As I Recall

Crossing Lances (with Reichen)

2006-07-27T11:41:00.000-04:00

One of the members of N Sync , Lance Bass, has come out. This "sensational news" is spraying all over Blogland, but I say, "good on ya, mate."

With all the pressure of being in the closet, no wonder he wanted to take that space flight -- just to get away.

He's quoted in People as being in a "very stable" relationship with model-actor-Amazing Race winner Reichen Lehmkuhl. A guy with that many dashes in his name could be an Amazing Race. Why is it that celebrities date other celebs? And if Lance had to go that way, I'd rather Ricky Martin was his beau.

Ah well, one closet at a time.

Coming soon, to a bathhouse near you...

2006-07-27T09:10:00.000-04:00

So, I'm watching "Oprah" a couple days ago. I see a guy who looks familiar (never a good sign on a talk show) and he was confessing - passionately - about being a former drug addict and sex worker.

When they shot some "on location" footage for this episode, I saw a place that looked familiar. He was telling O about this bathhouse he went to (and described in great, salacious detail -- complete with footage!) to have anonymous sex with men for money. All well and good; I've heard this on Springer. But I notice something familiar in the footage: it's half a block from my apartment.

Hel-lo!

Then I hear him say he lives in Philadelphia now, and, well, there ya go. Bob's yer uncle.

It warmed my heart to see a shot of my building rising up above this filthy den of sin. I should have called Mom, to tell her to turn on the TV.

Up in Smoke

2006-07-24T08:47:00.000-04:00

Lincoln Apartments fire --

June 30th, 2006

Five floors --

Camac Street, between Locust and Spruce.

In pic, left of bldg in foreground (where "the lincoln" sign is)--- they' left original name, faded -- now whole place going -- in pic, first 2 top windows still intact, but where 3rd window is, now gone -

Whole middle of bldg sunk in on itself -- damage mainly to inside walls -- whole floors exposed, one dirty grey wall exploded out like false paper wall people break through in shows - long white pipes bent and jutting out like broken pipe cleaners --

thick vines of black wire pulled from top floor all the way to ground

Crane cable lifts up aluminum lifeboat, full of wreckage; charred, green blanket -- dirty, yellow foam rubber, a book, with pages flipping by rainy wind --

fourth floor windows all blown out -- 9/11 --

-- inside walls exposed -- robin's egg-blue painted over brick on third floor, top floor looks like origin of fire -- more badly burned -- beams are black and precarious -- crane (w/diff attachments on end like pulleys on gym equipment) pulls up more debris -- looks like metal arm that lifts prizes in machine on boardwalk -

now up comes door, attached to piece of wooden beam-

inside blue wall looks like it had been there a long time; those are parts that fascinate me: original traces --

soon there will be none -- not even bldg.

Maybe that's why I'm writing -- to record the demolition of more history right outside my window?

condos?

Christ.

Freddie Krueger

2006-07-24T08:14:00.000-04:00

Just woke up from one of those nightmares that stays with you even after you get out of bed. Shortness of breath, headache, disorientation. And no, that is not my usual state. Ha ha.

In it, I was driving around all night with no directions, it was dark, raining. Even stranger: I don't drive. I mean I can, it's just that I haven't in years and don't have a car. I lived in Manhattan for 13 years and then moved to another place where I can walk, 24/7.

I kept asking people for directions and they weren't any help ( Hello? "Wiz of Oz"?), no, I think it was more like "Nightmare on Elm Street," because I felt an ominous sense of doom and wanted to wake up.

When I finally came around and put my feet on the floor, I realized that rent is due in a week and I am tapped out. Now, that's enough anxiety to call up anyone's inner Freddie...

Second Thoughts

2006-07-20T19:53:00.000-04:00

Got started on the last blog entry and realized, after a few days, that it would be too indiscreet to go on. Yes, I DO have discretion. From time to time. And it is the better part of valour, right? Or is it VELOUR?

Him

2006-07-19T13:33:00.000-04:00

I got an answer to my letter within the week. His producers were putting up his new show and I wanted in. If I couldn't sing in it, this was at least a chance to get a foot in the door. A day or two, he would see how talented I was and everything would fall into place. Very Eve Harrington.

"I'd really love to work for you," I wrote.

"I never use assistants," he responded, "but if you'd like to meet for a drink sometime, we could do that."

The note was typed, which I found unusual and sweetly old-fashioned. How nice, how personal, that someone as busy and famous as he, would take the time to -- wait a minute. Did he? I soon found out that his secretary typed his correspondence, which dropped me into a literary three-way with someone I didn't want to know my business. Our business. Well, this toady would have to get off the Royal and give his Master a chance to type his own letters, at least to me.

There was his address and phone number, typed (alas) beneath his signature. At least he had signed it. I hoped. His name sat elegantly at the top, printed in capital letters. Very sophisticated, I thought, and made a mental note to order myself the same kind.

I read the letter five more times, hunting for any clues I might have missed, and then burst into my roommate's room and started jumping on his mattress.

"What the fuck --?" he mumbled, having been kicked in the neck. I dropped the note on his face. He read it and then started jumping up and down with me.

"Holy shit," he said, holding it in his hand.

"Well, don't rip it! Don't bend it. Give it to me."

We both sat down on the edge of the mattress and caught our breath. I held the note up gently with both hands and we stared at it as if it were the Holy Grail. For me, it was. How could this have happened to me? He had somehow seen into my soul, via the U.S. Post. I felt lucky, excited, slowly sucked into the vortex of everything I ever wanted. Let him view this as just a casual meeting, a perfunctory drink. I saw all my dreams were possible; this was a way to get to that little island called fame.

If I knew what the letter would unleash, would I have taken the #66 bus from Montclair to Manhattan that night? Of course I would.

We made a date for Friday and this was Wednesday. Shit, what to wear? I was thirty but looked younger. Coupled with my naivete and unabashed excitement, I'm sure I came off as someone still in school. Possibly. I could fit into size 28 jeans; a day which will never come again. I wore a mesh shirt, (canary yellow) and tight black jeans that cupped my ass like nobody's business. You could see my trim torso through the tiny holes in the shirt. It was a look I thought would be both sexy and memorable. I'm sure it was memorable. And it was the 'Eighties, so, what the hell?

It was a look which said, "Look, but don't touch." Or, "Touch, but not too much until you give me a part." We'd see. If nothing else, I looked like a sexy bumblebee, and that would do, too.

I grabbed my bus money and went to wait out on the corner.

Here it comes.

Everything Must Change

2006-07-19T01:58:00.000-04:00

I have an extra-large Hefty bag of trash in one hand and a library book tucked under my other arm. Cell phone rings. On the display, one of the few people I’d like to catch up with. We’ll call him J.

“What is all this construction in your neighborhood?” he asked.

“We had a fire. An old building was ablaze two weeks ago. They blocked off that whole block.”

“Well, that makes it very inconvenient for me.”

“And ‘hello’ to you, too.”

“Hello, sweetness. So, what the hell’s up with you?”

I rested the garbage by the door, put the book down, and walked to the window.

“Where are you?”

“Oh, I’ve left the area. I’m about ten blocks away, heading south.”

I looked for him anyway, and my eyes came to rest on the gaping hole that the fire left in the building.

“What burned?”

It was an old hotel, the framework of which had been there for at least a hundred years. The middle third of the building had collapsed and the twisted pipes and girders had melted down to the ground.

“It was the Lincoln Apartments.”

“I don’t know it.”

“It’s been around forever. My new hobby is exploring all the old architecture of the city.”

“So you’re inspecting yourself?”

“Ha, ha. I was online, finding pictures of all the old hotels and theatres, and I came across it. And I found this picture of the place, looking at it from the same angle I have up here.”

“Well, in your internet searching, and I know you’re the guru of all that stuff, try and find me a boyfriend, will ya? I’m at the end of my rope.”

“Honey, if I knew where they were, I would gladly tell you. I'd be there now, waving. But there’s not a "watering hole"; they don’t all just gather and feed.”

I knew that wasn’t true; one of the most popular bars in town is right next to my building. There's a whole lot of gathering and feeding going on all the time.

“I just can’t bring myself to go there. Last night -- Friday night, okay -- I thought, ‘You should try it again. Get off the computer. Get out of the house.’ But, after I finished my Stouffer’s turkey dinner and swigged the last of my diet coke, I thought better of it. Besides, there was a fight on, and I figured it was a better way to spend my time.”

He laughed.

"Plus, it was a good fight.”

“You are the only gay man I know who gets excited over boxing.”

“Well, you obviously have a very narrow viewpoint. Very stereotypical.”

I sat on my window ledge and looked at the Lincoln. I love buildings where you can still see traces of what they once were. The word, “Lincoln,” can be seen very faintly, painted on the side of the brick building. There are a couple cranes hovering over it, like vultures. I wondered if they were going to wreck the whole place.

“I also like ‘Nanny 911’, so, I run the gamut.”

He laughed again, but perfunctorily.

“Seriously, where am I going to find a man?”

Obviously, J was not going to let the conversation flow far from his frustration. He is a handsome guy, in good shape, smart, funny. He has a touch of American Indian in him, which only enhances his good looks. I got up from the ledge and paced around the room. If he couldn’t find a guy, maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad.

“Try one of those online dating things. I was talking to R, and he’s hell-bent on finding a husband. He swears by Match.com, or whatever he’s using.”

“Uch, I hate those ---”

“---so do I, but try it, if you’re feeling so bad. Have coffee. What can you lose?”

“You have to pay for that, right?”

“Yes, hon; it’s a business. They make money off of desperate men like you and me. I’ve had bad luck with all that stuff before, but I might go back and try it again.”

“How much is it?”

“Like, thirty bucks a month or something.”

“Geez, I could drink that much in a night.”

“I know.”

“So, what are you up to?”

A chance to change the subject. Grab it.

“Things are good. Class is going well.”

“I came this close to taking it.”

“Take it in September, then.” He didn’t answer. “Great bunch of singers. A guy with a guitar, some big opera guy, and the rest are all the usual suspects.”

“Good size?”

“Huge. I have thirteen people, which is about two more than I should have, but Daddy needs a new pair of shoes. It’s a very good vibe, very positive.”

“I can’t figure out what’s changed with men. With the level of quality.”

Oy. I opened the door and picked up the trash bag. A milk carton and a wet Time magazine fell out.

“I mean, when we grew up, there were – well, you -- you’re a funny, witty, intelligent kind of guy -- ”

I closed the door quietly and walked down the hall toward the elevator, carrying the garbage and the library book, trying to keep the cell phone in the crook of my neck. “ – so, where are all the guys like that today?” I pressed the down button.

"You’re just getting old. They don't want you.”

A quiet chuckle.

“But I’ll always be older,” I added, taking any sting out of my remark.

“Hey, I had an affair this month. Well, it was only one date and he turned out to be a sex addict, but what the hell. I got a little action.”

“Good for you! That’s good to hear.”

“Of course, he’s twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one?”

“I know, but how many times does twenty-one go into forty-five?”

“Twice, with a little left over.”

“Exactly.”

The elevator doors opened and I dragged the trash inside. The carton fell out again. Shit; time to wrap things up. I felt the phone slipping. “So. I’m glad you called.”

“Me, too. And I’m glad you had some sex.”

“Me, too. So let’s get together, okay?”

“Yes. Things should free up a little in a couple weeks. Maybe we can go out looking for guys.”

Why did I know there’d be one more stab at this?

“Uh huh. Or maybe a movie.” I said, and the elevator doors opened.

Oh, Danny Boy

2006-07-18T12:21:00.000-04:00

Ghandi, F.D.R., Martin Luther King, Jr. -- these are some of the heroes of the 20th Century, providing inspiration, and serving as role models for many young men. But not for Danny Bonaduce.

Seems the carrot-top cutie from -- "The Partridge Family" had his eye on someone else. After all, you can't spell "heroin" without having a "h-e-r-o." inside.

"Come on, get happy!"

I Knew There Was a Reason...

2006-07-17T17:03:00.000-04:00

...that God created Barry Manilow.

Seems The Mandy Man is Kryptonite to juvenile delinquents in a suburb of Sydney, Australia.

If it proves successful, we're broadcasting it to Iraq. The troops will be home before Labor Day.

Gypsy Rose Lee is Rolling in her Grave

2006-07-16T11:40:00.000-04:00

Oh, God -- it's come to this.

What fresh hell awaits us in --- the land of recycled, ridiculous, reality shows?

"Big Farter" All-Stars?

Survivor: "Escape from Good Taste"?

The Real World: Bayonne, NJ?

Nose-picker 911?

Where's LASSIE when we need her? In "The Last Bitch Standing..."

Like a bad penny

2006-07-13T11:44:00.000-04:00

"Isn't it rich? Isn't it...(well, we know it's queer)"

That sex-addict boy I dated - okay, slept with -- whom I met on a catering gig last month, is signed up for the next gig. (See June 25th) And so am I.

"People like that often come back into your life," my best friend said. "Don't be surprised."

Just like a bad penny, some things just keep turning up.

Hmmm, what to do?

Shiver Me Timbers

2006-07-11T11:15:00.000-04:00

"Ahoy."

I mean, "Oy."

Saw the new Johnny Depp "Pirates" movie - whoo, stunk like a wet dog. I went with a friend who hadn't seen the first one and I kept hoping this would give him a taste of how much fun that was.

This one? Just awful. And long. Long and awful. Great special effects, but you need more than some soggy, slimy spooks to keep a flick afloat.

We popped into the theater after a day with friends of his in "the country." (I love that any place that's out of the city and has some lawn is "the country.") Anyway, we show up and there's just three other people; two waitresses who know my friend from their restaurant job, and the boyfriend of one of them. Both women were hammered and smoking like they were going to burn down "the country." With all their faux-sophistication and acid proclamations, I felt like I'd stumbled into a Dorothy Parker Convention.

And they talked. Endlessly. The cigarettes flew around their heads like mosquitos. The boyfriend sat there chewing his fingernails, shooting glances at his mate from beneath heavy eyelids. "Good luck to you, having to live with her," I thought.

After the initial Sally Bowles-ing, they came back to planet Earth and we had a fun afternoon. Of course, they only talked about their job, but that's restaurant folk. And while I got every chapter of their daily lives, down to their last tip, no one even asked what I did. I started thinking I should just stop talking and bite MY fingernails.

Our hostess was house-sitting an enormous mansion, whose occupants go to Maine for the summer. What a spread. The house was huge and had great potential to be a real Merchant-Ivory dream, but the decor looked like stuff you'd find at a swap meet. And tacky? I kept waiting for Dame Edna to descend the staircase.

There was a dumbwaiter and a panic room (yes) and a walk-in bar, which covered a multitude of sins. Mlle. House-sitter told us that there had been a mass-murderer roaming the woods last year, and one night she was coming home from a daytrip and saw cops and roadblocks and red lights flashing. They were zeroing in on the psycho and had him cornered. She told them she just wanted to get back to the house and get to bed, and was surprised when they didn't let her.

"Hello, paging Miss Nutso, party of one."

It was a real nice clambake, we're mighty glad we came, but ultimately it was a relief to shove off to the Caribbean. Little did we know...

Tracks, Fences

2006-07-09T11:17:00.000-04:00

Seeming to be in a perpetual state of single ~~desolation~~ blessedness, I am reminded that the grass is not always greener for my friends who are coupled. They say, "enjoy your freedom." I say, "I'd like to come home and have somebody there." Everybody moans about something because that seems to be in our nature. "The other side of the tracks", "the road not taken", "just around the bend" ... it's funny how many of those clichés jump into my head.

Friends who have --- houses and kids and more stable careers: I find out there are also endless, expensive renovations, children who turn out to be a lot more work than expected, and careers that sputter and stall.

Worst of all, you wake up one day and discover that whatever bond or attraction you once felt is gone. And now the property, the kids -- you have to find a way to make that work.

My nightmare is to have someone say, "I love you," and not be able to say it in return. Not sincerely. But the truth always comes out in some way, either then or twenty years down the road. Or it stays locked inside and affects the whole quality of your life.

There was a guy I dated who had a great job as a high-level exec at MTV, with all the trimmings: fabulous apartment, enough money for five people to live very comfortably on. We had a blind date and met at the Paramount Hotel in NYC.

"Well, I'm not disappointed," he whispered over a cold martini.

What are you supposed to say? I probably mumbled, "Me, either," but it was way too soon for me to say it. He was saying he was attracted, but, while I found him nice-looking, I wouldn't have led with that statement.

He took me to the best places: restaurants, Broadway shows, up to that fabulous apartment looking overlooking Manhattan. He kept herding me into the bedroom every time I came over. He looked so crestfallen when I didn't want to go further, I finally gave in.

We rolled around for a while and I tried -- swear to God -- to ignite whatever attraction there might be. Nothing. He was soft; not just his body but his presence and intellect. Nothing extraordinary, and I needed extraordinary. At least back then.

I talked my way out of a clinch and suggested places for dinner. When we walked, he was always just an inch away. When we watched skaters at Rockefeller Center, he practically took me from behind, he was pressed so close behind me. I could barely breathe. And when I was positive this was never going to work for me, I broke it off.

I've always wondered if I moved too soon; that even his neediness might have been tempered if I gave it more than a couple months. But here was my nightmare: he was always saying, "I love you," and I couldn't look him in the eye. Not fair to him. I told him I was letting him go so he could find the person who was right for him, who would love him. Maybe he did.

Funny, that scenario popped up two or three times in my life, and it always played out the same. Too much attention, too fast a pace, and I was gone.

If I'd stayed a bit longer, would I have the house, the kids, the subsidized career opportunities? Makes me wonder.

Hiss if you must

2006-07-08T09:18:00.000-04:00

It warms the cockles of my heart to see that, with all the money that could be used to make a real difference in the world, someone has paid a fortune to produce a piece of dreck like this. I was watching... the Tube last night and when the trailer came on, I was sure it was a parody. But no.

Okay, Hollywood - I might be silly enough to spend ten bucks to see a Christopher Reeve clone flying around in a blue suit (the suit may well be the best part...), but I draw the line at flying rattlesnakes.

Speaking of Reeves's -- the new "Hollywoodland," looks at the death of TV's Superman, George Reeves. Ben Affleck takes off his own toupee, switches to another, and it looks like he may actually be in a good movie about a Superhero. What was that other thing was in -- playing that blind cartoon character? The Shadow? The Hornet? Hold on...oh yeah, Daredevil. Oy.

But Samuel L. Jackson, what were you thinking? Hissssssssssssssssssssss.

Who's Your Daddy?

2006-07-07T09:35:00.000-04:00

Not me.

Somewhere along the line, I slowly transformed from the happy-go-lucky college boy into some guy who's technically middle-aged. I shudder a little as I type this. And it's not palsy. Katharine Hepburn always said -- her tremors were hereditary and that a little alcohol always helped them stop. I just think she wanted a reason to drink.

But I digress.

I was in the elevator yesterday, checking out this cute guy. Subtly, of course, because we live in the same building and it would be awkward if I made an ass of myself and then had to see him someday, over the fabric softener. The doors opened and he leaned over toward me. Yes! Then I realized he was holding them open for me.

"Have a good day, sir," he said.

Sir. He actually called me "sir." Christ.

"I'm not a 'sir,' I wanted to shout, "don't you know I'm only twenty-five? Inside! Deep, deep, deep inside..."

I remember going to the bars after college and surmising that there were three distinct age groups.

1. Young

2. Forty-ish.

3. What are you even doing up this late, Grandpa?

Number three was out of the question, of course, but I also would never even consider going out with someone forty. Blechhh.

Well, ain't karma a bitch?

Picture this: I'm sitting on a barstool, holding a cigarette (which I never light, because I don't really smoke). "I don't like to suck on it, I just like to hold it," was always my droll reply. Holding an unlit cigarette is a great way to start a conversation, actually, because guys will come up to give you a light. But then, when you tell them you don't smoke, they recoil, shaking their heads. (I told you it was a great way to start a conversation; I never told you it would progress from there.)

So, this young guy comes up and starts to chat.

"Good night, tonight," he says, looking around.

"Yeah...sure is." I quickly drop the cigarette on the floor. We chatted for about fifteen minutes and I thought things were going well. What I particularly liked were his thoughts on monogamy, making a home with another guy, holding hands in public - all that romantic stuff. Over the thumping of some deafening rap song, he leaned into my ear. Yes.

"Could you slide over a little? My boyfriend can't get in."

I backed my chair out and in popped the S.O.B. ("Significant Other Bastard) who, not surprisingly, looked exactly like the guy I'd been chatting up. As I see so often in young couples, these guys looked like mirror images. Brothers. Twins. Hot as that may be at the right moment - this was not it.

"This is Kenny, my partner," my barmate said.

"Wow. Huh. You boys look too young to have -- 'partners.' When did you meet, kindergarten?"

"Oh God, we've been together for five years," Kenny said. "Right, Charlie? It's our anniversary next week."

"Yeah, if I don't kill her first," Charlie chimed in.

"Oh stop it! We're actually very happy," Kenny said, and they both giggled.

"We just tease -- and then we please! You know how it is."

"Uh huh."

"Well, come on, 'lovah,' we have to get home and walk Geronimo. We just got a little house in Society Hill. You know, the mortgage payments are less than my rent was! And then, when you have two people splitting it - God!"

"Nice talking with you," Charlie said, and then, true to his word, he walked off, hand-in-hand, with his monogamous boyfriend, to their happy home. And to Geronimo, who I hoped had taken a big dump on their new, white carpet.

Emil, part two

2006-07-04T21:08:00.000-04:00

Edgemont Park, Montclair. In the dark, he pushes me back and forth on a swing set, on a surprisingly cool June night. Fireflies. Only a streetlight. His fingers lower on my back than -- they had to be. Keeping an eye out. Cautious, but not stopping. Push. Creak. Push. Creak. Push.

We had walked the railroad track earlier that day, one foot in front of the other along the smooth, rounded rail. A balancing act; him in front of me, me tracing his footsteps.

After the swing that night, back to my house. I switch the lamps off. He turns them back on. He can see my glare in the moonlight; he turns one back on. Then, the all too-familiar ritual: trying to come together, trying to hug, fingers trying to open shirts. His hands hold my hips, thumbs in the belt loops.

"What's the difference if we do something?" I asked.

"Yes, what is the difference? So why do it?"

"You know you want to." I put my face against his neck.

"Stop," he whispered.

"What do you want do, play Monopoly?" I pushed him down on the bed and he didn't get up. He didn't do anything. He wanted me to want him, I think. I think that was the game.

When I moved to New York two months later, he stopped calling. He didn't come into town. Too far away to see someone's devotion, he moved on.

Yes, go back to your half-"girlfriend". Go back to your half-"rock band". Go back to your full-time delusions. Fuck. If only I could only have learned my lesson then.

Emil, part one

2006-07-02T17:08:00.000-04:00

All right, another of the Rogue's Gallery: Emil. Sounds like a Nazi name, doesn't it? Like Adolf or Hans or ... Wolfie.

He had pale skin, brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and these little "non-lips." You know the kind; those little slits some people -- have for a mouth. That was Emil.

While I still lived in New Jersey, we were in a community play, and after a rehearsal one of the cast had us all over to watch the TONY's.

"See that? That'll be you, one day," he whispered, snuggling beside me into a sofa which was already overcrowded.

"Shhhh, no talking during the show!!" somebody said.

"And I'll be able to say I knew you when..."

"Shut up, you guys!"

All of this was very confusing. Even at thirty, I was still naive enough to open up to a "straight" guy handing me a line like that. Hey, when you're starving, you'll eat Alpo. I just made myself sick. Let me get some Coke.

Okay, better. Where was I? Oh yes, Emil the dog. He was a songwriter and played in a band. This band had been playing on and off for years, just like his relationship with his (yes, here it comes...) GIRLFRIEND. Do I know how to pick 'em? What am I, some sticky wicket that trips up these losers on their way to the altar? Some depreciator of their Kinsey Six scores? Some merit badge (Task 7: screw Doug's head up) before they graduate from Cub Scout to Eagle Scout. Or Webelow? (I always loved that word; it's naughty any way you pronounce it).

The day after the party, I got calls from castmembers who were gobsmacked about the whole thing. Scandal!

"Hey, I have no idea."

"He has a girlfriend somewhere. New York?"

"I have no idea."

"Are you going to do something?"

"I have no idea." I just went for it. And by "went for it," I mean I launched into another one of those ill-fated affairs which are better left in Barbara Cartland novels. If she were gay.

Snap, Crackle, Fizzle

2006-07-01T19:14:00.000-04:00

Okay, I can tell all you peeps have deserted me for the long weekend. Damn you.

I have just two good friends here in town; one's a guy and one's a gal. My pal L, not her full name, is never available on weekends - so, of course she's away this holiday weekend. And my friend K, not his full name, has just gotten a new boyfriend. They're off, too. Lah-de-da. Lah-de-da. Yeh yeh. I told him to - have a simply FABULOUS weekend with Ramon. Or Sergio. He had one date with this guy a month ago and this Latin Lotharo bit his lip. That was the highlight of their evening. They had nothing much to talk about, especially with split lips. And now they're off to have some fireworks of their own.

I told myself this holiday means nothing. What carries weight -- besides my stomach, since I've been bingeing after Psycho Boy -- is the fact that I always seem to be alone.

Blahblahblah. I took two Xanax to stem the quicksand of pity rising around me and I was just zoning out when the phone rang. Who was ths going to be? I got rid of caller ID, which has only added to my daily stress. What the hell; even a call from my Mother, who would at least get me out of my own head.

"Hello...", I muttered. It was an acquaintance.

"I just called to see what you were up to tonight?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Well, do you want to go --"

"Absolutely!"

"But I didn't even tell what I thought would be---"

"I don't care. Take me to one of your filthy little strip clubs that skeave me out. Take me to the piano bar where I can plug my ears while twenty-somethings belt out 'New York, New York'. Just get me outta here!" I said.

"Okay, okay -- I'll be there in an hour."

I didn't know how strong the pills were until I started to write this post and I misspelled every goddamn word. Should be an interesting night.

I will pick up on this later, but, "I will not pick up any boys in their twenties. I will pick up no boys in their twenties."

Blanche's Boston Bulletin

2006-07-01T15:51:00.000-04:00

Recently received this from Blanche, pointing out that mannequins are still -- in the news.

She was shocked to see that two of her pals from the GLBT-M (gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, MANNEQUIN) Society were dragged out of Macy's window in Boston. It seems the clothes they wore caused quite a stir. As if they had dressed themselves.

"I know these guys," Blanche said. "You can bet some queen at Macy's had a couple Cosmos and went wild with that Rainbow schmatte. Why, just last week, these dummies were dressed in chinos and Polo shirts! Don't cart off my proud wooden brothers !"

You go, girl!

But you ARE, Blanche

2006-06-30T11:10:00.000-04:00

There are two things I regret leaving behind when I left Grove Street (well, three if you count my fireplace): my albums, and Blanche. My mannequin.

Now that I know you well enough, I can confess a secret. I found and made over an old mannequin someone was throwing out in New Jersey. She was standing by the curb -- a habit she found hard to break in subsequent years -- in all her cracking, beige-painted glory, tits to the wind.

She did have tits, although no nipples -- a flaw I quickly corrected with two nubs of plaster. Blanche had facial contours and the outline of lips and eyes, just waiting to be painted in, which I did painstakingly, to bring my Galatea to life. I stuck a brown, shoulder length wig on her bald head with gaffer's tape, and dressed her in a beaded, salmon-colored, vintage dress.

Oh my God, this is the GAYEST thing I have ever written. But I must purge -- release all the elements of my past, putting them here so I can move on. Purge! Purge!

She also had one wonky hand (it looked like decaying rubber, just about to drop off). I tried to correct that by covering it with plaster or fabric or putty, but it never took on the life-like quality of the other. So, I used to hide it with a lot of accessories. But which of us is without our flaws, I ask you. Don't we all have our own version of a gimpy hand? Something we try to hide? Okay, she split in half and you had to screw her extremities in, but wasn't she just like you and me?

She also had the requisite iron pole up her butt, which made her a lot heavier to transport than you'd think. I showed great devotion as I lugged the old girl to every apartment I had in New Jersey, even to my first two in New York. I'm sure the neighbors were amused. Or frightened.

She was like a pet I had adopted -- okay, from Macy's -- always there, standing silently, a boon companion. And one of the old-fashioned kind, sturdy and realistic, not like the fiberglass aliens they have now. Yes, they didn't make 'em like Blanche. When they made her, they broke the mold. Literally.

When I left 18 Grove Street, I had to stick her back on a curb and only hope some new connoisseur would give her a happy home.

"You have a much better chance now, Blanche. At least you have eyes. And nipples."

I think she understood, and as I drove away, I thought I saw her twist that wonky hand and wave goodbye.

Grove Street

2006-06-29T14:49:00.000-04:00

So, here was my neighborhood; quite undeserving of such tawdry acts. Here's a mini-travelogue I assembled from different historian's articles.

This house, at 17 Grove, was my view when I looked out the window. Turns out it was quite famous:

It was built for window-sash maker William Hyde in 1822, the year that an outbreak of yellow fever led many New Yorkers to seek the safety of rural Greenwich Village.
It's the most complete wooden frame house in Greenwich Village; the largest and most intact of the Village's remaining wood-frame structures, (which were outlawed for fire prevention in 1866.)
Originally of two stories, the house gained a third floor in 1870. The sash maker's workshop, visible behind the house on Bedford Street, became a single-family residence.
In 1987, 17 Grove Street was purchased for $1.1 million and meticulously restored, a quintessential example of contemporary gentrification. The building has since served many functions -- most interesting of which was as a brothel during the Civil War.

So maybe it was an appropriate neighborhood for that callboy and his johns.

Behind it sits a mock Victorian "castle" (named "Twin Peaks") at 102 Bedford Street. This was designed in 1925 by amateur architect Clifford Reed Daily. Supported (ahem) by opera impresario and art patron Otto Kahn, Daily embodied the stereotype of the Greenwich Village "eccentric" and set out to create a home appropriate to "the minds of creative Villagers."
The New York Herald Tribune reported that Kahn had met Daily in the Little House tea room and had adopted Daily's idea for a building of 10 one-room apartments for artists. Daily, unmarried, lived in an old house on Sheridan Square, and gave his occupation as builder...

(watercolor by Danny Gregory)

On May 21, 1926, the Tribune reported that the actress Mabel Normand stood on a platform on top of one of the gables and shattered a bottle of Champagne over the roof. Next to her, Princess Amelie Troubetskoy (an American novelist who had married a Russian prince in czarist days) burned acorns in a charcoal brazier in honor of the Greek god Pan. Holy water, flowers and other rites also inaugurated the building.

Yeah, yeah, Mabel, I used to do that, too, on lonely Saturday nights.

Around my corner, at 86 Bedford, sits Chumley's, a former speakeasy that still has no sign. It was a literary hangout for Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, O’Neill, Dos Passos, Faulkner, Anais Nin, Orson Welles, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and James Thurber. It was the kind of place where you'd say "Joe sent me," and they'd pass you in. So people got passed in, and then passed out.

Living at 36 Grove, one of the Greek Revival/Italianate townhouses built in 1851, was Emma Goldman. She was living there when she was deported to the Soviet Union during the 1919 Red Scare.

She was played, in an Oscar-winning performance, by Maureen Stapleton in the movie "Reds." Coincidentally, up the street at #45, was a Federal-style manor house -- also used in the movie -- as residence of Eugene O'Neill.

Said to be the last of its kind in the neighborhood, John Wilkes Booth plotted the Lincoln assassination with co-conspirators there.

Communists, assassins, they all loved the old neighboorhood.

In 1923, poet Hart Crane lived there when he wrote "The Bridge", his paean to New York. Shortly thereafter, he threw himself out of a boat and died.

The curse of tragedy in the water carries on to this day; the house now sits over a laundromat.

The Cocksucker and the Stockbroker

2006-06-29T09:46:00.000-04:00

Deciding to turn my thoughts from the still-smoldering devastation that is my love life. Or sex life. Or lack thereof -- I have booked myself into the Convent of the Sacred Celibate for the holiday weekend and am plunging into happier thoughts.

Like the time I was about to leave my place on Grove Street (below) and go to the gym. As you can see, the entrance to the house is down below street level. There's a charming little sunken entranceway where the door is, and although they have since "gotten a clue" and put a second door on it -- when I lived there, anyone could come down into the darkened space and do whatever they wanted.

Or whomever.

Back to the gym. Or trying to get there. Inside, I had my hand on the doorknob when I heard moans coming from outside the door. Against the door. Against the mailboxes. The buzzers.

"Oh yeah, boy. Take it. Take it all."

Needless to say, I put my gymbag down and pressed an ear against the door.

"Get down there. Do it. Yeah, that's right. Work it."

I was waiting for him to say, "Who's a dirty pig boy," but he didn't get to it. Five minutes later, they were up onto the street. I, of course, scooted up to see the callboy and the businessman go their separate ways. I was halfway to the gym before I realized a had a used condom stuck to the bottom of my sneaker.

Ahh, good times. Good times.

Maybe the best place

2006-06-27T20:40:00.000-04:00

"I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills"...no, wait...I was living in New York, in Greenwich Village.

I always make that mistake...

I lived in this old house (2nd picture down) next door to one of the locations for "Friends". I forget which -- character lived there; it always gave me a kick when they panned up and you could see into my kitchen. I jumped and waved a lot, hoping I'd end up in one of the shows.

The house I lived in was over 100 year's old. I had a studio apartment (the last in a series of studios; I swore to get a one-bedroom when I moved out. Did, too.)

I love history. And New York. And famous artists. So when you wrap that all up and put it in a neighborhood, I'm in heaven.

I had a working fireplace in the main/only room. Although I wasn't allowed to use it, I did anyway. It was a schlep up the narrow, steep staircase to the fourth floor, but it was better than butt-robics. Remind me to tell you next time about the story with the male prostitute and the businessman...

Sylvia Plath's Toaster Oven (apologies to Toddy)

2006-06-27T13:30:00.000-04:00

Okay, I need to exorcise this so I can put it behind me. There is a positive use of denial; it has always worked for me, and I intend to swim down Denial just as soon as I finish here. I haven't even returned my friend's calls because ---
I just can't talk about it. Here, I can put it down at my own pace, and then brick it up in this monolith of memory I'm constructing here.

The story is not an old one, but when it happens to you, it seems brand new. Read the last few posts and you'll see where I was in my relationships. Outside of the incredible sex I had last week, it also opened something in me which had been bolted up. For years. I think I had nailed it shut because the last time was so devastating. (see "Nicholas.") In fact, see all the posts; part of my devastation after the conversation that follows, was the realization that pretty much all of my affairs have been similarly fucked up, and ended by the other guy.

Usually, as you see, I have some rueful humor laced throughout my romantic misadventures. But there is no comedy here, and yet I don't want it to drown in melodrama, either. So, just the facts. Again, I won't recount what came before.

When I woke up yesterday I laughed at the "one-nighter" line I recalled from "Starting Over," so I blogged it. I thought maybe it was a way to cope with waiting for a call I was sure would come. After having wait a couple of days, I picked up the phone. Fuck waiting any more.

"Hello," he said. His voice sounded far away.

"Did I wake you up?" It was 11:30 a.m., but what the hell - it was Sunday.

"No, I'm just -- getting things together. I told you I was going on that trip."

If he did, I didn't hear it. Okay, move it along.

When ya comin' back?"

"Thursday."

"Oh. Well. We haven't talked in a couple days and I just thought I'd say --"

"Can I call you back? Just in a little while. I'll call you when I'm done."

"Okay, sure. Talk to you later."

That was 11:30. Like a dope I waited here till 2 and then went out. I came back. No message. A wave of imminent disaster washed over me. I thought, "Wait a little longer. Wait a little longer."

By 4:30, I just picked up the phone without even stopping to consider.

"Hi," he said.

"What's up?" I was waiting for you to call me back."

"Oh, I'm, sorry."

What the fuck did THAT mean? And and it was followed by silence.

"So, what's going on?"

"Just chillin'."

"Just chillin." I thought about each word before it said it; if I could keep this canoe afloat somehow, I would do it.

"What are you doing?"

"I was just waiting to talk to you. I wanted to thank you for that nice text message you sent" (the morning after we slept together. My plan was to stay positive.

"Cool. Sure." Then more silence. I felt it all coming apart.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing. I'm just getting for the trip."

"Yeah, got it. What's going on?" He started to giggle nervously. This went on for five minutes, alternating with long pauses. This was it. Game over. So go for it.

"Well, something's change since I saw you."

"Okay... "

He said nothing.

"I thought I heard you say 'ok'".

"I did. I'm just trying to get the words."

Oh, Christ. Well, let's have it. I saw all the images of our night wipe across my mind.

"I think we rushed into things," he said.

"Okay. I can set that. But it seemed like you were the one who ---"

"--- it's not you, it's me. It's my problem. I just can't do something like this again. Rush into something."

I scrambled. "So -- you want to slow down?"

"It's something I've been working on with a therapist."

There it was. Coming to the end.

"I just can't do this, I'm sorry. It's me. It's not you."

Period.

I said a quick goodbye and hung up, making sure I did before he did. I sifted what we had done through this filter. I tried to see how it fit. But if someone is sick, if they're a sex addict, all bets are off. You have to just accept it. Get up.

I was just angry at first. Then hurt. Then an overwhelming sense of hopeless dropped on me. Just, what's the point - not about life in general, but about finding someone healthy and available. Christ. I don't think I've ever had that, and that compounded everything that just happened. I actually felt a weight on me as I literally stumbled (the humidity didn't help) to see a movie, to get out. I talked to myself. I tried to translate this foreign language I'd been asked to take in. Can people see this, I wondered.

I ended up seeing "Prairie Home Companion," which was okay, but the end result really lifted me. Seeing Lily Tomlin and Meryl on the opening credits, I felt a sense of relief; oh, here are two people who feel like friends, who are going to tell me a story and take me away.

And it worked. As corny as it sounds, I walked out of there with some perspective. The night was cool and breezy and I sat on a stone bench waiting for the bus home.

I thought of the stories people tell about going to a picture during the Depression and coming out feeling more hopeful. I can't process what happened - any of it -- but that's intellectual now and not emotional.

So.

and --

2006-06-26T12:06:00.000-04:00

I am no "one-nighter!"

I am no --"ONE-NIGHTER!"

Sunday Afternoon

2006-06-25T13:45:00.000-04:00

The cellphone screen. No messages. Pick up the home phone; no series of beeps telling me someone left a message. Fuck. What happened to the laissez-faire philosophy I swore I'd adopted. On some level, Junior High school never -- leaves us.

He'd pulled his shirt over his head and laid down on the sheets. My turn? I twisted the switch on the lamp and everything went black.

"I can't stand a naked light bulb, any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action."

- Blanche, A Streetcar Named Desire."

I flash on myself in bed beside him, flat on my back, knowing he was staring at my face in the moonlight. I tried to will my cheeks and jawline up.

All my worrying and then he says, "I love your smile. There's something behind it, I don't know."

Terror, maybe?

"I may have to stalk you - just to see you smile."

Sounds creepy, I know, but in his tone I knew he meant he just wanted to see it as much as he could. I worked that smile all night till I felt like the Joker.

What pierced me deepest was when I was on my side and he curled up behind me and put an arm over me. Socks still on, we rubbed our toes against each other's.

"Did you ever have your feet massaged?"

"No," he said, "but I do have something of a foot fetish." Okay.

"Well, I ain't suckin' no toes till I know you a lot better."

"No, I meant I ---

"Oh, you're the sucker."

"---I'm the sucker, yes."

"Well, one day I'll get a pedicure and you can go to town." He'd already told me he liked kissing me on the nose. Why not the toes? Toe-ses and noses. He took the palm of my hand and kissed it. Bringing it to my side, he continued to hold my hand. Fuck fucking. This was my idea of getting closer.

On top of him, I looked down on his young face and ran my fingers through his light brown hair. What color were his eyes? Brown, yes. He had some Latin blood in there somewhere; we touched on it at the hotel, but I was too busy wondering if he wanted to kiss me to listen.

He took my shirt off and pulled me into his chest, as if our bare chests touching could merge us. I can't remember much of what else we said, but we laughed and rolled around and I knew this was one for the books. I even kicked him out of bed a little sooner than he needed, in order for him to catch his train.

"You kickin' me out?"

"Yes, arise," I said, slapping his thigh. He sat up and I congratulated myself that he had not been the one to say, "I should be going."

Score.

He'd made enough allusions about things we'd do in the future that even my neurotic fears were quenched.

Which brings me to Saturday. I was doing fine in the morning; all my friends wanted all the details.

"And the funny things is, no matter what happens, it was a great night. I mean, he's twenty-one, so -- it can't be a relationship. Right? What's great about being older is that you don't have to do all that 'will he call me' shit. Right? I'm way too old for that."

Which brings me to Saturday night. No call.

Jesus Christ.

I take a shower and when I come out there's a text message. Thank God.

"I had a lot of fun last night and it wasnt just because of how the night ended."

Aw, sweet. But after a wash of warmth my eyes jumped to the word, "ended."

It was just a statement of fact but it totally built up some kind of "what did he mean by that?" domino chain that started to collapse.

If that isn't the total definition of neurotic, I don't know what is.

Then followed, "Why didn't he call to say it? What's with the text messaging?"

Finally, I snapped out of it and went about my day, thinking how wonderful it was that he even took the time to do it. Great. Really great.

After watching "Now Voyager" and "Holiday," I was totally transported into the altered state of Hollywood romance. I decided to text him back. I knew he was going to a catering job - either just arriving or on his way. Good time to do it.

"U can call late and tell me how hot water went."

"Hot water" was shorthand for when we broke down the coffee station the night we met and he'd burned his hand.

Good. Just enough. Good.

I watched the clock as the time dragged on.

6:00 - Well, I guess he's not going to call before the event.

10:00 - it's been on for three hours; maybe he'll get a break and call.

11:30 - things should definitely be winding down. He'll be out of there by 12:30. Just give it an hour.

12:45, 1:00, 1:15. Come on now, you asshole, answer me! I turned off my lights and just stared at the cellphone blinking green, not red. After ten minutes I turned the lamp on, picked up the goddamn phone and texted again:

"Pretzels?"

Another precious bit of code; I called him Pretzel Boy when we were setting up for the event and he was filling bowls with chocolate pretzels.

A half-hour went by. Why did I text a second message? Fuck.

I took two Excedrin PM's, knowing I would have stewed over this all night.

This morning: No message. I am now doggie-paddling to keep from drowning in obsession all day.

"Oh, it's so nice being old enough to not get caught up in mind games." Who waits a day to call, how long do you wait, when are we going to get together, is he seeing someone else?

Well, let the games begin.

Sunday Morning

2006-06-25T08:46:00.000-04:00

Enough of this sappy, amorphous stuff. I don't want this to turn into jejune ramblings that sound like sentiments you'd write on the inside of a yearbook. Focus, focus. My goal, outside of preserving my stories, is to be --- as particular as I can. Creating my pentimenti, evoking stronger, more sensual memories -- that shine brightest by using the most accurate words.

"Old paint on canvas, as it ages, sometimes becomes transparent. When that happens, it is possible, in some pictures, to see the original lines: a tree will show through a woman's dress, a child makes way for a dog, a large boat is no longer on an open sea. That is called pentimento because the painter 'repented,' changed his mind. Perhaps it would be as well to say that the old conception, replaced by a later choice, is a way of seeing and then seeing again.

"That is all I mean about the people in this book. The paint has aged now and I wanted to see what was there for me once, what is there for me now."

- Pentimento, by Lillian Hellman.

The truth, as they say, is in the details.

So is sex. Or rather the recounting of last Friday.

After we came back to my apartment, I switched on the air conditioning. My cat, Scudder, came bounding out of the bedroom, determined to take over this situation all others.

"There he is," I announced, "lord of the manor." You can tell right away if someone can tolerate your pet or if they'd prefer that it was in a pound.

"Hello there, kitty," John said, and since he didn't recoil I figured it was cool. But the apartment wasn't, so I switched the fan on to quickly circulate more air.

"Wow, God, look at this view", he said, leaning against the window frame. "You can see everything from up here!"

What remained to be seen was what would happen when he turned around. I tossed a couple cushions on the floor beside the couch to give him more room.

"Come on - sit there, relax. Is that air too cold on you?"

"No, it feels great."

He looked at me and I popped up, glanced around, lowering the lights, pushing some books under the sofa with my foot.

"Oh, and -- there are candles somewhere," I said, remembering that most of them were in the bedroom where I'd secured the cat. And I wasn't going to chase Scudder around the living room. There was one votive candle plopped at the bottom of a tall candle holder. I went into the kitchen-ette (and I mean -ette, because it was really just a glorified closet with a stove) found a box of old matches. Having pulled the box off the shelf upside down, a few fell on the floor, but I acted as if I didn't notice. Causally, I reached my hand inside the long glass vase and tried to touch the flame to a curled wick. I got burned but didn't show it.

"Okay, we've got 'candle'."

I sat opposite him and he smiled. Nervously, I popped up again, rifling through my CD's. Running my thumbnail down the Broadway cast recordings and Judy at the Palace, I found the soundtrack to "Don Juan de Marco." Terrible movie. Good music. He'd gotten up to look at the sky again; he loved thunder storms and lightning was cutting through the mist. When he turned back I was on the couch.

"Thought I'd join you over here."

He sat down beside me, one pillow between us, the room dim enough to barely make out his features. He was smiling. He had that "I know that you know that I know what you want to happen," smirk. I tossed the pillow on the floor. All I did was lean in an inch and he was on me like a Hoover.

Slow down, cowpoke. It's was like he was at a pie-eating contest and I was the pie. Not unpleasant, but a tidal wave, where a gentle lapping would have been sufficient to begin with.

And speaking of lapping, he was on mine in a couple of minutes. He straddled me, face on mine so closely I almost had to gasp for air. I leaned back a little to give him the message. He dropped from 90 mph to 50, so our lips had room to shape kisses instead of slathering them on.

He positioned me underneath him, my calves lying over the sharp edge of this ancient hide-a-bed. As he got on top I thought, "I remember this." That heavy weight pushing down, and you can't move much more than your arms and fingers. He could, though, and as he started to sway I did feel other things. We started necking (a phrase my young friend James finds archaic and hysterical) and he was nuzzling like he was trying to bruise my collarbone. When I went down on his neck, the pace picked up and suddenly he stopped.

"Be careful, remember I work with small children." It took me a second to realize he was talking about hickeys (now that's an archaic term which I find hysterical) and I laughed at the thought of him covering up a mark with Cover Girl.

"If anyone should be afraid of that, it should be me. I'm fairer than anyone."

"You're the fairest in the land," he laughed. "Now you get on top of me," he instructed, lifting me up and under. Obviously, the boy had a plan. I went with it. "Can we go to the bedroom? I'm losing the feeling in my leg."

"Sure."

I led him down the hall and opened the door, stepping into a much cooler room. We were immediately encircled by the cat.

"Oh, what about him? Is he into three-somes?"

"Don't worry," I replied, and gently kicked Scudder into the hall and shutting the door.

"Now there's no music," he said, kicking his shoes off. Oh crap, if I go back into the living room the cat will shoot back in and never leave.

"Wait a minute, I have this CD player," I said, unearthing it from beside the bed. Please let there be something in it. I pressed the button and it started to play a jazz rendering of Sondheim songs.

"Hey, I like that."

"That's Stephen Sondheim, the guy you never heard of before."

He'd told me that in the coffee shop and I almost spit my juice.

"Sweet," he said, and pulled me down beside him. We made out for a while and I slowed him down when I felt it was coming to the edge of no return.

"Let's just lie here a minute, okay? Let's cool down. I don't think the air is working."

I got up in the darkness and squinted at the dial; I had left my glasses in the living room. "Well, it looks like it's on High." A bald-face lie; I had felt the knob like Helen Keller and, already self-conscious about my age, I was not going to tell him I couldn't see it.

"Well, come back. I won't touch you."

"Please, that's not the problem," I laughed. "I'm just all sweaty."

"That's how it goes, remember?" he winked. And there it was. I barely did remember.

More later...

Now

2006-06-24T17:28:00.000-04:00

"Now finale to the shore,
Now land and life -- --finale and farewell,
Now Voyager depart, (much, much for thee is yet in store,)
Often enough hast thou adventur'd o'er the seas,
Cautiously cruising, studying the charts,
Duly again to port and hawser's tie returning;
But now obey thy cherish'd secret wish,
Embrace thy friends, leave all in order,
To port and hawser's tie no more returning,
Depart upon thy endless cruise old Sailor"

- Walt Whitman

Where Was I?

2006-06-24T12:09:00.000-04:00

Oh yes, my kettle was boiling...

It would be ungallant of me to go into great detail -- besides, all that stuff didn't matter. It was stupendous - just fun and hot and complete -- but the best part --- was just lying there talking, feet touching, holding him. I SWEAR I'm not going to go into one of those sappy Hallmark commercials. Don't you hate to read that kind of tripe? But shit, when you find yourself -- dare I say it -- happy in someone's arms, everything does change. You get all fuzzy, off balance.

If only for an hour.

After he left, I tried to stay calm and grounded and brace for the ~~inevitable~~ possible letdown when/if no more calls come, but all I could hear were the things he'd said.

"When you left the (catering) job before me, I was like, 'Damn - where is he?' But when I looked over the railing and you did that 'call me' thing, I was like, sweet!"

There's the word again. Now, this is not someone looking for a quick roll in hay. Unless I am an awful judge of character - which I have been. Or he is just another pyscho - which he may be. But that kind of romantic stuff doesn't seem calculated; it feels spontaneous and genuine.

"I thought I called too soon," he said.

"Yeah, you should have done the whole 'wait one day and then call' thing," I laughed.

"Life's too short to do that one day and then call thing," he said. Smart boy.

So, all in all I felt that he liked me.

Go Figure

2006-06-24T09:13:00.000-04:00

It went very well, despite the fact that, with the disparity of our ages, sometimes I felt like this.

It was disgustingly humid (as it was with Nicholas, actually - maybe I should only date when it feels like Summer in the Amazon) but didn't rain while we took a long walk. Every five minutes I surreptitiously mopped my face with a tissue. So hard to uphold first-date vanity when your face looks like a slice of greasy pizza.

The night turned into an interview with John (not his real name. well, actually it is...) wherein I found out way too much. He's just on that borderline of "what the hell am I doing" and "sweet kid, he just needs a break". I have consciously decided to choose the latter. For now. But he's packed a lot of living into 21 years. Yes, 21. Did I mention, 21?

ANYWAY, I didn't want to use the old, "God, it's so humid, we should go to my place, where it's air conditioned" line. Well -- I wanted to use it, but thought it was bad form. Plus, he seemed to like walking and the rain held off. Every romantic little coffee shop we passed was either closed for the night or closed permanently. And I refused to give my money to Starfucks.

Ultimately, we found a little place in the corner of a hotel dessert & java joint and ducked in. Not bad, actually. Some candles. A little classical music. Go figure. Neither of us being coffee drinkers, I popped for buying us each a bottle of Naked Juice and we found a table in the back. Then the Biography Channel came on and I learned about his father who disowned him and his sister with two babies from different papis, his nervous breakdown (loosely labelled - I hope), his Mother who was dating an 18 year old and pregnant with his baby. Need I go on? Well, how could I fault the Mother, when I was robbing the cradle as well. But at least my cradle didn't have a newborn in it. Surprisingly, I didn't feel like this at all.

For the love of God, don't judge me!!!

ANYWAY, just as we finished the last slurp of juice it started raining. Good Scout I am, I had brought an umbrella big enough for two.

"I love the rain!" he declared. "So, you have air conditioning?" We headed to my place. Honest to God, my intentions were good: a little smooch, a little over-the-clothes action, and that was it. But don't we always say that? There was an awkward minute of silence. I felt like Miss Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies. I told you it had been a long time. But once our eyes met (cue the orchestra) we were off to the races. He got on top of me (we were both sitting, so he was on my lap facing me) and hot damn if he wasn't the best kisser ever. It was an "art," I tell you. I knew then that I was in trouble. Big trouble. Big, swelling, tumescent trouble.

What Am I, Nuts?

2006-06-23T12:39:00.000-04:00

As I recall:

The last time I had a date there was still a "19 --" as the first two digits of the year...

I met this kid at a catering job (yes, it's come to this) and we hit it off. Made a date. Despite the fact that I'm old enough to be his...uncle.

We just spoke a minute ago and he actually used the words, "cool" and "sweet" to describe his anticipation.

I am now off to work out for six or seven hours at the gym.

Sweet..

still waiting

2006-06-23T11:20:00.000-04:00

for Blogger to work,,,,,

Port Authority

2006-06-21T12:29:00.000-04:00

One icy February night, sitting in my car in the school's parking lot, the whole story -- came out.

Scott was plugged up with a kind of wordless fear and needed to let it out. It would have helped if I could have held him, but we were bundled up in thick, down coats that made me feel like the Michelin man. Even getting close was a challenge, wrapped up in marshmallow.

When he finally started his confession, the words shot out in blasts of cold air, rising up like smoke rings.

"I didn't get mugged," he said.

In November, he'd travelled to New York's Port Authority, a black guy spotted his Leica sticking out of his bag and Scott got beat up in the bathroom. I didn't ask what he was doing in there, letting his camera be seen. Shooting the stalls? Close-ups of the urinals? It crossed my mind that maybe he lingered too long, approached the wrong guy, and paid the price. Anyway, it was a big scandal when he returned, bloody and bruised, robbed of the expensive camera his father had given him.

"Not goddamn safe in New York," he said, "especially Port Authority. I don't know why you and your friends have to go. If you have to, just get off that 42nd Street, do your business and come home."

"That wasn't what happened," Scott said, "I left it."

His words wrestled themselves free.

"I left it. I left it there!"

He told me he'd been seeing a shrink for a year and a half -- more big news for a kid in a suburban town, and that he'd stopped showing up two months ago. He was also on medication, another revelation.

"So?"

"I got off and went to a stall, he said, and I thought this was all going to confirm my fears.

"I had a knife -- a steak knife from home. I put my bag down and got it out. And I stabbed myself, here," he said, pointing to his stomach. "Then I freaked out, dropped the knife and got out of there. I didn't even think about the bag."

Luckily, there was a bus about to leave and he got on it. He pressed his coat tightly to his stomach, and made it home. He'd left his car in the parking lot and drove to the ER.

"It wasn't very deep. It was off here, to the side."

I snaped open both our coats and pressed against him. Scott wrapped them around us like a blanket and cried.

I wished I could have been able to deal with him more after that but I just couldn't and we drifted apart. I had a job at a bookstore, he finished school and moved away. To New York.

Three years later I was dancing at a club in Jersey and I saw his younger brother. He was a sweet kid and, his bedroom being next to Scott's, I was sure he must have heard a lot of headboard action on those hot afternoons. "What the fuck?" I yelled. "You. Here." I pressed the back of my hand against my forehead. "Oy, what a bad influence we were."

"Wasn't you." he laughed. "Bad genetics!"

"I leaned up and spoke into his into his ear."

"So-- where is he? How's he doing?"

His brother turned to me and just looked into my eyes, and kept looking.

The Disco music played on all around us.

Scott

2006-06-20T11:32:00.000-04:00

"Extraordinary how potent cheap music is."

-Noel Coward

I was sitting in Wendy's, feeling guilty for eating salty, greasy fries, and ...the pop song, "The Things We Do For Love" came on. Snapped me right back to high school. To Scott. He was a senior and I was a year older, having taken a year off before college, and we both lived in West Caldwell, N.J.

The school was putting on "The Diary of Anne Frank," and I must have been so brilliant they brought me back to play Anne's father. Scott was in the cast, playing Mr. Dussell. Not so hot. Maybe their talent pool was a little shallow that year and that's why they asked me back. Even at 18, I could tell this was only marginally passing as theater.

Scott was tall and unremarkable looking except for a slightly flattened nose. Being a nice Jewish ~~girl~~ boy, he obsessed about getting it fixed. We'd been subtly flirting -- I couldn't flirt any other way back then --and once we started fooling around I didn't even notice his nose. Well, maybe because I was usually occupied on his bottom half.

I hang my head in shame to the Theater Gods -- and I never did it again -- but backstage, about to go on, Mr. Dussell was feeling up Mr. Frank.

Sacrilege!

One day we were in bed at his parent's house -- both of them worked and wasn't that a great set-up for afternoon delight -- and I noticed the time.

"Holy crap! We've gotta be there in, like, ten minutes!" I said.

"Well, we can't go like this."

"Like what?"

"We smell like it. Like we've been doing it."

That was enough to knock us both into his shower and we did a quick clean-up. I combed my hair in the mirror and tried to dry it. That's when I noticed the hickey. Jesus Christ.

"Look what you did!"

"Oh, you can't even see it." he said.

We jumped into my Pinto and screeched off to the school parking lot.

"Maybe they won't have started yet," Scott said as we pushed open the double doors. "Most of the time we don't."

We walked into the middle of a quiet, intense scene. Everyone stopped and looked at us. I slid down the auditorium aisle and into a chair, praying for a fire drill. No such luck.

"Let's stop here for a break," Mr. Sempreora said. Everyone dispersed. Even Scott was nowhere to be found. This teacher had been my first mentor, the one who said to me, "No matter what happens to you in life, know that you can act." He had guided me, cared for me, pointed the way. And now this. He came up the aisle silently, just looking.

"I'm really sorry. We were out driving and I got a flat."

His eyes looked up at my wet hair and then down to the hickey. Nothing he could have said would have made me feel worse. I had let him down, as well as everyone working so hard to make the play work.

That night, Scott and I went to hang out at the

Colony Diner, and that song came on. Crammed into the ripped red vinyl seats he handed me a ring under the table so no one would see. It was just a cheap little thing with a tiny checkerboard design. Probably got it at the mall. But as "The Things We Do For Love," came on, we were at our zenith and this moment became hotwired into my mind, forever linked to hat insipid melody.

Obviously forever; here it is 30 years later.

Just found the ring today. It was a happy time and I didn't know what the next week was about to bring...

Two roads diverged ...

2006-06-19T12:38:00.000-04:00

The night before he left, he slept at my apartment. In all our constant motion we had never talked much. There was a lot of sex. There were ... Broadway shows and walks and drinks. But the only subject we ever dealt with was him moving here.

Being an actor, he wanted all that NYC had to offer. That I understood. But this tie to the girlfriend - with leaving her and moving on -- that I didn't get. I mean, you have an attachment to someone you've dated throughout high school and three years of college. But you stopped having sex with her, you've opened the door to all this, keep going. His girlfriend, Miranda, knows you're moving. Find a way to process that, both of you, and move on.

Easy for the lover in New York to say, hard for the one in Miami to do.

Early the morning he was to leave, I woke up at 6 a.m., and saw him across the living room, stretched out on the couch. He was crying. I got up.

"What am I gonna do now?" he asked. "It wasn't real until now. But being in your place, seeing your things, your cat," he laughed. "Being in your bed. Now, it's all real to and how can I go back. I love you."

That had never been said. Up till then this was an affair, a fling, something with an expiration date stamped on it. Maybe he'd come back. Maybe not. Now he tells me this.

I had been alone for so long that I'd put up an impenetrable wall and hidden behind it. But now there we were.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood," says Frost. Safer to stay on my solitary course. Smarter. But if he could drop all his glibness and break down, could I? Maybe it was the stupidest thing to do, intellectually, but I decided to let myself love him. It was conscious. It was absolute. I went down the other road.

He left for Florida. We spoke that week about his plans to tell Miranda, maybe to come out to his parents.

He never came back. He stopped answering my calls and emails. That was it. That was it.

Three years later he came to town, to a club right next door to my apartment. He didn't let me know. He called to tell me that after he was safe back home. He'd moved on.

But wasn't it interesting that he had to call --

North Moore Street

2006-06-18T16:02:00.000-04:00

Are you okay with this, I asked, which was funny, since he'd been the first to make a move.

"Mmm, ohhhhh."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' I just want to make sure that this isn't going to --"

"Shut up," he said, pulling closer to me. I suddenly felt ... something that told me this was definitely okay.

We rolled around a lot and pants were unzipped, but no clothes came off. Was this a tip-off that it was going to be a one-time fling? I helped him come but then, as is my usual habit, I stopped before finishing myself. He didn't pursue it and I was too shy to ask.

I went home that night, still drunk but smiling. After the dark, quiet coolness of the loft, the sounds of people laughing and shouting started to dissolve my buzz. The neons signs hurt my eyes and I looked down at the street. Once in a while, I'd stop and glance behind me. You had to stay on guard in the city, and though I never showed any fear I always had an eye out for trouble. Although in the soupy sludge of the heavy humdity, thugs would have been too sluggish to strike.

Nicholas asked me to come over the next night, and we would go on to spend every day of his two-week visit together. I'd go home, feed the cat, get my mail and come back. We wandered around the neighborhood, he bought me flowers (okay, carnations, but the thought was nice), I bought him gelato. Pistachio, at his request. Right then I should have guessed he was a little strange. I even grew to like the dogs.

The night that John-John and Carolyn died, North Moore was an extraordinary place to be. On the street below, people were leaving cards and flowers, and every time we came back there were more. It was too sad to bend down to read anything and we didn't have to; there were enough sentiments scrawled on poster paper large enough to read. Candles were lit. The street was quiet. I felt like I was in church every time I crossed the threshhold.

As touching as this display was, it didn't dissuade us from shutting the door and going back to bed.

"Boooo, I'm the ghosts of John and Carolyn" I moaned, hiding under the covers.

"Stop it, you're freaking me out."

"I can feeeeel them swirling around us! This was their home, where else would they go?"

"You're sick!"

"Eh. I'm just purging myself of all the mojo down there."

"I'll purge you," he said, climbing on top of me.

"You shape those eyebrows," I said.

"I do not."

"You do. It's all right. You don't look like a drag queen but you got a little stylin' going on."

"You're an asshole," he laughed, and pulled me on top of him. When we kissed, he grabbed at me like a drowning man. It was like he wanted some of whatever I had, my experience, my talent, my way of moving in the world. "You do shape them," I said.

Later on he nodded off, but I was too anxious to sleep. I edged out of bed and took the long journey to the living room at the front of the loft. He had three days left. "What are you doing" he asked, coming up behind me. His white underpants glowed in the moonlight. "Can't sleep?"

"Can't and don't want to."

"Come back to bed and let me hold you."

"Nah, I need to be up."

He sat at the Steinway and started to play quietly. He sang that song from "A New Brain," that I only partially knew:

"The sun is on my neck, the wind is in my face
The water's incredibly blue
And I'd rather be sailing
Yes, I'd wanna go sail
And then come home to you

He laid his head on my shoulder and we sat there not saying anything.

Why Not

2006-06-17T15:11:00.000-04:00

Most of these men deserved to be in a vast, black hole. And -- -- not the good kind. And these were boys, not men. If you've read this far, maybe this "series" of failed relationships has held your interest. Let's not call them "failed." Let's go with "initially promising and then horribly truncated."

Maybe "failed," after all.

Who first? The most who held the greatest power over.

After doing time in the asylum of Online Dating (AOL was my drug of choice) I was just about to cancel my membership when I got the IM. Strange things - at their best, they bring people together and then make themselves obsolete. Ironic?

Not ironic, why I liked him: theatre guy, sarcastic, funny, flirtatious. Soon discovered: said gay boy had a girlfriend.

Eh. A bump in the road. Plus, we all know that anyone who can list all of Judy Garland's movies is not the marrying kind.

His name is -- God, I forget it now - that's a good sign because he must have finally drifted off my radar. Uh --- wow. His name is ... Nicholas. There.

He lived in Miami and had plans to transfer to NYU. Good. Proximity issue resolved. Up here, the girlfriend issue would be resolved. How about the ten-year age difference? He was coming to New York in two weeks and then we'd meet. After a tantalizing four weeks on the phone (we'd progresed from online chats) it was time to step it up.

We met downtown in TriBeCa, he was dogsitting for some famous Opera conductor who lived in the same building where JFK, Jr., lived at the time of his death. But that hadn't happened yet. He wanted to meet outside a Mexican restaurant he liked. I don't remember being nervous; I think I just assumed the worst and put one foot in front of the other. Coming across the street to the restaurant I recognized him (sometimes online pictures are accurate) sitting outside, eyes fixed on me. Deep brown eyes, thick black hair, a curl to his full lips. Looking deceptively innocent and knowing it.

Suddenly the stakes were raised. Am I too old, too fat, too gay?

"There you are," I said, ten feet away.

"Here I am."

"Looking just like you."

"Well, I hope so. Want a drink?"

Like he had to ask.

"I'll get something. Sit down."

It was one of the most disgustingly humid nights I'd ever cut my way through - so the cold Margaritas he brought back seemed perfect; cool and almost instantly intoxicating. I knocked one back.

"Whoa, hello!" he said. What's the rush?"

Annie Hall kicked in and I mumbled something about maybe this not being the best idea.

"Look, we said -- we said we'd have a drink and then just let it be what it was. Not make a big deal out of it. So. I don't want you to feel obligated to take this further - "

"You haven't let me ask you home. Relax," he said, ordering another round from the yellow and blue-haired waitress hovering around the tables. Oh great, he was the secure one and I was fourteen. We finished the drinks quickly and he led me back to the loft.

"He has Standard Poodles", Nick said, heading up the dirty hallway stairs.

"Ah." Poodles are the one breed of dog I hate.

"Here we are," he said

He pushed the heavy door open on one of the most luscious lofts I'd ever seen. It spanned left and right to the end of each horizon. A small, bright kitchen sat in the middle, a lighthouse in this sumptuous darkness. The dogs came bounding at us. No, me.

"There, there, what good doggies," I cooed, discreetly pushing them down. "A boy and a girl?" They rolled on their backs. Ah -- both boys.

I got the requisite tour: gold-framed photos of opera houses and famous singers - the maestro always in the middle. Hundreds of classical music albums sagging the shelves. Tiny red candles outlining the room, but besides those there were only two dim pools of light, one on the Steinway, another on the chocolate-brown sofa. I wondered if he'd aimed that one before leaving to meet me.

We were both drunk. Plain old drunk, no more, no less. He thrust his finger forward theatrically and led the way to the master bedroom. I stumbled behind, taking in every curve of his tight ass shifing beneath khaki shorts.

"Here we have it."

There was even less light in there, and a huge bed stretched out in front of us. The travelogue ended. He went to the doorway. I lingered.

"It's something," he said.

"Very nice."

I heard the traffic, the air conditioner. He looked around.

"All right," he exclaimed. "We'll just lie on the bed but nobody does anything, okay?"

He was down there waiting before I even kicked my off my shoes.

Don't Make Me ...

2006-06-16T14:39:00.000-04:00

... go back home.

There had been matching gold and black onyx rings. He bought them. We wore them on the Underground but what would happen when ...we got back to America? What would happen to sleeping together? What would happen to every fucking thing?

He went back to grad school in upstate New York. I waited table. The letters continued, picking up steam, and we called every night at 11 p.m.

On his infrequent visits we'd break away from our parent's houses and go parking. One of us would keep an eye out for cops and the other disappeared beneath the dashboard. He'd leave again. While I obsessed, his casual air drove me even more crazy. Leave "Que Sera, Sera" to goddamn Doris Day.

Midnight on Route 46, he pulls out a folded piece of paper.

"Here."

Written in a scrawl with two different colors of ink, it looked like he'd stopped and then come back.

"I hereby pledge and swear that we will be together forever, through thick and thin, smooth and chunky, whatever. And I will never leave you. This is for certain people to hang on their wall so whenever they start to feel lonely or insecure, they will know what's in my heart."

I took the train to Potsdam to see him on a weekend he was free. I could be free any weekend for him but, well, I'd take what I could get.

He met me at the train station and it was a scene from VJ-day. "The Way We Were."

"The Clock."

He whisked me off to a motel -- his close circle of friends would surely have found us out -- and we made love for the first time in the States. He came back from taking a shower and saw me lying on my side, stretched out, my back to the door. "You look like a panther," he said, and laid his cool, wet body against me.

He wasn't wearing the ring and I didn't say anything. Nothing was going to ruin this.

Like everything else, I took a breath and it was over. Back to the train station. Waving a hankie as my train pulled out. How long could this go on? The hiding, the lying. Something had to change or we'd both blow up.

We made plans to live together. He initiated it, he picked out where he wanted us to move. It was time, at last. This was a huge step for him; it meant coming out to his mother - whom I particularly wanted to see burst into flames - and deconstructing the persona he'd created all his life; Golden Boy. Well fuck it, he could be Golden Boy with lavender backlighting. He planned to come home and tell them the weekend of Halloween.

I saw his parent's car lights pull up the driveway and I ran outside.

"I've got something to tell you," he said as we stood in the darkness. Tiny ghosts and witches and princesses floated by with their shopping bags. This was it, I thought, he's told them.

He held my shoulders.

"I love you, Doug --"

"Me too, you," I answered. He looked at the gravel.

"But I don't love you the way I said I loved you."

The grass swung up in front of me and my knees buckled. Once it was said, there was nothing else to say. You can't debate it.

"I'm sorry. You don't know how sorry I am. And I hope that we will always --"

"Just leave," I said and went inside before he could see me shut down. This wasn't some teenage crush to write about in my diary, or the bittersweet, inevitable end of an affair. This was the world. This was the end of everything.

When the numbness began to melt I didn't want to be inside. I went to the backyard and stood, pushing against the huge oak by the garage. Then I finally gave in and grabbed the trunk hard and let myself cry. It was uncontrollable. My mother found me and came out, but stood a ways off. She had always known about me -- about him and me - but this was not only irrefutable evidence of her fears, but also her watching her son's heart break.

When we went back inside she sat next to me on the arm of couch.

"I can only say - when your father left me, and left his three little boys, I thought -- I'll never get up again," she said, standing. "Do you want me to stay?"

"No."

"I'll see you in the morning," she said, and her hand brushed my shoulder as she went by. "You get up."

I remembered the Auden poem Rick and I had found one rainy night in London:

"He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”

A year later I found out he'd married a girl he met in church at a bible study. He'd not only left me, he'd found a woman to live with.

And Jesus.

Find The Peanut

2006-06-12T21:42:00.000-04:00

Once we left Lady Cadbury and our virginities behind, England became our lusty playground. I was living out my --- E. M. Forster fantasy, rolling around with Rick in emerald fields with castles and royal mansions standing by, reminding me that I was not home. Thank God. Not back in that unforgiving, censuring place.

While I was stumbling around in glee, face smiling up to paradise, Rick was stumbling around in a daze. Whatever gay teen-age scenarios he may have imagined, holding hands with his male lover in the streets of England was not one of them.

PDA, he used to call it (public displays of affection) but I thought it ran deeper than that. He was always uncomfortable with me physically and deeply afraid of being found out. But nobody gave a damn; we were invisible. I was amazed at the physical proximity and ease of the men walking around us. Arms over shoulders, hands gently slapping buttocks, leaning in, shoulder-to-shoulder --- and those were the straight ones.

We arrived at Aunt Jennie's and were immediately swept up in the chaos. She was the eye of the hurricane and all around her whirled the neighbor's bratty kids, another distant relative of Rick's (doubtless a fifth cousin twice-removed?) who had shown up unexpectedly, three mutts and, perhaps the neediest of all, her husband Bill. He seemed made of clothespins and string, but what he lacked in presence he made up for in volume.

"Christ on the cross, Jen, where is Petey? Where is he, goddamn it!"

He had gone past the stage of practical demands: eyeglasses (always on his head), the newspaper (which he couldn't read even with the glasses), and custard tarts (into which Aunt Jen mixed most of his medicine). Now he was constantly stamping overhead, crying out for ghosts long-passed, like his younger brother Peter, who had died in World War II. Aunt Jen was up and down the stairs several times an hour, dishtowel over her arm, dragging someone or something with her. When she opened the door for us she had a tray in her hands and Alistair, a fat little five year old from next door, riding on her leg.

"Oh thank God. Thank God you made it and -- oh, this is Dan?"

"Doug," Rick replied.

"Good good good! Come on in Ricky, and Dan -- let me clean up some of this --"

Alistair decided this was a good time to release his hold and bounce on the sofa.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" he cried.

"Pay him no mind, boys, he's just found a new word. Picked it up from Bill, no doubt."

"How's he doing?" Rick asked, closing the font door.

"Well, sweetheart, good days and bad. Good days and bad."

"Where the fuck is Petey?"

"See what I mean? Now listen boys, we've got an extra body here this week, my daughter-in-law Herta..."

" -- Herta?" I whispered.

"Married to Jennie's son, Uncle Walter. Dead now."

"Oh."

"The men die young in our family."

"I have to go the loo and I don't think I'm going to make it, goddamn it!" Bill called.

"Well, most of them."

"...so I had to give her the third bedroom for the week, which means you boys will have to bunk in together in the blue room," Jen explained, heading for the kitchen. I pinched Rick's ass as he followed and he smacked my hand.

"No, that'll be fine," he said.

"Oh sure, we do it all the time," I said. Another swat.

"We do have twin beds, though, so you won't be on top of each other."

I cleared my throat.

Once ensconced in "the blue room" all the din disappeared. We fell back on one of the beds and conked out.

In the nights, he dropped his inhibitions and became as bold as I think he wished he could be in daylight. Every night was an illicit adventure and now there was a new bed we could sleep in, although sleep we did not do; we bought extra Kleenex from the chemist. Red-faced, Rick also bought a pack of condoms, and tried to slip them under the tissues as we paid. We never used them. Every couple has their own style and we were much more the Jerkers than the Pokers. Plus, we had discovered blowjobs in London and were content to alternate between our two newfound vices. But with wild abandon comes carelessness, as you ignore the world around you. Two days after arriving, sequestered in our room, I felt the urge to do a little deep sea diving.

"Stop it!" he said. "Not in the daytime. C'mon."

Taking no for an answer has never worked with me. A couple well-placed squeezes and a quick unzip and I was on my knees.

"C'mon, no..." he said as he pulled the back of my head closer. Reading the newspaper a moment before, he had been focused on Bosnia and I on Madonna. But as we now focused on something of mutual interest, we didn't hear the bedroom door creak open.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuuuuck!" Alistair exclaimed, announcing his presence.

Luckily he had belted out the first fuck before opening the door, giving us five seconds before sprang onto the bed. I dropped to the floor. Rick snatched the paper and pulled it over his exposed crotch.

"Reading?" Alistair asked.

"Uh huh..."

He craned his chubby neck over the bed and found me.

"Hiding?"

"Yes, Alistair. We were just playing a little game."

"I play?"

"No, no - this is a grown-up game." Rick said. "Didn't your Mommy tell you to knock before you come into someone's room?"

"No," he answered flatly. "What's the game?"

I stood up and went to the chair. "It's called find the peanut."

"Can I play?"

I pulled him away from Rick who was zipping up under the entertainment section.

"No no, buddy --"

"Did you find the peanut?"

"Well, I had it one minute, and the next minute---"

Rick glared. "You really aren't helping."

He spun the chunky monkey around, pointed him toward the hall and gave him a push. "And Alistair, remember to knock on people's --"

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuck!" he sang out, stomping down the stairs.

You'd think that The Great Blowjob Calamity would have taught us a little something about enhancing security. Keeping our secret just remembering to lock the door.

"And if you'd done that today we wouldn't have come so close to traumatizing the --- "

""Me??"

We pushed the twin beds together every night, our thighs and chests and asses pressed together.

Aunt Jen turned on the radio every morning and started to sing quietly to Barry Manilow or Abba or whomever, and about twenty minutes later she'd call up and say breakfast was ready. But in the early morning the day after Alistair's raid, Rick and I were dozing as usual on top of the conjoined matresses, buck-naked and erect. Suddenly I heard the floorboard creak outside and the doorknob turn.

"Jesus, I thought you locked it!" he said.

"Me???"

We jumped up, pushed the beds apart and covered our asses, although I was sure anybody with half a brain would have put two and two together.

"Petey? Petey?" called Don Quixote in the doorway.

"William, get out of there and let those boys sleep!"

"Where's Petey?" the old boy asked once more, and then walked out.

"Jesus, I'm gonna have a heart attack." Rick said.

We made plans to leave the next morning. As we dragged our suitcases out onto their lawn, Aunt Jen managed to grab both of us in one warm hug. "Oh, thanks so much for coming, Sweetheart. It means so much."

She took a step back and looked at the two of us standing together. Nobody said anything.

"Yes," she finally said, tearing up. "Yes. Good journey, dears."

Rick: Over There

2006-06-11T16:01:00.000-04:00

Rick had an elderly aunt "once-removed" and she and her fragile, deaf husband invited Rick to visit them that summer in Brighton, England.

"It's been years and years," she said and then lowered her voice. "And frankly, sweetheart, I don't know how much time Billy has left." Later, when Rick relayed the conversation I wondered why she'd bothered to whisper. Being the dutiful nephew once-removed, he thought this would also be -- a chance to see England and have a place to stay.

And well, if he wanted to bring a friend, who could grouse?

After we'd made the reservations, Aunt Jen called back to say Bill had to go "to hospital" and could we wait a few days?

"No problem." Rick said. We'll find some cheap B & B and poke around London before we pop in. So we'll see you after the weekend?"

The next day we were deposited at Newark airport by his mother, who wore a pink scarf pulled over tight wire curlers. I could almost hear her clucking her tongue throughout the ride. I know I caught a few glances in the rear mirror, probably waiting for me to pull out a purse and start applying makeup.

"Goodbye honey," she said as she pulled him into her eight arms. Over her shoulder, Rick rolled his eyes at me and mimed being squashed. I raised an eyebrow.

Before she let him go she whispered, "And remember, if you need me for any reason, don't be afraid to call." She pursed her lips and tightened her scarf. We stepped up to the curb. She said nothing to me.

In a half-hour we were finally off on our transatlantic trip, two children kicking the back of our seats, their parents ignoring them. There was a Hasidic jew davening in the row just before First Class. Odd, but on a five-hour flight over the sprawling black ocean, I welcomed any type of blessing. After circling the tarmac for twenty minutes we finally started our ascent.

"Ow!" Rick yelled, grabbing my arm.

"What?"

"Geez, my ears just popped," he said, still clutching my wrist and holding it a little longer than necessary. As he sat there working his jaw I looked down at his fingers and thought, this is going to be a great trip.

We got to London very early and since we were two college boys who couldn't afford a hotel, we began our hunt for a nice bed and breakfast. We dragged our leaden suitcases down one street after another and every place we found was either filthy or stank of curry. Or both. He would have settled, but I had this romantic idea of London and it did not include three days over a loud Indian restaurant.

We were about to give up and find a hostel when we turned onto a quiet street and stumbled upon a small, charming place owned by a Mrs. Cadbury.

The house was unassuming, at least a hundred years old, and clean. And Cadbury trumps curry in my book. By the time we got there, jet-lagged and cranky, I think we'd have camped out in her living room.

"We're pretty full, boys, but I do have one room left. It's on the top floor, of course," she giggled, pointing to a narrow staircase. "Oh, and you'll have to share a bed." Yes.

The room was small but pretty in a Victorian sort of way. The wallpaper was curling around the edges, peeling back the roses on the print itself. Chucking our luggage into the corner, we collapsed on the sagging mattress and groaned. We groaned over and over until we laughed.

The next morning, or late afternoon actually, I woke up before Rick and heard his steady breathing. We had never been in bed together -- at least not under the sheets, and the intimacy of it gave me a rush. It was getting dark but I couldn't tell what time it was. I was exhausted but still wanted to get out of bed. Every minute of the trip counted and we'd be back in America before we knew it. Dazed, I had that slightly sick feeling I got when I awakened from a nap in the evening.

In England we were anonymous, I thought with a smile. We could do anything and nobody would know. The soft hair on his shin brushed mine and I remembered that before we actually passed out we had peeled off everything but our underpants. The dusty, ancient mattress sagged so deeply we'd both ended up very close. I felt his hip against mine. I sat up.

"You awake?" he yawned.

"Yeah."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know."

"Did we miss a day?"

"I don't think so. Half a day maybe. Do you have your watch?"

"I don't know where it is." He yawned again. "So, what do you want to do?"

We both laid on our backs and looked up at the cracked ceiling. We tossed around ideas casually as if it were something we did it every day. As he started to wake up in earnest he realized he had nothing on. With the relationship so loaded, finding ourselves in this situation lit the fuse. We stopped talking. I turned to my right and rolled inevitably into the vortex. We were on top of each other, laughing, a tangle of arms and legs. Then I felt something poke against my hip that I was sure wasn't a toe. He didn't pull away and I knew what he wanted to do. But it had to be me first.

I reached my hand down his Fruit Of The Looms and touched his hard penis, rising up out of coarse, damp pubic hair. I held it firmly but delicately, like a priceless object. I thought I would come right then. Blood pounded in my heart and ears so strongly that it hurt. I couldn't hear anything. I couldn't think of anything but what had overtaken me. My cock had poked halfway out of the bottom of my underpants and he started to clumsily twist it. His hips began to rise up and down. He yanked my underpants down and then wriggled out of his. He grabbed my ass and pulled me closer. I felt the hair on his chest, his breath, his thighs, and he got on top of me and rocked, finding his rhythm. Being twenty-two and finally naked together, we both came quickly and at the same time. It took my breath away. He cried out but I was silent, and my arm stretched out and gripped the side of the mattress. We'd burst through that door we couldn't even unlock at home.

After lying there a minute he reached over to the bedside table and grabbed some tissues. It was silent. I got up to take a shower and left the bathroom door open. When I came out we each sat on a corner of the bed, pulled on our sneakers and started to make plans, just like nothing had happened.

Rick and the grey cashmere sweater

2006-06-11T10:22:00.000-04:00

Much to the great consternation of his mother, Rick and I used to spend a lot of time in his bedroom. Nothing was going on - it was all still buddy-buddy - but the old gal figured that two twenty-two year old men shouldn't be up in her son's room with the door closed. Go figure. Well, there was something on, it just wasn't what she feared. Her son was ... falling for another boy in a big way. Knowing her son as she thought she did, I can't imagine her thinking he was actually having sex up there -- but there was just something about our seclusion that crawled up her crack.

Rick's younger sister had a room across the hall - sweetest girl, open-faced, shiny-haired. When I would come out to go to their mutual bathroom, she just smiled. She liked me, I could tell. And on whatever subconscious level she suspected "foul play" it didn't upset her -- she just felt things were good. She could see Rick was happy - maybe happier than he'd been in a long time. And things were good. The honeymoon was on, way before the wedding. It's an innocent story, one that most everyone has their version of. Just by spending time with someone -- where the energy is strong and mutual -- you get pulled into each other's field. Nothing to do with the ol' "in-out, in-out". But -- well, cutting to the heart of it, we were falling in love. Deeply, comprehensively in love. It was like the swell of a huge tidal wave slowly curling back on itself, rising, taking us way, way up in the air where we rested for a moment before everything came crashing down. But -- where was I - yes - here we are back in his room. That was the moment that he tried to explain to me how a tape recorder worked. I don't think I was focusing because my mind was elsewhere. We were sitting so close that there could have been a kiss. But we had become, for lack of a better phrase, best friends, and friends didn't kiss the way we wanted to.

I was wearing a grey cashmere, v-neck sweater and as he spoke to me he slowly kept poking his finger into my chest. That was the only physical contact we could muster, so I let him poke away. Eventually I ended up lying with the back of my head on his leg (wouldn't his Mom had loved that if she bursted in) and we just talked on into the night.

Rick

2006-06-10T14:04:00.000-04:00

No matter how far away I get there is always a little light burning in the back of my mind that I can't shut off. About him. About Rick. The first - the one they say you never get over. How cliche to be part of that club, but it's true.

I once heard Billie Holiday sing a song and the lyric goes, "He's not much to look at, he's nothing to see I'm glad that I'm living and lucky to be. I've got a man crazy for me. He's funny that way."

He wasn't really physically attractive. I found a picture of him years after, and I thought, who is this guy with this bad skin and smug expression? Can't be the man - boy - I fell in love with - back in college for Christ's sake - two hundred years ago? Back when I was young and gay. And now I'm just...(don't say it, you bitches).

The thing about Rick was that he radiated the whole "golden American Dream boy" thing. Bad skin not withstanding (which wasn't that bad - I just never saw a flaw in him back then) he radiated truth, justice, and the American way. Far from having the Lavender Gene, he was captain of the soccer club, straight A's, he knew everything from how a tape recorder worked (beyond me) to the latest news from Nicaragua. I wanted to be near him, to bask in that and have it rub off onto me by osmosis.

For some unknown reason him wanted to be near me. Maybe it was my singing (I was the best at James Caldwell Junior High), my acting (star of every play) or -- could it be -- just me?

Couldn't be that.

But somehow I ended up coming to his house for toast and coffee after his parents went to work. His father was a salesman and his mother - well -- I think she used to zoom around town with her flying monkeys.

But there I was, at his piano singing something - some torch song I'm sure - and I suddenly felt him come up and put his arms around me from behind. His face got very close to my cheek and he said, "You're amazing."

More to come. Off to work now.

Joshua, Farewell

2006-06-06T10:31:00.000-04:00

He snuck over twice a week -- the nights he worked late shift -- and we thrashed about throughout the constant blizzards. That winter had set a record for snowstorms and below-freezing temperatures. But I couldn't have cared less. I was never ... cold for long. He was my warmth, my fuel.

I don't remember a lot of talking. His best efforts consisted of little sounds, his own barely audible language. It was mostly the looking up at me from beneath his bangs. It hurt him to try and put words together. All he could commnicate was in his eyes: Take care of me. I can't get that from her or anybody else. What more did we have to say? "Eighty-six the scampi?"

One night after we did it and were drying out on top of the blankets, he sat upright.

"The one thing is - don't ever tell anybody about this."

Well it was way too late to tell me that. That little pony had left the barn two weeks into our affair. What else was there to gossip about with my pals.

But I nodded.

"Especially her. Especially her."

As Spring finally broke through the icy suburban sidewalks, our momentum stopped. Nothing was really wrong. We had just stalled and I knew it wouldn't travel much further. So we coasted. We were still there for each other, just talking even less.

One day, I was standing in my kitchen ironing a shirt before the lunch shift. All of a sudden I heard someone running up the back stairs. Not running -- stomping. There was violence even in the sound of it. The Nazis had found our secret attic.

But it was no foreign militia. It was him. He burst through the screen door, and there was someone I'd never seen before coming at me. He pushed over the ironing board and the hot iron went flying and that's when I really get scared. I could see from the blood in his eyes this was not about some trouble at work, some bad news from home. This was about me. I took a step back. He came toward me and pushed me back against the wall. I felt the solidness of his shoulders as I tried to steady myself against his attack.

"She knows! Who did you tell? Who? How does she know?"

He words battered me. And then the final stroke.

"I could just kill you ---"

I believed he could. I didn't know if he would. I had never seen someone that enraged and that kind of fury was certainly never unleashed on me. I glanced peripherally at what I could hit him with if it came to that. He grabbed my shirt and pulled me in so close that he could have kissed me.

"Don't you ever - ever - talk to me again. Don't come near me. You've ruined everything."

He backed up without breaking eye contact but it was still not safe. I could feel it. He was just waiting for me to breathe before he came back to finish me. But I never breathed, and finally he left. As the door slammed I locked it after him.

He gave notice to the Manager, some bullshit about a death in the family, and left after the weekend. A week later, Emily left. I don't know what happened with them. I doubt if she could have given him what he needed, especially now that his secret had slipped out. There had been so much deception between us, a blizzard of lies. Lost in the raging winter storm he could never hear his own thoughts and sort through what was real for him, what was right.

But one thing was true. There was a death in the family.

Joshua 3

2006-05-31T21:08:00.000-04:00

Once home, I was getting ready to go to sleep when I heard a car pull into my driveway. Before it had parked I knew ... who had come and what it meant.

I don't recall what words were said, if any, but he ended up under the covers with me and it was funny to be naked with a guy you knew from entirely different circumstances.

I think he was half drunk (I had totally snapped into sobriety when I saw him coming up the back stairs) and as he lay on top of me it seemed like he was dreaming as he rocked back and forth. Nobody said anything, but rather than seeming tawdry it seemed like keeping quiet in church. My arms had been at my side but after a few minutes I put them around him and sheltered us both from winter and what lay ahead.

Joshua 2

2006-05-29T12:30:00.000-04:00

So,where were we? Oh yes, down in the wine cellar making out. Though my hands were doing one thing, my mind was somewhere else.

What does all this mean, I pondered, grappling at his ... belt buckle.

Are we going to do this again, I thought, sliding my hand inside his boxers. Or is there going to be that awkward silence tomorrow?" Shut up, I thought. Can't you just enjoy this moment before it ---

"Joshua? a voice called out.

Shit, I thought, I missed the moment.

"Are you down there?"

It was what's-her-name.

"Fuck," Joshua said, scrambling to pull up his pants as he shuffled toward the stairs. He looked at me over his shoulder and nodded at the case of Korbel. "Can you get that up by yourself?"

I didn't reply; it was too easy.

Both of us continued to drink heavily, sneaking glances the rest of the night. His shirt tail was peeking out under the back of the cherry jacket.

As things wound down he mumbled his goodbyes and, arm around his gal, he got into his Ford Pinto to drive her home.

I walked out into the dark, empty parking lot as they pulled away. I raised a glass. I opened my mouth to say something very witty, but nothing came out except the cold December steam rising into the sky.

Maybe it was going to be, "After all -- tomorrow is another day," or "Don't let's ask for the moon - we have the stars."

But what ultimately came out was, "Fuck it," and I started the walk home.

Ah, the relief

2006-05-28T22:09:00.000-04:00

* Now that "American Idol" is over
* Now that I don't have to see Taylor Hicks
* Now that the Christ child of Brad and Angelina (you know her name means Messiah, right)?

yay

Geraldine

2006-05-28T21:29:00.000-04:00

A Christmas Memory

by Truman Capote

Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than ...
twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country
town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round
table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today
the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.A woman with shorn white hair is
standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray
sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam
hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched.
Her face is remarkable—not unlike Lincoln's, craggy like that, and tinted by sun
and wind; but it is delicate too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored
and timid. "Oh my," she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, "it's
fruitcake weather!"This is our last Christmas together.
Life separates us.
Those who Know Best decide that I belong in a military school. And so follows a
miserable succession of bugle-blowing prisons, grim reveille-ridden summer
camps. I have a new home too. But it doesn't count. Home is where my friend is,
and there I never go.And there she remains, puttering around the kitchen. Alone
with Queenie. Then alone. ("Buddy dear," she writes in her wild hard-to-read
script, "yesterday Jim Macy's horse kicked Queenie bad. Be thankful she didn't
feel much. I wrapped her in a Fine Linen sheet and rode her in the buggy down to
Simpson's pasture where she can be with all her Bones....").
For a few
Novembers she continues to bake her fruitcakes single-handed; not as many, but
some: and, of course, she always sends me "the best of the batch." Also, in
every letter she encloses a dime wadded in toilet paper: "See a picture show and
write me the story." But gradually in her letters she tends to confuse me with
her other friend, the Buddy who died in the 1880's; more and more, thirteenths
are not the only days she stays in bed: a morning arrives in November, a
leafless birdless coming of winter morning, when she cannot rouse herself to
exclaim: "Oh my, it's fruitcake weather!"

Joshua

2006-05-28T12:44:00.000-04:00

I think it was winter. It had to be - there was a party at the restaurant and it must have been for Christmas. They never gave us parties except for big occasions. And he was wearing a cherry-red jacket. What other holiday could it have been?

His name was ... Joshua. "Not Josh," he always told us. I was waiting tables in one of those "casual" family restaurants, the ones with things hanging on the walls. Things that looked like they'd been tossed out of an attic. Oars, antique frames with stern-looking strangers inside, cracked mirrors.

But way before that night, Joshua showed up looking for work. I looked at this kid (I was all of twenty-six and much more worldly-wise, of course) who appeared at the host's station. I still remember it -the sun was shining behind him and ... silhouetted his figure in the doorway. So bright I had to turn away. Since the staff was replete with college kids always dropping out (of college and the restaurant) the managers would usually take anyone who came calling.

Joshua was about 5'8", maybe shorter because his shoulders were so tight and hunched they brought him down a bit. He had a strong upper body which I subsequently learned was from wrestling. I didn't really care which sport it was. Dirty blond hair, quiet, very shy. So shy that he could barely look up at you. I guess that's why even today I can't remember the color of his eyes. They hired him and I was told to train him. Sounded good to me.

Behind our salad bar, bets were immediately placed about his sexuality. What else was there to talk about? Scampi?

I felt a definite Boy Vibe but I'd been wrong before. And usually at the worst moments. After a couple weeks Joshua started dating this mousy, fragile slip of a thing whose name was Emily. Well, that was that, people said. That was that, was it? Emily was another one who could barely make eye contact, but I could, and did. I scrutinized my little trainee and his girlfriend. Something smelled fishy, and it wasn't the catch of the day. That was Joshua's title, at least in my mind.

Weeks passed and my protegee and I grew close. Walking too near each other, our hips would touch. Leaning over me to grab some knives, the backs of our hands slid across each other's. Always standing by my side at our pre-shift meeting, I could smell a faint aroma coming off his skin. Cinnamon? And soap?

Well, back to the Christmas party. After two or three drinks we found ourselves down in the wine cellar looking for champagne. I turned quickly and as usual he was right behind me, but this time too close to avoid. He was drunker than I and he stumbled into me. But this time we didn't break away.