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 There is an old line of thinking, based on some outdated study or census, that one in every ten men is gay (the 10% rule).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.

"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

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:

"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

I suppose it is simple

My darling and dear old friend, Ellen...she of the beautiful children and friends with benefits ex-husband...has kindly taken up the mantle of maintaining my blog while I'm away. I send her letters (from the great beyond), and she makes them digital and sends them to you.

I am in rehab--court-ordered, and a God send. I believe I need help--whether for drinking, drugs, or 'other'. I am getting it here...in addition ot adding pages to my life story.

The sentence, for the record, is 120 days (approximately 4 months). The alternative was 3 years in prison. I will leave here--healthier, having shed a great many tears, analyzed some 'issues,' and being sober (for the first time since Reagan left office). It will be October, late October, when I leave, and I am hoping for a celar day and chill winds. Something poetic...

Strange things come to mind here. I thought of proposing to Sean. I am thinking of it, actively; min you, I cannot keep my mind on him. I think of Sean and marriage, dysfunctional love, and then going back to church. I think it has something to do with his middle name being Christian, or that he is the antithesis of churchly things. I am ironic...and still in love.

The Frenemy and I visited my hipster haven before I turned myself in--Monday night at Web House. The Russian gave me a wry smile, surprised to see me...and the Straight Boyfriend hugged me between drinks. The guy I WAS seeing was there. He came over to throw a non-commital arm around my shoulder. We stood briefly hip-to-hip, exchanging tiny talk.

I returned to the Summer Palace (a season changes quickly--the transition marked by new landscaping and a switch ot wine spritzers). A gin and tonic is in order. I enjoyed that night--chatter with the Stable Boy, confessions and farewell(s) with/to the Frenemy, a pep talk and a hug from the Great Prince. And then I schtupped the Gardener.

It was a last hurrah...and it was good.

The Czarian drove me, and accompanied me, to court. The Frenemy joined us there. I was hand-cuffed, sitting in the jury box--alone. The Frenemy was busily hitting on the two young defendants across the way.

As I was to be taken to jail, the Frenemy and the Czarina left the court-room, and I cried like a little boy lost.

It is better now, of course. I know what I am facing, have an end date for my incarceration, but--more significantly--a healthy vision of the future...my future. I feel good today.

Small things are enormous at times; I feel good. My counselor--and old black man, who reminds me so very much of my father--gave me a hug. He is a precious child of God, and I believe.

Sabra here, guys. I will be posting more blogs as Mark sends them to me. He has asked for books--you know how it is there. So, if anyone has a spare volume or two--or can even write him, here's his address for the nonce:

Mark Hardeman #49
10975-A Applewhite Rd
San Antonio, TX 78224

Authors/books he'd like to read:

Agatha Christie
Molly Ivins (it pains me, as a Republican, to even type that name; I shall have to find some Mark Levin to send him)
Ann Coulter (oh, OK then!)
Peggy Noonan
James Joyce
Bill Bryson
Stephen Ambrose

Books:

Twilight series
vols. 8 - 13 of A Series of Unfortunate Events
Love, by Toni Morrison

"...and anything anyone wants to share..."

An Update

On the way to court ...

" ... but that is not this day. This day WE FIGHT ..."

This morning, we were awakened by the sound of one horn honking. The winter palace is located on a busy residential street - otherwise quiet, give or take the traffic, the cars roaring down the street from Ft. Sam Houston, and the occasional deceased house-pet.

Although the royal driveway is long, the fleet is large - and the Great Prince has a large supply of cars at any given time sitting on the street, in the driveway or otherwise nearby ... and so was the detriment of the Viscount of the Car-port. A Honda CRV came barrelling down the road today, and in the course of doing so, it took out the Viscount's car, a minivan behind it, coming to rest atop a Ford Contour one house down. It was the Contour's horn that blared at full volume as the SUV sat on its hood, the front passenger side tire passing rather eventfully through the windshield. I watched from a safe distance the mayhem one house down, until I was reminded of my legal status (the police were en route), at which point I wandered inside to resume my morning regimen of white wine, blogs, and web-comics. I had writing to do.

A few days ago, I would have made much of this incident; however, at the moment, it merely provides fodder for nostalgia and amusement. How often does one actually have one's parked car taken out by an Army colonel / nurse, or - in general?

I find myself reflecting on my 21st birthday, arguably the start of my Bacchanal. Sean and I started the day sitting in a quiet park, smoking a joint and drinking Sake screwdrivers. I was in awe that people did such things. I was in love with the boy across from me, who was my age and beautiful, brilliant and completely mad, and it was a kinder, gentler world ... did I mention that the night ended with, among other things, being locked in the trunk of my own car ... and, when eventually found and released, puking on a chartreuse velvet chair?

I still haven't decided - nine years later - if the vomit was a comment on Sean's boyfriend's choice in chairs, or a result of the 12 hours of drinking, or if perhaps it was just the inevitable and appropriate response to turning 21 (which likely combines theories #2 and #3 rather perfectly). In any event, sitting here at the Winter Palace, a plastic cup full of ice water on one side of me, my cell phone at the ready - for text purposes, and a small, crystal flute full of ice cubes and Gekkeikan (sake) on the other side of my $250 laptop, I find myself ready to face the evening, and the morning that will follow.

Meanwhile, there is still more sake, and the night is young ...

Throw a big stick ...

Cable toss is a rather extraordinary event. Large, often hairy, men in kilts vie to see who can toss their big stick - the cable - the farthest. So, when I dreamed that I was attending a cable toss event, it occurred to me there were sexual overtones. The heavily-bearded men with bulging muscles (and bellies), woolly kilts, and a very casual relationship with deodorant are not my usual type, but my subconscious is always game for a challenge.

The dream ended with a bang, not a whimper ... as one of the hairy, kilted men lost control of his cable - crushing me beneath its massive weight.

In another dream, I was asleep on the Councilman's couch - minding my own, sleepy business, drunk as a frat boy (before his first gay experience), when I was awakened by a ruckus. The Chihuahua, the Beagle, and a strange assemblage of animals - a 'coon, a bunny, two beavers, and some chickens had somehow gotten into the house. There was a multi-species cat-fight going on just beyond the couch. I was confused. I was frightened. I had to fight my way out - the best way I knew how ... running from the beavers, using the bunny to beat down the 'coon, and choking the chicken(s).

Freudian(?) ... no, never, not me.

Frankly, though one has little control over the course, or the particulars, of one's dreams, I usually benefit from the sort of obtuse, impenetrable fantasies explored in numerous Kurosawa or Bergman films. They are occasionally in black-and-white. I think there was once a ninja, but that could merely have been an hallucination as that particular dream did involve the French Foreign Legion, the Sahara, and at least one camel in heat.

There may have been a mime ... but far be it from me to appear pretentious.

I have been remiss in my film class this semester. It's summer, and I am facing jail-time, so my focus is off - needless to say; nonetheless, I have seen every film we are discussing - among them: "Casablanca," "Spaceballs," "The Thing," "Spartacus," "Citizen Kane," etc. The picture is a standard one - the American canon, expanded somewhat to include Mel Brooks, a little SciFi, and horror. I think "Friday, the 13th" is part of the 10 weeks course. In any event, my paper on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," entitled: "My Favorite Bog: the Consequences of Knowing Each Other" was a hit, and the piece on "Casablanca" - "This is the Beginning of a Beautiful [Mess]" promises to raise eyebrows, if only for the suggestion that Peter Lorre is a desperate homosexual (another dream ... don't ask).

My own precarious legal predicament is such that I, perhaps, have desperation on the brain. It is not often, after all, that one actually finds oneself called to surrender one's own freedom - rather, it is often simply taken away - swiftly, cruelly, and without much warning (although often with much ado). That said, I find myself anxious but not desperate. I am eerily calm - convinced, if you will, that the God who protects fools, babies, ships named Enterprise (and bloggers) will somehow provide a little deus ex machina.

My awareness of the desperate - for now - is tuned upon those around me, although degrees of desperation vary from one to the next.

Ova the Top - for example - is intent on buying a house. He is intent on owning a home, and being able to move into it when his fiance, Daddy, arrives in town in a few weeks. Any number of people, including the Czarina, the Great Prince, the Frenemy, and myself think he could do better, could otherwise find a better deal than the one into which he has now entered; nonetheless, what Ova's doing is far from desperate. If anything, it fits him - practical, reasoned, and while there is compromise, it's not in the way of sacrifice. He is getting a house - which will eventually, quickly - I'd say, become a home. He will live in a subdivision, and there will be children (evil things, really ...) at play nearby, but short of living in a bath-house (to which he and Daddy might not be completely opposed) there are not a great many alternatives.

On the other hand, the Frenemy - who recently decided to rebirth his alter-ego, Tori - is not only desperate but also horny. It is said that one should never shop for groceries when hungry. If men are groceries, the Frenemy is always hungry ... and thus should perhaps never shop. Nonetheless, despite drives to Floresville for 3AM hook-ups, the acquisition of an entire S&M wardrobe for the sake of an (expensive) encounter with an escort, and countless hours spent sleeping off a buzz in a dive bar parking lot, the Frenemy maintains a near-constant supply of "trade." Moving, as he does, from one hook-up to the next (many times in succession), through a seemingly endless string of sex play(s), his modus operandi smacks not only of desperation but also of a religious devotion - likenable, it seems, to a sexual jihad.

Being the all or nothing queen that he is, the Frenemy decided to relinquish his gay self; six months, it seems, of general success with gay men who do not return phone calls, or require him to pay for a date, or who stay the night (talking) and don't put out, pales in comparison to the quantity success of blowing drunken day laborers behind dumpsters, or in the backseat.

Viva puta!

Others in my life, far less absolute individuals - with jobs, goals, and the expectation of waking up free tomorrow live lives of far less quiet (or noisy) desperation. For this, my first writing in a week or more, I find myself melancholic but hopeful.

Is it blind ambition, delusion, or hysterics that keep me going today? I wish I knew ... but I am enjoying a glass of wine for lunch, tapping away on a netbook at a heretofore undisclosed location - hoping, if I may, that you picture something more romantic than a pilfered Starbuck's WiFi connection, and the red flip-flops I am actually wearing. Picture me romantically, if you will, sitting beside a lazy river - in Gruene, or Boerne, or one of those local places I hope to frequent again soon - once the period of my unfortunate incarceration passes. Think that I am writing to you while gazing wistfully upon a deer, and sipping a Riesling at some place where it would not be unexpected to find a celebrity, but not Paris Hilton or anyone from "The Hills."

Suffice it to say, that today will be a good day.

Mark

Plenty of fish in the ...

When Lysander observes, “the course of true love never did run smooth, “ (Midsummer Night’s Dream) he said a mouthful brother … although, in truth, what I am dealing with is neither true love or even good lovin’. As it happens the series of unfortunate events that is my love life has moved from the ridiculous to the absurd. Keep in mind that I certainly have plenty bigger fish to fry these days than to worry about my love life, or even getting laid; nonetheless, man cannot live on bread alone.

A man has needs …

the Frenemy being the frenemy he is commented the other day that he saw the guy I’m seeing and our favorite Russian buddy buddy(ing) about at the grocery store the other day. As things go, one never needs to hear much about one’s exes, something that the Frenemy never quite seems to grasp. Mind you, this is someone who spent three years stalking a guy he slept with a total of three times. In truth, I haven’t thought much of the guy I’m seeing since our thing dissolved – give or take finding out that he is now dating the guy with whom I wanted to rebound. Four years, all things considered, fly by without much ado – particularly given that our thing largely consisted of doing drugs together and making out in the occasional bar restroom. Ah, young love …

I have been lucky enough – thinking of it now – to have had some lovely, long-term bed buddies (although none of them made it to boyfriend status). And yet it is – I suppose a question of degrees. Rodney – the pale, bone-thin, accounting major (who was a convicted sex offender, mind you) – had an instant willingness to play. He was passive to the point of resembling a blow-up doll. I don’t recall how it ended … but somehow, a fade-out occurred.

Brian wrote beautiful poetry – about his dead lover; we listened to the Carpenters while he talked about the plans he and his lover had together, or pored over old photo albums. That we were naked when these things occurred was the few actual nods to a sex life we enjoyed. He dumped me when I applied to law school – said he couldn’t bear to lose another man in his life.

the guy I’m seeing, of course, never saw me in daylight; we had breakfast together once – separate checks, please – and drinks together many times … among other less than legal associations. The sex was never reciprocal although the drive was mutual. Despite the amazing kisses, and occasionally passing out together post-blowjob, we could never sleep together. It was a motley assemblage of arms and legs, with injury around every elbow or corner. I somehow think the black eye he wore the last time I saw him has more to do with more bad sleep chemistry than it does with any domestic violence.

Mikey – who enjoyed fisting – blew my mind, among other parts. He was smart, funny, kinky, playful and in constant want of large black man, individually or in a group setting. After three years of wearing him like a glove, I still got exciting from just him walking into a room. If there is God in this world, he is in rehab … or post-rehab … has moved to a religious colony in the mountains of some very small town. His demons caught up with him shortly before my own did with me.

While the rest of my sex life – before, after, and certainly during college – is a blur of ups, downs, and the occasional sideways, the sum of the tragic comedy that is my life occurred just the other night. I met Roger online. We seemed to hit it off well enough, and one late night, spent hours sitting on my father’s front porch – innocently chatting. We shared a kiss and parted ways somewhere around 5AM. When I didn’t hear from him, I assumed it was just another missed connection … and then he called. It was 2AM, and he was drunk, and wanted company. I know this by way of the voicemail he left – the five voicemails, actually. I was in bed at the time, and was indeed in bed the next three or four nights when he called at 2 or 3 in the morning.

Not exactly in the mood to be someone’s booty call, but also in need of a little attention, I called him – at a decent hour – and suggested we get together. He picked me up, and as I could not play at my place, and he could not play at his, we decided to get a motel room – or I did anyway. I brought the necessary requirements, a bottle of booze, a change of clothes, and condoms. I think it was halfway through the bottle when the frank conversation started – one I’ve heard time and again over the years – the “I like you, but just not in that way …” I was finishing the next glass when he proposed I get a hooker … a twink … that way, we could both play.

I toyed with the idea for whole seconds, before determining that I’d rather right off a night without nookie than pick up a crack hoe, especially on my dime. We went round and round on that before I simply demanded to be driven home. He refused. Under the auspices that he was too drunk to drive all the way back to my place and then get himself home, he suggested I stay in the room, that I perhaps get a hooker on my own, that I have a friend pick me up … in other words, he was done with me. After more bitching, he begrudgingly agreed to pay for the taxi to send me on my way.

I believe the taxi ride cost approximately a tenth of what I spent on the evening, but it was the tedium of yet another rejection that stung much more than the lingering feeling I was played. As things go, counting down my remaining days of freedom, I am half-tempted to get in as much fun and frivolity as I may, and otherwise find myself wanting to lock myself away in a monastery – safe from the temptations, thrills, rejection(s), and other such things that made up the previous two years.

At some point, the party’s over …