Sunday, July 30, 2006

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.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Interlude / Odio Mi Vida

Odio mi vida. It sounds so lovely when it crosses through my lips and my tongue twirls on the D like any Spaniard. Odio mi vida. It means, I hate my life.

* * *

I am in search of chemical balance. Every day at 5 pm, I take my psychiatric drugs. They bring me calmness. I will have gone the night before believing that all is right with my world. It is not an ambitious world. I no longer dream of finding the perfect job, or running into Mr. Right around the corner. I have no more illusions that my life will be triumphant, but it will not be a failure either. It simply is, I simply am. Although I may doubt, I cannot doubt that I exist.

Yet the mornings reveal to me that the nights were messengers of lies. I wake up alone, in my king size bed; I dress alone, in my house of four bedrooms; I breakfast in my kitchen designed to the latest styles; and I ask, “When will this loneliness end?”

I am dressed in my lawyer outfit. I open the front door to go out into the world and back to work. “Alright boy,” I tell myself. “Time to act like a man.”

All day long I wait for 5 pm, to take my drugs again and attain that chemical balance that will last the whole night long.

* * *

I know all about chemical imbalances. Before suicide and before psychiatric drugs, my mood swings were so often and so violent that I often felt as if I was being beaten up. The changes were unpredictable, and could last for any number of hours or days. I can say the mood swings were prompted by real events (an emotional slight, an anxious encounter, a physical ailment), but the reactions were always disproportionate to the reality. I was aware of my mood swings, and tried to keep them in check. Unfortunately, it’s difficult leading a life of a gay single man and a divorced father of two, trying to cope with violent mood swings. I was a lobster with no shell, raw with pain.

I was also unable to distinguish when my reactions were justified and when they were chemically generated.

In the midst of all this chemical unbalancing, I dated Reggie, a recovering alcoholic. Our fist date, after having shared great sex (fant-information), was to see a German movie. It was a coming of age flick, about a boy growing up in East Berlin before the fall of the wall, and having to deal with his mother and her Alzheimer’s. The mother is an ardent communist, in love with her government, the boy is gay; and while the mom can’t remember day from night, she sure remembers to slap that boy around whenever he slurs his S’s. As is often the case when I see movies involving children in hard times, I cried pathetically. None of the inner tears either, just plain old bawling like an old maid at her best friends wedding. Reggie, who is generally more effeminate than me, didn’t shed a tear. He kept looking at me as I gasped, as I sniffled, as I blew my snotty nose into a weepy hanky. I believe (although I can’t be certain) that Reggie was either annoyed or surprised by my behavior. He kept grunting, like a wild boar. After the movie, I butched-up, gathered my thoughts, and asked Reggie to join me for a cup of coffee.

“What was particularly interesting about that movie,” I told him, “is that we never learned the boy’s name Everything is told from his perspective, but no one ever calls him by his name. It’s almost as if he does not exist in his own world.”

As I spoke, Reggie was checking the emails on his blackberry. When he finished texting whoever it was he was texting, he turned to me and not-so gently said:

“You know what? I really don’t like to talk about a movie right after having seen it. I want to form my own opinions about it. We’ll talk on it later.”

Reggie then proceeded to tell me a drunken glory-days story:

“My parents opened the door and there were beer cans from the front stoop to the back porch. Then I threw up.”

We never did talk about the movie, about the boy who did not turn out so well. He dies in the end.

I tell this story now from the comfort of being chemically balanced by Zoloft and distanced from the event. It is not, however, how I experienced the event. This is the script running through my head during that first date with Reggie:

Pay attention. This movie is interesting. It’s not your life; you are not the child lost in this movie. Stop crying, maricón. What will Reggie think if he sees you crying? I’m macho, Reggie. I am a man. I am a fag and I am a man. Can’t you see its possible to be both? Pay attention, maricón. Don’t cry during this movie. Good grief, it’s over. Great movie. Need to check my cell phone in case I have any messages from work. Let’s see if Reggie wants to have dinner or something like that. What did Susana tell me this morning in the office about our latest transaction? Oh, yes, I have to send financial statements to the buyer. If this deal doesn’t go through, my company is going under. Pay attention, maricón, Reggie just said something.

“Yes Reggie, I’m listening. . . . I see. And then you threw up? Too funny Reggie, too funny.”

Alright, tomorrow morning the first thing I have to do at work is set up a conference call among my group in Germany and the buyers in China. That’s going to be a real challenge. Pay attention maricón, Reggie is talking.

“Did you like the movie, Reggie?”

Reggie says he does not want to talk about the movie. He’s a bit brusque, isn’t he? Doesn’t matter. Probably with time he’ll sweeten up. Speaking of sweets, I must remember to buy some candy for the kids. I promised them that if they behaved well for their mother this week, I would give them a little something. Anne says that they have behaved lovely these last few days, but that during the nights Christina cries and lets out such a sharp shrill that it breaks your heart. I have to buy them candy. Keep quiet, maricón, can’t you see Reggie is speaking?

“You sold two overpriced armoires today Reggie? I’m so proud of you.

Odio mi vida. Odio mi vida. Odio mi vida.

* * *

Reggie and I are sitting in my den, eating dinner on the sofa. I don’t have a table in the den, but it’s the only room with a T.V. I like watching the tube while eating dinner. My house is oddly furnished. We ordered Chinese, even though take out food is a trigger for me. Reggie is picking away at his dinner. I have greedily finished my food, and I am eagerly eyeing what is left on Reggie’s plate.

“Did I ever tell you about my friend, Hobo Bob, from my days in Philadelphia?” says Reggie. "I knew him from the rooms. That’s what we call AA meetings, ‘the rooms.’ One time, Cheeky and I were going to meeting, and I saw two men stumbling towards us. I thought to myself, ‘I have to get out of here.’ I thought they were both drunk, and I didn’t want to be around them. When they got closer, I realized one of them was Hobo Bob and he had been badly beaten up. He was bleeding all over and lost two or three teeth. Apparently he had gotten into a serious battle with a bunch of punks. Mind you, when he was sober, Bob was the loveliest person in the world, cheerful and amiable. But when he got drunk, drunk as a skunk, he became violent and argumentative, and usually ended up in a fight.”

I’m having a hard time following this story. I’ve never heard of Cheeky or Hobo Bob. “So Hobo Bob was a fighter when he got drunk?” I ask.

“Exactly. But during the day, if he was sober, he was a sweetheart. Oh, and he was a male hooker too. I never did figure who his clients were, but I guess he must have had a serious package down there because he was always hooking, and using the money to buy booze. Anyways, that time Hobo Bob was so beat up, we had to find a place for him to spend the night. All of us at meeting put our heads together to find a place for this guy. The shelter wouldn’t take him anymore because he was too much trouble.”

My turn to talk. “You mean Hobo Bob was homeless?’

Reggie is eating Kung Pao chicken with his fingers. I hate the thought of the grease stains he’s going to leave on my sofa. I wonder if he’ll finish his rice? If not, I want it. Reggie goes on with his story, chewing and eating at the same time.

“Hobo Bob was as homeless as an unwanted puppy. The AA group got together and called a number of churches, but no one would take him in. I remember spending the whole evening making phone calls for Hobo Bob and feeling desperate for him. We all did. Finally one of the church groups agreed to take him for one night, maybe even a little longer.”

I’m still having a hard time following this story. I don’t like the idea of homelessness. “Why was he homeless?” I ask (and is he going to eat his fortune cookie?).

“He had hit bottom. I always admired him because he seemed to try so hard to stay sober. But, he just couldn’t do it. Every day at meeting, he seemed so sincere. My theory is there are three types of alcoholics. There’s what I call the tea-toddlers. You should see them in meeting. By my standards, they hardly drank. ‘Girl!’ I want to say to them, ‘I used to spill more than you drink!’ But I can’t judge them. For whatever reason, they feel that alcohol has control over their lives, and they need to be there, at meeting. Then there’s people like me, middle of the road. We have a drinking problem, but we keep it under control. And then you have the Hobo Bob’s, the constant relapsers.”

So many relapse stories. Reggie’s stories are either the “and then I threw up” variety, or the “and then they relapsed and hit rock bottom” variety. I’m in constant fear Reggie is going to hit the bottle again someday, and top all those stories. I ask him, “What do you think are the chances you could relapse?” I want him so say, none, no chance. Not within the realm of the possible.

“It’s possible,” says Reggie. He passes over some of the dumplings he doesn’t want (yum!) . "I can’t promise you there is no chance of relapse. I have a disease, and I struggle with it daily But for someone like me who’s been sober for six years, it’s hardly likely that I would relapse. Yet, there’s always a chance.”

What a dope, I think. Not the answer I wanted to hear. “I’m afraid for you relapsing,” I tell him (and pass the sauce). “Frankly, I’m afraid I couldn’t be with you if you drank.”

“You should be afraid,” he says. Always self-assured. “I wouldn’t want to be around me either if I was drinking again.” He pauses me the sauce.

* * *

I wonder if he knows?

Doe he know that I have relapsed? Except my relapse is not alcohol. It is sadness. It is emptiness. It is the delicious relishing in self inflicted despair, more real and more satisfying than life itself.

Can I tell him? He’ll be scared. He won’t know how to handle it.

I hate myself for what I have become.

* * *

Reggie is still talking.

“ And then there’s people like Hobo Bob. People who so fervently want to be sober, and yet for whatever reason they don’t get it. They don’t understand how.”

“After the night of that beating, Hobo Bob just kept showing up at meetings. He was always a mess. His shoes were all undone at the seams. One eye was permanently black and blue, as far as I could tell. He never could hold down a job, except hooking, but he would show up at every meeting, so eager, so wanting to be cured. And all I could think was, poor guy.”

I can relate. I ask Reggie, “Did you think, ‘there but for the Grace of God go I?’” I reach over for some more broccoli in garlic sauce.

“No,” says Reggie. "I just thought, ‘poor guy.’”

* * *

Poor guy. Is that what you would think of me, Reggie? My illness? Poor guy, he just does not get it. Would I become homeless, broken at the seams? Where’s the baby spinach in salty butter we ordered?

* * *

“I was lucky. As bad as my drinking was, I never lost a job, never missed a bill, never had the lights cut out on me, the rug pulled from underneath my feet. So many recovering alcoholics I know, or knew, had it so much worst. At least, I never tricked like others.”

Now that surely pricks my prurient interest. “Who do you know from the rooms that tricked?” I ask. I’m licking my fingers.

“ Besides Hobo Bob?” says Reggie. “Well, Cheeky for one. Didn’t I already tell you about him? When I left Philadelphia and moved to Charleston, he moved to Charleston. When I moved to DC, he moved to DC. We were like pack animals, up each other’s ass.”

“Was he following you around?” I ask. I’m finishing up the hot and sour soup.

“I was kind of a mentor to him, the Alpha dog. He was about ten years or so younger than me, and he looked up to me something fiercely. God knows why. He worked as a waiter, and they can make good money.”

There’s a concept, I think. “What do you consider good money, Reggie?” I ask him. (Hey, there’s the spinach.)

Reggie is picking his teeth now. He says “Forty or fifty thousand a year. Nothing I could live on, but enough if you are careful. He had a little efficiency above my place in Atlanta, where he and his boyfriend lived. Trevor, that was the boyfriend’s name. Trevor was the sweetest guy. He was from New Hampshire, and was fresh to the world. Life never ceased to surprise him.”

I’m curious, somewhat. “Where they a cute couple?” I ask. (Should I tell you what I’m eating now?)

Reggie is still picking his teeth. I find it disgusting. “Cheeky and Trevor?” he says. "Sure, they were cute. But Cheeky cheated something fiercely on Trevor. Apparently 40 or 50 a year wasn’t enough for Cheeky, so he tricked, prostituted, picked up Johns on the side. He was very proud of it too; had quite a reputation. We all knew about it, except Trevor.”

This is more than I can believe “Trevor did not know his live in boyfriend was a cheating, bastard, prostitute hooker?” I slam my chicken bone on my plate in self righteous indignation.

Reggie detects no disgust in my voice, or if he does, he sure does not care to share it. “Poor thing, no!” says Reggie. "I remember Trevor and I were watching a movie about some sort of infidelity or other, and Trevor said to me ‘If there’s one thing I have, it’s that I can trust my man!’ When he said this, all I could think was, ‘You jerk! Cheeky is probably out fucking right now!’”

“Surely you said something to him Reggie, didn’t you?”

Reggie shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. It wasn’t my place to play moral cop. But I did think, ‘you better be having safe sex, Trevor, because your boy Cheeky will bring something home.’" Reggie laughs.

I don’t understand his laugh. “You like looking at the humor in these things?”

“That’s all I have,” he says. “Humor is all there is, seeing so many of the people I’ve known are probably dead by now.”

“Is Cheeky dead?”

“I don’t know. Probably. I haven’t kept up with him. The last time I saw him, I had taken him out to dinner to celebrate his new job. He was going to work as a waiter in Rhode Island, for the summer. He was scheduled to leave the following morning. He swore up and down, ‘I’m never going to trick again!’ When we were at the restaurant, I went to the bathroom, and when I came back to the table, Cheeky had ordered himself a big martini. I was shocked.”

“Did you try to stop him?” I’m done eating. Even I am full.

“No. Once an alcoholic has decided to start drinking again, there’s nothing you can do to stop him. All you can do is hope he doesn’t hurt himself. I had to get away from him, so I excused myself. Asked him if he needed a ride. He told me to take him to the Rusty Nail, local bar thereabouts. So I took him. That’s the last time I ever saw him.”

I don’t understand. “You took an alcoholic to a bar, and left him there?” I’m dumbfounded.

Reggie is unmoved. “Yeap. Once an alcoholic decides to start drinking again, there’s nothing you can do to stop him. All you can do is hope he doesn’t hurt himself. He probably started hustling again. Probably dead by now.”

“And what about Trevor?” I ask. “I assume he’s dead also?” I’m putting away the leftovers and clearing away the plates.

“Hell no,” says Reggie. “ I ran into him last year at one of the rooms. He’s apparently doing OK. Has a boyfriend, and is happy. He didn’t mention Cheeky, and I didn’t think to ask either. Guess Cheeky is no longer with us.”

There’s no irony in Reggie’s voice. He’s simply stating the facts. No judgment or pity. “What about Hobo Bob?” I ask. “What happened to him?

“Oh, I guess I didn’t finish telling that story.” Reggie continues, matter-of-factly. “He died. I had not seen him at any of the rooms for some time. One day I was with Cheeky at Jim’s Steaks, at 4th and South Street in South Philly, chomping into really good cheesestakes and greasy fries. ‘Whatever happened to Hobo Bob?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you hear?’ said Cheeky. ‘He fell down a hill and drowned in a foot of water. He was so drunk that he didn’t have enough sense to get up.’”

“I see.” I put the plates in the dishwasher. I pick away at the leftovers.

“Poor slob. He couldn’t stop killing himself. Compared to him, I have it pretty good.” Reggie laughs.

* * *

Dead Cheeky. Dead Hobo Bob. Drunken Reggie. Poor slobs. Compared to them, I have nothing to complain about. That’s what my therapist keeps telling me week after week. I have nothing to complain about.

* * *

Odio mi vida. Odio mi vida. Odio vida

Saturday, July 22, 2006

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.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Dating a Muscle Boy —Part Two (Being Fully There)

I had a life before I committed suicide.

November 2003

As soon as I met Marcus outside the restaurant, the record player in my head got stuck on Almansa. Almansa is in the region of Castilla-La Mancha, in the province of Albacete Spain. The Moors called it “Al-Basit” (the plain). I was there on holiday many years ago with my ex-wife, Anne. She and I did quite a bit of traveling and many of the stories and experiences we shared are interesting (at least to me). However, tales of journeys with my ex are strictly forbidden on dates with men. Among gays, any man who has slept with a woman is viewed as suspiciously hetero, and any man who still speaks fondly of his ex-wife is considered probably unavailable. Unfortunately, my mind has been wandering back and forth to Almansa lately, like a bad tune you hear on morning radio and find yourself still humming late into the night. Almansa. Castilla-La Mancha. Spain. Now, in front of the restaurant, for reasons known to no one, I feel the uncontrollable need to tell Marcus about Almansa. My gay side gives me a firm mental kick in the butt, and demands that I tell no story, no tidbit, no life experience that involves Anne. Focus on Marcus, ask questions about Marcus, find out what makes a Marcus, and for God’s sake don’t tell the Almansa story.

Marcus and I walk single file into the restaurant; I lead the way. If this were a boy-girl date, I would have held the door for him, but as we are both men, neither holds the door for the other. From the outside, the restaurant looks like a Victorian home. Inside, it proudly displays all the emblems of a very chic hang out. Dark woods, brightly painted tables, heavily shellacked; overstuffed furniture in odd shapes with figure eight seats and backs that look like wind sales. A large staircase abuts too close to the front door. It leads to extra seating, a balcony and the bathrooms upstairs. (My record player is still on in my head: Almansa, Castilla-La Mancha, Spain.)

The women at the restaurant take immediate note of Marcus. The hostess, the waitress, the after work crowd of successful female attorneys and secretaries sharing conversation in a cozy corner. Strangely, the men seem to stare him down as well. The Mexican busboy, the bartender, the group of chatty queens sitting at a round table. Marcus cuts an elegant shape, especially when he’s wearing practically nothing other than a skin tight shirt to reveal his muscles. He’s greeted as if he were an old friend of the family. “Well, hello there, sir!” “Welcome to our restaurant, nice to see you here, sir!” Will you take me to the back and bed me, sir? No one takes note of muscle boy’s companion, the shorter man with unruly hair. It’s too tightly curled to be fashionable. Next to Marcus, I feel either grotesque or invisible. My moods vacillate.

The hostess seats us at a small table in the middle of the restaurant. I don’t want to sit here. I had hoped for something quiet, in a tucked away corner, out of view from the crowd. I don’t like being on display. But the girl who sits us doesn’t see a pair of potential lovers. She only sees a handsome stud and his dopy sidekick. She doesn’t realize how many expectations I have placed on this date. I don’t complaint. I play the part of the obedient, tightly-curled, silent companion. Perhaps she thinks I’m here to take nutritional lessons from Marcus. “Should be interesting to watch,” she figures. So we end up at the table with the least privacy. I say nothing.

We each unfold our napkins and fiddle with the silverware. I comment on Marcus’ sharp looking shirt. He tries to explain to me the difference between a slinky body shirt and a gym trainer top. One is designed to mold to your muscles, the other is designed to mold to your chest, or something like that. I don’t know which of the two type shirts he happens to be wearing this evening. They all look skin tight and delicious to me. I clear my throat, he fidgets with the butter knife. Like nuns in a cloister, neither one of us says anything. I’m acutely aware of every second that passes in silence. We don’t seem to have the same easy bantering that accentuated our on-line chat. Our first date seems forced. I’m feeling nervous.

After a while of excruciatingly holy silence, a waitress brings us menus. She’s a painted blonde, with large, Slavic red lips and unusually thick legs. “My name is Kasha,” she announces. Her voice gurgles with a middle-European accent. “I’ll be your server tonight.” Her eyes are transfixed on Marcus.

Marcus smiles. “What a beautiful name,” he says. “What country are you from?”

“You have to guess,” says the blonde, smiling and whoringly flirting with my muscle boy date. I don’t like being left out of the action, so I offer a timid guess. “Are you from Russia?” Kasha does not turn towards me. All I see is her square back and her plump round ass. While still facing Marcus, she tells me that “only very ignorant people believe that I am from Russia.” I turn red. “But you of course are not an ignorant man,” she adds. I don’t know if this last remark is intended for me or Mr. Muscle.

Marcus is studying Kasha’s face, like a child trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle. He looks at her from head to toe, inspects her lips, comments on the unusual paleness of her eyes. He even reaches out to touch her hair (only to feel the texture, he assures her). This is all becoming very uncomfortable. I feel foolish now to have feared telling stories of my ex-wife. This ex-priest turned muscle is practically having sex with a waitress in front of my eyes. Kasha even seems to be sighing in between short little breaths (either that or she has asthma). “So, tell us where is she from!” I finally ask him. It breaks the spell. They unlock eyes and he pronounces conclusively and assuredly that "Kasha is from Poland!”

“Very good!” chirps the blonde, recapturing her breath. He winks at her and gives her a warm “aren’t you a sweet Catholic girl” smile. I can finally see some of the Irish Catholic in him. If this were a bad movie, one of them would light a cigarette now. I’m thinking Kasha fixed the contest; she would have admitted to any nationality that muscle boy could guess. Tanzanian, Alaskan, Mayan Indian. Are you a Filipino dear Kasha? Sure Mr. Muscle, I’m a blonde Filipino from way back.

I’m tired of Kasha horning in on my date. There’s room for only one muscle-chaser at this table tonight, and I’m it. “A drink would be nice” I remind Kasha; after all, she did say she was our server for the night. Kasha, smart girl that she is, gets the hint. “What would you like to drink, sir?” she asks Marcus. He debates whether to have seltzer water or diet soda, and finally settles for a “wee-bitty cup” of coffee. To me, there’s nothing funny or sexy about a grown man using baby talk, but Kasha thinks the “wee-bitty cup” is endearing. Her firm butt and ample breast jiggle gently as she giggles repeating “wee-bitty cup.”

Kasha rushes off to place Marcus’ coffee order, but half way to the bar she realizes she has forgotten about me. She turns around like a mad dog, and barks from the other side of the room, “What are you drinking?” I use my hands to mimic a very tall glass, and fake a slur as I ask her to bring “the biggest glass of white wine you can find back there, pronto.” She doesn’t crack smile.

Marcus now focuses his bright but small brown eyes on me. My stomach tickles. His jaw line has a perfect Germanic cut, his nose is small but masculine, his face is hairless, which contrasts nicely with my permanent five o’clock shadow. We are stereotypical opposites in appearances, the WASP blond (albeit heavily painted to look yellow) and the dark Mediterranean. He winks at me, but I avoid it. I turn my face to read the menu. “Tell me something about your day,” he asks me.

I can’t give him a simple answer. It’s hard to explain what I do all day long at the office. I’m a lawyer. Sometimes it seems everyone hates us. I’ve been told more than once that the reason a shark won’t eat a lawyer is “out of professional courtesy.” So that’s my image. How can I expect an ex-priest (now gym trainer) to understand what I do? Rather than bore him with the details, I decide to give Marcus a broad brush summary of my “very successful” career path: Ivy League Schools, Wall Street Firms, a prominent North Carolina practice and now an in-house attorney. I paint a favorable picture. Sounds wonderful when recounted in such terms; but it was hell living it.

I don’t tell him the hellish part. I don’t tell, for example, that one time, in one of those typical 2 AM meetings when everyone has been working around the clock on a mega-bucks, testosterone-laden deal, I excused myself from the conference room and went to the bathroom to pee out about twelve cups of coffee. I had been drinking coffee all night to stay awake. After the much needed relief, I went back to the meeting as if nothing had happened. The partner I was working with went ballistic, “Good God Man, where the devil have you been! I need you to stay here and take notes!” I didn’t have the guts to tell the fucking partner that I was busy emptying my bladder and that if he had a problem with it he could kiss my privates, thank you very much! Instead, I apologized to the bastard, like a mouse to a lion, and assured him it would never happen again.

“I’ve worked on some really good transactions,” I tell Marcus. “I was lucky to get trained by some top notch lawyers. In many ways, they made me what I am today.” I listen to my words. I’m bored by what I’m saying. Marcus keeps smiling, nodding his head gently, as if he were interested. Anyone can tell he’s bored.

* * *

We’ve been chatting for close to an hour. Actually, Marcus has been doing most of the chatting. I’ve been listening like a cardboard box with ears and no mouth. Kasha brings out whatever it is we ordered (it was so long ago I’ve forgotten.) She and Marcus seem to have cool things down. I think she’s finally figured out Marcus is gay and that she was barking up the wrong tree. It’s just me and Marcus now, eating dinner, trying to make lively conversation. My mind is still playing that story: Almansa, Castilla-La Mancha, Spain. Marcus seeks to engage me by asking me about my life, my likes and dislikes, his views of the world. It feels like an interrogation. I’m not sure where the conversation is heading, and I can’t offer more than one word answers.

“So how many years have you been practicing law?” 20.

“Tell me, do you like living in the DC area?” No.

“I think that gay men have really improved this city by revitalizing the downtown and Dupont areas, don’t you think?” Yes.

He is trying desperately to get me talking, but I’m in that state I get into when I’m anxious; I clam up. I sound like a guilty man afraid of confessing his crimes. I can’t engage in conversations. I’m afraid that if I say anything it will sound idiotic, so I rather keep quiet than be thought the fool. Poor Marcus keeps trying anyway. “And you were married for a long time?” Yes. After a few more monosyllabic answers, Marcus gives up on the conversation. He redirects his focus on eating his dinner. He dissects his prime rib in careful strokes, like a butcher inspecting his meat; methodically, attentively, deliberately.

Despite myself, I decide to share a little something with Marcus. Among lawyers, I tell him, New York law firms have the reputation of being sweatshops. I have the dubious honor of having worked at one of the sweatiest sweat shops on Wall Street. As a young man fresh out of law school, I was the perfect prey for billing hungry partners. I was smart, obedient, willing to work long hours and not bitch. In other words, I was a good rule follower. Today I can’t remember what required that I spend so many hours at my desk, so many overnighters at the office, so many social engagements cancelled or forgotten because “I’m needed at the office.” Work, billable hours, document production. Eating at my desk, getting fat, losing muscle tone. Wishing I had more time for Anne, feeling lousy about myself. Killing my soul slowly.

I don’t know why I’m telling Marcus any of this. Marcus is yawning. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m really tired tonight. Please go on, I’m listening.”

I don’t believe him. I go back to drinking. “Waitress, one more please!” I drink and ponder as Marcus continues chewing his meal, slowly but surely.

What I do best under stress is to tune out from my space and focus on the sounds around me. I’ve lost Marcus, I figure, so I turn to the restaurant crowd, and eavesdrop on the conversations going on at other tables:

“That bitch, who does she think she is telling me what to do. I’ll quit before I ever work for her again. . . .”

“How’s your pasta? I think this place is overrated. . ..”

“Do you think Kerry has a chance this year? Pass me the salt, sweetie….”

“What the hell is that muscle hottie doing here with that curly guy?”

The conversations don’t hold my interest for long. My mind is playing that record again. It’s stuck on that story. Almansa. La Mancha-Castilla. Spain.

* * *

Don’t tell that story. . . (I focus on Marcus chewing instead.)

Avoid that story. (I tap my fingers on the table instead.)

He does not want to hear about Almansa. No one cares about Castilla-La Mancha . (I start chewing on my lips, biting the inside of my cheeks.)

I can’t stand it anymore.

* * *

“I like to travel!” I blurt out. I’m a child who can’t keep a secret. “There is nothing that fascinates me more than traveling on roads that never end, lost in places strange and unpredictable.”

“What?” he says noticing the abrupt transition from New York sweatshops to a traveling journal. I persist. I’m going to tell him the Almansa story. “Five yeas ago” I tell him, “Anne and I decided to tour Spain by car and by foot . . . . ”

* * *

“The days were purposely unstructured. . .”. We would travel a few hours by car, then stop at any town or village, buy the local cheese, sample a new variety of olives, drink red wine, enjoy jamon cerrano, delight on rustic bread. The only goal at any destination was to see what new fascinations we could find in the local markets. In Almansa, a small town in the Castilla-La Mancha region, we hopped from shop to shop buying queso manchego and well made glazed pottery. We ate and walked. Streets without cars, houses all painted white. We plotted ways in which we could smuggle a wheel of queso manchego on the aircraft back home, and calculated how many glazed jars with funny looking rabbits or deer would fit into our suitcase.

Like all true tourists, we sought souvenirs that would later remind us of happy trails. Home was nothing like Almansa. Home was dark canyons amongst the skyscrapers in Manhattan. Home was my small office space downtown, and all nighters at work. Home was our cramped fifth floor walk up on East 89th Street. Home was having Anne say to me “you don’t listen to me anymore.”

Towards early afternoon in Almansa, we had meandered to what appeared to be the town center. A plaza with palm trees, a large crowd of adults waiting. Anne and I presumed that with such a large turnout, there must be a show at hand. We imagined everyone was waiting for a parade or perhaps a folkloric dance. Without knowing what to expect, we sat among the crowd, and ate bread and cheese. Like everyone else, we stared at a white building at the edge of the plaza. I assumed it was a church or a civic building. There was a bell tower next to it which gave it a sense of importance.

At three o’clock, the bells rang. The doors of the main building in the plaza swung open in silence. I hadn’t realized that this was a school. Children of all ages walked or ran out of the building, wearing uniforms that looked like white lab coats. First only two came out, hand in hand. Then a child by himself, followed by three, seven chatting, a multitude. The students mingled into the crowd as if they were dancers. They said goodbye to each other. Some continued chatting in close proximity, as if lovers, clasping hands as they walked away from the school or ran towards their parents. Anne and I were clearly the only non-parents in the adult crowd. We watched each child and each parent come together and leave. Within thirty minutes, the plaza was empty, except for Anne and me. We were mesmerized by the beauty and unexpected simplicity of this letting out of school.

Home was having Anne ask me “Why don’t we don’t we do fun things anymore? When was the last time we went to a museum?”

I liked Almansa, the school letting out, because there was no plan to it, no meaning to be assigned to it. We simply enjoyed being there as ordinary people elegantly performed an every day ritual.

Home was having Anne accuse me “ Where are you all the time? I don’t feel you are here with me.”

About five of the glazed jars that we bought in Almansa broke on the trip home to Manhattan. Over the years, more and more of the precious jars from Almansa chipped, broke or disappeared. Some where damaged when we left Manhattan and moved to North Carolina. We wrapped them carefully in newspaper and towels each time there was a move, but things are inevitably damaged in transition.

Home was arguments, questioning why we didn’t have sex anymore. Home was not knowing what to say to her because I loved her and yet could not love her. Home was not knowing what was happening to us.

Few of the jars survived the trip from North Carolina when we moved to Washington, D.C. In the end, when Anne and I divorced, we had only two Almansa jars left. We each kept one. She uses hers as a flower pot, at the edge of her garden. It is muddy, with most of the finish chipped off, but she has planted in it a beautiful sedum. I have the other one in my living room . . . “well polished, placed over my mantelpiece.”

* * *

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been talking. I give myself another mental kick. Not Anne, I tell myself, stop talking about Anne. You are here with Marcus, talk about Marcus, engage Marcus. To my mind, Marcus doesn’t appear to have noticed anything. He’s still eating, slowly, methodically, dissecting each piece of meat into its smallest component before it enters his mouth. I have never seen a man eat so slowly. I, on the other hand, eat like a vacuum cleaner with teeth. I drink a little more wine.

Marcus puts down his silverware. “I like your story,” he tells me , slowly, as if he’s thinking of something. I don’t believe him. I don’t trust him. “It says a lot about you and Anne.” Change the conversation. Don’t let him tell you he likes your story. “Do you like your dinner” I ask him.

He looks at me with those lost brown eyes and that permanently fixed smile. He stretches out his hand to hold my hand, but as he does so he clumsily knocks over a glass of water. It spills towards me, drenching my pants.

The waitress comes running to the table. “Sir, are you wet?” she asks Marcus. She doesn’t take notice of my trousers, so wet that they cling to my legs. “I’m alright,” says muscle boy, “but my poor companion is as wet as a baptized newborn.” Kasha is lost. She’s wondering, “what companion?” Oh yes, the one with the curls. “Do you need a towel,” she asks me, begrudgingly.

“I’m fine,” I answer. Always the martyr. “The water didn’t even touch me.” My shoes squeak from dampness. Water drops are falling from my side of the table to my chair, to the floor. We all pretend not to notice. I drink a little more wine, and ask for the bill.

* * *

We’ve paid the bill, and I’m waiting for Kasha to bring me back some change. As we wait, Marcus is apologizing profusely, telling me he spilled the water by accident. “I wanted to hold you hand,” he says. I tell him not to worry about it, not to make a fuss. No harm done. “And besides, “ I tell him, “you didn’t even get me wet.” Lies.

At this point the restaurant has turned down the lights. “You are very handsome,” he says to me. I don’t believe him. I don’t trust him. But he gives me his hand. In open public, in the most visible table in the restaurant, he squeezes my hand, tight. I squeeze back, gently, as if our hands were fragile. Kasha comes back with my change and gives me that look that heterosexuals always give homosexuals, that look that says “it’s ok to be gay, but don’t’ do it in front of me.” I let go of his hand.

* * *

We are outside. It’s that awkward moment that awaits all first dates, the moment in which we must decide if the date continues or ends, if we’ll see each other again, whether we’ll kiss goodbye, passionately, sexually. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.

I’m parked two blocks away. I make a mental note that next time (if there is a next time) I have to park farther away. It seems someone has eaten Marcus's tongue, so I take charge of the conversation. “The flirts in the restaurant were all over you,” I tell Marcus. “It was almost as if I were not even there. I suppose this will be something I have to get used to,” I conclude.

“If you want, the next time I’ll hunch over to look smaller and I’ll contort my face into a horrid shape. Do you really think those girls didn’t realize I’m gay?”

“Well,” I offer, “Perhaps they were attracted to your shirt.”

Marcus touches his body to feel what it is he’s wearing. “You know,” he says. “I didn’t even remember I have this on. It’s as if it were my second skin.”

Our walk is over, and we are standing in front of my car. “Do you want me to give you a ride home?” I ask.

* * *

Do you want to share our bodies, allow our most secret and protected parts open up between our lips, allow your organ so delicate and sensitive to enter my orifices, my mouth which awaits you, your tongue seeking me out, your eyes wide open and close as they say, yes, I give you my body and my whole self.

* * *

Marcus pats me on the back and gives me a big hug. There is no kissing, no passion.

“Good night, my friend” says Marcus. “I really did like your story. I would love to see you again.”

* * *

What did I hear?

I heard no kiss, I heard no plans, I heard no passion.

I only heard good night.

* * *

I open my car, sit behind the wheel, and look in my rear glass mirror. I can see Marcus as he walks back home. He walks slowly, like he’s thinking about something. Maybe Almansa, Castilla, La Mancha is on his mind. I don’t think so; I tell myself no. I look in the rear view mirror again. This time I see my eyes. I wander if Marcus knows that I have green eyes.