Give Me Drama (Part Two) (Reggie is Caught)

All the while I dated Reggie, he never once asked what I did at work. Granted.

Once, when he introduced me to an AA friend of his who was also an attorney, he turned to me and asked “You’re an attorney, right? You review leases, or something like that, don’t you?” I’m a corporate attorney, Reggie. I do mergers and acquisitions, corporate financings, shareholder proxy statements. I’ve have tried to tell you this a million times.

All the while I dated Reggie, he never asked me about my kids. Granted.

Anne works for the government, in the upper ranks. She has contacts with the current White House administration, although she is far from being a Republican. She is, specifically, in charge of a government program for finding a vaccine for the Avian Flu. There is an experimental drug available, and only a very few people are part of this test program. Anne wanted to, and did, enroll our two kids in the vaccine trials. In order to do so, she had to call in every single political good will available to her. It was against our joint Quaker values. We agonized for weeks. Is it unethical to give our kids such a chance, ahead of other children? If the vaccine is successful, what sense is there to immunize the children if they will have neither of their parents survive an epidemic? And what if the vaccine is dangerous; what if in fact we inadvertently give them Avian Flu? In the end, Anne and I decided to vaccinate the children. It was one of the most difficult decisions of my life. Reggie never knew about it; never asked; never gave me opportunity to tell him.

All the while I dated Reggie, he never asked me how I was feeling. Granted.

I’m depressed, Reggie. If you had ever bothered to ask or show any interest in my life, you would know that I’m depressed.

All the while I dated Reggie, I was acutely aware that I do not fit into his drama-free world. He dines in Dupont, works out at Results Gym, gets his hair styled at Bang Salon. I shop for kids clothes, help my children with their homework, shuttle back and forth between my house and my ex-wife’s house. And I see a therapist, weekly.

I was looking for a guy to share a small part of my world, just a tiny infinitesimal bit of it. I think all I needed was someone to listen to me. But in Reggie’s world of drunken stories, T.V. and clothes shopping, there was no room for me and my drama. It was Reggie’s world and I was only a crazy guest in it.

* * *

One Saturday, I took my kids to see a play in Bethesda, at the Imagination Stage. My mind was in that haze it gets into when I’m not chemically balanced, and my mood was very low. I parked the car in a multi level garage, and did not make note of my parking spot. After the show, still feeling blue and chemically unbalanced, I could not find the car. The kids and I searched for 20 minutes. We went up and down every parking level, searching for the Prius. At first the kids thought it was a treasure hunt; five minutes into the treasure hunt they though it was torture. The kids started crying. “Daddy, what if we never get home again?” asked Christina, in tears. I called Reggie on his cell phone.

“I can’t find my car.”

“Where did you park it?”

“I’m in a garage. The kids are crying. Could you come pick me up?”

“Damn it! Can’t you just remember where you left it? What the hell is wrong with you anyway?”

The kids spotted the Prius. “Daddy! There’s your car!”

“Never mind Reggie,” I said into the cell phone. “I found it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I am just not myself lately, although I don’t know who else I would be.”

That night, I took Reggie out to dinner after taking the kids to their mom. He spent the night telling me a story about the time he and the frat brothers put a cat in a microwave (“and then I threw up”). He did not ask me what was preoccupying me that day. “I’m glad you found your car,” he said. “All that drama today!”

* * *

Reggie and I stopped having sex after about three months of dating. I was not happy with this turn of events. Whenever I suggested that we get romantic, Reggie would tell me that he was either not in the mood, or his head hurt, or (my all time favorite) “can’t we just do the jerky jerk and get it out of the way fast?” Very romantic.

Ironically, Anne and I had sex religiously at least once if not two or three times a week. Having been married to Anne for 15 years, I knew that sex was a healthy component of our relationship, an expression of our love. Once I stopped wanting to have sex with her, I knew that the relationship was over.

* * *

That bastard who told me he did not like having sex with me because my technique is all wrong.

That bastard who told me that when we have sex he wants to be made to feel like we are making love “and you close your eyes, and that doesn’t fell like love.”

That bastard who told me he was looking for something steady and with foundations, “because I’m tired of gay men who only want to get their dick sucked.”

That bastard who told me I was gaining weight, or losing too much weight, or that I was too moody, or that I was too unpredictable, or that I was not attentive enough, or that I was too clingy.

That bastard who made me waste six months of my life.

* * *

I have a suspicious mind. I have a mind that is always spinning, that talks to me incessantly. I have a broken record-player mind that replays the past, admonishes me, encourages me when I am in fear, reproaches me when I’m too cocky. I have an obsessive mind that will not shut up. I have a mind that makes so much noise that sometimes it is impossible for me to focus on the here and now. I have a suspicious mind.

The best time for me to see Reggie was during the week rather than on weekends. From that perspective the relationship worked well. I visited the kids on Saturdays and Sundays, while Reggie was (I supposed) busy at his Georgetown store. We got into a functional pattern where either he or I would visit the other’s home (and spend the night) during the week. Most often than not, I was the one who came to his apartment. Reggie lives in the city, I live in the suburbs. I like being in the city, in a gay neighborhood among so many others of my kind. So does Reggie, and Reggie makes full use of it.

Because of the demands of my job, I need to check emails after hours. In order to be able to visit Reggie on weekdays, he had to allow me to use his computer to check my mail. I started noticing that there were pieces of papers on Reggie’s desk, with men’s names and telephone numbers. I grew suspicious, but assumed these were names of clients, Senators to whom Reggie would sell overpriced antiques . . . until I found the 3 A.M. Note.

The 3 A.M. Note was hard for me to ignore. It was scratched in Reggie’s handwriting, on a torn paper left carelessly underneath the computer. It read as follows:

John / 3 A.M./ 1590 Kalorama Road, Apt. 1B.

“That is definitely not a client appointment,” I told myself.

In addition to having a suspicious mind, I have some rudimentary computer detective skills. I know that if you hit “Ctrl+H” you can see the history of websites visited that day from a particular computer. I found the 3 A.M. Note on Monday night. The next day I obsessed, sitting at my office, pondering on the meaning of that chicken scratch. That Tuesday after work I visited Reggie at his apartment again. This time, when I used Reggie’s computer to check my e-mails, I applied the “Ctrl+H” keystrokes (reveal history) to view the web sites he had visited that day. Shock should be a four letter word. He had spent the entire day cruising lurid gay porn sites. Show-me-your-stuff-stud (dot com). Plezur-4-U (dot.com). Suck-an-bag-it (dot.com).

I confronted him with it. “Reggie,” (hear the sarcasm in my voice?) “I can’t help but notice from your computer that you spent the day WHORING over porn sites.”

Denial. Reluctant admission. Lame excuse. “I was just curious,” he said. “Looking at those guys makes me realize how lucky I am to have you.”

“But Reggie,” I persisted (sarcasm now gone). “How come we never have sex? You tell me you are not in the mood, and then you spend the day visiting gay porn sites.”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other. Don’t be such a Drama Queen.”

Did I mention that Reggie sells antiques to Senators and widows, reliant on his wicked smile? He can sell ice cubes to Eskimos.

Idiotically, I dropped the matter, for the night.

* * *

Fate is cruel, fate is also kind, and Reggie is careless. On the following Thursday, I visited Reggie at his apartment as usual. This time, when I used his computer, I found that he was still logged on to his personal e-mail account (on yahoo). Encouraged by my suspicious mind, the 3 AM Note and the porn sites, I talked myself into reading Reggie’s e-mails. I can honesty say that it was the first time I ever checked someone else’s e-mail account, and it will be the last.

Reggie’s computer was open to a message he had received from someone named “Top4u.” I was curious what “Top4u” wanted to tell Reggie. It was as follows: “Yes, Saturday morning works fine for me. See you then.” I followed the email chain. I discovered that Top4u likes it “rough,” that Top4u wants “no strings attached sex,” that Top4u expects “obedience, submission but safe sex.” I also discovered from pictures Top4u sent that he was well endowed, fairly smooth, older than me, not very good looking, and smokes. “I can’t believe he would sleep with a smoker” was my first thought.

* * *

“That bastard.” That was my second thought.

* * *

I opened up all his e-mails. I found that there were hundreds of messages back and forth with men for the last twelve months. I even found the email link by which he and I first communicated. “I tend to be on the monogamous side,” I told him on that first e-mail. “I don’t really hook up with a lot of men. This makes me really nervous.”

I did not confront him with it, ever. I turned off his computer and joined him in the living room where he was watching Reality T.V. My mind was spinning, as were my eyes. My pupils grow large and black, and I stare into space. Reggie knew immediately something was wrong even though I said nothing.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Why do you have that look in your eyes? I can tell your head is doing that crazy wind up thing you do when you’re upset.” Reggie twirled his fingers around his ears, the universal symbol for calling someone a wacko. “Spare me the drama, and just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” I persisted.

“Fine,” he answered. “Be like that. I don’t care.”

Reggie watched TV for about an hour. I sat there silently, nursing tears caught in my heart, too tender to be let go.

* * *

I left Reggie that night and never dated him again. By telephone, I told him I needed some space for myself. Two days later I told him I needed a break. Three weeks later I told him it was better if we simply called it quits.

I’m a coward for not having confronted Reggie.

* * *

I am feeling much better lately. The drugs I take for my disorder promise me a future much brighter than the past I have suffered. I have no intention of putting up for one second with the type of abuse I have tolerated and welcomed with foolish arms my entire life. Reggie, coincidently, has invited me to his farm this weekend (and I use the term very loosely, because it is not a farm, it’s just land in Western Maryland). I intend to go with my ex-wife and my two kids. I intend to give Reggie a little drama this weekend, God damn it.