(Extra)Ordinary People ... Don't Know Which Way to Turn ...

I am sure I've called my cousin many things before - occasionally by a name, or maybe out of her name - as the rap songs say. She was the relative, among the few who speak to me, who said ... "love the sinner, hate the sin ..."; but Blaire, as I call her now, is complex, and seventy, and some sort of rock for me. She is the last vestige of the matriarch in this very old, poor, black family where Southern and racist and talking-funny run together into some undefinable bull-shit that I think of as home.

I'm watching "Ordinary People," and Mary Tyler Moore's hard-pressed, cold mother figure makes me sad ... and reminds me of Blaire. Blaire was never thin, never the cool waif maintaining a hard-won social cool - acceptance and place. She was curvy, with long nails a big hair - a sort of Dolly Parton character but with a lot less money, and oh yeah ... not quite the same nail color. I always like Blaire's nails - when I was a kid. They were trashy but glamorous, and I am thinking that now as I admire patrician charm, i.e. the set of the aforementioned "Ordinary People."

It is a good weekend for reading, for all those endeavors best left indoors - and I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that I've been dumped again - this time by a guy in whom I had a serious interest but of whom I could expect very little. We met only once. Or maybe it's that I find out my LSAT score - a great, determinative thing - on Monday, this coming Monday. Maybe it's the tone of love in the air again - how everyone's getting some and why I'm not ...

I don't think about it much, except when I want it and don't get it. But there was a certain fun in Mount Gay, by the way - I thought of this this morning, when I woke from a dream about the Crazy Russian, Dr. Bartender, the guy I was THEN seeing, et al.. Fuck - my love-life is a mess of complications, doubts and ...

I read something on a blog - a blog that looks at random texts and point out how crappy shit can be taken out of context. "Her vagina smelled like bad choices ..." and I can't help thinking that my sex / love life reeks of them - bad choices. And dope smoke. Bad choices and dope smoke. My life is not measured out in coffee spoons.

Blaire sent a care package - three cases of food, the sorts of which one picks up at church give-aways and soup kitchens. Old people food - as we call it, in casual circles. Corn flakes, 1% milk, brownies, and canned ham.

It is not so late on a Friday evening, and I'm thinkin' maybe I attach too much meaning to Friday nights. It's date night ... or a night to read a good book and watch the Oscar history run-down on Turner Classic Movies. The black man to whom I'm talking (is it really so very different to use that common phrase ... 'talking to ...'?) invited me out; it felt like a consolation. He's going out at 1AM, with a friend ... and invited me as an after-thought ... and I am so tired of being after-thought.

I take comfort in being thought at all, but that's a whole other line of thinking.

I am watching "Ordinary People," a film of which I've never seen the end. And I am feeling bored and alone tonight. Those are my primary triggers, by the way ... in active addiction - boredom and isolation, although tonight I don't feel either pushing me toward a crack pipe.

I miss Mount Gay right now - just because he was a man who wanted to be with me - not that I buy that he did, or that I miss him. I just miss having a man around, and he was nice. In his way.

That reminds me of Blaire, too - the statement that "he was nice - in his way." I don't recall much of Blaire's history, other than that there were two men, two babies' daddies, and that she was only married to one of them. I think it is very Southern (as we say) and all that that she regarded the man with whom she was involved as a nice man who came along. That is not the way of all second marriages / couplings - but something tells me that that was the way of hers.

And I find myself in that place - thinking that Mount Gay was 'at least' interesting, at least there, at least 6'6" and 170 lbs., a skinny white boy with a big dick and who professed to love me.

I think of my cousin in many ways, and as I go for that second helping of coconut cake in the fridge, I think of her as my rock, my friend, and someone who's been there before. She doesn't even know - I'm sure - that her love life has at least a lick of that same crap with which this tired queen is presently living.

Who knew?

Mark

It's Like Riding a Bike ...

the Frenemy's alter-ego, 'Victoria Anne Sanchez,' 'Tori', arose from her coma some time ago. Surely, that occasion was not so much a miracle as Marlena's possession by the devil, or Erica Kane getting away with murder; in other words, it was an awakening not even worthy of "Knot's Landing."

the Frenemy's soap opera recommenced inauspiciously when, after another break-up with the sex toy formerly known as Luscious, he pulled out his back-up dress, his emergency heels, and a wig of dubious origins - of a color that never occurred in nature - bought some press-on nails longer than his sexual history, and hit the nearest West side bar. He went out again this evening - and I anticipate a late night phone call filled with lascivious giggling and the purr(ing) growl of an alley-cat ... in heat.

But the heat is on, you see ... I spent Valentine's Day - post Mount Gay - at my first chocolate gang-bang. I found the men online, and drove the Frenemy's car 'cross town to the Medical Center - a haven for professional homosexuals and chocolate gang-bangs. I see this because I turned down the previous invitation to a similar event in the same area - possibly the same apartment complex.

I knocked on a door reminiscent of the front door of a crack den I used to visit regularly ... and, as happened once or twice when I knocked on the door of that crack den, the door swung slowly open and a naked Negro was standing there with a wry smile. The naked Negro was the host of this chocolate bang, and he offered me Kool-Aid and bid me take off my clothes. The place smelled a bit of incense - with hints of Marlboro Reds and a gym sock you'd find beneath the bed of a 15 year old boy.

I was thinking thoughts about the size and shape of the naked Negro's very round butt when he strode away to introduce me to the second part of the party. Technically, it was a threesome at this point - and the fourth man didn't show up 'til half past four ... orgasms. Nonetheless, I could not think of a better - post bitter break-up - way to spend Valentine's, or VD - as my (single) friends and I call it.

There were, of course, some moments that fell flat - nearly, or actually ... like running out of lube and using Warm Vanilla Sugar on places Bath and Body Works should never go. Or banging the aforementioned naked Negro while he was busy texting ... while he continued texting.

And then there was the yoga.

It was something between Cirque du Soleil and a Bikram yoga class; the naked Negro showered, dressed in a red jock-strap, a neckerchief, and a beret - positioned himself in a head-stand - and turned on a club mix. For the next hour and a half, before unceremoniously throwing the three of us out, the naked Negro rolled, flipped, dipped, and stripped - tying himself up in the curtains and dancing his way out of the jock-strap and neckerchief, putting on what I could, at the time, only describe as a nude drag show.

Something good(?) came out of it, though. The 5'2," 40-something with whom I wound up spending the next two nights and a third, very warm and comfortable day has more than his share of charms. He is retired military - living on a comfortable income, which he appears to spend largely on non-perishables such as bottled water and the complete series of "Bewitched" and "Starsky & Hutch." His willingness to have sex is paralleled only by his oral skills - kissing and otherwise. But, as we know, there are always draw-backs - in this case, narcolepsy. It took me a full minute to realize that he was not actually being really generous but had instead fallen asleep on my penis. Mount Gay would not get out of bed. Knob Bob can't stay awake to finish the act.

It is a step up, right?

I find myself reflecting on a patronizing but hopelessly accurate statement the Frenemy makes regarding my recent romantic (and sexual) experiences - that I am new to dating, that these are 'training wheels' relationships ... and yet, though I am loathe to admit it, I cannot help thinking that the rusted bikes I'm riding now are just not quite the right fit.

Mark

Holy, Holy, Holy ...

the Old Black Man and I have the strangest interactions. Come to think of it, I suppose it is the case that since we have very few actual interactions, those interactions are rather strange simply in their rarity. Nonetheless, our interaction tonight was somewhat stranger than many before it - recently.

He opened my bedroom door - the only door in the house ever regularly closed - poking his head in as he is wont to do, and asked me to 'trim the hairs off the back o' [his] neck'. Last night, he peeked in to drop some random gossip on me ... and ask me to program his universal remote.

The gossip was rather interesting, so more on that in a moment.

He asked me to trim his hair, which is our standard 'bonding' ritual. It takes 15 minutes or so, but my father takes advantage of the fact that I am near him, awake, and often very conversational - if only because of the cosmetology training. the Old Black Man views it as an opportunity to inquire about my job prospects, my love life, the status of various friendships - the friends who've been around for a decade or more, and thus whose names he recalls. the Frenemy and Ellen are pretty much the only ones about whom he inquires. He views it as a chance to catch up with his often quiet and occasionally distant (gay) son ... and I find it an opportunity to talk with my father when he neither yells nor chides but simply listens. That I have sharp objects near his head and trim his ear hair probably has something to do with this fact - but I am not one to question the God's precious little gifts.

Speaking of which, my father is returning to the church. This is not to imply that he ever left the church. As I comment often, my mornings are filled with the 5AM chorale wonders of KCHL (Gospel 1480 AM), and my father typically returns home from church on Sunday to watch church on TV, listen to church on the radio, and sometimes play gospel records on the Hi-Fi. So, when he told me he was considering being an usher, I had to first search my mind for what that means in a Southern Baptist church, and ... when I assured myself there were no sacrificial chickens or speaking in tongues required ... I encouraged it.

It may be a short-term solution to getting him out of the house on the occasional Wednesday night and all-day Sunday, but it is also my hope that he will socialize as he has not done in some time. As Ellen and I discussed tonight, my 85-years old father looked and acted like someone half his age for such a long time that the happenstance of his suddenly having memory loss, suddenly forgetting where he's going, or driving straight in a turn-only lane (and narrowly avoiding an F350) strikes me particularly hard.

I haven't had to lie to a displaced girlfriend, make excuses for him being seen with another woman, or even had to cover for his being gone for the better part of a weekend in a long, long time. This is a man who - allegedly - cheated on my mother for 31 years of a 42 years marriage. Surely, his philandering days are not over. His cousin, Aurelius Bea, was still ogling neighbor-ladies until he was 101.

So, yes ... I encouraged my father to return to the church - ostensibly to get some action.

Mark

"At Last" ...

Pocket Communications - the local only cell phone provider preferred by drug dealers and the poverty stricken - knows something I didn't know. For one reason or another, Mount Gay's calls never showed up on my phone. I programmed his number, and his name appeared on my caller ID when he texted or called, but somehow his calls never registered in my call history. I should perhaps have registered this as a sign - a cosmic alert by way of Sprint PCS.

The LSAT went well last Saturday. It was five hours long, and involved two number two pencils, 127 multiple choice questions, and a two page essay writing sample. I finished the test before 2 in the afternoon, and I eagerly anticipated seeing my boyfriend - Mount Gay - who, having given his son $2,000 and sent him packing, was gay, gay, gay again - porn, a dildo, a rainbow ashtray, and a crack pipe came tumbling out of the closet in which they were hidden while Gay took a stab at being Dad.

And so too did Gay's ex-boyfriend. the Frenemy drove me out to Gay's place, somewhat grudgingly as I think the trip interfered with a gang-bang he had scheduled that afternoon. I made my way up the stairs to the condo, and found the door unlocked and encountered the usual sense of being at home - back in this familiar place where I willingly and less than willingly stayed for days on end, a place uniquely belonging to and created by my guy ... and a wall of smoke - the almost visible layer of atmosphere created by smoking indoors and a pack a day habit.

I doffed my jacket and was rounding the corner into his bedroom when I heard the cell phone jangling, saw my boyfriend reaching for his phone, and also that he was in bed ... with his ex. They were fully clothed, both in sweats and bundled up beneath the covers, and Gay's only response to the shocked look on my face was to pull back the covers, tell the ex to move over and pat the spot in bed beside him.

I crawled into bed for lack of any idea what better to do, and then chided myself for not doing something else - anything else. Gay was sick - very sick - feverish, whining and farting. I did not see an LSAT celebration or sex or romance in my future. A pizza. Gay's 60 year old fag hag. Robitussin. But neither sex nor romance.

The night went about as well as one might expect - given the whining, farting, and pizza - but I did get to see "Sweeney Todd." We went to bed, and Sunday morning started with pancakes in bed. I was bored, still fighting through the cloudy fog of the Xanax I popped in order to sleep through the night, and the day went by in a blur of laundry and old movies. I was in bed by 10, but up all night.

Monday, Gay went to work and left me alone in the smoke-filled room that is his fabulous '80s condo. the Frenemy - who is sometimes very helpful - suggested that I take a bus down to his apartment and pick up his spare car. Two hours later, I was mobile.

It was a faux pas, a slip of the tongue on his part, that got me wondering where his $700 tax refund went, why he was so sick, and just what went on the night before my LSAT. Friday night, Gay bought drugs ... lots of drugs ... and did them - alone, he says, though I had my doubts. The reason we couldn't go to dinner or otherwise celebrate the five hours long test I survived, and the metaphoric gateway to my future as a lawyer (and bon vivant) was because my man ODed.

And lied to me about it. He pulled back the covers again, and patted the spot beside him on the bed. I lay down there - again, wishing I had done something else - anything else. And so, that time, I did. I got up, got dressed, and got into the car I was very glad I borrowed. I drove back to my father's house at midnight.

The next morning, having had time, and the need, to process the weekend, I sent Mount Gay a text. I told him I was disappointed that he'd lied to me, and was not angry but hurt. He texted back that he was done - that he was a 43 year old man who didn't need to be nagged or questioned, and that we were done.

It took a moment to set in - that my relationship in name only, my first effort at being a couple ended with ignominy and a fucking, damned-ass text message. And then it was indeed done. I saw him yesterday - Mount Gay - for the sake of closure and pragmatism. He paid back the money he borrowed, and returned to me a box full of VHS porn and soul/blues music CDs.

Etta James' "At Last" does not seem quite appropriate here, but somehow damned right ...

Mark

Maybe this Time ...

I am a little past the point of believing - or is it accepting? - the notion that my relationship with Mount Gay is not for the beginner, or the faint of heart. It happens to be true that while my heart is brave and sure, I am very much a beginner at love - and do not do it very well.

So, what's his excuse?

There are no longer five teenage boys crashing in my lover's one-bedroom, 600 square feet apartment; there are two now ... but Gay's still not (out), the only bathroom in the apartment is still in his bedroom, and I still haven't gotten laid in over a month.

Mount Gay doesn't listen - which used to apply only to my stories - details about my childhood, high school, or otherwise significant moments in my last 30 years, but I realize that it has more to do with denial on a grand scale.

I was trying to offer some advice last night, and got only: "Hey, I just need you to be positive and uplifting. I don't want to deal with reality right now ... Let me live in my fantasy." This is a fantasy world that includes not paying rent, or the light bill, and engaging in what I think will prove to be credit card fraud and some light embezzlement with his ex-boyfriend.

But delusion works both ways. Sometimes very conveniently. I had my first Valentine's Day date last year - though that date, with the guy I was THEN seeing, cost me a fortune in liquor and crack ... and pride. I do not intend to repeat the indulgence, but I also don't plan on spending the most romantically rigorous day of the year single. That the 14th coincides with Gay's tax refund, and that his son may be back in Louisiana by then, only sweeten the pot. We may actually leave the apartment - have dinner, drinks, a night on the town. It is a shame, as this must end, for it not to end well ... with a little flair ...

In other words, I have every intention of going out ... with a bang.

Mark