Backwards

When he laughs it makes a foreign sound. It's as if my favorite record is being played on the wrong speed. I am so used to how it sounds but now it's different.

Who flipped the switch? Is everything okay in there?

It's so complicated. It's so painful to watch them all try so hard. Why must we feel this urge to plow through life with a smile painted on our faces when the clown inside is full of tears that drip and drown us in a sea of vibrant blues and pale whites?

So he stands shifting his weight from left to right with such urgency or is it impatience?

What is ticking inside? Sometimes it feels like a time bomb ready to blow at any moment.

I will be here. To clown around when you are ready.

Climbing Up Hill

The meadow is filled with men. Shirtless, frisbee-throwing, cargo-sportin', mostly heterosexual, metro MEN.

It's astonishing. Every summer my first time in the meadow is like the first time ever. I still can't believe this many beautiful bodies exist and that they are all here on a weekend tossing a ball, reading a book, massaging their girlfriend's feet.

When did straight men get so pretty, and so fit, and so primped? 13 year old boys have 8 packs. 40 year old men have cum gutters and shaved pecs. I take my shirt of with a studied nonchalance I have grown so good at tossing around. I look down and see empanadas and beer, ben and jerry's and skittles, pancakes and whole milk in my coffee. And that's just what I see when I look at my stomach.

Sensing Self/ Or Self Censor

With muffin tops and and spaghetti arms he painfully demonstrated the most un-sexy version of sex appeal I had ever witnessed, let alone pay $22 to see. With falsetto as his hoop trick and power ballads from kick ass 80s rockers for me to mouth to, he attempted to put his face/name/persona on the map of creativity and star performances by licking his fingers and gyrating his dumpy ass up against his microphone stand.



Desperate for applause, he would make unnecessary costume changes and reveal himself like a Barker beauty miming the outline of a refrigerator. This would only garner the most polite amount of applause that an audience of 50 could muster. Three intermissions and three citron/sodas later, I was barking incessantly about how unprofessional the 37 minute late start time was. About how three intermissions is a lot to ask for when you are a virtual unknown. About how a performer of his age and experience can still be so uncomfortable in his own body. How has he worked at all if he can barely lift his boots to stomp to a beat during Pat Benetar's Invincible.



Don't get me wrong. I love risks and bravery in the arts. But, this guy is ludicrous. Somebody, somewhere told him he could sing (which is all he can do) But, to have to sit in a stuffy theatre in seats that don't give, that I paid $22 for and listen to an adult man of questionable sexuality and gender, flaunt his mediocre vocal stylings while having no sense of self, is the most dreadful time I have had in the theatre in quite sometime.

I know this rant is arrogant in some tones. But, I can't help but feel sorry for his own self-perception or lack there of. Sincerely.

A year

Maybe all love is, is a reflection of ourselves at what we feel is our best self.

When we can actually say we love another, it could mean that person helps us to feel like the person we long, strive and dare to be.

I told everyone about you.

Everyone witnessed my strength.

Waiting

"have you ever had someone hold you for 20 minutes straight and want nothing more than to hold you. they don't try to pull away, they don't try to look at you, they don't try to kiss you. they just hold you in the most unselfish way?"

from the Movie Waitress

Contemplate

why do I feel unworthy

and why can't I remember you in that moment

that moment when you left a lip-cracked imprint on my temple

wished I could hold myself and make myself understand

stroke my own hair and wipe my own tears

there are whys and there are reasons

for all my controls and all my fears

why must it always be about me

when you all seem to know I have nothing do with it

alone but not lonely I lay

contemplating

Fuck

CHASERS, I think they are called.


Guys, usually young gay men, who are chasing the virus. They want to be infected. It's their generation's version of suicide.


"Nobody pays attention to us, nobody love us, nobody notices us. Well now I have HIV."

Silence.


But some hear a type of applause in their warped minds giving a round of...


What about the one's who don't chase the virus, but they chase the act of transmitting it? The one's who will meet someone on the subway, at a dog park, online and go home and fuck. Not suck. Fuck. They will text the first fuck buddy that comes up on their phonebook and alphabetically go down the list until someone will come over and fuck them.


Is sex that good? Is sex that worth it? Is sex with someone you don't know easier than I assume it to be? Am I really such an inexperienced clod that I can not bring myself to have sex in the bushes, or intercourse on the first date, let alone after a ten minute encounter over the last few sips of a Stella.


Intercourse with a complete stranger. Intimacy and nudity with another man who shares your desires. Undressing, lubing up, forced kissing chemistry, lazy foreplay, bad breath, condoms (or not), ass, cock, saliva, cologne, sweat, shit, cum.

My cock burns at the sound of it. And, in the past, my cock has burned after less than the above mentioned have been exchanged.

I know we are supposed to love ourselves and give ourselves up to the moment. I know as a gay community we are more sexually free. That's supposedly a badge of honor.

I feel like I have a huge scarlet letter. Not sure if it's a P for Prude or a V for Virgin or a PS for Plain Stupid.

I know I am a blocked person sexually. I know I have leaps and bounds to make in my lifetime. I just don't plan or hope to make them with hundreds of people. I prefer to keep it in the dozens. If I being generous.

Blossoming

This is a Monologue I wrote a few months ago...

(She kisses him on the cheek. And she turns sharply to walk down the entry gate to board the aircraft. Steve stands still at profile holding the soft pink teddy bear in his downstage hand. After a pregnant pause the lights fade and adjust back to single spot and Steve turns to speak to the audience.)

"And just like that, she was moving on. This little girl I had such a difficult time accepting as a young woman stepped onto the plane and, instantly, my life changed. My best friend, my buddy, my baby. Gone.

And, in her sentimental way, she hands me Calliope. This being her favorite stuffed bear as a child and a young girl. She hands me Calliope and what you didn’t hear when she leaned in to kiss her father good-bye was ‘you keep Calliope and remember you love me because I am the color of cherry blossoms.’

This was a phrase that I caught Callie saying one day when we visited the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. That must have been 1996, or 97. She was 6 going on 7. That’s right. We packed a lunch and some toys and some treats and I told her we were going to go tree climbing and flower picking. We get there with Calliope in tote and Callie is mesmerized by the pinkness of the trees. And, if you have ever been you understand what I am talking about. The pink hue from the trees gives every person who walks through the cherry tree lined path a rose complexion. I find a shady spot to lie down and let Callie and Calliope plan out their adventures. I propped myself up against the trunk of a tree and admired my little girl and her imagination.

I remember having one of many true realizations of just how lucky and grateful I was to have this beautiful child in my life. After a 6 year relationship that fell apart when I signed us up as a foster couple, I started to think I was never going to find a man who would want to have a child.

So, I dove in alone. Alone. And afraid. And then there was Callie. Callie is the result of my impulsive, passionate, dedicated nature. So, I sat there under those Cherry Trees in full bloom and watched Callie and Calliope exchange words about treasures and trails. Callie gave Calliope a very soft, high pitched voice to speak through. And, somewhere between burying the treasure and waiting for the prince to come Calliope (he picks up the bear and holds it to face him) looks at Callie and says in her given voice…’You love me because I am the color of Cherry Blossoms.'

And I cried. I cried with laughter and with overwhelming joy. And Callie walked over to me with her 6 going on 30 heart and mind and asked if I was sad that I wasn’t the color of Calliope. And I picked her up and squeezed her so tight and told her yes. Yes, I was sad that Calliope was a cherry blossom color and I wasn’t. But, I was also happy that Calliope loved Callie and Callie loved Calliope. For years, the cherry blossom color would be Callie’s favorite and I would continually tell her that I love her because she is the color of Cherry Blossoms. Almost every night when tucking in time came, in fact. There was a period where it wasn’t cute and she was too old for it, but eventually, it came around again.

Like today, when my daughter Callie, who I raised to be sentimental and sensitive and loving, hands Calliope over to my care and says (he turns his back on the audience and faces where the boarding gate was. He picks up the bear and has it wave good-bye.) I love you because you are the color of cherry blossoms. I love you because you are mine.

Tough Love

Tomorrow was a big day for my 12 year old self. Dad was going to allow me to mow the grass by myself. All the other times we mowed lawns in the neighborhood, I either rode on the riding mower with him helping him shift gears, or I raked leaves and picked weeds out of the cracks that break mamas' backs. But, tomorrow he was going to let me use the push mower alone. Without supervision. He would, of course, check my work when I finished and probably do a lot of the trimming around the trees and bushes himself. But, it meant that I would make $8 instead of $4. That was like, 6 single tapes, or 1 cassette and 1 single tape, or maybe a compact disc that is on sale. (My music addiction began at a very early age)

I awoke with little to no fear. When I look back on it now, I remember feeling brave and confident that I would prove myself to my father. The day began as usual. Some breakfast of cereal (finishing the milk), some television, some time with the dog, then the yard work.

When my mother left to do some shopping at neighborhood garage and yard sales, I did have a quick pang of desperation. I wanted her to stay while I mowed the lawn just in case. In case. In case I did it wrong. IN CASE Dad flew off the handle.

Dad instructed me on how he wanted it done.

I began. I was quick. I was happy. I was certain I knew what I was doing. How difficult could a push mower be. If I missed I spot, I would neatly (in the direction of the lines dad preferred) mow back over it. He left me to my own. And I proceeded to comb through the back yard. But, he didn't leave me to my own. He was eyeing my every move from the back porch window. At first, I tried not to notice he was watching over me. I also thought once he saw me doing a satisfactory job, he would walk away and leave me be. After all, the point of me doing the lawn alone was so that father could get more done with his day. If he was planning on watching me the whole lawn then wouldn't that defeat the purpose? He continued to watch me. It sent me raging. I sensed what it must be like to become my father. I was soooo angry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to beg for him to trust me. Why was he still watching me with judging eyes and a condescending look on his face?

After three or four more lines in the yard, I couldn't take it. I let go of the mower and threw my hands up in the air looking right at my father in the back porch window. I threw them in the air with a non-verbal curse and an exclamation point! A second after I had done this, I knew I shouldn't have. His condescension changed immediately to rage.

I knew he was coming for me. I knew Mom wasn't home. I didn't know where to run. So, I didn't. He flew out the back door with three and four foot strides. I cowered like an ignorant puppy anticipating it's scolding. I can only imagine what I looked like at 12 years old and 4 feet 9 inches tall practically curled into a ball. He grabbed me by the back of my shirt lifting me off the ground. I remained curled up. He threw me. Far. I was tiny. He was big. My head and I landed inches from the rock landscape that encircled the large rose bush at the corner of the house. The pee sprayed out of me. It soaked my undershorts and my gym shorts leaving a damp spot on one of the stones. Now I was not only scared but embarrassed. He began kicking me violently in the rear and the back of my thighs as I attempted to crawl away from him up the back porch stairs toward some sort of furniture as a blockade or refuge. I didn't make it. He threw me over the love seat and I landed on the floor in front of it.

He peered over me. Like a monster. Like a mad dog. There was saliva in the corners of his mouth and splayed across my face getting picked up by the river of tears that was now cascading from my eyes.

He asked me if I liked this. No "Yes you do," he said. No
Yes.
Fine, yes dad, sir, I do.
LIAR!

He spit and scream. He hit and hissed.

Sissy. Faggot. Fucker. Among others.

It finally stopped. Probably less than a minute of beating that felt like hours. I stopped crying immediately. That's how he liked it and that's how he would stop. So, I learned how to stop the tears immediately. I eventually changed my shorts and wrapped them in a plastic garbage bag so that my mother wouldn't find them. So, that I wouldn't get into trouble for telling mom. So, I planned not to tell mom.

Later that night, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake (please), I pray the lord my soul to take. My rear-end began to itch and ache. I tip-toed to the bathroom and pulled my undies down below my cheeks. A web of chaos had been deposited on my rear. I couldn't tell what had happened. Was it a bruise, a stain, veins, blood vessels?

Now should I tell mom?

It's now mine and Mom's secret. She thought it best to not tell Dad either. He would only get more angry that I went to mother to tell her about it.

I still don't think he knows the lines he left on me.

Tough Love.

Just thinking of the right things to say...

If only you knew what was really happening to me. I am so afraid and ashamed to admit it.

I called someone the other day. Someone who might be able to help me. Someone who has been here before.

I see your lips and the summer kisses. As Eva Cassidy sings.

I lay here motionless and lacking any motivation.

Who knows where the time goes. That's a statement not a question.

I called my Dad on father's day. It was nice. It was fairly easy. Why does this surprise me?

I wanted something and it's not there now. I lash out.

I bury it. I try not to let it take me away.

I order another. I know that I shouldn't.

Somebody hold me too close. Please. Just hold me even when I try to pull away.

All the things I wished I had not said or did. It lives as madness inside my head.

You know in the end I will always be there.

I will still be here. I have no thought of leaving. But, I can't stop counting the time.