Don't Cha'?

Don't you want to see me naked? To see if I live up to your standards. To see if I will look good/right/whatever-enough to maintain it...with you. Isn't that what's important? Longevity. Of sex. Of the body. Of the attraction.

Don't you want to kiss me? To see if I use too much tongue. To see if I follow AND lead. Don't you want to know what I taste like? Don't you want to know if it's compatible? IT being the kiss. Isn't kissing amazing? Are you afraid of it's impact? Don't you want to know how the kiss will hit you? So you can take a step forward/aside/...back.

Don't you want to hold my hand? To see if it's strong. To see if I know which way to intertwine our fingers. To see if it happens without effort. Or, are you afraid of hand holding because you don't need to be lead, followed, tugged in any direction?

Don't you want to just wrap yourself around me? To see if you are giving into the inevitable or turning away from what haunts you. To see if holding me or being held is a genuine desire or if it comes from the origin of loneliness, desperation or a search for safety. What if I am safe? What if I used you? What if you need me?

Don't you want to tell me everything? To see what I think. To see if I can understand you. To see if I will walk away. Isn't that the hardest part? Understanding. One another's shit.

Don't you wished you could hear your heart? If we could, though, would we listen?

Don't you wished it was easy...easier?

Don't you wished you knew?

Body over Mind

The doctor shook my hand with a soft, subtle, warm and trusting smile on his face. He first asked me how I'd been, remembering a small detail from the previous visit. This increases his validity and overall stamp of my approval.

I lied. I told him through a graveled voice that things were going well. (Too many beers the night before this appointment and bummed 2! cigs)

He asked me if I had finally settled into my new place or if things at work had slowed down enough to get some much needed rest to kick of the remaining straggles of a cold.

I lied. I told him I had been sleeping a full 7-8 hours a night and work was easing up on me. (Insert a yawn--no joke--he giggles, I ponder the meaning of the word straggles)

He took a seat, crossed his legs and then proceeded to confidently read off my results of all my lab work. HIV--Clean...Hep--Clean...Syph-Clean...Kidneys--Great...Liver--pause--Good...(was he serious? my liver results read good on a medical lab report? whoa, maybe Bikram Choudray is on to something here...) He was so pleased with my lab results he used the word superb to describe my cholesterol. Like he was looking at an A+ book report I had brought home. He even got back up from his seat to show me the nation's averages, stating that I was in an "ideal" range. He was a bit too close to me. We were almost cheek to cheek. And, although my doctor isn't hot, he's still a thirty-something, not over weight yet, gay, male, DOCTOR!! and I was so happy too, that I wanted to hug him and kiss him on his cheeks. (Is that wrong?)

He said that my health was in excellent condition to enter my thirties. I smiled while the pangs of a burp began to make a small incision of indigestion on the walls of my heart. He began to fold up his files. I swallowed the burp while he wasn't looking. (El Centro restaurant mixed with Stella Artois)

"Is there anything else I can help you with today, Clem? Any questions." He asked so sincerely.

I lied. "No, Dr. Everret, thank you."

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my body for plowing along against incomparable odds. My body is kicking while I keep giving it a lickin'. Don't let those medical records fool you though. Just cause my blood and my organs are warm and functioning doesn't mean everything inside me is in agreement. I am grateful my mind and body can agree to disagree.

My Brush with Keanu Bergin or Patrick Reeves

He walked up to me. He was drunk.
He threw his right arm around me forcing me to lean away from his naked torso. (Earlier in the day he said he would be going shirtless later and hoped I could handle it) WHA??

He looked at me with his chin down, eyes up toward his brows and head slightly cocked to one side. This is his look. He has perfected it. It's this studied nonchalance that is undeniably deliberate and as fake as Keanu Reeves' voice. It doesn't work on me. It didn't work on Matt, it repulsed Tim, and freaked Brian out. Lucas was the only one used to it and he knew how to ignore it. He was trying to come on to me. He could feel me resist his pull but he insisted on holding tighter. He had to see that my face was turning frantically side to side to dodge his beer and whiskey breath but he brought his mouth closer and closer to my face. He had to know that what he was doing looked like an after-school special about teenage girls learning to say no. He began to say the most ridiculous lines of crap to me. ON top of the crap he said, he delivered it in this syrup-y, affected, pouty-lipped voice.... (insert Keanu's voice mixed with the crazy husband in Sleeping with the Enemy that Julia Roberts is running from, Mr. Patrick Bergen)
"you look hot today. do you think I look hot?"
"You wanna kiss me, don't cha'?"
"Come on, Clem! Oh, come on!"

At this point it sounded like it was heading deeper into the plot of a Lifetime Television for Women Rape Movie. But, for me it was the opposite. It cracked me up. The laughter started in my groin. I tried to stifle it. But, to no avail. The laughter came popping out like a pot of boiling water with the lid on. At first, the lid would pop open for a quick millisecond letting a drop out, and then it would pop open with more frequency until I was bursting with laughter and I flipped my lid. It probably hurt his feelings. I probably looked a little crazy. But, I couldn't help it. It was so bad it was good. It's like Elizabeth Berkley's acting in SHOWGIRLS. It repulsed me and made me sad, but, ultimately, I was entertained.

He didn't stand a chance.

Call it a defense mechanism, my laughing, but it was funny. No one wants to be pinned against a wall and forced to do something they don't want to. I am not overlooking the violating aspect of this. But we were in a public space with lots of people watching. He wanted to make a scene. However, he was three sheets to the wind. The scene he gave us was like watching William Hung sing "She Bangs" with the utmost confidence and reckless abandon. He gave us SHOWS, honey. And, I gave him audience reaction. Just not the reaction he expected.

The cocky son of a bitch!

A Keen Move

It's been so long.

But, it's been such a strain to find the time. Then when there is the time, there isn't the will or energy. Then when there is the will or energy there is no computer at my disposal. The computer wasn't mine. It belongs to the Nurse.

I am not a 9-5er! In this crazy world of blogs, I have found that the 9-5ers can really shell out posts on a regular basis. Which means I put my stuff out there in hopes that people still remember pokeandpour exists...alas...

I moved. I moved out of my apartment in Hell's Kitchen and to a different apartment. I moved to a new neighborhood and live by myself for the first time in my 29 years. But, really, I moved out of my life. I moved out of my comfort zone. I moved over--to give him and myself some room. I moved into a different life. I moved into a different atmosphere. The lighting is different. The smells are unique and unfamiliar. The stairs feel awkward to my feet and my legs. There are drippy faucets and tiny noises that keep me awake. There are colors on the wall that are not agreeable. There is no hustle and bustle outside my building anymore. The air even feels different from up here in the 100's. I walk down the street and no one knows me. I don't have a favorite coffee shop yet. I don't know which laundromat to trust. I don't have a favorite take out place to order in from. Which bodega has the best selection of BEN and JERRY's? I don't have a television or a computer. I don't or can't share toothpaste, or steal anyone's socks, or spritz with someone else's cologne. The carpet wasn't my choice. The sofa and bed aren't mine.

The blanket is...thankfully.

My blankets. My down comforter. My sheets. My pillows. Thank goodness. Without these things that are mine to wrap myself up in, I would have no comfort in the chaos that surrounds me. I take my ipod, my vitamin water, and my underwear-clad body and slip it underneath the 600 thread count sheets that always stay crisp and cool. The air conditioner is silently buzzing. I keep a light on. I have yet to feel safe or comfortable enough in my new space to lay in the dark. I stay on the right side of the bed. That was my side for the majority of our relationship. It was the right side in Brooklyn but not at his place. It was the right side on 163rd Street and 173rd Street but not at 64th Street. Then it was the back to the right side again on 46th Street. I stay close to the edge but never fall off. I force myself to close my eyes. I am exhausted but can't sleep. I can't get my mind to sleep. Everything is so new, different, scary, sad, lost, forgotten, fast, fucked, fragile. These are only a few of the emotions that keep my blood warm and pulsing. I do it to myself. I start thinking sad thoughts. How time flies. Memories. Smells. I add my soundtrack. With three to four clicks of my ipod wheel it begins....

"Sometimes it's hard to know where I stand,
It's hard to know where I am,
Well maybe it's a puzzle I don't understand.
Sometimes, I get the feeling that I'm
stranded in the wrong time
where love is just a lyric in a children's rhyme.

It sounds by,
Is it any wonder I'm tired?
Is it any wonder that I feel uptight?
Is it any wonder I don't know what's right?
Oh, these days, after all the misery made,
Is it any wonder that I feel afraid?"

Is it any wonder I cry. Keane can do it to me all the time.

Chucky

I rarely feel old. I look young, I act young, but at times I bitch like an old person. But, I truly never feel old. Mostly, because there is always someone around who is older than me to remind me to shut the fuck up about my age.

There are a few things that happen in life that remind me that I am getting old-er , however. Like walking up five flights of stairs.
Needing more time to nurse the hangover.
The shows that are on my DVR List.
The Toad The Wet Sprocket tickets I purchased.
My friends are turning 30 and 40.
My friends are married/have babies/something in that ballpark.
The lines on my forehead.

But, there are only a few rare occurrences that remind me that I am proud of getting older. And, not just getting older, but wiser, more mature and behaving like an adult. It often takes a child to teach me these rare lessons.

When we were kids, most of us would have some friends in third grade and by fourth grade we had a new batch. My mom would say, "what happened to Scott and Steve?"
I would roll my eyes and reply with a sharp..."Oh, them! They are so not my friends anymore." When we are young we go through friends like denim. Wear them out, rip some holes in them, grow out of them and throw them to the goodwill. New year. New Friends. New pair of Pepe's!

I do not do that anymore. I refuse to do that. My friends are my friends and always will be. When things get rough, my friends and I look each other in the eye and tell each other to Fuck Off! Only to call each other the next day and explain ourselves, our behavior, etc. Even if it takes time to heal from a fight, a disagreement, a situation, we remain friends. I know adults who treat their friends like denim. These people have not grown up or out of that phase.

(A for instance)--If my friend Joel and I got into a fight, but had to see each other the next day at a group function. You'd better believe we would speak before that function so that the tension would be lessened and the awkwardness would not affect anyone else. We would also have enough respect for each other and everyone else to treat each other with common courtesy.
A childhood friend, in this instance, would see me, ignore me, roll their eyes, pout, whimper, whine, boldly act happy and unaffected, and pretend I didn't exist.

(A reality)--This happened to me. I felt like I was 12 or 13. He is an adult still in that phase. He disrespected my position, my friendship, my humanity. I was invisible. I don't have time for friends like this anymore. Heavy sighs, rolling eyes, and grudges are child's play. And there have already been too many sequels made of that stinkin' movie!

A Cheer!

We were discussing her breasts. They are incredibly large breasts. It was me, her, Doug and Jay.

I am certain they come up in conversations on a daily basis. She brought them up. We didn't. She was talking about the back problems they create. The cat calls they demand. She was trying to be nonchalant about the whole matter. She seems to carry them with a reluctant pride. Like she should love them because they are what men want. Like she should embrace her curves and be a "real" woman. But, really she has just resigned herself to acceptance not embracing. If she were offered a breast reduction at no cost she would jump at the opportunity. She continued to tell us how she let her new puppy loose on a guy who wouldn't stop hissing and kissing at her breasts.

Doug and I were giggling a bit but with apologetic eyes. We were laughing with her when she gave us the go while making sympathetic eye contact. Our expressions didn't match the sounds falling out of our mouths. Meanwhile, Jay was mostly silent. I think he was on his third or fourth cosmo, depending on how many he had at dinner before arriving at the bar. Then Jay took his index finger and pointed to her nipples. Her nipples were large and very obvious through her white cotton blouse. He pressed his finger on her left nipple like he was pressing an elevator button. Then, immediately, he pressed her right nipple the same way. He didn't say anything he just pressed them. She looked at him dumbstruck then back down at her breasts with the same expression on her face. Doug and I made eye contact. The kind of eye contact you send to your friends after a crazy drunk person just tried to speak to us, failed, and walked away. Quizzical is the right word for this, I believe.

Doug said, "Jay, stop that. She's a woman. You can't just touch her like she's a brand new piece of electronics."

Jay said, "Whatever, she knows me. I am gay."

Doug said, "That doesn't matter. She's a woman talking about being hooted and hollered at by slimy men and you just reach out and touch her."

Jay fell silent. So did I. She again tried to laugh it off. Doug went on to tell a story about getting a hard spankin' from his father when he was ten years old because he pinched his older sister's but. His father told him the beating was to learn never to touch a woman like that. Doug comes from a good family with strong morals and values. Some of those morals and values Doug could do without, others he still holds dear. One of them is man's treatment of women. I agreed with him.

I don't know what it is like to be a woman. Let alone have breasts. I never will. I can try to relate my experiences to theirs. I have tried to relate a few instances with other women's. "Gay men can be just like straight men,"I say to my girlfriends attempting to console, comfort, connect. Cat calls and weird grunting noises when you pass by a crowded booth at a local gay night spot. Smacks on the ass when you squeeze by a tight line of boy's waiting for the bathroom or coatcheck. Or, a nice squeeze of the crotchal area by the creepy guy in the trench coat lingering at that smallest corner of the bar. I remember being 20 years old and walking into my first gay bar and having my crotch grabbed and firmly squeezed by a man in his mid thirties (who at the time looked 50 to little ol' me). It crossed my mind that night that this is what women deal with every single day. I encounter it once in a blue moon. I can't relate. I can't imagine.

I don't believe I have ever touched a girl in any awkward, uncomfortable, or violating way. But, as I have grown increasingly more comfortable in my friendships with women and with my own sexuality, I fear I might have.

To all my girlfriends out there, I don't think because I am gay I am allowed to grab your breasts or poke at them like I am popping balloons. I don't think I ever have. I hope I never do. I am sorry if I ever did. Unless you were drunk and you asked me to (in a non-sexual, non-threatening, non-violating way!)

I hope women know that I can never understand what it is like to be you, but I will always try. And trying to understand is one half of full understanding. Comprehension is the other, and it will take a lifetime to comprehend all of the wild, wacky, crazy, beautiful things that make us different. I just wanted you to know that you have a cheering section and someone is on your side.

Give me a W!
Give me an O!
Give me an M!
Give me an E!
Give me an N!

What's that spell?!

SENT

I revised UNSENT and today I am putting this one in the mailbox. Keep your fingers crossed.



Dear Dad,

First of all, things have been so ridiculously busy, that I have to apologize for not being around or in touch much lately. But, so far I am still happy at my job. I am making great money, have lots of control (which we all know I love), and I feel like a professional adult for the first time in my life. I am sorry for being so out of touch and I hope that your feeling good and your health is in tact.

I guess you are probably wondering why I am writing you a letter? Well, for many reasons actually. The main reason is because you and I don’t talk about sensitive subjects or secrets. We have always had a good relationship but we are not talkers. A letter let’s me put what I want to say in as little words as possible and give it to you to mull over in your mind. I wished I could retrace my steps from childhood to today and detail all the things I have always wanted to say throughout my lifetime in one letter. But, with a letter like this, I just have to do my best to cut to the chase. I can't give you all the back story that I wished I could. I can't catch you up on the nearly ten years of my life in NYC. I can't inform you of how I have come to the conclusions that I stand firmly on. All I can do is say what I must.

I am excited that you and Cody might be coming to NYC. But, before you come to visit me here in NYC, there is one very important part of my life that I have kept from you. I feel sorry about it, but I have never known how to tell you or what you might think. But, you need to hear. You don't have to understand it. You don't have to like it. You just have to know it. And I have to tell you. I am gay. It's a secret I have not only kept from you, but from many of my friends and family over the years. It was once a secret from myself. I hate that there has been a small part of myself that I have kept from you. I am sorry. I am no different of a person, please trust me on that. However, I have come to learn that being gay is a part of who am I just as much as being a brown-eyed Cherokee boy is a part of me. I can not change this. Believe me..

I am still a great person. I am still that smart son, Dad. That attractive son. That talented son. That successful son. That funny son I have always been. I am still me. The me you see. Only, I am gay. I am approaching 30 years old, Dad. I can't and don’t want to live my life to please anyone else anymore. I have to move past my fear of disappointing you. I don't want to have a relationship with you that doesn't include knowing this about me. I don't want to keep secrets from each other anymore.

That being said, the secret is out. Now, what do you do with it? You want to keep it a secret? That's a choice and I will support that. This society is a crazy, malicious and vicious one. You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do anything with this information. I will support that. But, I needed you to know. That's all that matters to me. The box is unlocked. If your trip out to NYC to see where I live and what my life is like is a step to building a stronger relationship with me, then my telling you about being gay is my step to a better relationship with you.

Whatever you want to know about me, just ask. Whenever you are ready to know, just ask. You don't want to know anything? I will understand. Take your time. But, if you still want to visit me in NYC, I had to tell you. I have a life here. It involves me being gay. I wouldn't have been able to hide it from you. Ten years can't be put in a box and slid under my bed.

I still want you to come visit. I want you to meet my friends. I want you to see the beautiful place where I work and the city I call home. If this letter changes your mind about visiting, I will understand. Hopefully another time in the future. If you have trouble with this part of my life, I will understand. Take your time. But, please call, write, or email when you have received this.

Sincerely with love and respect,
Your Proud Gay Son

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.