort, and countless hours spent sleeping off a buzz in a dive bar parking lot, the Frenemy maintains a near-constant supply of "trade." Moving, as he does, from one hook-up to the next (many times in succession), through a seemingly endless string of sex play(s), his modus operandi smacks not only of desperation but also of a religious devotion - likenable, it seems, to a sexual jihad.
Being the all or nothing queen that he is, the Frenemy decided to relinquish his gay self; six months, it seems, of general success with gay men who do not return phone calls, or require him to pay for a date, or who stay the night (talking) and don't put out, pales in comparison to the quantity success of blowing drunken day laborers behind dumpsters, or in the backseat.
Viva puta!
Others in my life, far less absolute individuals - with jobs, goals, and the expectation of waking up free tomorrow live lives of far less quiet (or noisy) desperation. For this, my first writing in a week or more, I find myself melancholic but hopeful.
Is it blind ambition, delusion, or hysterics that keep me going today? I wish I knew ... but I am enjoying a glass of wine for lunch, tapping away on a netbook at a heretofore undisclosed location - hoping, if I may, that you picture something more romantic than a pilfered Starbuck's WiFi connection, and the red flip-flops I am actually wearing. Picture me romantically, if you will, sitting beside a lazy river - in Gruene, or Boerne, or one of those local places I hope to frequent again soon - once the period of my unfortunate incarceration passes. Think that I am writing to you while gazing wistfully upon a deer, and sipping a Riesling at some place where it would not be unexpected to find a celebrity, but not Paris Hilton or anyone from "The Hills."
Suffice it to say, that today will be a good day.
Mark
The dream ended with a bang, not a whimper ... as one of the hairy, kilted men lost control of his cable - crushing me beneath its massive weight.
In another dream, I was asleep on the Councilman's couch - minding my own, sleepy business, drunk as a frat boy (before his first gay experience), when I was awakened by a ruckus. The Chihuahua, the Beagle, and a strange assemblage of animals - a 'coon, a bunny, two beavers, and some chickens had somehow gotten into the house. There was a multi-species cat-fight going on just beyond the couch. I was confused. I was frightened. I had to fight my way out - the best way I knew how ... running from the beavers, using the bunny to beat down the 'coon, and choking the chicken(s).
Freudian(?) ... no, never, not me.
Frankly, though one has little control over the course, or the particulars, of one's dreams, I usually benefit from the sort of obtuse, impenetrable fantasies explored in numerous Kurosawa or Bergman films. They are occasionally in black-and-white. I think there was once a ninja, but that could merely have been an hallucination as that particular dream did involve the French Foreign Legion, the Sahara, and at least one camel in heat.
There may have been a mime ... but far be it from me to appear pretentious.
I have been remiss in my film class this semester. It's summer, and I am facing jail-time, so my focus is off - needless to say; nonetheless, I have seen every film we are discussing - among them: "Casablanca," "Spaceballs," "The Thing," "Spartacus," "Citizen Kane," etc. The picture is a standard one - the American canon, expanded somewhat to include Mel Brooks, a little SciFi, and horror. I think "Friday, the 13th" is part of the 10 weeks course. In any event, my paper on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," entitled: "My Favorite Bog: the Consequences of Knowing Each Other" was a hit, and the piece on "Casablanca" - "This is the Beginning of a Beautiful [Mess]" promises to raise eyebrows, if only for the suggestion that Peter Lorre is a desperate homosexual (another dream ... don't ask).
My own precarious legal predicament is such that I, perhaps, have desperation on the brain. It is not often, after all, that one actually finds oneself called to surrender one's own freedom - rather, it is often simply taken away - swiftly, cruelly, and without much warning (although often with much ado). That said, I find myself anxious but not desperate. I am eerily calm - convinced, if you will, that the God who protects fools, babies, ships named Enterprise (and bloggers) will somehow provide a little deus ex machina.
My awareness of the desperate - for now - is tuned upon those around me, although degrees of desperation vary from one to the next.
Ova the Top - for example - is intent on buying a house. He is intent on owning a home, and being able to move into it when his fiance, Daddy, arrives in town in a few weeks. Any number of people, including the Czarina, the Great Prince, the Frenemy, and myself think he could do better, could otherwise find a better deal than the one into which he has now entered; nonetheless, what Ova's doing is far from desperate. If anything, it fits him - practical, reasoned, and while there is compromise, it's not in the way of sacrifice. He is getting a house - which will eventually, quickly - I'd say, become a home. He will live in a subdivision, and there will be children (evil things, really ...) at play nearby, but short of living in a bath-house (to which he and Daddy might not be completely opposed) there are not a great many alternatives.
On the other hand, the Frenemy - who recently decided to rebirth his alter-ego, Tori - is not only desperate but also horny. It is said that one should never shop for groceries when hungry. If men are groceries, the Frenemy is always hungry ... and thus should perhaps never shop. Nonetheless, despite drives to Floresville for 3AM hook-ups, the acquisition of an entire S&M wardrobe for the sake of an (expensive) encounter with an escort, and countless hours spent sleeping off a buzz in a dive bar parking lot, the Frenemy maintains a near-constant supply of "trade." Moving, as he does, from one hook-up to the next (many times in succession), through a seemingly endless string of sex play(s), his modus operandi smacks not only of desperation but also of a religious devotion - likenable, it seems, to a sexual jihad.
Being the all or nothing queen that he is, the Frenemy decided to relinquish his gay self; six months, it seems, of general success with gay men who do not return phone calls, or require him to pay for a date, or who stay the night (talking) and don't put out, pales in comparison to the quantity success of blowing drunken day laborers behind dumpsters, or in the backseat.
Viva puta!
Others in my life, far less absolute individuals - with jobs, goals, and the expectation of waking up free tomorrow live lives of far less quiet (or noisy) desperation. For this, my first writing in a week or more, I find myself melancholic but hopeful.
Is it blind ambition, delusion, or hysterics that keep me going today? I wish I knew ... but I am enjoying a glass of wine for lunch, tapping away on a netbook at a heretofore undisclosed location - hoping, if I may, that you picture something more romantic than a pilfered Starbuck's WiFi connection, and the red flip-flops I am actually wearing. Picture me romantically, if you will, sitting beside a lazy river - in Gruene, or Boerne, or one of those local places I hope to frequent again soon - once the period of my unfortunate incarceration passes. Think that I am writing to you while gazing wistfully upon a deer, and sipping a Riesling at some place where it would not be unexpected to find a celebrity, but not Paris Hilton or anyone from "The Hills."
Suffice it to say, that today will be a good day.
Mark
Friday, June 5, 2009
Plenty of fish in the ...
When Lysander observes, “the course of true love never did run smooth, “ (Midsummer Night’s Dream) he said a mouthful brother … although, in truth, what I am dealing with is neither true love or even good lovin’. As it happens the series of unfortunate events that is my love life has moved from the ridiculous to the absurd. Keep in mind that I certainly have plenty bigger fish to fry these days than to worry about my love life, or even getting laid; nonetheless, man cannot live on bread alone.
A man has needs …
the Frenemy being the frenemy he is commented the other day that he saw the guy I’m seeing and our favorite Russian buddy buddy(ing) about at the grocery store the other day. As things go, one never needs to hear much about one’s exes, something that the Frenemy never quite seems to grasp. Mind you, this is someone who spent three years stalking a guy he slept with a total of three times. In truth, I haven’t thought much of the guy I’m seeing since our thing dissolved – give or take finding out that he is now dating the guy with whom I wanted to rebound. Four years, all things considered, fly by without much ado – particularly given that our thing largely consisted of doing drugs together and making out in the occasional bar restroom. Ah, young love …
I have been lucky enough – thinking of it now – to have had some lovely, long-term bed buddies (although none of them made it to boyfriend status). And yet it is – I suppose a question of degrees. Rodney – the pale, bone-thin, accounting major (who was a convicted sex offender, mind you) – had an instant willingness to play. He was passive to the point of resembling a blow-up doll. I don’t recall how it ended … but somehow, a fade-out occurred.
Brian wrote beautiful poetry – about his dead lover; we listened to the Carpenters while he talked about the plans he and his lover had together, or pored over old photo albums. That we were naked when these things occurred was the few actual nods to a sex life we enjoyed. He dumped me when I applied to law school – said he couldn’t bear to lose another man in his life.
the guy I’m seeing, of course, never saw me in daylight; we had breakfast together once – separate checks, please – and drinks together many times … among other less than legal associations. The sex was never reciprocal although the drive was mutual. Despite the amazing kisses, and occasionally passing out together post-blowjob, we could never sleep together. It was a motley assemblage of arms and legs, with injury around every elbow or corner. I somehow think the black eye he wore the last time I saw him has more to do with more bad sleep chemistry than it does with any domestic violence.
Mikey – who enjoyed fisting – blew my mind, among other parts. He was smart, funny, kinky, playful and in constant want of large black man, individually or in a group setting. After three years of wearing him like a glove, I still got exciting from just him walking into a room. If there is God in this world, he is in rehab … or post-rehab … has moved to a religious colony in the mountains of some very small town. His demons caught up with him shortly before my own did with me.
While the rest of my sex life – before, after, and certainly during college – is a blur of ups, downs, and the occasional sideways, the sum of the tragic comedy that is my life occurred just the other night. I met Roger online. We seemed to hit it off well enough, and one late night, spent hours sitting on my father’s front porch – innocently chatting. We shared a kiss and parted ways somewhere around 5AM. When I didn’t hear from him, I assumed it was just another missed connection … and then he called. It was 2AM, and he was drunk, and wanted company. I know this by way of the voicemail he left – the five voicemails, actually. I was in bed at the time, and was indeed in bed the next three or four nights when he called at 2 or 3 in the morning.
Not exactly in the mood to be someone’s booty call, but also in need of a little attention, I called him – at a decent hour – and suggested we get together. He picked me up, and as I could not play at my place, and he could not play at his, we decided to get a motel room – or I did anyway. I brought the necessary requirements, a bottle of booze, a change of clothes, and condoms. I think it was halfway through the bottle when the frank conversation started – one I’ve heard time and again over the years – the “I like you, but just not in that way …” I was finishing the next glass when he proposed I get a hooker … a twink … that way, we could both play.
I toyed with the idea for whole seconds, before determining that I’d rather right off a night without nookie than pick up a crack hoe, especially on my dime. We went round and round on that before I simply demanded to be driven home. He refused. Under the auspices that he was too drunk to drive all the way back to my place and then get himself home, he suggested I stay in the room, that I perhaps get a hooker on my own, that I have a friend pick me up … in other words, he was done with me. After more bitching, he begrudgingly agreed to pay for the taxi to send me on my way.
I believe the taxi ride cost approximately a tenth of what I spent on the evening, but it was the tedium of yet another rejection that stung much more than the lingering feeling I was played. As things go, counting down my remaining days of freedom, I am half-tempted to get in as much fun and frivolity as I may, and otherwise find myself wanting to lock myself away in a monastery – safe from the temptations, thrills, rejection(s), and other such things that made up the previous two years.
At some point, the party’s over …
Thursday, May 21, 2009
"You're a bog, George ... a BOG ?!?!?!?!? Fix me another drink?"
The rumors of my arrest have been deftly avoided. Actually, the rumors stand as they may ... it is the reality of arrest which I avoid. The whole thing is generally legal - as the advice that staying out of jail is preferable to being in it came from an attorney, a bail bonds person, and at least one talking cat who appeared to me in a vision.
I should say that I was drowning my sorrows in a vat of vodka when the cat appeared to me, so perhaps he / she has somehow less authority than the other two, but who am I to judge?
In the time that I've been a fugitive from justice, I have developed a greater appreciation for freedom and the great many things the wide world has to offer. I avoid clubs, bars, and my favorite hipster haven like the plague itself, and I have suddenly become very fond of my womb-like bedroom - situated as it is away from windows, located in the very center of the house; my presence or absence at my father's house is impossible to discern, and that comes in handy when you are possessed of the very real possibility that the cops may come a-knockin'.
As it happens, my greatest aids and comfort in this complex little pas de deux with the system, other than the Czarina and the Great Prince - about whom I will explicate momentarily, has been the staffing service with which I've been registered for 4 years. A leader in the job placement world, and internationally known, I was eager to sign up with The Office years ago - fresh from college, newly degreed and ready to burst forth into the world. And like so many things in life to which I look forward and about which I am so optimistic, so innocently hopeful, they didn't do shit for me.
It was 2 years before I got anyone in the Office to return my phone calls, a full four years before they actually gave me an assignment. Even the charming, squeaky-voiced redhead office manager, Ryan, for whom my heart skips a beat and pants grow tight, has spurned my offers for coffee or a movie date. I think he once said, rather hesitantly - the second or third time I asked if he wanted to grab Starbuck's after work, "Well, I'm out of town this weekend ... but, you know where to find me. I'm always around ..." The words said 'maybe,' but the pinched smile and darting eyes said, 'I'm too polite to flatly turn you down.'
Ryan notwithstanding, over the past month or so, the Office has come through for me. I do have myriad skills, a few degrees under my belt, and at least a marginal knowledge of accounting principles (thank you, Czarina), so it was realistically only a matter of time before my assets started getting a little appreciation. The assignment that paid $15/hr., wherein I spent at least half my day catching up on celebrity gossip and the virtues of Go Fug Yourself, is over. The woman whose position I filled during her maternity leave returned last Monday. I spent the week there - working less and less each day - and was informed that my job was done at mid-day Friday.
I spent a lazy weekend avoiding the police that, thankfully, never came. I bided my time between barbecuing a 2" thick T-Bone steak (ribs, burgers, etc.) on an antique grill, luxuriated in the 10-person hot tub, and at some point, there was fishing.
As I mentioned once or twice before, the Czarina, the Great Prince (and their Stable Boy) have a landscaping business; actually, they have five or six businesses of various types that alternately provide a very comfortable income, which sustains the Winter Palace and our mutual bad habit(s) of being lush. It was for one of those jobs that we - like the odd family we form - piled into the royal work truck and road tripped our way to Marion, TX. I know nothing of Marion - except that, like most small towns in Texas, it is quaint ... and makes me vaguely nervous.
Oh, and the other thing I know is that there is a lovely home there, belonging to one of their clients. The place itself is impeccable - a contemporary ranch house with Matisse murals on upper walls, a sprawling pool, landscaping reminiscent of Babylon (a la the Czarina, most recently), and 20 acres of spare land, on which the man-made, professionally stocked lake sits. After the Great Prince made a minor repair of the pool, he and the Stable Boy went a-wadin', casting their lines to catch one of the large-mouth(ed) Bass that flitted occasionally just below the surface. It occurred to me - in the first hour of the fishing expedition - that the boys might have more luck just dipping a bucket into the water and waiting five minutes.
Moments later, the Great Prince landed a Bass.
the Czarina - being no great fan of fish - and the rest of us not big fans of cleaning fish, the rather large, wriggling thing was destined not for a plate but the royal Koi pond. A few months ago, in an effort to clean the pond, the Great Prince poured in a capful of bleach. The next morning, the four or five Koi that survived an assault by a very large 'coon - possibly the same one the Great Prince shot a few weeks ago - were belly up. So, it suddenly seemed apt, when heading to Marion, to restock the small, residential pond one 10 lbs. fish at a time.
Note: Slappy, as I dubbed him, has not been seen since. Whether it is that he is adapting to his new environment, or that Bass - being bottom dwellers are naturally shy - Slappy seems to prefer hiding beneath the fountain in the center of the pond, only emerging to enjoy a few bread-crumbs ... then retreating out of sight. Incidentally, Slappy is his stage name; I originally thought Bass-hole a more appropriate moniker.
I digress; back to the subject of working, and the Office, I am enjoying a temp. employee cliche, or several thereof. There was the three weeks long assignment that paid well and required little effort, of course - the start of all this. And then there was another recent job offer - $9.25/hr. that required a 128 mile daily commute and would only last 2 weeks. It entailed answering phones, and doing some basic records maintenance, at a small-town hospital I was not aware existed. I turned down the offer, which seemed to greatly dismay the young woman who called to offer it.
It occurs to me now, when did I become old enough to be indignant that the person calling with a horrible job offer is young enough to be my child?
Again, I digress, the very next morning, I received a call from the Office. Someone backed out of something, and I - having neither a life or any other prospects - am the go-to guy when such things occur. It was one of those classic ironies that seem largely to occur only to me. The offer this time was working the door at a job fair - the Diversity Job Fair. Diversity, in this instance, actually meant that the job fair was geared toward women. But, initially, I found myself amused that my black, gay, poor, over-educated and unemployed self was called upon to work the door at a diversity event.
The next event, tomorrow's, requires me to go a Home Depot warehouse to do inventory. I am counting lumber - siding, to be precise. Because the Office has a minimum hours clause in their contracts, I am getting paid for four hours of work, despite the fact that I am only allowed to be in the warehouse (and thus working) for one hour. I spoke to the company representative this morning, who observed, "Even if you do the most thorough count imaginable, you will likely be out of there in less than 30 minutes."
So, it seems the hallmark of my jobs is being well-dressed, smart enough to show up on time, and also to keep my mouth shut about the work I'm not required to do. There are perks to being over-educated, although job security is by no means one of them.
Thankfully, I at least get a few laughs here and there. When I arrived on the scene at the Diversity Job Fair, I found my co-worker quite easily. He was, of course, seated behind a table - collecting resumes, passing out the appropriate forms, and otherwise looking officious; and then there was the other thing. Although somewhere around his mid-40s, David V. - as he called himself - wore a suit (black pinstripe) that resembled something a black, Southern Baptist might wear to formal funeral - a jacket that fell to the knees, sequin trim on the lapels and pockets, wide-leg pants and square-toed shoes. I was vaguely reminded of both Elton John and Dorothy Zbornak, although the picture being completed by some very big hair, neither image quite fit.
David V.'s hair was Flock of Seagulls after male pattern baldness; he managed to avoid the dreaded comb-over, opting instead for the sort of teased-out height and flair that several drag queens I know would dub undignified. The streaks of gray were a touch of class, but it seemed more the result of not being able to afford a trip to the salon than it was a style choice. He was gay in that way that older men, raised by women, and who never had much luck (with anyone) are gay, i.e. he was nelly as the day is long but may well have been clinging to a closet door. His stories, and he told many, all began with, "Weeeeelllllllll .... to make a long story shhhhhhhoooooorrrrrrtttttt ..." insert impending irony and deep, Southern drawl.
I tuned the stories out, frankly, because I was too busy staring at the absurdly attractive men - many of them MBAs and CPAs who filtered into the crowd, clearly expecting more than they got. You know it's a sign of hard times when men who are presidents of their own companies show up at mid-day to make the rounds at a job fair, particularly one peopled by only eight companies - three of whom were the U.S. Coast Guard, the U.S. Navy, and the U.S. Army.
Other than the impure thoughts I entertained about the adorable Coast Guard recruiter - who never stopped smiling and seemed two bricks shy of a shit-house, it was a lackluster event. He, the Coast Guard recruiter, possessed the lovable idiot quality we all find so endearing, and a body ... well, let's just say that navy blue never looked so naughty.
It could just be the months without sex talking, and I am sure it is, but my hormones have been out of whack of late. Other than the sex dream where Sean suddenly appeared, I can say that I've lost both my train of thought and track of time thinking happy thoughts about every man I see.
My recent return to Incarnate Word does me no small favors. The eye candy there abounds, and it is with a seemingly obscene unconscious abandon that all those 20-somethings run around in basketball shorts and no shirts. Cruel and unusual temptation ...
My lawyer, or was it the cat(?), recommended that I secure a job and return to school - that the likelihood of my being arrested and held is slightly lessened by having something more to lose than simple freedom. It is however true that I planned to enroll in summer classes anyway, but the additional incentive didn't hurt.
I am taking a course aimlessly named, "Media Convergence," taught - as the program director commented, "by a man who apparently wrote an article in the paper, and is now somehow an expert ..." It could be 10 weeks of low academic standards and weak support, but it may offer - if nothing else - a diversion from reading, masturbation, and "Murder, She Wrote" reruns. The other course, taught by said program director, is "American Cinema." Our first assignment, a 2 page paper, is on the subject of your favorite movie.
I spend whole weekends lying between the Czarina and the Great Prince in their big, comfy bed - two dogs, a cat, and the occasional spilled cocktail in the midst - watching the very best movies. I immediately thought of the Czarina when I got the assignment, and I thought of my favorite writer. I think - inevitably - despite the Bette Davis films, the Joan Crawford dramas, despite Cukor's "The Women" and myriad musicals I've seen one time too many, that it all comes back to Tennessee Williams - "Cat on a Hot, Tin Roof" or "A Streetcar Named Desire," or maybe it's just Elizabeth Taylor films ... "Cleopatra," "A Place in the Sun," "Taming of the Shrew," "Butterfield 8," or the film about which I think I'll write my paper, "Whose Afraid of Virgina Woolf?"
When it comes right down to it, you cannot beat a simple story - unbridled animosity co-mingled with deep and unabiding affection(s), booze, adultery, more booze, and marauding off into the dark New England night. It's everything I've ever wanted ...
Mark
I should say that I was drowning my sorrows in a vat of vodka when the cat appeared to me, so perhaps he / she has somehow less authority than the other two, but who am I to judge?
In the time that I've been a fugitive from justice, I have developed a greater appreciation for freedom and the great many things the wide world has to offer. I avoid clubs, bars, and my favorite hipster haven like the plague itself, and I have suddenly become very fond of my womb-like bedroom - situated as it is away from windows, located in the very center of the house; my presence or absence at my father's house is impossible to discern, and that comes in handy when you are possessed of the very real possibility that the cops may come a-knockin'.
As it happens, my greatest aids and comfort in this complex little pas de deux with the system, other than the Czarina and the Great Prince - about whom I will explicate momentarily, has been the staffing service with which I've been registered for 4 years. A leader in the job placement world, and internationally known, I was eager to sign up with The Office years ago - fresh from college, newly degreed and ready to burst forth into the world. And like so many things in life to which I look forward and about which I am so optimistic, so innocently hopeful, they didn't do shit for me.
It was 2 years before I got anyone in the Office to return my phone calls, a full four years before they actually gave me an assignment. Even the charming, squeaky-voiced redhead office manager, Ryan, for whom my heart skips a beat and pants grow tight, has spurned my offers for coffee or a movie date. I think he once said, rather hesitantly - the second or third time I asked if he wanted to grab Starbuck's after work, "Well, I'm out of town this weekend ... but, you know where to find me. I'm always around ..." The words said 'maybe,' but the pinched smile and darting eyes said, 'I'm too polite to flatly turn you down.'
Ryan notwithstanding, over the past month or so, the Office has come through for me. I do have myriad skills, a few degrees under my belt, and at least a marginal knowledge of accounting principles (thank you, Czarina), so it was realistically only a matter of time before my assets started getting a little appreciation. The assignment that paid $15/hr., wherein I spent at least half my day catching up on celebrity gossip and the virtues of Go Fug Yourself, is over. The woman whose position I filled during her maternity leave returned last Monday. I spent the week there - working less and less each day - and was informed that my job was done at mid-day Friday.
I spent a lazy weekend avoiding the police that, thankfully, never came. I bided my time between barbecuing a 2" thick T-Bone steak (ribs, burgers, etc.) on an antique grill, luxuriated in the 10-person hot tub, and at some point, there was fishing.
As I mentioned once or twice before, the Czarina, the Great Prince (and their Stable Boy) have a landscaping business; actually, they have five or six businesses of various types that alternately provide a very comfortable income, which sustains the Winter Palace and our mutual bad habit(s) of being lush. It was for one of those jobs that we - like the odd family we form - piled into the royal work truck and road tripped our way to Marion, TX. I know nothing of Marion - except that, like most small towns in Texas, it is quaint ... and makes me vaguely nervous.
Oh, and the other thing I know is that there is a lovely home there, belonging to one of their clients. The place itself is impeccable - a contemporary ranch house with Matisse murals on upper walls, a sprawling pool, landscaping reminiscent of Babylon (a la the Czarina, most recently), and 20 acres of spare land, on which the man-made, professionally stocked lake sits. After the Great Prince made a minor repair of the pool, he and the Stable Boy went a-wadin', casting their lines to catch one of the large-mouth(ed) Bass that flitted occasionally just below the surface. It occurred to me - in the first hour of the fishing expedition - that the boys might have more luck just dipping a bucket into the water and waiting five minutes.
Moments later, the Great Prince landed a Bass.
the Czarina - being no great fan of fish - and the rest of us not big fans of cleaning fish, the rather large, wriggling thing was destined not for a plate but the royal Koi pond. A few months ago, in an effort to clean the pond, the Great Prince poured in a capful of bleach. The next morning, the four or five Koi that survived an assault by a very large 'coon - possibly the same one the Great Prince shot a few weeks ago - were belly up. So, it suddenly seemed apt, when heading to Marion, to restock the small, residential pond one 10 lbs. fish at a time.
Note: Slappy, as I dubbed him, has not been seen since. Whether it is that he is adapting to his new environment, or that Bass - being bottom dwellers are naturally shy - Slappy seems to prefer hiding beneath the fountain in the center of the pond, only emerging to enjoy a few bread-crumbs ... then retreating out of sight. Incidentally, Slappy is his stage name; I originally thought Bass-hole a more appropriate moniker.
I digress; back to the subject of working, and the Office, I am enjoying a temp. employee cliche, or several thereof. There was the three weeks long assignment that paid well and required little effort, of course - the start of all this. And then there was another recent job offer - $9.25/hr. that required a 128 mile daily commute and would only last 2 weeks. It entailed answering phones, and doing some basic records maintenance, at a small-town hospital I was not aware existed. I turned down the offer, which seemed to greatly dismay the young woman who called to offer it.
It occurs to me now, when did I become old enough to be indignant that the person calling with a horrible job offer is young enough to be my child?
Again, I digress, the very next morning, I received a call from the Office. Someone backed out of something, and I - having neither a life or any other prospects - am the go-to guy when such things occur. It was one of those classic ironies that seem largely to occur only to me. The offer this time was working the door at a job fair - the Diversity Job Fair. Diversity, in this instance, actually meant that the job fair was geared toward women. But, initially, I found myself amused that my black, gay, poor, over-educated and unemployed self was called upon to work the door at a diversity event.
The next event, tomorrow's, requires me to go a Home Depot warehouse to do inventory. I am counting lumber - siding, to be precise. Because the Office has a minimum hours clause in their contracts, I am getting paid for four hours of work, despite the fact that I am only allowed to be in the warehouse (and thus working) for one hour. I spoke to the company representative this morning, who observed, "Even if you do the most thorough count imaginable, you will likely be out of there in less than 30 minutes."
So, it seems the hallmark of my jobs is being well-dressed, smart enough to show up on time, and also to keep my mouth shut about the work I'm not required to do. There are perks to being over-educated, although job security is by no means one of them.
Thankfully, I at least get a few laughs here and there. When I arrived on the scene at the Diversity Job Fair, I found my co-worker quite easily. He was, of course, seated behind a table - collecting resumes, passing out the appropriate forms, and otherwise looking officious; and then there was the other thing. Although somewhere around his mid-40s, David V. - as he called himself - wore a suit (black pinstripe) that resembled something a black, Southern Baptist might wear to formal funeral - a jacket that fell to the knees, sequin trim on the lapels and pockets, wide-leg pants and square-toed shoes. I was vaguely reminded of both Elton John and Dorothy Zbornak, although the picture being completed by some very big hair, neither image quite fit.
David V.'s hair was Flock of Seagulls after male pattern baldness; he managed to avoid the dreaded comb-over, opting instead for the sort of teased-out height and flair that several drag queens I know would dub undignified. The streaks of gray were a touch of class, but it seemed more the result of not being able to afford a trip to the salon than it was a style choice. He was gay in that way that older men, raised by women, and who never had much luck (with anyone) are gay, i.e. he was nelly as the day is long but may well have been clinging to a closet door. His stories, and he told many, all began with, "Weeeeelllllllll .... to make a long story shhhhhhhoooooorrrrrrtttttt ..." insert impending irony and deep, Southern drawl.
I tuned the stories out, frankly, because I was too busy staring at the absurdly attractive men - many of them MBAs and CPAs who filtered into the crowd, clearly expecting more than they got. You know it's a sign of hard times when men who are presidents of their own companies show up at mid-day to make the rounds at a job fair, particularly one peopled by only eight companies - three of whom were the U.S. Coast Guard, the U.S. Navy, and the U.S. Army.
Other than the impure thoughts I entertained about the adorable Coast Guard recruiter - who never stopped smiling and seemed two bricks shy of a shit-house, it was a lackluster event. He, the Coast Guard recruiter, possessed the lovable idiot quality we all find so endearing, and a body ... well, let's just say that navy blue never looked so naughty.
It could just be the months without sex talking, and I am sure it is, but my hormones have been out of whack of late. Other than the sex dream where Sean suddenly appeared, I can say that I've lost both my train of thought and track of time thinking happy thoughts about every man I see.
My recent return to Incarnate Word does me no small favors. The eye candy there abounds, and it is with a seemingly obscene unconscious abandon that all those 20-somethings run around in basketball shorts and no shirts. Cruel and unusual temptation ...
My lawyer, or was it the cat(?), recommended that I secure a job and return to school - that the likelihood of my being arrested and held is slightly lessened by having something more to lose than simple freedom. It is however true that I planned to enroll in summer classes anyway, but the additional incentive didn't hurt.
I am taking a course aimlessly named, "Media Convergence," taught - as the program director commented, "by a man who apparently wrote an article in the paper, and is now somehow an expert ..." It could be 10 weeks of low academic standards and weak support, but it may offer - if nothing else - a diversion from reading, masturbation, and "Murder, She Wrote" reruns. The other course, taught by said program director, is "American Cinema." Our first assignment, a 2 page paper, is on the subject of your favorite movie.
I spend whole weekends lying between the Czarina and the Great Prince in their big, comfy bed - two dogs, a cat, and the occasional spilled cocktail in the midst - watching the very best movies. I immediately thought of the Czarina when I got the assignment, and I thought of my favorite writer. I think - inevitably - despite the Bette Davis films, the Joan Crawford dramas, despite Cukor's "The Women" and myriad musicals I've seen one time too many, that it all comes back to Tennessee Williams - "Cat on a Hot, Tin Roof" or "A Streetcar Named Desire," or maybe it's just Elizabeth Taylor films ... "Cleopatra," "A Place in the Sun," "Taming of the Shrew," "Butterfield 8," or the film about which I think I'll write my paper, "Whose Afraid of Virgina Woolf?"
When it comes right down to it, you cannot beat a simple story - unbridled animosity co-mingled with deep and unabiding affection(s), booze, adultery, more booze, and marauding off into the dark New England night. It's everything I've ever wanted ...
Mark
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
... pay phones are hard(er) to find ...
In the absence of my darling, much-beloved, and oft-used cell phone, I am approaching life from a different perspective – one that requires carrying quarters and being well aware of my surroundings. It is only in certain parts of town – my father’s area among them – that one even finds pay phones these days, and only occasionally does one find those that are actually working.
My cell phone is, amusingly, still working; however, where it is working in not entirely clear. It was a dark, clear night – a young man in a tuxedo, a very cold room, and absolutely no good can come from the rest of the story, save that I am now convinced it is a mad, MADD, mad, mad world …
the Czarina and the Great Prince came to my rescue; humiliation is so often its own best lesson.
Ova the Top and Daddy are adorable – precisely what I expected, if less horny (at least in public) than anticipated. We all rendezvoused at the winter palace, ostensibly for a haircut (Ova was having a big hair month) and a meet-and-greet. I met Daddy – appropriately – bent over; he was taking a picture of a rare flower in the garden, but the jokes were readily apparent. And the view was lovely.
Ellen was ready to provide aid and comfort last night, the extent of which was friendly advice, legal tips, and a browse through the weird, wide web. We lighted on seekingdesperately.blogspot.com – a blog devoted entirely to mocking / analyzing the pictures (naked and otherwise, sometimes taken with dogs, cats, pet lizards, lawn furniture in creative uses, and even dead pheasants) men post on Craig’s List in effort of, well, anything and everything – from true love to kick-stand operator. It is amazing, speaking of how far men go to score, how distracting the background of a photo can turn out to be – even with an engorged dick in the foreground. One such blog entry featured a happy, naked frat boy tapping a keg, and himself … but both Ellen and I focused not on the hot, naked drunk guy but on the toaster oven (top-of-the-line … 30 years ago) in the background. It was such a fire hazard that both of us found ourselves staring at it in mild awe. In another picture, the satin sheets and waterbed prompted not only a discussion of how the guy obviously hadn’t changed his routine since the ‘80s, but also a whole conversation about how some senior groups advocate satin sheets and satin pajamas for senior with difficulty getting into and out of bed.
Evidently, the smoothness of satin – which makes sex so amusing (not to mention, risky) – also acts as an aid for those with rheumatoid arthritis. Aside from making satin PJs very unsexy, it also seems wrong-headed – as anyone who ever wore satin boxers and hopped into bed, only to go flying off the other side, would know.
The thought of Grandma breaking a hip while wearing satin pajama pants does tend to be creepy, no?
In any event, the idle nature of the activity … and the blog site … relaxed at least a bit of the tremendous tension I’ve felt since this weekend.
Also on hand – and scene was my darling high school senior and would-be something, Kenny. Give or take his age – graduating from high school this weekend – and that he is actually queenier than me, he seems a rather good fit.
Oh well, everything’s up in the air at the moment, so let’s just play the wait and see, shall we?
Mark
My cell phone is, amusingly, still working; however, where it is working in not entirely clear. It was a dark, clear night – a young man in a tuxedo, a very cold room, and absolutely no good can come from the rest of the story, save that I am now convinced it is a mad, MADD, mad, mad world …
the Czarina and the Great Prince came to my rescue; humiliation is so often its own best lesson.
Ova the Top and Daddy are adorable – precisely what I expected, if less horny (at least in public) than anticipated. We all rendezvoused at the winter palace, ostensibly for a haircut (Ova was having a big hair month) and a meet-and-greet. I met Daddy – appropriately – bent over; he was taking a picture of a rare flower in the garden, but the jokes were readily apparent. And the view was lovely.
Ellen was ready to provide aid and comfort last night, the extent of which was friendly advice, legal tips, and a browse through the weird, wide web. We lighted on seekingdesperately.blogspot.com – a blog devoted entirely to mocking / analyzing the pictures (naked and otherwise, sometimes taken with dogs, cats, pet lizards, lawn furniture in creative uses, and even dead pheasants) men post on Craig’s List in effort of, well, anything and everything – from true love to kick-stand operator. It is amazing, speaking of how far men go to score, how distracting the background of a photo can turn out to be – even with an engorged dick in the foreground. One such blog entry featured a happy, naked frat boy tapping a keg, and himself … but both Ellen and I focused not on the hot, naked drunk guy but on the toaster oven (top-of-the-line … 30 years ago) in the background. It was such a fire hazard that both of us found ourselves staring at it in mild awe. In another picture, the satin sheets and waterbed prompted not only a discussion of how the guy obviously hadn’t changed his routine since the ‘80s, but also a whole conversation about how some senior groups advocate satin sheets and satin pajamas for senior with difficulty getting into and out of bed.
Evidently, the smoothness of satin – which makes sex so amusing (not to mention, risky) – also acts as an aid for those with rheumatoid arthritis. Aside from making satin PJs very unsexy, it also seems wrong-headed – as anyone who ever wore satin boxers and hopped into bed, only to go flying off the other side, would know.
The thought of Grandma breaking a hip while wearing satin pajama pants does tend to be creepy, no?
In any event, the idle nature of the activity … and the blog site … relaxed at least a bit of the tremendous tension I’ve felt since this weekend.
Also on hand – and scene was my darling high school senior and would-be something, Kenny. Give or take his age – graduating from high school this weekend – and that he is actually queenier than me, he seems a rather good fit.
Oh well, everything’s up in the air at the moment, so let’s just play the wait and see, shall we?
Mark
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
"Don't forget the change ..."
the Frenemy is up to his old tricks – literally. While he is no longer buying things without telling me by way of my eBay account, a package came to my father’s house just the other day. Without telling me, and even though he has a post office box, Steven shipped his most recent eBay find to my front porch. And what was it? A very large, very short, black leather mini-skirt – from Old Navy. Clearly, the self-proclaimed “transexite” is ready to ride again.
Given that months ago, in an attempt to bury his slutty female alter-ego, he deposited the wig, the dresses, the size 12 heels and innumerable giant pairs of panties in my antique armoire, it somehow only seems fitting that additional accoutrement wind up at my house as well.
As usual, the Frenemy, proved to be the very picture of social (dis)grace. It started – as things so often do among the people I know – with drinks at a bar, Pegasus, I believe. Steven met up with an old friend, we shall call him “Piggy,” Piggy’s boyfriend, and new friends of theirs for a social evening. Apparently, the new couple were not exactly evenly matched – one being a 10 and the other somewhere around 6 ½ - and this fact prompted the Frenemy to comment, rather jealously – to the 6 ½, of course, “Wow … you’re really lucky to have him.” The offended 6 ½ asked him to repeat what he said, to clarify. Surely, no one would be so rude as to voice such a thing – although, in truth, the 6 ½ probably thinks this very thing himself on a regular basis. Steven repeated it, and the guy got upset. He went to Piggy, the Frenemy’s oldest (and dearest) friend, and Piggy then confronted the Frenemy on the subject of his frequent and recurring rudeness.
It is comforting – if you find comfort in such things – that some things never really change. And then, of course, some things do. the guy I’m seeing and I are no longer seeing each other … in any sense of the word. I ran into him yesterday when he stopped by Web House, which has for some time been the only way I ever saw him. That I had not been to Web in weeks accounted for the distance – at least the physical distance. He greeted me easily; we shared a tacit kiss, and there was a brief semblance of the old ‘us.’ It was short-lived. At some point in the course of the three or four drinks I served him while I was briefly tending bar, he opened up about his new ‘us.’
That the guy is openly crazy, a brilliant artist, well-endowed to apparently legendary proportions, and resembles Vincent Perez makes him endlessly desirable, at least in the sense that we all want the mysterious, artsy guy at one point or another. And he wants us all – the artsy guy in this case is bisexual, and the guy I’m seeing lamented that as he freely discussed his new love, and I poured another cocktail.
And sometimes things change and then go back from whence they came. the Straight Boyfriend returned to Web. He stormed out – dramatically – pulling his paintings off the wall and, defeated, spoke of absconding to
the Crazy Russian is back as well. When last I heard, he was barred from entering his own bar, but he was there in all of his glory, still beleaguered – plagued by the dual dramas of his lover and his bad habit(s). He seems to have both in some sort of balance these days. the Mad Man kvetches but also manages to look the other way at all the right times.
It so often seems that the lies we tell ourselves are the only thing keeping so many of us at all sane.
the Czarina and the Great Prince, while not especially dramatic themselves, do tend to have occasional drama. And when a good
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