Give Me Drama (Part One)

Things seem to be getting better lately, and I am both surprised and confused by my feelings. The last six months, leading up to suicide, I had been worried about my job, my health, my social life (or lack thereof), my children. You could give me any subject and I would dutifully fret on it as if my own existence were at stake. Ever since the suicide (and thanks to psychiatric drugs), I am oddly at peace with my feelings. Very little bothers me. I feel there is clarity, as if piled up dust has been swept. It is a very odd feeling, and sadly I miss the raw nerves that gave me my old edge. I hate being so complacent.

In this state of newfound peace and confusion, I have decided to accept Reggie’s invitation to a picnic party at his “farm” in Western Maryland. I use the term “farm” loosely because there are no crops, or animals or arable land on his property. It is ten acres of ninety degree hills and a creek infested with nats. Basically, it is a place for him to get away from city life, chop wood, clear brush and act macho gay.

* * *

I dated Reggie for six infernal months (give or take a few weeks given our off-again, on-again dating pattern). It was, as most of my gay relationships, disastrous. We were oddly paired, and many people were curious as how we ended up together. The straights would ask “where did you meet?” The gays would ask “how did you meet?” There is a subtle difference.

I met Anne in College, or more accurately I met her on the subway on the way to College. We were classmates in Greek Mythology. The class met right after my intramural swimming each week, and as I did not own a good pair of goggles back then, my eyes were always irritated with chlorine. After each swim, I would spend a couple of hours (during Greek Mythology) weeping my eyes, padding my lids with a clean handkerchief. I could see nothing. I had no idea who was in that class with me.

Anne came up to me one day in the subway. I was sporting a floppy afro (which made me look cool), a cheep tweed jacket (to look professorial), and a purple scarf knitted by my mother, measuring twelve feet long. I wrapped the scarf around my neck twice, and it still dangled from both sides all the way down to my knees. Anne introduced herself, with that smile I have come to learn is permanently fixed on her face. “I think we are in the same Greek Mythology class,” she said. As I did not have chlorine in my eyes, I was able to see Anne clearly for the first time. She was wearing a madras skirt. No one wears madras skirts in Manhattan, except Anne.

A few days later, I was crossing the George Washington Bridge by bus, reading D. H. Lawrence’s “Women in Love.” Unlike the Brooklyn Bridge, not many people cross the “G W” by foot. It is almost two miles long, and is several hundred feet above the cold Hudson River. I remember enjoying “Women in Love,” but I don’t remember why or what it’s about. One of the main characters, Ursula, had a special love for red socks which she wore at all times. No one wears red socks in real life. I put down the book as I was getting car sick from reading, and looked out the window to admire the Hudson. I was surprised to see that someone was crossing the bridge by foot. It was a late fall day, and the wind was strong, blowing the pedestrian’s hair every which way. “Pretty woman,” I thought. She was wearing red sox, and a madras skirt. It was Anne.

After Anne introduced herself in the subway, she and I became a little bit of an item, always sitting together in Greek Mythology. Anne seemed to be battling an incessant cold when she was in College, and was in constant need of tissues for her runny nose. We were a lovely pair in class, she rubbing her nose, I rubbing my eyes. Her nose blowing, honking like geese, was annoying even to the professor, but (graciously) I never said anything. As a subtle hint, I once leant her a very clean cloth handkerchief (a remnant from my 1960’s British School training), hoping she would discreetly squeeze her little nose with it and keep down the nose. She proceeded to loudly blow honkers into clothe, and returned the soiled hanky to me. “Merci beaucoup” she said. I don’t know the proper etiquette for returning a borrowed handkerchief, but I suspect it involves taking the hanky home with you, washing it in a highly disinfectant soap, starch, press, fold and return to proper owner with a hand written thank you note. I never received a thank you note from Anne, but she surprised me one day with a good pair of swimming goggles. “Your tearing in class is really annoying,” she said. “Everyone stares at you. I hope the goggles help with the chlorine.” That’s the stuff relationships are made from. I with the hanky to share and she with the goggle solution.

I “met” Reggie through the internet. A man has his needs and this man (through very quick typing fingers and a trusty laptop) has learned how to satisfy them. Meeting someone for sex on the web is not the ideal I aspired to when I decided to come out. However, as a father of two, a demanding career and the body of a forty something, I don’t have many real life opportunities to meet men. And so, on MachoHunt.com, I met forty five year old Reggie. Of course, he wasn’t Reggie on the net; he was “HarryUpandCum” and he wasn’t forty five (he was “30 something give or take”). All I really knew about him from MachoHunt was that he had functional private parts. He sent me a picture of his unmentionables, but he would not send me a photo of his face.

Men on the internet are paranoid. They will discuss sexual preferences, positions, endowment and HIV status. They will not, however, send you a photo of their face lest you should save their picture on your computer and distribute it to the world announcing that “this man likes to have sex with other men” (horror, gasp, ¡vergonzoso!). I don’t share this paranoia. My theory is that anyone who is on MachoHunt (dot.com) is gay, and has no hidden desire to out the unsuspecting or blackmail the horny. Besides, even though I’m in my forties, I have by now lost my afro, learned to manage my curls with gel, and sport proper (even fashionable) clothing. In other words, I don’t look too bad for a forty something gay man and I’m not afraid to show my face.

Reggie literally just showed up at my doorstep. I had given him my address on a Friday, expecting him to come over no later than Saturday. He did not show up until the next Sunday. We must have miscommunicated about our needs. I thought I had made it abundantly clear to him that my needs were immediate, the sooner the better. When he did not show up (either Friday or Saturday), I had written him off. Fortunate for him, I happened to be home the Sunday night he showed up. (I happen to be home on most nights, but he doesn’t need to know that.) When I looked through the peephole, his back was facing me. He was studying my very straight, very married neighbor across the street who was walking his dog, wearing a pair of sweats sans underwear (revealing a rather large endowment). I later learned that Reggie will chase after any man, regardless of age, race or sexual inclinations. As I opened the door, he turned around and the porch light illuminated his face like butter on toast. I was mesmerized. Reggie’s best feature is his smile. He is not particularly attractive; he is bald (which I find sexy but is not always considered by other’s as man’s best feature) and his lime green eyes (a color I have never seen on a human before) look like he’s wearing cool sunglass; but his sly smile, with a wink in it, suggests seductiveness, adventure and trouble rolled into one. I’m a sucker for that type of wicked smile, the type worn proudly by those who have charmed their way through life. He won me over. My first thought was, “Who is this cutie?” Reggie read my mind. “I’m your trick for the night,” he said. “We talked on MachoHunt on Friday.”

That’s how I met Reggie. Not exactly subway stations, red socks, Ursula and D. H. Lawrence, George Washington Bridge by foot and goggles. But its how I met him, and how I remember him. I also remember the great sex we had that night (actually, just so-so sex, but I relish fantinformation) and the conversation we had immediately afterwards. My rule for one night stands is to get them in, have sex and get them out. I don’t like talk. Reggie would have none of this. He loves to chat, and he stayed after sex for hours chatting away. Unfortunately, Reggie's choice of subjects are not my subjects of choice. I talk about my family. Last night Christina asked that I stay with her in her bed until she fell asleep because “you give me strength Daddy.” I talk about my fears. My greatest fear, in spite of having committed suicide, is that I will not be there for the children when they need me. I talk about expectations. My hopes are those of every gay man, that I will find someone to share the rest of my life. Reggie likes to talk about his store in Georgetown (where he sells ridiculously overpriced refurbished furniture to rich widows and pretentious Senators), the latest T.V. Reality Show, the clothes he bought or is thinking of buying. Surprisingly I found myself entertained by the Reggie subjects (for a while) and since we never talked about me anyway, it didn’t matter what subjects I favor.

That first night, I ventured to ask Reggie whether he had any prior partners (long term boyfriends). He proceeded to tell me that his last partner “was all about drama” (pronounced with a capital D and capital A). “And I’m not about D-r-A-m-A,” said Reggie. “Get me away from all the D-r-A-m-A!” I see this term used a lot in romance and sex ads: “No Drama here.” “Drama free.” “Leave your Drama at the door.” Here’s my favorite, from a sex chat site: “Hey it is a Hook Up site. What do you expect. Down to earth kinda guy not into the gay scene or all the drama.”

* * *

I like drama.

* * *

When I was a teenager, we lived in a bedroom community in Bergen County, in the outskirts of Manhattan. Mother and Father worked in the City, she as a teacher, he at the Argentine consulate. I imagine that there must have been other teenagers like me in that small town – moody, introspective, bewildered by their sexuality. If there were any, however, I surely didn’t know them. Gabriel and Xavier made friends easily. They joined the football and basketball teams, joked around with their buddies, went to beer parties. I was the stay at home kid, as popular with other kids as acne.

Summers were particularly difficult for me. While Xavier and Gabriel were out with their friends, I could be found home alone. I took to watching television, particularly Channel 9 where they showed black and white movies all day and night long. We had only one T.V. set, and it sat in the kitchen. There was no comfortable way to watch television in there. The only seating available were the plastic chairs that matched the Formica table. I would sit for so many hours in one of those chairs that my ass would stick to the seat from the sweat. I had to put the chair in front of the T.V. so that that if the picture started to swerve, skip, ghost or fade, I could fix it by playing with the rabbit ear antennae on top of the set. I sure missed our days in Argentina when we lounged on Danish furniture.

I didn’t know the names of any of the movie stars in those movies I watched all summer long. Only later did I realize that I was watching the likes of Betty Davis, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck. I couldn’t tell you the plot of any of the movies. I only remember the “feeling” of the movie; how much I was affected by the drama; often to tears.

One particular evening, I was in the kitchen watching a 1950’s classic about a novice in a nunnery. The kitchen lights were off and all you could see was the T.V. set and the silhouette of my head (small afro) right in front of it. The novice was blonde and gorgeous, and all the nuns adored her (even then I could read the gay subtext in the movie). She was, however, a rebel and gave the nuns what-not for their prayers. Her bitch about the convent was that the nuns insisted she give up her beau (either Elvis Presley or Fernando Lamas, I don’t remember which). This novice was going to become a nun her way or no way at all. In 2006, the movie sounds improbable and ludicrous, but when I saw that movie in 1972 (in the kitchen of an old rundown house, in a blue collar town, on a beat up black and white T.V., sitting on a plastic chair and suffering the indignities of having the seat stick to my ass), I thought it was moving and “dramatic.”

The details of the novice’s adventures in the convent escape me, but the ending is as fresh in my mind as horse manure to the nose. The novice is trying to escape the convent for a date with her boyfriend (Elvis or Fernando). She’s wearing her pretty jumper novice outfit, and sensible white pumps. She’s climbing on the clay roof tiles of the Mediterranean style convent. The nuns are in the plaza below, giving an outdoor Mass to the Virgin Mary. Novice stops on the roof, for a peek at the Mass below. We can tell from her expression that she loves the pageantry of the Church, and is having second thoughts about casting it all away for the boyfriend (Elvis of Fernando). Novice is recalcitrant. Unluckily, her sensible white pumps knock off one of the roof tiles. She looks at her feet, which are loosing their grip, and gasps like a champagne cork. She flings her arms into the air, and falls fast. Slowly, the camera follows her as she descends softly (slow motion) from the roof to the pavement. She’s floating in the clouds, with her jumper flaring in the wind. As she descends, the song Ave Maria is playing. Her hair is tossing around like a shampoo commercial. She is angelic. She is the Ave Maria. Finally, she crashes on the plaza like a squashed fly. Ave Maria stops playing. Roll closing credits.

I wept like a baby in wet diapers. I was sitting in the dark, sobbing (plastic chair sticking to my ass), when Mother walked into the kitchen. She turned on the light and glared at me in repulsed disbelief.

“¿Que estás haciendo?” (what are you doing), she asked.

I told her, “Nothing.”

She was looking for one of her crystal tumblers (one of the few “good things” that we managed to bring from Argentina), and her trusty whiskey bottle. She opened and slammed a few cupboards until she found what she needed. After preparing her drink (on the rocks as usual), she turned to me and noticed my tearing eyes.

“What’s that mierda (crap) you are you watching?” she asked. I could hear the ice rattling in her tumbler.

‘Una película vieja,” I told her (an old movie).

“Well turn that mierda off” She took a big sip from her tumbler. “¡No seas maricón!”

By this time I had mastered what I call inward tears. I can still perform this trick to this day. The back of my throat feels as if there is a stream of tears running through it. My heart palpates with a deep numbing pain. My stomach aches as if it has been crying for days. Externally, there are no tears. My face is blank, eyes wide open like a lamb about to be slaughtered. When Mother told me to turn off the T.V. (say goodbye to Ave Maria) and admonished me not to be a fag (no seas maricón), I wiped whatever tears were left on my face, and turned on the inward tears. I’m disgusted to admit I wept in that manner all night long.

Xavier and Gabriel were out partying. Father was in the basement, typing away his dictionary.

* * *

Reggie was transient fun. He got me away from my obsessive mind. We ate at a lot of restaurants, saw some good movies, watched T.V. and had good sex (fant-information). We also spent a lot of time talking about Reggie’s store (never about my office), about Reggie’s clothes (not mine) and Reggie’s exploits as a raging drunk. From his teens and into his thirties, Reggie would more alcohol in one day than a normal person consumes in a month. Amazingly, he was able to navigate through life without too many difficulties. He was a disciplined drunk and would not start pouring drinks until 5 p.m. on weekdays, 1 p.m. on weekends. Most of the stories he told me involved his drunken pranks in college and consequential sex with boys.

* * *

From Reggie’s lips.

I stared drinking at 5, as usual. John, my roommate, came home about 6 and we planned to go to the girls sorority for a party. John brought his girlfriend with him. I had my own girl as well, but what I really wanted was to get into John’s pants. We each had a flask in our jackets, but it wasn’t necessary because there was more than enough booze at the party. John didn’t drink as much as me, but I could tell he was feeling it. My girl got pissed off at me as usual and threatened to leave if I didn’t stop drinking. I think she saw the way I was looking at John. I told her to go. Couldn’t care less really. John’s girl was hanging all over him but I could tell that John was looking at me. His girl finally pooped out and John and I went to the kitchen to fill up on drinks. He touched my privates and I didn’t waste a minute in blowing him right there and then. Of course he told me he was straight and that he was just curious. Then I threw up.

* * *

All the Reggie stories ended with “and then I threw up.”

“We got so piss-ass drunk that night, that we left Jimmie in the trunk. Then I threw up.”

“The police came knocking around wanting to know who toilet papered the old maid’s house. Then I threw up.”

Reggie swears the reason he never had any liver problems is that his stomach expelled all the liquor.

When I was dating him, Reggie had been sober for about six years. He was a member of Alcoholics Anonymous in DC and attended AA meetings specifically organized for gays. There were a few lesbians in his group, but most of them were guys. It was a very close and cliquish group. While most of Reggie’s AA friends were my own age they looked much older. There wasn’t a one of them who didn’t have black circles under his eyes and yellow skin tone. Liquor was rough on these guys.

I asked Reggie what the group would talk about in gay AA meetings. From the looks of them, I imagined these members had some real hard luck stories to tell. I savored hearing a few of the juicy details. Reggie’s response was dismissive. “I don’t know,” he said. “You know I tune out when guys start bitching about hard luck and all that drama, drama, drama.”

* * *

Lately I am feeling much better. Reggie and I don’t date anymore, we are simply friends. He is not a very close friend, but I chat with him occasionally. He owns a “farm” (and I use the term loosely) in Western Maryland. He is throwing a picnic party on Saturday. Reggie has invited me and the kids. I’m also bringing Anne with me. We will make a weekend of it. We have rented a small cabin from a Lesbian couple. I’m looking forward to getting away from the city. I’m also looking forward to Reggie’s party. Maybe I’ll give him a little Drama.