Pool Player

I went up to Specky to congratulate her on her set on Sunday. So fucking funny. I also wanted to know if she performed anywhere else. I told her that I had some friends who would enjoy her stand up and could I put myself on her mailing list. She got out a scrappy piece of paper to write down my email address and I noticed she was sitting with Ray Pool. Who I met years ago. Like 6 years ago. He was weird then too.

Anyway, six years ago I went to see the comedy hour Ray hosted because my friend was on the line up testing out his comedy skills. Sidney Meyer (very reputable cabaret performer) was performing as headliner. His number needed an audience member. For some reason I had been fodder for the other comedians that night. I was a part of almost every comedians material. I don't remember why. I remember I was on a date with someone with the same name. Clem and Clem #2. That was a part of it. But, I really think it was my laugh. It was loud, big, and distinct. Well, Sidney felt it only appropriate to use me as the on stage participant. Needless to say, I ended up dancing with some red feather boa or something and made a fool of myself. I even had a name. Louie or something. I was young and less inhibited. All the while, Ray was video taping it. I guess he video tapes every show and has for the past 8 years. Later, after the comedy hour, I asked him if I could get a copy of the tape. Documentation for the future that I was, once, a crazy kid. He said sure. He was weird and flirty. But, mostly weird. Needless to say, I never received a copy. But for years after, everytime we ran into each other he would remember me and the video and promised to get me a copy. We probably bumped into each other a dozen times in the first three or four years that followed that night. But, I haven't seen him in at least 2 years or more. So, as I was writing my email down for Specky, I looked over at Ray Pool and said hello. I tried to dodge the old conversation of how we may know each other by looking blank without any recognition or recollection in my face and eyes. He later (5 mins later) came up to me and said he couldn't figure out how he knew me. It sounded so much like a pick up line. I gave him my white strips smile and explained. He remembered, blah blah blah. (Insert obligatory laughter by both parties)

Later that night at 3:00 a.m., I checked my email before turning in. Ray Pool had emailed me. Specky must have given him my email. Damn her! He emailed some ridiculous note about how adorable I was and how he hasn't forgotten me. I woke up on Monday to another email from him. This one had a subject...FATE?...In it he said he saw my picture in the back of HX magazine and I looked soooooo adorable and that he saw me walking on the street moments after leafing through the magazine, and we reconnected last night. Is this Fate? He asked. Signing off with "hope to see you soon, you're so adorable...xoxoxo Ray"

.....YIKES! Hours later another email...it said. " Sorry, it was NEXT Mag not HX, nonetheless still cute as ever. Lovely seeing you again. xoxoxo Ray!"

What the fuck? If she did give him my email, why? If she did give him my email, why didn't he say that in the email. Like, maybe something along the lines of... "Specky passed me your email hope it's okay."

It's just funny and weird that's all. These are the men that adore me. Pool players and stalkers.

We all Fall Down

The enormity of devours me.

I sit down to write and I can't think of anything else. I attempt to focus on another topic and ultimately that topic is tainted and angled in the direction of the main emotion that pumps through my veins right now. We are parting.

I am unmotivated. I hardly go to the gym or yoga anymore. I hardly see friends or make plans. I haven't been to the movies in months. Since the Oscar season, perhaps. I haven't been to the theatre and the Tony Awards are right around the corner. I haven't even been on my blades. I don't return calls. Hell, I hardly pick up.

I was talking to my oldest friend Jody about how these situations we get ourselves into affect our self image without us even being conscious of it. These parting of the ways. These separations. They make us feel a little like failures. I wonder what I did wrong? Question mark. Or, better yet, what is wrong with me? Question Mark. I am not consciously walking around hating myself, but, I am staying in bed. I am hiding my body under sport jackets even in 80 degree weather. I am dodging mirrors and glances. I am drinking alcohol even with a cold/flu barreling through my body. I am listening to Keane on repeat. The signs point to depression but my conscious mind thinks I am functioning and that is all that matters.

I hate my hair. I need a tan. I have completely lost my shape. And, I think that I lost my shape because I never had it together to begin with. I met HIM and he put me together and discovered my shape. This being the first time I saw my shape. Not with my own eyes but through HIS. He was the support beams holding up my rough foundation for the past two years. Now, it is time to take down the added, temporary support beams and allow myself to crumble. The next time around, however, I need to put myself back together in the shape that I want to be. I need to be supporting myself without the use of added support beams. The fact that my shape was so fragile and in need of support beams in the first place makes me think the relationship was doomed from the start.

I am not quite sure what I am even saying. If my body is the house of my soul. I need to build a sanctuary for my soul to live in. And, maybe someday, I can remodel and have an addition to the house instead of supports.

Reality

Riding it out
Even when I wanted to give in.
All the while,
Loving you, us and used to be.
It hurts one's self
To accept
Your own fate.

I will begin to pack up our pleasure moments. When I carry my bags out of this home, I will carry more baggage than I came with. "It's all for the best." "It's just what we need."

My reality, blurred by the physical manifestation of my emotions, is staring me in the face. My reality is unafraid and likes what it sees. I harbor fear and have made no judgments on my reality.

This is, after all, only Day #1 of my reality.

Incomprehensible

We hadn't seen each other in at least four days and the time between phone calls got longer and longer. It felt like I was stuck in an airport waiting for the next announcement, and if and when it came being disappointed that we still would not be taking off. I mean, I knew he was crazy busy, but we lived 12 blocks away and worked 6 blocks from each other. We usually saw each other every other day. Even if it was brief. I thought I was understanding and patient with his schedule. After all, he was studying for his Ph.D. in some computational whosy-whatsit crapola. Whatever it was, it sounded difficult, complex, and time consuming. I didn't think I needed or wanted much from him at all, even from the start. As a matter of fact, it was his insistence that I come home with him on the night we first met.

For the four months that passed by us, I always felt like we did what he wanted and when he wanted. I was okay with that. It allowed me to step back from my normal pushy position and let someone else take the wheel. I don't recall ever telling him I loved him or bringing up the idea of living together either. It never felt that serious, and we never really talked about plans. I thought this was a good sign. I remember feeling like it was the beginning of my first adult relationship. We were friends and lovers. The relationship wasn't just about sex, or filling a lonely void, or settling for second best. It was two people with common interests and desires. It was fun to put it simply. And, there were no signs of the fun ending anytime soon. No signs whatsoever.

Finally, the call. It was late afternoon in the first few days of August. I was wearing shorts, which is a rarity, but it was that kind of hot. I pick up and he sounds chipper. Hurried but still happy. He asks if I have time for coffee when his break starts. I, of course, said yes I have time. (ding ding ding...too available asshole!) I hop on my rollerblades and plan to get in an easy 20 minute spin around the neighborhood and meet up with him at Naussbaum and Wu. I am listening to music and enjoying the breeze my speed has created to keep me cool in the thick heat. I am happy. I am content. I am excited to meet up with him. I am also unaware, deaf, dumb, blind and naive.

I arrive at Naussbaum and Woo early enough to trade my skates for flip flops. I slide the second sandal on and hoist my roller blades over my shoulder forcing my head to look up and in the distance. He's less than a block a way. He has rolled his own cigarette and his looking down at the ground. I wait for him to catch my eye so that he can see the excitement that fills them. I quickly judge myself in my head. I wonder if my legs look too skinny in these shorts. Should I have trimmed my leg hair? I was sure the hair on my head was far too wind blown. I hoped the excitement in my eyes would distract him from any of the unattractive quirks I was putting on display.

Then...he waved at me. Not with excitement. Not with flirtation. He waved at me like I was a kid who wouldn't stop waving until his uncle waved back. He waved at me like lifting his arm took the last bit of strength he could muster. He waved at me with reluctance, annoyance, and embarrassment. I didn't wave back. As my mind told my hand "to remain still something wasn't right," the first of many cocoon's unraveled in my stomach and the smallest of butterflies started to flit around in my stomach and chest. He could barely look at me. He kissed me on the cheek. Not that uncommon of an occurrence on a street corner, but I might have been talking myself out of things. We grabbed coffee. I got a large iced, he got a small cafe americano. I suggested we walk over two blocks to Riverside Park. He agreed. There was far too much silence. Nine month pregnant pauses ready to burst. My heart rate jumped back to the rate it was while I was rollerblading. I looked at him, his profile. He was so sexy, so unique, so handsome. He didn't return the gaze. I soaked in one last look at his gangly torso and well developed calf muscles. I knew what was about to happen and I was genuinely surprised.

We sat on a bench. The tears were nagging to get out. I looked at him and waited the four or five longest seconds of my life. He finally made contact with me and I did it for him. I said..."You're breaking up with me, aren't you? I can't believe this. Where is this coming from? Why? What's going on? Why, Michael, why? I can't believe this!!!"

By this time, I was wailing. I thought I would remain composed and take it in. I thought I would have a singular cry, alone, at home, after this was all done. No such luck. I could barely speak let alone listen. But he tried to explain..."I can't explain it. I just think it's over. I don't love you, Clem. I think you might love me and I don't love you. I don't think I ever will. I am not in love with you and don't think I can be."

With this I stopped trying to talk over him. My crying persisted but I looked at him and all I could think to say was this..."Thanks, Michael. Couldn't you have just broken up with me like normal people? Couldn't you have said things weren't working out, or you are back with your ex, or even 'I pissed you off?' Did you have to go and ruin the four months we spent together by boldly stating you DON'T LOVE ME!! YOU CAN'T LOVE ME!!! YOU WILL NEVER BE IN LOVE.... WITH ...ME!!

The impact words have on people is incomprehensible. The Dixie Chicks newest song is titled Not Ready to Make Nice. The opening lines are the same as the closing lines. These lines are words I will never get to say...except here.

These are for you, Michael.

Forgive sounds good. Forget, I'm not sure I could.
They say 'time heals everything,' but I am still waiting.

My SOMETIMES (Rarely Known)

All of the time I think. All of the time I feel. All of the time I wish, hope, desire. All of the time I try. All of the time I stretch myself. All of the time I give my all. All of the time I am proud.

Most of the time I fake it. Most of the time I lie to myself. Most of the time I deny myself. Most of the time I let it roll of my back. Most of the time I take it in but don't dish it out. Most of the time I smile. Most of the time I want more. Most of the time I expect less. Most of the time I leave most of it out.

Some times I think I have failed. Some times I think that life is rough, tumbling, crazy. Some times I cry. Some times I bitch, moan, whine, complain, sigh. Some times I fight, put up defenses, manipulate. Some times I sleep too much, avoid phone calls, lie. Some times I hate myself, hurt myself, berate myself. Some times I judge, discriminate, ridicule. Some times I obsess, cling, worry. Some times I feel misunderstood, ignored, betrayed. Some times I am lonely. Some times I am lost. Some times I give in. Some times I am overcome.

Sometimes happens only some times, and it hits me like a fist to the stomach. Knocking the wind out of me. I sit gasping for air. Trying to talk myself out of my own reality. And when sometimes happens I am usually alone. Having just hung up the phone or just read an email or just finished a song. But some times, sometimes happens and someone sneaks up on me. They end up bearing witness to my sometime and they either turn and walk away or some times, maybe some times, they stay. Last night... Lucas stayed.

As uncomfortable as the moment may have been for me. It was more uncomfortable for him. But, he uncomfortably placed his hand on my back as I tried to disguise my sometime from him. He told me things will be okay. He told me he thought I was doing great. He told me this too shall pass. He hugged me. I hugged him hard. Really hard. I clung. I cried. ..."some times you need to cry"...some times...
...some times...
sometimes...NEED!

Thank you.

PRIDE on a Timeline (or learning about yourself from others)

I stood because there wasn't another bar stool left. But, by standing I created a much needed curve or arc between my past and my present. It softened the time line that existed between my present day best friend and my past partner. I put my hand on the backs of both of their bar stools unconsciously sending my energy through to both of them. It's been seven years since Doug and I were in a social situation together. The last social situation was a divorce. It's been less than seven days since Lynn and I were in a social situation together. The last social situation was a bar.

Doug was not only once my boyfriend, but also my best friend. As is the case with most partnerships. Lynn is my best friend but has never been my partner. As is the case with most homosexuals.

It was happy hour. And, for the first time in a long time, I was genuinely happy during that hour. Drinking to fun and friendship instead to escape the day. Standing there between them was a rush for me. I felt a wave of emotions crash into the shores of my heart. There was excitement mixed with anxiety. There was joy mixed with nostalgia. I felt so blessed. My ten years of life bringing me to this bar. I felt mature, seasoned, scarred (in a good way) and proud. I felt like an adult with adult relationships. Doug knew me when I didn't know me. Doug knew the jealous me, the fighter, the crier, the ignorant me. He loved me anyway. Lynn knew the passionate me, the thinker, the healer, the seeker, the stubborn me. She loved me anyway. Together they brought out the best in me. I was excited for Doug to meet Lynn. Not only because she is my best friend and a great gal, but because she represents who I am now. She helps reveal the person I have become since Doug and I parted. I was also excited for Lynn to meet Doug because he represents who I was. He represents my experiences that have shaped me and helped form the person that Lynn became best friends with three years ago.

There were stories swapped and jabs taken. There was alcohol to ease the flow and food to sooth the soul. I remember there being laughter and maybe even a moment where Doug and Lynn shared the same thought regarding me. A tiny scrape of a bond forming.

I am not quite sure what they thought of each other. I am not quite sure I cared. By care, I mean that I didn't have to care. Of course, I cared whether they respected each other or not. Of course I wanted them to like one another. But, I didn't have to care about those outcomes because I was secure in how they both felt about me. I was secure that they would match up evenly and fluidly because they love me. If they love me and love the relationship we have with one another, then they were bound to accept each other with open arms, hearts and minds. I was also secure in who they were as individuals. This goes back to feeling like an adult. My friends that I have now in my life are real. They are a given. They are adults with experiences under the belt and under their skin that make them the multi faceted, crazy individuals they are today.

As I close this post, I realize the ego attached to this piece. It reads as if I am so pompous and arrogant. Oh well, maybe I am and I didn't know it until now. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what self-love, self-acceptance, and PRIDE in yourself and others feels like.

Let Go (a jumbled mess)

It's like I can't walk anywhere without thinking about you. I didn't realize how much ground we have covered in this city. Even the bank on East 57th and Park. I remember stopping to get cash there for a cab. I saw it last night while walking. I am hardly ever in that neighborhood. I was listening to something slow and sad on my ipod. The clouds were spitting small sporadic drops of rain. The rain was so tiny and infrequent it caused me to doubt whether it was truly raining or all in my imagination. The imagination that was creating a soundtrack for this very walk down across 57th Street. I stopped in front of the bank and peered into the windows to see if I could see us. We were with Tiny Tim. We had just come from some silly place that people only ever go to as a novelty. I stood there soaking in my self-pity and played it all out in my mind. The laughter. How Tiny Tim and I were annoying you with our singing. The debate of where we were going to go next. Food? More drinks? I think we did food at a diner. As I stood on that street corner with my ipod playing songs from the "Slow Sap" playlist and the rain barely spitting at me, I fought back the tears. I swallowed my pride. I realized the mourning of things wasn't going to happen anymore. I finished out the scene in my imagination and the one on that street corner with a happy ending. In my mind we all got into a cab laughing and drunk and unaware of what lies ahead. On that street corner, I switched over my ipod to "Girls I Love" playlist. I threw back my shoulders and picked up my pace. Imogen came on singing..."Drink up baby down. Are you in or are you out? Leave you things behind because it's all going off with out you..."

Bible Throwing

She wasn't a bible beater. She was more like a bible thrower.
She didn't beat the bible down my throat or anyone else's for that matter. She didn't quote the scripture or carry one in her purse. She went to church but would sometimes miss weeks in a row. She was a believer but not a follower. But, when things got sticky, uncomfortable, beyond her control or comprehension, my momma would find that bible that lived on the end-table closest to the recliner, use it as back up and throw it in my face.

"Give me your hand, place it on the bible," she would say tenderly never forcefully.
"Now, son, swear to God on this bible that you will tell the truth about what I am about to ask you."

Without a trace of awkwardness, confusion, or hesitation I would place my hand on that bible like I was born to be sworn in on a regular basis. I was confident of my honesty as a boy just as much as I am now. No bible was gonna scare ol' C.B.! (nickname)

Except for this one time.....

She had a look in her eyes this time. It was a look of fear. A look from someone about to embark on uncharted territory. It wasn't like the other times she pulled out the bible. The other times were her way of instilling truth in her son. The other bible times were simple questions, "did you take that bubble gum from Aunt Cathy's purse, tell the truth under God." Or, "Did you sneak downstairs last night and watch T.V. past your bedtime, swear on the bible."

This time, however, was in slow motion. She was more nervous than I. With reluctance she grabbed the bible. She held it while dodging my 12 year old eye contact. What was she thinking? What did I do this time? Look at me Mom! It looks serious. She looked down at the bible with a look that was either asking for answers from the Almighty or asking for forgiveness for what she was about to do to her 12 year old son. My 31 year old mother looked up at her 12 year old first born son with tears in her eyes. I was scared to death. What have I done that requires a swearing on the bible and brings my mother to tears? Disappointing my parents was and still is my biggest fear.

With a trembling voice and streaks down her cheeks she held out the bible. I proudly, and almost defiantly, placed my hand on the bible while the first of my tears raced down my face and under my chin. I was prepared to face whatever was to come.

"Son, I need you to always tell the truth, okay? Liars are sinners and sinners don't get to go to heaven. And you want to go to heaven, right?"
I nodded my head in agreement as more tears fell from my eyes.
"Your father, grandmother and I have all noticed some things that you have done or been doing."
I nodded my head again in agreement. I was thinking they must have found out that I have been taking handfuls of cereal late at night. Or, maybe they knew that I had called the Alyssa Milano fan club hotline at $1.99 per minute that was listed at the bottom of my 3'x2' poster of Alyssa Milano?
"Do you know what playing with yourself means," Momma asked me.
I shrug with genuine ignorance.
"It means when you touch your private parts and it grows. Have you ever played with yourself?" Her tears were slow and sporadic. They were automatic almost. Like they were happening without her knowing.
"A little bit, I think." I replied suddenly recapping the weeks events in the shower, bathroom and bedroom.
"Remember not to lie honey. Because, your Dad caught you doing weird things in the bathroom last night before you got in the shower. And, Grandma knows that you've tried on her purple silk night gown before. And, your Dad and I have moved our dirty drawer to a place where you can't find it because we can tell that you have been rifling through it," she condescendingly stated in a voice usually reserved for my younger sibling.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I shouldn't touch other people's stuff."
I hoped that would be the end. But, no.
"Honey, whatever you are doing is wrong. It's called masturbation. Some people say it is normal but it's not."
"I'm not doing that," I quickly retort. "I'm just acting it out. I found Dad's penthouse magazine and I was acting out the parts."
"So, you have never cum?" She asked.
I must have stayed still with no reaction. Long pause. Uncomfortable silence.
She continued..."Cum is when you play with yourself so much that your private parts let's out a different liquid than pee."
"OH NOOOO," I shouted while shaking my head emphatically right and left. "That sounds gross and scary! I have never done that! I don't want to do that! I swear on the bible and to God!"
I was telling the truth too. I hadn't learned to cum yet. I didn't know what I was doing was the beginnings of masturbation. I really believed I was acting out the parts of a man and a woman about to have sex. I didn't realize what I was doing was leading to something gross, dirty, shameful, and wrong. Not until this moment.
Mom continued..."People say it is normal, but it's not normal to masturbate. I don't do it, your Dad rarely does it. You shouldn't do it either. You understand? And, if you do do it, be quick and private about it. Then you should always go back to your room and kneel and pray to God for giving into temptation. You understand, honey?"

She was still crying. There might have been a bit more about how weird it was. She asked me why I was doing the things I had been caught doing. I had no explanation. I was discovering myself. And, had I been and advanced thinker at twelve, that's how I would have responded to her. Finally, she hugged me and said she loved me. I remember wondering why this was so difficult for her. Why the tears and lack of eye contact. Any other time I was punished or reprimanded she was stern and quick. This time it was embarrassing and sad for both her and me. I wouldn't realize till much later in life that she was crying because she was lying. She didn't pull out that bible to tell me the sins of masturbation. She too masturbated. She knew in her heart of hearts that as awkward as masturbation may be to talk about it, it is a normal human behavior. She didn't pull out that bible for me to tell the truth. Because she would have been shocked by the truth. She pulled out that bible to scare me from discovering myself. She didn't want that boy in the silk purple night gown, or the boy in the bathroom acting like a man and a woman, to grow up and be different, weird, abnormal, strange or...Gay. She was being a first time mother dealing with her first son's firsts.

I went through adolescence terrified of masturbating, regardless of how loud my hormones were shouting through my undergarments. Before I moved off to college I could still count on only one hand how many times I actually came to, so to speak, while "playing with myself." It became fodder for the students in my dormitory. I was eventually able to laugh at myself and the circumstances that brought me here. I was also, eventually, able to loosen up and become and regular masturbator.

I am sure this incident in my childhood has had a huge impact on my sexual life, my intimate life, and my, now, perpetual masturbation. (Making up for lost years)
But, if there is one thing I learned from that bible and from my mother's half-assed religious faith it was that forgiveness is so strong it can raise you up from the depths of darkness. Forgiveness can wash away your sins and help pave a path toward heaven. Forgiving someone is one of the greatest deeds and gifts you can give another.

Twelve years after my masturbation bible study, I came out to my momma. I told her I was gay. I said...
"I swear to God, momma, I really am Gay!"

That same year, after 9/11 she and I flew to sunny Los Angeles, California for a vacation together. Just her and I. We were having some drinks in our hotel room and laughing about how many times she threw the bible at my hand. She rolled her eyes as she unwrapped another Hershey's Kiss.
She said..."Son, I am so sorry. I didn't know what to do. All those times with the bible was my way of looking for some guidance in parenting. I just wanted you to be an honest person. That was ridiculous of me to throw out that bible all the time. I'm sorry." She laughed but bowed her head slightly. I wondered if the roles had been reversed just then. Was my mother feeling the way I felt when I was 12 years old and caught playing with myself.
So, I asked her.
"Remember telling me about masturbation? With the bible in your hand? You told me it was wrong. You told me not to do it, but if I did to be quick and then pray it away?"
There was a moment of silence as she waited for the rest of the chocolate in her mouth to melt. She looked at me stunned. She had genuine surprise in her eyes.
"I can't believe I said that. Did I really say that? I am so sorry. I don't think that, C.B. I never thought that. It was just that...well, um, what you were doing was weird. The night gown thing and the behaviors and such. I didn't know how to talk to you about it. I think I probably knew you were going to grow up gay. But I didn't even want to put the idea in your head. So I focused on masturbation. I am so sorry."
She began to giggle. I said it was okay. I told her it took me awhile to be okay with the idea of masturbating. I asked why she was laughing. She explained how the topic made her uncomfortable to talk about even to this day. I started to giggle. We broke out into laughter. It was uncomfortable to talk about this stuff with your mom while your drunk in a hotel room. But, in that moment, in the hotel by the LAX airport, the silence had been broken between my mother and I. She knew things now. I knew things now. The candor was flowing. I had forgiven my mother. She said she was sorry. I believed it. I accepted it. I forgave.
I was going to heaven.
I would be GAY and jerking off while I was there, but I would also be a loving and forgiving son who's goin' to heaven.

Amen!