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
Saturday, November 28, 2009
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
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