Rip Van 'Sleeping Beauty,' Or 'What You Doin' with My Winkle?'

It is as if I awoke from a truly miserable sleep – a mythic, unnatural sleep from which I awakened to find the world a miserable place, largely unchanged ... except in all the worst ways – except in the sense that my father is seemingly many years older, my house deteriorating as it never had before – as Beauty’s palace faded and disappeared beneath thorny vines, during her long years’ sleep.

There are no thorny vines, though the Old Black Man put chicken wire up on the front porch, wrapping bars and pass-throughs so that cats could not get in. My father hates cats. The chicken wire – rough and thin, rusted in places – snags my sweaters and tears at my shirts. It pokes out menacingly when cats, or those foolish enough to visit, attempt to come in ... and, given my very special allergy to Tetanus, threatens to kill me at every twist and turn.

I turn often, or am I twisting? I get myself out and about as often as I can, in the Old Black Man’s carriage – with the peeling paint and persistent, American-made whine. I get out often, and yet I run the risk of running into the wicked witches whetting whistles at all the usual haunts. Because I cannot seem to think of new places to go. Nor are there any.

the Frenemy and I wound up at a whistle-stop just the other day. I wanted to see if I could pull off ‘just one drink,’ and that Fat Mattress, largely reformed from her back-alley ways and attempting (shacking-up) bliss – give or take the restraining orders, wanted to sip, see and be seen. By way of the law of averages, of course we ran into someone he slept with ... but he wasn’t the only one.

Though I have neither been as carefree nor as energetic as the Frenemy, I have my share of former flings – a few of whom were fly-by-nights, and a few others who lingered – whether I wished them to do so – in my heart, or on my avocado green antique couch longer than they should have. And so it was that I was in mid-margarita when in walked the Hooker on my Couch, and his sugar daddy du jour. That last time I saw the Hooker, he was selling drugs and acting as a part-time hit-man for a heretofore unnamed mafia entity, who happen to think I ratted them out before absconding to the photo-shoot with Lindsay Lohan. He had the grace not to kill me, and he was still feeling gracious – apparently – when I ran into him the other day. He and his sugar daddy waved at me across the bar. We raised our glasses in a universal gesture of acknowledgement, and so that we could see that there were no weapons in anyone’s hands.

In accordance with the general rule of exes and bar etiquette (‘I was here first; you stay for one drink ... and then promptly leave and forget you ever saw me ...’), the Hooker on my Couch and friend beat a hasty retreat to the next new drug deal, and I kept looking for the bottom of my too-sweet margarita. So, it was only happenstance – and the Frenemy trying to convince me he was happy with his bed-wetting, bi-polar, bisexual beau by telling yet another ‘isn’t it cute how he ...’ story – that had me looking up when Mount Gay walked in.

I only managed one boyfriend in my 30 years. Some would see this as a failure. Some would see it an accident of fate. I tend to see it as a divine joke that my prince – far from charming – and I shared a mutual fondness for Ms. Lohan, and little else. My ex was in the closet, a rather impressive feat given that he is nearly 7’ tall, and his affection for me was based on a vague desire to recapture his long lost lust for the fat black man who molested him when he was 15. I nearly choked on my drink, but managed nonetheless to put on my best fairy-tale smile. We were civil, shared a lingering hug, adhered to the aforementioned etiquette – and both of us left that whistle-stop after the one drink and the obligatory glances from across a rather dead bar.

I may have been asleep for nearly a year, and things may have gone from mundane and mediocre to miserable and macabre, but my ex smelled like sex walking and got a promotion. He has a new car and a teenager. Talk about thorns.

the Frenemy says it’s normal that I wanted to know more. But then the Frenemy also thinks it perfectly normal to go through his beau’s phone and follow his tricks home. So, I take his concept of normal with a grain of salt, and yet I went to the next whistle-stop, where I knew Mount Gay would be – ostensibly to carry on a conversation. Mount Gay was moving on ... right there in public, with a man old enough to be my father, and there went my 'just one drink’ idea.

The overall evening was a blur – not because I was so drunk, but because it was like so many other evenings in the same spots. There are plans to revamp the enchanted forest that is the gayborhood, plans that include a wine bar, another dance club, and a wishing well where old queens will go to pretend they’re young princesses ... but Pegasus redux hasn’t happened yet, and that night was no different. I ran into a former customer who, on occasion, also lingered on my couch.

While I was dreaming, rumors mounted that I was dead; I may have mentioned this before, but the more I learn about my demise, the more intrigued I tend to be. I suppose death does that to people – well, assuming they’re not actually dead. A past paramour informed me that I was dead ... said that he’d heard from the Mad Man and the Crazy Russian that I died – in prison. Suicide. There was no word on exactly how – though I personally preferred the hanging theory, which – of course – indicated that I was ‘hung.’

But my former fling, who would surely agree that I was hung ... told me his side of the story, or what he heard. It seems I did not die in prison, but in a local crack den. Someone said he was sure I was dead, because he saw my body being carried out of said den. Someone else was equally certain, as he attended my funeral. I must find this yellow journalist and ask for pictures.

My sleep was miserable and my death merely a dramatic rumor; nonetheless, the world – though changed – is not all bad. Dragons have been slain, at least two or three witches are dead, and the Old Black Man went to a dance / fish fry this enchanted evening – leaving me to worry over both his sex life and his cholesterol, but giving me a damned good reason to smile.

And be jealous. I have not been to a ball in a month of Sundays, and while I was awakened by a prince – not all princes are charming. This one is – but his was a long-distance kiss, and in this modern kingdom, romance can blossom via Gmail – but doesn’t ‘happily ever after’ still require at least one slow dance, cheek-to-cheek?

St. Francis ... and a S-I-S-S-Y

The Southern faggot writing is an acquired taste. I am both lucky and happy that a lot of people have taken to the unique flavor. Queens from Mobile to Tupelo, Jackson to San Antone - myself included - feel the pull of pen to pad, or whatever the apt digital equivalent may be. It is amazing how easily one can convey a drawl and a raised eyebrow with the mere flick of a wrist and a peculiar, yet familiar, turn of phrase.

I am reading Kevin Sessums' Mississippi Sissy, and the magic started early, and sanguine - with a bludgeoned head on a not-so-fresh white pillow. A sissy in the South loses his father, his mother, and his virtue - roughly in that order, and lives to tell about it.

They say, in AA, that if you listen long enough - sitting in a meeting - you will eventually hear your story, many times over. I have never had that pleasure, or felt that connection. Mississippi Sissy is not an AA meeting, but I felt the connection five pages in. Maybe it was the very sense of being "other(ed)," a fancy, grad school term, parentheses included, for sticking out like a sore thumb, occasionally also interpreted as 'black-sheep-itis.'

Little Kevin sits with his mother, a woman who will be dead sooner than he knows or understands, and she talks to him about the magic of language; of a certain, familiar word, she observed:

"I know people call you a sissy. I know Daddy did a lot of the time, God rest his soul. Even I've called you that in my own way when I'm beside myself ..." She handed me her pen and a piece of her stationery. "Write it down. Write down that word. S-I-S-S-Y ... Now, whenever anybody calls you that again you remember how pretty that looks on there. Look at the muscles those S's have. Look at the arms on that Y. Look at the backbone that lone I has. What posture. What presence. See how proud that I is to stand there in front of you."

Because my parents were older - in their 60s when I was born - I heard that word, 'sissy,' often enough. My father called me a sissy, and threatened to out me to my third grade class. He beat me for having Barbies, and gave me that look that ambled about between disappointment and white-hot rage that I continued to walk 'funny' and talk 'that way.' It was a kinder, gentler time than when the kids in high school called me joto ... faggot.

I like to believe, thinking on it now, that had my mother lived that long she would have sat me down and pointed out the defensive posture of 'F-A-G-G-O-T.' She would have called upon words like 'fierce' and 'tenacious,' perhaps even working in that the "g's" in faggot can be alternate plays on gregarious - which describes the nature of so many gays, and the onomatopoetic 'grrr ...' that involves both whimsy and strength (and is a not-so-subtle nod to the Bear community, might I add).

Of the word epiphany - sounded out by a Baptist preacher on a Sunday morning, when Kevin asked after its meaning - his grandmother responded, "Oh honey, that's a pretty name for a little nigger girl." And it fits, no? In every Southern novel, and most of the memoirs - in addition to the lilting accents and the strange cadence of Southern life - a strong, black woman provides food and wisdom through her very presence, and the occasional "come to Jesus" meeting. So, why shouldn't an epiphany be a little black girl?

I wrote a paper once, "Face-Down in the Dirt," which comes to mind now, a little bit because I am thinking of returning to graduate school - to literature and its study, because I have never been good at much of anything else, and also because of all the music in this Sissy book. "Face-Down in the Dirt" was an eco-feminist read of Southern women writing; it was music and magic. I created something in it I think I dubbed "Black (magic) mysticism," a black answer to the very Latin experience of magical realism. I set up the idea that black women - by virtue of their socio-economic, historic, and gender statuses have a physical and personal relationship with the earth, with dirt. It attached both a romantic and an essential association to the crush of grinding poverty. Dirt floors seem less hellish somehow when one can be literally recharged by them remade in the image and power of pulchritude, find solace and comforts in the mud between your toes - which is, after all, the color of your skin anyway.

And then maybe it's more than just the book weighing on my mind. It's unemployment and going back to school. It's boredom - swollen to the point of ennui - mingled with the need for a smart cocktail. And it is sweating through the sheets. The HVAC unit that fell off the back of a truck somewhere is still sitting in the den. There's no money to install it, and there's no window in my bedroom. It's 80 degrees tonight, inside, and my T-shirt cotton sheets don't breathe the way they should.

I am aware of my fat, my thick thighs and the scars on my chest where a cosmetic surgeon removed 17 lbs. of flesh. I am aware of my skin, its dark color, because it shines with sweat and oil. I am aware of my smell, a not unpleasant warmth that puts me in mind of summertime. For better or worse. It is humid in my bed. And I feel the South around me tonight.

I met with a counselor today, part of the editing process after the photo-shoot, 120 days of therapy and group meetings. It doesn't work like therapy, but it is the best one can get on county funding. The woman with whom I spoke today listened to my stories and asked smart questions - including the question, "Were you addicted to selling [drugs]?"

She listened, which is more than I can say for the other people I met over the past 14 weeks. And she offered advice, which is "not part of a therapist's job, but seems fitting ..."; she suggested I find a church, and I managed not to roll my eyes this time around. Maybe that's what all this Southern talk is leading up to, or the place from which it comes; it is a big ol' mess of serendipity that pus my considerable black ass on a hard, wooden pew ... and reminds me of the lyric and vibrant thing that happens in church and nowhere else in the world.

Maybe I'm supposed to further block out those Sunday school memories, replacing them with becoming a 30-something choir-boy ... and meeting a nice church-going man, who appreciates my very Southern charm(s). And who has air-conditioning.

Mark

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

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

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.

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 -

"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.