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.

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..."