The Unbearable Lightness of Being 20-something (aka the Twinkie Defense)

It just kept raining all day, and Kevin looked out over Logan Circle as he faced his wall of windows, waiting for a round of client emails to arrive. Clancy, his dog, was sleeping heavily in his bed nearby, occasionally snoring and heaving his chest. The rain was covering the terrace furniture, and dripping in little cascades off the network of railings surrounding the building.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched, still a little groggy from the flight home from Buenos Aires. What a funny flight, he thought. The whole business class cabin was completely gay, it seemed. An older gay couple sat in front of Dane and him, the ones Kevin overheard engaging in a prissy co-bitchfest all the way along the immigration line about how awful their hotel had been, how badly treated they were in a restaurant someplace in Puerto Madero, and so on. They seemed to enjoy how much negativity they had in common and indulging in it together with such zest; it was almost like listening to a variant of sex. Then, across the aisle were a couple from L.A. in their 40s, accompanied by a cute little Brazilian they were (apparently) importing. (No box to check on the customs form for "houseboy.") The flight attendant on that side of the cabin was, of course, an old queen. A funny one at that. Very "interested" in everything you were reading or watching or wearing. It got to be a bit much after two hours, but like with dogs, if you ignore them they will eventually go away.

Then there were the two young gay guys behind Kevin and Dane. From the moment they got on board, they were like a vortex of some kind. They seemed very excited, and couldn't stop moving, talking, ordering champagne, making noise and drawing attention to themselves. Kevin assumed they were space-available passengers flying on buddy passes, as they were dressed a bit conservatively for their mouths (they clearly did not wear khakis very often, but United's buddy-pass rules are strict about dress) and got fed last with what was left over.

It was interesting to see, though, how the different sectors of gaydom reacted to the twinkies in 9E and 9F. The older couple in 7E&F could be heard stage whispering all sorts of hilarious bitchy comments about the noise, and the older of the two (probably the one called "Mommy") kept stealing glances at the oblivious young cargo to catch them trying to figure out how the reading lamps and the video screens worked.

The L.A. guys in 7C&D seemed to be looking everywhere except at each other. 7D kept leaning back to dote on the Brazilian cargo in 8D, checking to see if he was comfortable, did he have enough to eat, would he need another pillow. 7C, however, couldn't get up to stretch often enough, and lo and behold he had to stretch just the right muscles every time to stare hungrily at the cupcakes in row 9. It apparently wasn't enough that his husband AND his new houseboy were inches away from him the whole flight. Kevin wondered, though, whether this guy even felt any pressure to appreciate what he had in life. The husband didn't seem to care or even notice him.

It seemed that the houseboy caught on to 7C's wandering eye after about 2 hours of it, and then he was craning his neck to see what the ruckus was about and taking note of the American boys that would probably typify the competition he'd be facing in his workplace soon enough. It didn't seem his nature, though, to be loud and attention-grabbing. He scratched his head, seeming to wonder how to deal with this development.

Like the houseboy, the gay flight attendant also knew where his bread was buttered, so he rarely paid much attention to the boys in row 9, instead making sure that wine glasses stayed filled and blankets were plentiful among the paying customers. He did seem to get a bit of pleasure out of telling them to fasten their seat belts every time they sat down, though. Sort of like the ward matron. And when they couldn't figure out how to stow their legrests, the f/a was helpful and kind, but the hens in 7E&F couldn't stop clucking.

After dinner (and long after Dane passed out at about 10,000 feet), Kevin took his pill and settled in for the night. With his seat in full recline, he had a fairly unobstructed range of hearing behind him. Fidgeting with the ear plugs, he tried to get them to close up completely. But the twinkies, true to their drama-queen personae, had the gift of vocal projection.

One of them started going on about how angry he was at all his roommate's friends wherever it was that they lived (his companion was apparently not his roommate). That he and his roommate engaged in all sorts of sexual head games with one another, and how dare the roommate's friends involve themselves. ("Oh, that's just wrong of them," said Twinkie #2, licking his dessert spoon). The head games weren't the problem, apparently. It was the unmitigated gall of the roommate's friends to allow themselves to be drawn into them. "It's unbearable," the poor thing lamented.

Imprisioned as he was behind his eyemask and inadequate ear plugs, Kevin couldn't help but feel a little sorry for everyone around him. They all seemed so incapable of being happy, all looking outside themselves for something to satiate whatever feelings they had boiling inside them, rather than facing them. And so unselfconcious. The old queens in front were probably the only two people in the world the other could stand, and so in a way one should be happy for them. But standing near them, not to mention being involved with them, was not pleasurable. How much negativity could a person stand? Certainly not the orgy of it going on up there.

The L.A. couple seemed, well, too typical for words. They had money, they were reasonably handsome and successful, in a long-term relationship -- and bored beyond any hint of discretion. It was not so much negativity in that situation as it was a hollowness. The houseboy was clearly a joint project, but one was already looking around for more and the other was showing paternal feelings for someone he was clearly fucking for pay when he could just as easily adopt a child and have a healthy relationship instead. No, they just played their games of now-I-won't -watch-you-looking-around-while-you-don't-watch-me-doing-xyz. And now they had a third in the house - a human being with his own set of feelings and emotional baggage from a foreign land that they probably would never quite understand. Kevin was imagining what Christmas 2005 would be like in that house. Would they have learned anything? Would they look at themselves in the mirror and see reality? Would they look at each other for once and see what their lives together had become?

But the 20-somethings behind him - he wasn't sure how sorry he felt for them. They were so loud, clearly out of their element, but that could be charming as well. Kevin was only in that cabin because of an upgrade, not because he'd bought a business class ticket. He was a newbie once in every part of life, and came from pretty humble stock. But these two didn't seem curious about the experience, or in any way aware of themselves in relation to the larger world. It was like they were happy to be in a smaller cabin in order to make more noise. They weren't curious about how to use the gagdets or how to savor the wine. They just wanted to play with everything. Including other people.

The depths to which the conversation went about the "unbearable" friends of the roommate were extraordinary. This kid seemed incapable of understanding the irony of what he was saying, as if the head games he played with people were some kind of golden reserve that people were always trying to hone in on, rather than a toxic situation that others were probably all too happy to avoid any chance they had, but couldn't escape its choking omnipresence (much like the conversation). And sex was always woven into everything. Sex as a weapon. Sex as a game. Sex as an ego-boost. Sex as a currency. Sex as a threat. Sex as a solution. These two probably believed that sex was the only tool they had in their arsenal to get along in life.

There is, of course, a difference between 20-somethings and twinkies. One is simply a state of being, the other is a chosen lifestyle. Twinkies (or cupcakes, ding-dongs or ho-hos -- all the snack cakes seem to apply at some time or another) may appear light and tasty, but all too often there is such a price to be paid for indulging in them that you acquire a sort of nausea that eventually moves you on to heartier fare. Some twinkies finally look in the mirror and catch the nausea themselves, their unselfconscious drama-queen ways finally fade and a world of new possibilities open to them. But those who refuse to keep mirrors in the house, and fail to grow, eventually end up like the men in row 7 -- hollowed out, or bitter and intolerable.

"That guy keeps looking at us," #2 said. "He just can't keep it in his pants, can he?"

"No, he can't control himself either."

It was all too much for Kevin. Eventually, the pill did its job and he was, mercifully, completely out.

In the morning, once they were on the ground, the twinks each started flirting with the L.A. guy who'd been staring at them. They'd check to see if the other was looking every time, and then start staring at the guy - unaware the other was jockeying for the same ego boost of sexual attention (the kind of behavior from others that was loudly condemned the night before in what these two might term "polite conversation").

"Did you sleep okay?" Dane asked Kevin, fidgeting with his Blackberry as the people-mover lumbered toward the arrivals terminal at Dulles.

"Yeah, I slept," Kevin said, watching the eye-contact acrobatics going on around him.

"Did I miss anything interesting?"

"Nah, not really," he'd said.

But sitting there, remembering the flight, looking out over the rainy landscape of Logan Circle, seeing no one on the streets, Kevin wondered. Where did he fit into all of this? In some ways, he could relate to every one of them. But he realized that what set him apart from the rest was that he was paying attention. It was just mere awareness. They were all on a level field in reality - there was nothing tangible separating one man from the other, just like there are no curtains separating the 3 cabins on the plane anymore. It was only self-induced and self-created things. Any one of them could have seen it, but it would have required opening their eyes.

What good is this knowledge, though, he thought? It's depressing. You're the only one in the room who gets it. It leaves you feeling lonely.

Then he thought of the flight attendant. The one person you'd expect to be the most bitter. It was the flight attendant who was the only one who knew precisely how to keep everything in perspective that night, and didn't seem to have a care in the world. He saw the whole picture too -- many times a week. While Kevin was busy reading the drama tea leaves around him, the flight attendant was asking about books people were reading, and places they'd been, and whether they liked the wine or not, all while keeping things running smoothly and with a clear set of priorities. He wasn't interested in the petty nonsenses of things that weren't his business or his concern, and knew exactly how to filter them out.

Kevin always admired flight attendants. He was sure all the ones over 30 came from twinkie beginnings somehow, and were the ones who made it through rehab and now understood what the word "class" really meant.

And oh how they must miss those wonderful little curtains.

[Posted: December 1, 2004] FEEDBACK PERMALINK

 

A Friend In Need...

A fellow blogger who we read religiously has had disaster befall him, and the word is going out to any of you who might be able to help our friend Joe.My.God (courtesy of DJ Bob Mould, who recently plugged Club Whirled on his site):

my blog was hacked into and completely deleted, sometime last saturday.... it's easily the cruelest thing anyone has ever done to me, and i'm fairly certain i know who did it.....stupid stupid stupid me to have ********** as my password... i've managed to recover most (but not all) of the stories...apparently lost forever are the comments, which *really* saddens me. hello, i love validation.

anyway, i was wondering if you would mind mentioning it on Boblog..that i'm having technical difficulties, etc, but that i hope to have things rolling again before too much longer. i have zero coding skills, so i'm gonna have to find someone to help me. i cant even get the damn thing to post a new entry. most of the links are broken of course, so bookmarks for JMG may no longer work.

More and Contact Joe: TECHNICAL ASSISTANCE NEEDED (Bob Mould aka Boblog)

[Posted: December 3, 2004] FEEDBACK PERMALINK

 

Woof...

[14:45:04] iamDirty: so seany
[14:45:11] iamDirty: i didn't realize the HH mascot was a real person
[14:45:18] Flashback Boy: oh yes
[14:45:23] Flashback Boy: he was over the other night
[14:45:24] iamDirty: jorge
[14:45:26] iamDirty: shut up
[14:45:29] Flashback Boy: we had cookies and watched jeopardy
[14:45:32] Flashback Boy: ha ha ha
[14:45:36] iamDirty: and??
[14:45:45] iamDirty: you're toying with me
[14:45:47] iamDirty: whore
[14:45:51] Flashback Boy: well, u know... we "watched jeopardy" if ya know what i mean
[14:46:00] iamDirty: you are so toying with me
[14:46:02] Flashback Boy: yes, i am a toying whore
[14:46:28] iamDirty: my friend Karl asked how i knew Jorge. i was like who the hell is Jorge. he said he was on my friendster page.
[14:46:35] Flashback Boy: oh no!
[14:46:38] Flashback Boy: you're kidding?
[14:46:48] iamDirty: apparently he's the underwear model kevin used for the HH profile on friendster
[14:46:49] Flashback Boy: is it pronounced "whore hey"?
[14:46:53] iamDirty: lol
[14:46:55] iamDirty: yes
[14:47:06] Flashback Boy: yeah, kevin just found his pic on the web somewhere
[14:47:26] Flashback Boy: he was just some random hot guy
[14:47:32] iamDirty: not quite so random
[14:47:43] Flashback Boy: he was back then ;)
[14:47:49] iamDirty: lol
[14:48:42] Flashback Boy: hey wait... how did karl recognize whore-hey from the main pic? it doesn't show his face
[14:49:29] Flashback Boy: or is w.h. the guy in this pic? 'cuz that's a whole different guy (you got mail)
[14:50:26] iamDirty: no, it was the one modeling the bathing suit
[14:50:33] Flashback Boy: oh ok
[14:50:36] iamDirty: Karl recognized it from numerous ads
[14:50:42] iamDirty: and the big poster in the window of Uggi
[14:50:49] Flashback Boy: then i stand by my randomly-found-on-the-web guy assertion
[14:51:19] iamDirty: lol
[14:51:22] iamDirty: its still cute
[14:51:26] Flashback Boy: oh yes

Kevin was walking Clancy up 14th Street to Dogs-By-Day when Sean turned the corner and said hello. He was on his way home from breakfast and wasn't in much of a hurry.

"So, are you excited about Matt's party tonight?" Sean asked.

"Very, it's been a really hectic week with work. I talked to Matt yesterday, he's excited too. And you know that if 30 people RSVP 'yes' on the Evite, it'll be 50."

"Yeah, I noticed that Alejandro hadn't replied yet. What's up with him and Roy?"

Kevin laughed. "You're standing in line, aren't you?"

Sean burst out laughing, not appearing guilt-ridden. "Is that so wrong?"

"Well, I haven't talked to Roy much this week but my guess is..."

And there was Roy, coming out of Sparky's.

"Hey, how's it going, Mister S?"

"Yeah, hi Roy," Sean replied. "You're coming to Matt's tonight, right??"

"Get right to the point, don't you?" Kevin said, smiling.

"Yup, so is the whole world, I take it."

"So," Sean said, as Clancy stuck his nose in Roy's crotch, "is Alejandro coming, too?"

"Apparently he is, I'm not sure though."

Kevin and Sean shot each other looks, clearly there was a hesitancy there.

"So what are you guys up to?"

"Dropping Clancy off next door at day care, then, I don't know," Kevin said, looking at Sean.

They walked into Dogs-by-Day (after Clancy did his ritual sniffing of and then marking of the corner of the building right outside the front door, just to see who was there that day, and to let other dogs arriving after him know that he was in the house), and the desk person greeted Clancy and took him into the hallway leading back to the playroom.

"Hey you guys!" It was Dirty, walking in the front door. "How funny, what are you guys doing here?"

"Dropping off Clancy, how are you?" Kevin said, giving him a kiss.

"Walking by, saw you in the window," Dirty said, as he and Sean hugged and kissed and started to talk.

Kevin had one eye on the TV monitor which was piped in from a camera back in the playroom. Clancy ran across the screen, arriving into the playroom and being surrounded by other dogs. They started their usual butt-sniffing, ear-licking, etc. Then Kevin turned to look at his friends.

"So, what have you been up to today," Dirty said, arms around Sean's waist.

"Just got back from breakfast," Sean said, running the palm of his hand over Dirty's stomach.

"Really? Where did you go?" [pats Sean's butt, still sort of hugging]

"Whole Foods." [tweaked Dirty's left nipple through his shirt]

"Aww, I was just going over there now to meet Chuck, you could have eaten with us." [runs hand over Sean's chest]

"Awwww, well we can sit with you guys." [runs fingers over Dirty's triceps]

Kevin looked back at the monitor. More butt-sniffing, heavy tail-wagging, some play-postion-crouching, and then Clancy and three other dogs bounded off screen, and a section of the crowd ran after them. Then Kevin looked back at his friends.

"What about you guys, have you had breakfast yet?" Dirty asked Kevin and Roy, his hand now in Sean's back pocket.

"Not me," Kevin said.

"I just had coffee next door, but I could eat," Roy said.

"Well, come along, boys. We can people-watch near the check out lines."

"I'm game!"

As the four of them headed back down 14th Street, Kevin couldn't help but laugh to himself about how dog and man were two different species on the exact same operating system. Logan Circle was full of both men and dogs. Some were hard to tell apart, whether from their social behavior of forming tight packs who hunt and play as a team, or from their penchant to growl and appear menacing (especially the small ones).

And for the pack to work smoothly, there were boundaries and pecking orders. Sean would never dream of going for Alejandro if Roy was still attached to him. Roy, for all his adventurousness, could only muster the courage to hunt for men out in the open if he was with his pack-mates (the internet was another matter).

Among Clancy and his many friends, life was at its most fulfilling when they were all together, being affectionate even when the horseplay got intense, and running around like crazy until they dropped from exhaustion. The owner of Dogs-by-Day had told Kevin the previous year that Clancy belonged to the "bouncing-off-the-wall gang." She would always say it affectionately, which he appreciated.

That was where dogs -- and men -- are so often misunderstood. People make the comparison so often, but to connotate that all men are interested in is sniffing out genitalia and humping. All appetite and no soul. All they do is fuck and eat and shit and sleep. This couldn't be more wrong.

Granted, there are pitt bulls out there, and the occasional yappy little lapdog or deranged pure-bred. But the pack-instinct, the sniffing, the licking, the playing, the big entrances, the adventures, the dynamic energy of the closeness (and the occasional humping), the whole order of things -- there is something grand in its design, something imminently natural and even quite fundamental. It has kept the canines alive for as long as man has been around. No amount of domestication can drive it out of their genes. And when a dog is somehow separated from the pack out in the wild -- well, the plaintive howl at the moon is never about lust. It's about intense loneliness.

But yes, the men who are deprived of their packs, and everything they get from them, are the ones who eventually become all appetite. The ones that are least like dogs are the ones who get tarred as the most like dogs -- by people who understand neither dogs nor men. It seems the ones who are cut off from what is most natural are the ones who seem to never be able to connect properly with other people. Men -- and dogs -- deprived of their natural pack-ness are the ones that seem to end up being the junkyard variety of creature. (How funny - this is where heterosexuality seems so unnatural, but we digress...)

For gay men, just like for their dogs, "having it all" can never be acheived without the pack in the picture somehow. No relationship, no meal-ticket and no comfy bed will ever be enough on its own.

MEANWHILE....

Subject: questions…questions
Date: 12/4/2004 2:00:58 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Lulu (home)

"Indeed, the only truly serious questions are ones that even a child can formulate. Only the most naive of questions are truly serious. They are questions with no answers. A question with no answer is a barrier that cannot be breached. In other words, it is questions with no answers that set the limits of human possibilities, describe the boundaries of human existence."

This is a quote from the book I'm currently reading - it is Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Such a great book, all characters a little screwed up in their own way, all struggling to find happiness and all asking themselves the same questions that have been asked by people since Plato.

That quote took me back to a conversation I had with Kevin at the beach in the summer, when we were talking about some of our friends and the way they live their lives, without ever stopping to look back and learn from their own experiences, without taking the time to figure out where they want to go, simply following the road without any questioning.

So if it is true that the questions with no answers are what define the boundaries of our human existence, then people who live unexamined lives would live in a smaller world.

Kevin and I live in a crazy world of unanswered questions, I have had some amazing talks with him which are simply reflections on life, and we somehow always end those kinds of conversations on a list of unanswered questions. Sure we love talking about boys and fashion and parties, but that is only one part of our existence, there is the deeper side of it as well which is so hard to share with anyone, even harder to feel understood. And I am glad I have a friend like Kevin, who usually has great insight on every situation, but even if he doesn't, he surely understands me and my never ending questions. Our world is definitely a big one, full of possibilities, and we help each other push our boundaries, although sometimes we just get drunk together and dance… can you ask for a better friend? I can't.

My question of the day, or maybe of the month, and I guess it may be the question of the year to come, is about relationships and what we expect from them.

I ran into Mr. Big yesterday. I know that the reference is a cliché, but I have to use it, as the whole situation is so similar in so many ways (and so many women know what I mean). This is a guy who I saw for over a year and who wouldn't commit, but at the same time he wouldn't leave me alone. I have been staying away from him and after much pain I have given up any expectations I've had that we'd some day end up in a relationship. But somehow all these crazy feelings come up every time I see him or talk to him. I cannot even explain why I like him so much, something about his personality just touches me in a way that is beyond my ability to describe in words. It is absolutely irrational, and it is so intense. We have had some of the best times I can remember together, and I have also been through a few of the most painful situations of my life because of him. It is passion, and the intensity of it fills this void for excitement but the flip side of it is that the pain that comes with it is as intense. And as much as I hate myself for feeling this way, after 3 months away from him, the feelings are all the same, all still there, as if asleep and waiting for some little crack on my thin "I'm over you" shell to open so they can come out. And the scary thing is that if you go back to literature there are countless stories of crazy irrational passion, and the smashing majority of them ends in tragedy. Oh well let's not even think of it.

So then there is Mr. R. We met a few months ago, I saw him a couple of times and then he took off to Europe and has been there since. I saw him in Rome during my last vacation and we had a great time together. He's still in Europe though, we are just friends and I have a feeling that that's the way it may remain. But still, spending time with him and getting to know him made me realize how different a situation this one is from Mr. Big. I can easily list many things about him that make me like him, he's so cultured and so intelligent, fun and spontaneous, handsome, easy to talk to, so forward and direct, uncomplicated even. I genuinely like him, enjoy his company. Who knows what will happen, I have no idea at this point, so early and we know so little of each other. But somehow, the feelings I have for him seem so under control, not threatening, it does not look like it will ever be the intense passion, but something milder and more reliable. And it takes me back to L, whom I loved with all my heart, who had all these great qualities and who is this amazing person, who loved me back and respected me, but with whom I couldn't stay with.

Is there some way to find the irrational, "can't live without you" passion which from all fiction seems to be unsustainable, and at the same time have the companionship, reliability and respect that make a relationship last for the long run? Can we have it all?

So that is my unanswered question of the moment, one of the many that set the boundaries of my restless existence, which I can be just very happy to have friends who understand me most of the time and who share it with me.

[Posted: December 4, 2004] FEEDBACK PERMALINK

 

The Party

It was clear from the Evite that there would be a good turnout at Matt's birthday party. It was also an important milestone for Matt, as it would be the first major event he would throw on his own in his Logan Circle home.

Just about everyone showed up, and others who hadn't RSVP'd came in droves. Kevin & Dane, Sean, John, Chuck & Dirty, David & Michael, J.K., Ryan, Ran & Jeff, Sasha, Chad and (briefly) Roy. But joining in were a melange of folks from all corners of Matt's life, and those of his friends -- Filip, Anthony, Gary, Jason D, T-Todd, Jaime and many others. Like most parties in Washington, there were endless intersecting networks of friends, exes, old flames, crushes -- and all different political stripes and drinking habits. Another reminder that Washington, despite being the capital of big America, was still a very small town.

The first head cold of the season was taking its toll on some. A few sniffles here and there throughout the crowd, and all of them were going home after. Lulu was hit the worst -- she was home in bed, and had completely lost her voice. She'd croaked her regrets into the phone earlier in the evening.

Spread throughout the rooms, the conversations ranged from New Year's Eve plans, the end of a school term or new career moves, to where everyone would be heading at 11:00.

The annual White Party was just beginning at Velvet Nation down in Southeast, and there was a clear fashion trend running through the living room crowd - white shirts everywhere. Cookie Buffet, making a grand appearance, was clearly en route to the powdery event after. She was resplendant in a white dress and headpiece made with over a dozen white feather boas and festooned with electric flashing lights (and her cute handler, a cast member of "Naked Boys Singing," was fun to ogle).

In the mid-section of the apartment, where the food and booze was stationed, there was dissent (both in colors and in plans). The strictly Logan Circle set was thinking ahead -- getting down to Southeast in a motorcade of cabs, waiting on a certain line in the cold, and then trying to get a cab back at 4am -- which in that end of town is always a dicey proposition. It seemed to be a bad bet. Cobalt was in walking distance, and while it would probably be emptier than usual that night, it would feature back-to-back sets by Jason Royce and Karl Matthews, and getting home would be no trouble.

Matt's big bedroom was Area Three, and the crowd in there was set on Cobalt from the start. They enjoyed their own musical set off Matt's i-Tunes collection (the living room crowd had Comcast dance radio). Sean was chatting with Kevin.

"Oh, I got the worst message from someone on Connexion, you have to see this."

Sean sat down at Matt's computer and pulled up his Connexion message screen off the web.

Hey there, I know that I probably have no chance to get with you but could you do me a favor and tell me how can I get a guy like you. I've tried and I don't know...is every guy in this area too scared to reply to an interested guy. Oh well, let me not bother you anymore. I hope to hear from you.

"God, where do I begin..?" Sean said.

"Yeah," Kevin replied, finishing his drink, "there's nothing hotter than a pitifully negative attitude."

"I mean, what was he trying to accomplish with that?" Sean said.

And it dawned on them. There was a time when they would have related to the exasperation in this guy's message. But time tends to add layers of wisdom to life - for most people. At some point, Kevin and Sean had each crossed a Rubicon of some kind and lost patience with people like this guy. Unselfconsciously negative people.

The idea that people would say Kevin and Sean were "hot" to their faces was something neither of them could comprehend under most circumstances. They came from different states, different cities, different situations, but both men grew up feeling quite unattractive and sensitive about their looks, their bodies...the usual drama of growing up gay. And both men had their share of heartbreak getting to their mid-to-late 30s, often involving men they were very into, who didn't share the passion.

Those feelings don't go away completely. And it seemed that the people who would lament about the "high-school mentality" of gay society were the ones most responsible for perpetuating its existence. Sure, there are rooms all over Washington filled with gorgeous 28 year-old studs who seem to enjoy puffing out their chests and scoring with other beautiful men out in the open, and getting a sort of kick out of others watching and being envious.

But who in their right minds would actually want to be involved emotionally with someone like that? Why be motivated with such angst and passion to date -- or score with -- these guys as a means to feel complete yourself? And once you do manage to bed them, as Kevin and Sean had a few times in the past by some fluke or something, you realize how dumb the whole thing was from the start.

Too often, it seemed that so many gay men only pine for things to make their empty lives feel more full, rather than to fill out their lives on their own. This guy was a classic case. His looks seemed okay, but his attitude would stink up any room he'd enter. His inability to realize that made him a hopeless case, not his body or his face. It's not only arrogance that is a turn-off -- the reverse is quite true, too.

After plenty of self-induced torment of his own, Kevin had decided years earlier that one's looks fade anyway and what remains -- the personality, the capacity for loving, relating, having fun, surviving -- are what sustain people into their 50s, 60s, 70s etc. Carrying on about it to himself had become such a tiresome exercise that when he finally just decided to let it go, and be himself, he'd never had so much success in all aspects of life.

And Sean, while having bulked up considerably in the muscle department, still looked in the mirror and saw a scrawny kid often enough, fully aware how insane it was. Sean's undyingly youthful personality (despite being among the oldest in his current group of friends) would always be the trait that every person would remember about him and adore the most. And when he realized that he'd probably be this way well into his 80's, the idea of wringing his hands about his chest muscles today seemed increasingly ridiculous.

For the longest time, as they came to terms with their self-image problems, they both felt a sort of loyalty commitment to all those who struggled with the same issues. A sense of being bound to automatic compassion in all circumstances. It seemed, though, that this had reached a sort of limit. It wasn't that Kevin and Sean had gotten any more attractive over time, per se, at least not in a physical sense. It was that their lives had rounded out. Their minds had flowered. Their anxieties of life were in an ebb. And their fully realized selves were out and on the loose, and were indeed 100 times more attractive than their younger, awkward, supremely unconfident selves.

"You know something, this guy makes me think that if I'd met Kevin-at-25 today, I'd keep walking," Kevin said. "I mean, yeah I was younger and I probably had a tighter body and bla-bla-bla. I could think of a thousand reasons to envy my younger self. But I'd never want to go back to those times. And I think I'd never want to be involved with someone as negative and uncertain as I was."

Sean laughed. "I know, this is like, almost embarrassing to read this message. Like something pathetic I might have thought to say to someone years ago, and it doesn't make me feel sorry for the guy. It actually just makes me wonder why he doesn't get a clue."

MEANWHILE...Matt was set to hi-speed host mode most of the night. He was flitting from room to room, pouring drinks, making ice, welcoming guests, and hovering near Christopher all throughout the evening. Christopher was someone new in his life, at least in the romantic sense. And Matt was the kind of person who didn't just ease into a romance. His heart had wings.

And on this night, Matt's glass was always full. At first, the way in which the club soda was disappearing was enough of an indication that his signature cocktail was flowing freely in his direction. The number of dead bottles of Stoli O was the confirmation.

And as the party slipped well past eleven, and the time to move it to a new location was becoming urgent, Matt's frivolity was at full-throttle, even if his sense of balance was getting sketchier by the minute. Hordes of guests began heading out -- some into cabs down to Velvet Nation, and some on foot to Cobalt. Finally, Matt was persuaded to get his coat on and get out the door.

The final group convened out front. Dane, David, Chuck and Dirty made their goodbyes out on the corner, while Sean, Kevin, Matt, Sasha, T-Todd, Christopher, Filip and Michael headed off to join the others at Cobalt.

Matt and Kevin walked up front, and Matt began to share his happiness with how things went.

"What a turn out!" Matt slurred as he walked out into traffic.

"I know, you're a hit!" Kevin said, casually yanking him back onto the curb by his half-open shirt.

"I couldn't believe how many people came."

"Oh come on, why so surprised?"

"Well," Matt said, stumbling a little bit as the light turned green and they crossed the street. "I guess you just don't expect the big things to happen, it's why they're the big things right? They seem big cuz they are bigger than you thought they'd be."

Funny, Kevin thought. Matt always made sense when he was drunk. It was another endearing trait.

And as they all walked along, Kevin remembered other nights. Warmer nights. Walking with Matt to Cobalt after a party in the neighborhood, and Matt being drunk. But all those other times, there was a sadness to him. He would be saying all sorts of negative things. Complaining the whole way about how fat he felt. Or how much he hated the smoke at the bars. And the many stresses of his life at the time. Sometimes it would even slip into a sort of whining.

But to see a very happy Matt, swaying and stumbling down P Street to 17th, chattering on about his plans for the week, and the huge amount of leftover liquor he could stash away for future parties. About Christopher walking with the rest of the group about a half block behind. And all this at a time when his job was in some doubt after the election and he had plenty of possible excuses to put his anxieties and insecurities out on his sleeve. It was a joy to see. Like looking in the mirror the morning after a serious facial -- the newness of it all.

No, Matt had crossed a Rubicon of his own.

There were many nights in the previous year or two that Matt would arrive at Cobalt drunk, order a few more stiff drinks, get out onto the dancefloor and become a mess of one kind or another. He'd become terribly claustrophobic and wracked with an overpowering anxiety that would manifest itself in the crowd, the cigarette smoke, the hot men who wouldn't look at him, the feeling of his pants against his waist, and it would all spiral into a feeling that would drive him out the door.

On this night, just after his 34th birthday, Matt arrived drunk at Cobalt. He was no less drunk than on those previous occasions. But he walked in, enjoyed the energy, knew he'd had a successful party, knew full well he was very drunk, and turned to Christopher said with a smile: "OK, take me home."

Michael, Filip, Sasha and Kevin were out on the dancefloor, joined by Tom, who'd had another party to hit before joining the gang at the club. Sean brought the news.

"Matt's already gone," he said, laughing. The rest of them laughed, too. "I saw Christopher guiding him into a cab out front."

"Here's to Matt!" someone said. They all clinked cups and water bottles. "To Matt!!"

The music picked up, the hoots and hollers rose from the crowd, and shirts came off.

And, like clockwork, Kevin opened his eyes and saw Elaine.

"Time to have some fun, honey," she said as she made her way towards him on the floor. Kevin just put his head back, let out a hoot and smiled, wrapping his arms around her. She hit the place like an electric charge. The two of them started to dance, and with her moves and her eye contact, she made Kevin lose all sense of anything wrong in his skin.

"Did I miss anything?" she asked.

"No! The party just started!"

Sean leaned over to Tom, looking over at Kevin: "I think Elaine's here."

"Oh, I can see that," Tom said.

"I think I might stay a little longer than planned."

For the ten or fifteen minutes Elaine was on the floor, she had gay boys of every stripe whirling around her, doing the bump, the grind, the grab, the hair whip. Arms in the air, arms to the side. She was unafraid, uncompromising, and irresistible. And people who'd been off on the side, or maybe not dancing quite so much seemed to come alive and get drawn into the middle just to be near her, and all those she touched and awakened. Karl Matthews took the helm in the booth, and everything sort of lifted off the floor. Suddenly everyone was dancing, everyone was happy with themselves. No one wasn't invited to the party.

Kevin was right in front of the booth dancing with Michael when he ran into Alvaro and Flavio, who radiated a sort of explosive happiness all their own. The four of them started to talk and dance and laugh all together. Much like Elaine had kicked things off, they were all getting down the same way together.

Kevin was also looking all around him, at people he didn't even know, and smiling. So many men and women together on the floor, it was hard to tell who was gay, who was straight, and this was absolutely heaven to him. It was so cliched to say it, but he couldn't help feeling it -- the dancefloor can be a place of such tremendous, almost religious energy. It was a ritual that could save lives, cure the feeble, renew the soul and bring people together in ways they never could see just 20 feet away.

Then a guy walked over to Alvaro and Flavio and seemed to be talking to them, but Kevin and Michael couldn't hear what was being said. The guy was drunk, and didn't seem very happy.

"...And you have a boyfriend?" the guy then said to Michael.

"Um, yeah?" Michael said, referring of course to David.

"What about you?" he then said to Kevin.

"Yeah, I do too, so?"

"Well, how can that be that all four of you have boyfriends?" he sort of yelled.

"So what?" Kevin asked. It dawned on him that all four of them did -- and his point was....?

"What can I do with you then?" the guy yelled.

"Um, how about dance?" Michael said.

"No, no, no!" the guy slurred. "I don't want to be your friend."

Kevin and Michael looked at each other confused, while Alvaro and Flavio giggled loudly and went on dancing.

But rather than going off in a drunken huff, the source of his indignation kept safe, the guy just stood there. So Michael and Kevin kept dancing, since the dancefloor is a free space and people are just as free to walk away as they are to walk up to you.

"So tell me then, what am I going to do with you??" the guy said again.

It was a bizarre, unanswerable question. One from far over the other side of the Rubicon.

Kevin looked over and saw Sean, Filip, Tom and Sasha dancing together, all very different men, all happy to be there. He looked at the whole crowd through the experience of the Elaine whirlwind (she was now out of sight, and may have already left the club) and then thought about this guy and started getting a little angry. What is it with people like this, he thought? Just like Ken the week before with Roy, and the guy on Connexion, and so many others like them all around. All the same tired questions -- Is it Washington? Is it being gay? Is it our fault somehow? Is it booze? What is it?

It wasn't clear yet to Kevin or any of them that the answer was obvious. It wasn't the town, or the scene, or being gay, or all the usual million excuses from arm-chair pundits and critics. The answer was very simple -- there are two sides of the Rubicon, and it's a river that anyone can cross. It may seem like it takes courage to cross it, but alas - until you do, until you take the risks that come with real life you'll never give yourself or anyone around you a moment's peace.

Everyone is always invited to the party. Some people just stay home. And if they stay home, and stay home, and stay home...well, they can whine all they want about feeling excluded, but they have no one to ultimately blame but themselves.

[Posted: December 6, 2004] FEEDBACK PERMALINK

 

Doing it All [Part I]

An endless, soaking rain fell on Washington all day, and fog began to envelope the Washington Monument until it was barely visible. Planes could be heard screaming over Georgetown on approach to Reagan National, but none could be seen until night would fall.

Sean came out of the gym as darkness was setting in. Kevin was standing outside under a dripping umbrella. They set off for the E Street Cinema on foot.

"You know, if it was about five degrees colder, I'd be just about the most miserable person alive," Kevin said, with the usual dash of exaggeration.

"At least it's not windy," Sean said as they ran across K Street before the light changed.

They made it to the theater at 6:15 -- exactly when Dane said to meet him out front. When they got under the marquee, and Kevin could reach into his bag for his phone, there was already a message that Dane was still way out in Virginia, caught in a traffic jam, and they should go ahead and have a quick dinner before the 7pm showing of Sideways.

After some wandering in the rain, it was clear that while Penn Quarter and environs was a hundred times more lively and fun than it had ever been, too many quick-stop eateries (Cosi, for one) closed way too early still. Too many establishments seemed to be clinging to the days when this part of downtown Washington was a lunchtime-only place, only to be completely deserted by the end of rush hour -- even though the condo buildings were going up at a steady clip a few blocks east.

They rounded a corner and saw that Potbelly's was still open, and ran over to grab a booth and get a sandwich.

"So I had a class today in town, and ate lunch at home," Sean said, sitting down at the booth with his big, meaty sandwich. (The gym had once again turned him into a carnivorous beast.)

"...And so I'm eating lunch and watching some TV, and this show is on. It's not Martha Stewart of course, but it's sort of like her. It's this woman who tells you had to make fabulous things out of your leftovers."

"Like, how to turn last night's spaghetti into a lovely pair of gloves?"

"No, it's all cooking," Sean said, laughing and chewing. "So she's talking about what to do with your leftover chicken, and how to use things you just have laying around the kitchen like, oh, romaine lettuce and crumbled blue cheese..."

"Which of course, we all have laying around the kitchen..."

"...And some avocados."

"Jeez, so it costs $40 at Whole Foods to cook last night's chicken?"

"But it was so delicious what she was doing. Then she put all this crispy bacon all over it and I was just like ...And then, like the women in the movie theaters at Union Station, I start yelling at the screen!"

"No way.."

"Don't you put that bacon in that salad, girl! Wooooooooo, don't you do dat! No you dih-int!!"

Kevin laughed out loud. "You must have found your lunch to be subpar at that point."

"Oh, I was just dreaming of this sandwich in my hand right now," Sean said as he bit lustily into his bacon-and-something.

Then, an old song came on over the sound system at Potbelly's as they ate. They both looked out the window at the rainy street. Kevin started to think about how long it had been since he'd heard an E.L.O. song at all, and then a flood of images came rushing in, almost like they'd been dammed up someplace in his head.

Some late December night at his Uncle Jimmy's house in Oceanside, N.Y. Probably the late 70's. Bad Christmas lights flashing on and off, and shag carpeting on the short staircase up to the second level. White cotton turtlenecks loaded with static electricity. A fire in the fireplace. Big round glasses and Kent cigarettes. Feathered hair. His mother and her female cousins with their loud Long Island accents, laughing over egg nog and penny poker at the dining room table. His teenaged cousins wearing tight jeans and tight muscle-t's. Farrah Fawcett posters and the sound of Coleco Electronic Football. The font on a can of Tab.

And the idea that someday, Kevin would have it all and would do it all.

"Oh my God, I miss this music," Kevin said, finishing the tiny bag of baked Lay's.

"I know. I never hear this stuff in normal life."

"You know what, I miss Rocky Horror. I miss David Bowie, and Rod Stewart and E.L.O. I miss the idea that being in my twenties would mean that I'd be like those kids, you know?" Kevin said.

"Like the guys I was so hot for in the 70s," Sean said, smiling.

"I know! It's so funny, too, because no matter where I go -- if it's walking through G.W.'s campus, or if I'm in Madrid or Buenos Aires or New York or whatever -- I see all these kids these days who listen to this stuff, who put their stupid Izod collars up, and have absolutely no idea what any of this music really means. And, it sort of makes me sad."

"Oh, I don't mind teaching them what 'Tonight's the Night' means..." Sean said, slyly.

"Oh my God, yeah! Remember that movie with...Sylvia Kristel, was it? Or Joan Collins?"

"Private Lessons."

"YES! It was Sylvia Kristel. And the HOTTIE!"

"Eric Brown." Sean said it before Kevin even got to "h" in "hottie."

"Oh my God! I wanted him so bad. I remember I was 13 or 14 when it came out. When I saw the commercials for that movie and how many articles were being written about how sexual it was, and how it was a big hit and all the teenagers were going to see this R-rated movie. And I imagined all the hot teenagers in town were seeing it and then doing it. Oh my God, I wanted to be a part of it so badly. I imagined that sex with Eric Brown was just like the most amazing fuckin' trip to heaven, and it was all set to those Rod Stewart songs..."

"Don't say a word, my vir-gin child..." Sean sang.

"Just let your...inhibitions run wild..." Kevin replied. They giggled like kids.

"Oh, and what was it? 'Spread your wings and let me come inside...'?" Kevin asked.

"YES!!" Sean said, his eyes popping. "Ahhh Eric Brown, what a hottie."

"And whenever, for the whole rest of my life, I'd hear that song I will always get hard. Pretty much any Rod Stewart song from that year," Kevin said.

"Did you ever see it?"

"I rented it when I was a sophomore in college, and of course I got off to it about eight thousand times in one night, like consummating some long, lusting flirtation with someone."

"It wasn't really very good, but as I recall you did get a nice look at Eric without clothes."

"Yeah, but the part when they were doing it, remember that? With Sylvia Kristel on top?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, I tried that on some guy, like, the next night and saw myself acting out the scene," Kevin said. "Oh, I was on fire. I was such a little freak."

"Haha, we all were."

Then the song changed. They went off on a little tangent about something, but Kevin listened to the song.

"You know what," Kevin said after a short silence in their talk. "I think that Lost in Translation was the first movie I'd ever seen where I 100% related to the older character more than the younger one."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

"Like, I understood what she was going through and all, but I pitied her because she was so young and she didn't understand that everything was going to be okay like he did. And God, I mean, I so related to him. And you know, I related to being on the road like that and how it gives you such a different perspective on your life all the time."

"Yeah, but that part when she walked in on him and that other woman in the hotel room," Sean said. "I mean, that was so painful and you could so relate to that, too."

"Yeah, I mean," Kevin said, finishing his water, "yeah. Of course, but I mean...You could also see how it happened from his side too, right?"

"But the whole point of them not doing anything because they were both married, then he does that. It was such a rejection of her."

"I don't know, maybe from her naive point of view but I think I could see much better why he fucked that stupid singer girl but wouldn't let things with Scarlett Johanssen go anyplace because he knew where it would end up with her. He could see a couple steps down the road if they'd done anything. He really had deep feelings for her, more so, I think, to try and protect her from the pain she felt, the ennui she didn't understand. Or to communicate somehow to her that everything would be all right in her life eventually and she needed to have faith, and communicate it to her in some way that she could understand cuz clearly just saying it wouldn't work."

"Hmm."

"I mean, I like to think that in the end, that thing he says in her ear that you don't know what it is -- I like to think that's when he figured out how to tell her, and from her reaction you can see that it worked. And I love how it's something we can't hear because it's so intimate, it's the whole basis of real love or something, you know? Something only the two of them will ever know about..."

And as Kevin trailed off, it then dawned on them both. They were a few clicks away from 40 now. It was a staggering thing to think about sometimes, but when they remembered what 40 meant way back in the 70s, it didn't feel anything like they expected it to. Like a sort of younger version of 40 was settling onto the world as they approached it.

Kevin pondered what it meant to feel so much closer to the older characters in movies now. Knowing everything that the younger ones were going through, but with sympathy, not empathy. Looking into the face of a character on screen, with a few lines here and there, feeling that sense of having been in so many places, heard so many songs, having stored so many experiences away already. No sense of real fear or terror about the future and the unknown, but also no sense of wonder to life anymore either. It was what he'd always wanted in life - that knowledge and wisdom that would mean an end to the angst of being young and inexperienced.

But what is lost in the transition? Is it even possible to feel anything like what sex was like that night after watching Private Lessons when he was barely out of his teens? He couldn't even remember who the guy was. And how entire decades of music are stored away someplace and never get listened to, like his CD cabinet at home which was long and low to the ground, keeping all the CDs far below eye-level. How so much life already lived felt so far away...

[Posted: December 10, 2004] FEEDBACK PERMALINK

 

Doing it All [Part II]

"Blazing blue skies and bright sun and cooler temperatures today..." as Kevin woke up with a start to the sound of CNN International on the TV. The sunlight was leaking into the hotel room all around the black-out drapes.

It was clearly later than 6:45 a.m. - and he had overslept.

In a mad scramble, he managed to shower, pack and get dressed in 15 minutes and head down to the rear tower lobby of the Sheraton Maria Isabela. He hurried past the side entrance, where hundreds of people were lining up outside, as they did every day to enter the consular section of the U.S. Embassy across the alley. Then, the long run along the L-shaped atrium to the main reception area. Would there be a crowd of people there? Would the traffic to the airport be terrible? It was 8:30.

Croaking through a still-asleep throat, trying to keep his cool, he turned in his key and handed over his credit card. There are the inevitable silences during check-out -- waiting for the bill to print out, or the reception attendent taking a phone call or chatting with a colleague in Spanish. He'd have to stand there and think about the possible predicament. Would he be home in Washington, sitting on his couch, having coffee and petting the dog by dinnertime, or would he miss his flight and end up in some kind of impromptu limbo there in Mexico City?

Then he had enough time to realize he had no pesos left. One thing after another. Easy enough, though, there was a solution. With a cool head, there's a solution to every one of these cascading challenges. Of course - his head was not always cool in the past.

But it went smoothly, and he was out the door into a pre-paid hotel cab minutes later.

As the cab turned onto the freeway, he slipped on his sunglasses and sat back. If traffic was okay, it would still be about 20-30 minutes of sitting in silence, with plenty of time to think. At other times, maybe in younger days, this would be a half hour of self-torture. Why did you oversleep? Why didn't you yell at reception about your wake-up call not coming? Did it come, and you just slept through it? What are you going to do if you're stuck here another day? Where will you go? What will it cost?

The car's clock read 8:37. He had about 90 minutes to navigate whatever was in front of him -- on the freeway, in the airport lobby, at the security checkpoint, at the gate. Would he get an upgrade...Would he lose his seat reservation entirely...Would the cab crash into the guard rail on the way...

He ran his fingers through his damp hair and smiled. Sometimes, he thought, he just had to laugh. Someone had told him years earlier, probably in his late twenties, that he'd look back on all his angst one day and laugh. He found it deeply condescending at the time. But, of course, he was laughing now.

"BREATHE!....BREATHE!...Find your sukha. Build your sukha." The instructor was moving the Hot Yoga class towards the cooldown phase, if you could call it that. Roy was dripping wet, his eyes pressed tightly closed as he exhaled, his body slowly unraveling.

It was no longer the early morning of a work day, nor was the loud Adams Morgan traffic bustling outside the windows of the studio. It was no longer almost winter. And the tedium of thinking about his love life was someplace far away.

Roy was so centered at that moment, he didn't even see the hot blond guy's bubble-butt and huge triceps ten feet in front of him -- the guy he'd lusted after for weeks. Not even all that, in a hot, sweaty room, with the male instructor's sexy, soothing voice. None of it could intrude on Roy's sukha.

And he began to repeat his own customized chant inside his head-- free of all the Hare Krishna ooga-booga words:

"You choose this peace. You can choose it this afternoon at your desk. You can choose it tonight in your living room. You can choose it tomorrow. You choose this moment. You achieve this on your own. You need no one. You need nothing."

He rolled his head, eyes still closed. "You need no one," he said again. "You need nothing." It washed over him.

Later on, as he walked out into the hectic morning rush, the blast of cold air was wonderful against his face. The opposite of every other reaction in the doorways of 18th Street. He walked briskly down towards Florida Avenue, taking in deep breaths. It was like drinking cold water at the beach.

And with such a long walk ahead of him, he felt open to look at everything within sight inside his head -- the big, messy conference room table that was his life at the moment. Piles and stacks of things, needing some sense of order and tidiness. No need to feel tense, or to procrastinate. He could manage it at this moment, walking on auto-pilot.

He thought about work for a little while. It wasn't hard to lose stress around work these days. It was almost like he was in on the joke about work now -- that all the things that used to frighten him when he was younger were all a ruse. He'd finally seen how his superiors were more clueless that he'd ever known before, and they depended on him so deeply that there was never anything to really fear in that office. In fact, as time passed and he began to push those superiors aside, wherever he'd end up working, he'd probably even begin stressing about depending on guys like himself.

But would he be as clueless as they were? Maybe. But more importantly, maybe his life would be richer than it was now, and his mind would be on many more things beyond the office. His boss, for instance, was in his early 50s, with one child about to get married and two others heading for college in the next few years. He lived in McLean, had a wife who spent a lot of time organizing social events, and he was starting to take holidays and vacation time lately -- something he'd never done before. He'd lean on Roy now and then, more so than the usual D.C. work culture might find acceptable. He'd seemed tired and restless more than when Roy started there about six years back. But the boss was also looking happier. Or maybe 'fuller' was the right word. He was doing more with his life.

Money was on the messy table. Roy was making more than ever, but also spending more than ever. He put up a concrete wall over one issue though - he would not criticize himself over the condo. It was the best home he'd ever had, and he was happier there than anyplace else he'd been. Occasionally he'd feel a bit cut off from his friends and the scene in Logan Circle, but it was not a long walk overall. And maybe there was a certain amount of distance from everything, while still living in a very downtown neighborhood, which gave him greater happiness. He loved walking in the door of that place. It was worth any amount of financial shuffling to maintain.

And as he imagined the condo -- he imagined himself alone in it. "You need no one. You need nothing."

He placed himself, smiling, at the dining table. Doing some work, or writing out Christmas cards, or getting his taxes done early. He imagined a glass of red wine next to him, and music playing over his sound system.

Then, a small intrusion. He remembered an earlier image at that table, after an earlier yoga class, on a warmer morning weeks back. He imagined cooking dinner for Alejandro. Candlelight. The city lights outside his tall windows. And Alejandro saying everything tasted wonderful, and how his mother would love Roy's cooking, and they'd sit there and make plans about Christmas and New Year's Eve. And after dinner, they'd lay on the couch and make out, look into each other's eyes, and hold each other there silently.

But of course, that image was just an image back then as it was now. It was a dinner Roy never got to cook. It was a night he never got to have with Alejandro before the phone calls and emails began to ebb, the sex had become less interesting and more labored, and the conversations seemed out of steam and out of subjects.

It wasn't stressful to look at the Alejandro pile. But it needed to be filed away and moved off the table once and for all. It wasn't a very high stack, so it wouldn't take long. But it was from an outbox that had a history of piling high.

He didn't need Alejandro to be at peace. But why did he imagine that dinner weeks earlier, he wondered? He didn't even know the guy. As time went on, they both realized they weren't particularly well-matched. But that desire to see things like that -- well, it was human. It was natural. But it was a sort of hunger inside Roy. He could see that. It wasn't just hope - it was hunger.

He stood at the corner of 18th and Florida, waiting for the light to change.

Roy wanted not only to have it all. He wanted to do it all. He wanted to cook the dinner for the loving boyfriend, and hold him close at night. He wanted to have lots of great sex, and meet the parents, and have his boss depend on him without saying so. And wanted to come through for the boss without needing to be thanked, and he wanted a boyfriend to want him to take care of him.

He didn't just want to accumulate things in life, and sit on the couch for the balance of it all. He wanted to do everything he imagined doing in life. Almost to a fault -- like wanting to do it with people who he didn't even know well. He just couldn't yet figure out how to do it all alone.

MEANWHILE...Kevin settled into seat 3A and closed his eyes for a moment as people were passing onto the plane in the aisle. He felt dehydrated, exhausted. But fine.

He'd made it through the obstacle course to Gate 36. Now, he had about four hours of nothing to do but read, maybe sleep...and think some more.

Alas, he wasn't too interested in thinking. The in-flight movie would be Elf...a perfect oasis for the brain perhaps. He was just really, really tired. Way down into the guts of his imagination.

He was remembering a conversation he'd had with Dane in the car, when he was getting dropped off in front of his building after they saw Sideways the week before. He went off on a jag about how exhausted he was. He could feel it in his face, in how his eyes were sagging. And in his neck and back. It wasn't so much physical though. It was much deeper.

"I'm just sick and tired of having to do everything," he'd said to Dane, not quite whining. More like he was seeing things clearly. "I mean, I have to do everything in my life."

"Like what?"

"It isn't just traveling. I have to set up the whole trip, I have to pack. I have to get to the airport, fight for the upgrade, get on the plane. I gotta go from breakfast till the wee hours, very little down time. Lots of personal touch stuff. Then I have to do it all the way home, get home from the airport, get the dog. Feed, walk and medicate the dog. Every day. Come home to a house I didn't have time to clean before I left, so then I have to clean or I just can't relax. And do all the laundry, and all the ironing, and cook my meals and clean up everything after..."

[Dane was smiling slightly.]

"And when I get sick or if I'm having a bad day, well," Kevin continued. "I just have to deal with it. And when I'm working all day, I have the dog staring at me the whole time, or bringing toys and dropping them in my lap one at a time, and I can't pay attention to him. I don't have any time or mental energy to balance it all enough. He won't just be happy with a minute of playing, either. He wants to go for hours..."

"Uh-huh...," Dane said.

"And it just reminds me - I'll never have enough time for him. And I'll never have enough time for my sister and her family, or for my parents. And I'm starting to think I will never have enough time to rest up and recharge for each round of work, of social life, of everything. I'll never have enough time to keep the apartment the way I want it. I realized that in Buenos Aires. How wonderful it was to have a maid coming in every day. We could just focus on enjoying life and not about the laundry and the bed and the bathroom..."

"Well, hire a maid then."

"Oh, I could but that's not the solution. If I could spend my way out of all of this, I'd have to work twice as much and have even less time to do anything. If I could hire people to do all these things for me - the laundry, the dog, the cleaning. I could hire an assistant to help with the workload. But then I'd just be working more to pay for it all, and maintain a level of comfort I thought I'd have which I probably wouldn't end up having in the end, and just even more exhausted. When the whole reason I went into consulting was to have more free time for life. That's not the answer."

"Well, then what is the answer?"

"I don't know," he remembered saying to Dane with a feeling of exasperation. "I just don't know."

Sitting there, in the airline seat, a big glass of orange juice coming his dehydrated way -- he remembered that feeling when he said it.

I just don't know what the answer is. I'm just tired of doing it all. Who knew it would be like this?

It sounded so incredibly whiny, he thought. But it wasn't like it sounded. There had to be something more to it. And there was. Suddenly, it was clear to him again.

Pretty much all his life, even as a child, he was a loner. But it never felt right. He taught himself how to read. He taught himself how to count in Spanish. He taught himself how to hold a knife and fork properly among polite people. And he had to teach himself how to cope with life, how to deal with being gay. How to be a man. He built his career on his own. No family connections. No privileges of class. Sometimes, pure luck. Other times, pure balls.

All his life, he had to do everything himself. And time would naturally leave him exhausted now, as even in every relationship before Dane, he'd been with men who were dependent on him in some way or another. Who had him be the one to make things happen, or to supplicate their fears or insecurities, in addition to everything he had to do in his own life. Even in some cases, literally support them financially -- feed them, house them, pay for school.

And it seemed that even getting past all that, and building a successful life of freedom in his work, clarity of purpose in his relationships, deepening love with someone who was completely independent, a solid group of friends and plenty of social life to go around -- still, he had to do everything himself. There weren't days when he came home and the house got clean on its own once in a while. Or dinner was made for him for a change. Or someone was there to say "what can I do for you tonight?" There was just a dog - a loving dog, but a wholly dependent creature. And an apartment. And voice mail, and bills, and emails. And there was tomorrow. And tomorrow. Whatever would come. To him, to his family. To his business. To Clancy. To the city he loved, which lived under a cloud of danger no one could ignore. To the life he'd worked so hard to have, the life he'd imagined so longingly years ago.

He put his headphones on and pressed the audio button on the armchair. Immediately, an old song came on. Kevin turned his head to look out the window at the clear sky. Vulnerable, like a sick animal, he was infected by the song's luscious beats and its fullness after so, so many years. He drew a deep breath.

And quietly, turned away into his mind, he started to cry.

[Posted: December 16, 2004] FEEDBACK PERMALINK

 

Christmastime in the City

The phone rang incessantly at 6:43 a.m. and the caller-ID was flashing a number Roy didn't recognize.

"He...helloo?"

After a pause, there was the small voice of an old lady.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I think I dialed the wrong number. You have a Merry Christmas now..."

"Rrmphhh..." Click.


Sean's alarm clanged loudly at 6:45 a.m. and he sat straight up in bed. It was still dark outside. For a moment, he didn't believe it was morning.

But then he was sure he was awake. No longer in the warm, tight squeeze of sleep.

He had a job interview that day.


Kevin shut his door quietly and walked down the corridor towards the elevator, with Clancy trotting next to him.

They rounded the corner and came upon the deliveryman, bringing a stack of Washington Post newspapers for the seventh floor.

"G'mornin'," the man said.

"Good morning," Kevin said.

"Have a good holiday now," the man said, passing by.

"You too," Kevin replied, rubbing his eyes and feeling a sort of twing in the pit of his stomach.


Lulu was already awake when her alarm sounded at seven. She'd been staring at the clock for almost a half hour, counting down the minutes. She was wrapped up in her down comforter, and didn't want to leave the little heated area around it. Only two feet away from where she lay, she knew the temperature was ten degrees colder.

Ken stood in the bathroom, staring in the mirror at himself. Still trying to wake up. Staring at his hairline -- trying to figure out if it was really receding or not. Which is never a good way to wake up.

Matt had finally drifted off to sleep.


Christmas was coming to Washington, a place that all of them called home but none of them were from. For each of them, Christmas meant coping with some kind of frayed connection to another place, and to some other part of themselves. They'd all come to Washington from other cities, and had become "themselves" there over time.

But Christmas was a family affair, and they were all facing one or another challenge on that scale.

Some were heading home. Some were avoiding the issue entirely.

[Posted: December 23, 2004] FEEDBACK PERMALINK

 

Boys and Boys & Girls and Boys (Part I)

Ken looked across the crowded bar at JR's, and a chuckle involuntarily escaped from his mouth. One of the hotties was wearing a tight T-shirt that read: "My Penis is Having the Best Week Ever!"

Ken thought about how maybe he was the one who should be wearing that shirt. But ostentatious displays like that were not his thing. Ken had barely begun to fully grasp the concept of being "out," let alone being "out and proud."

It had only been a few weeks since the last hurricane of drama had swept over him, Roy and virtually everyone they knew in common. Ken had been trying for two years to let bygones be bygones where Roy was concerned. But alcohol has a funny way of picking at old emotional scabs. Only a couple of years ago, the two of them had been good friends. Roy wasn't much older than Ken, but he was ages wiser and more experienced in the ways of the gay world, and he helped hasten Ken's journey out of the closet.

Then Roy hit on the first boyfriend that Ken had ever had - or so Ken had thought - which, in retrospect, was more likely the type of misunderstanding, fueled by innuendo and wrong assumptions, that were the stock in trade of 1980s sitcoms. When Ken looked deep inside himself, he knew his self-esteem wasn't very high, and he let that color his suspicions of Roy for two years. But he had been working on himself inside and out. He was ready to give Roy the benefit of the doubt and wanted to rebuild some semblance of a friendship with him.

All of that changed in one drunken night, when Hurricane Stoli blew into town. Ken had thrown a party at FoodBar but was feeling more than a little stressed out from his duties as host, ensuring that everyone was happy, and that all exes who weren't on good terms didn't stray too far from their neutral corners. He wasn't sure when he began drinking that evening, but it had been early and often, and soon most of the night had disappeared down a memory hole.

When word got back to Ken that he had apparently been bad-mouthing Roy to Alejandro, Roy's new Latin love, he felt horrible. When he heard that Roy and Alejandro had later broken up, he felt even worse. Nothing he said could have been that bad, could it? And surely Alejandro would have just blown it all off as the ravings of a drunken idiot?

Still, the possibility that Ken could have sabotaged both his resurgent friendship with Roy and Roy's new romance in one fell swoop had been gnawing away at him. Ken had long billed himself as leading the charge against gay drama, and here he was soaking in it. And whenever he got this down on himself, a lot of the old patterns he had been resisting would reemerge: spending far too many nights in the bars, the ego boost and thrills of random sex.

But one habit that he thought had been safely locked away for three years was his old knack with the opposite sex. When Ken met Sean and came into the group, he had claimed to be "straight," but soon enough he was sliding down the slippery slope of the Kinsey Scale, and soon he was a four-and-a-half or five, minimum. In his head, he felt bisexual, but he had not acted on it in so long that he quit correcting people when they assumed he was gay. He even started using the G-word himself, partly out of convenience, but also because he thought perhaps it was indeed true - that the little part of his lizard brain that wanted to drink PBR, watch football and eat pussy had been exorcised for good. Men, he believed, fulfilled him in a way that women just couldn't.

Still, he sometimes felt a nagging tug at the back of his mind. He felt it each time one of his straight friends would get married or have kids. Each time he would go to an office party and meet his coworkers' significant others, knowing that he could never bring a boyfriend to such a conservative setting. Each time the right-wing lunatics would stage yet another heartless assault on gay people, and Ken would think that if he just tried hard enough, maybe he could be straight. It might just be easier that way.

On the first night of the week that would earn his penis its own T-shirt, all of those contradictory feelings, and the two worlds that he had straddled his entire life, would come crashing together.

It had been in that very same crowded gay room where his Monday had begun on that fateful week. It was show-tunes sing-a-long night, of all things. And he was drinking, and singing. And drinking. And singing.

And drinking.

At one point, he got a drunk-dial call on his cell phone from an old co-worker friend, from the job before the current one. It was a guy he hadn't talked to in a while, who was clearly drinking as much as Ken. He took it outside to hear better, and soon enough both of them were laughing and slurring and trying to figure out what the rest of the evening held for them. As if they'd just seen each other the day before.

At that point, no one of any consequence was with him at JR's. So he was easy to persuade to get into a cab at the corner of 17th and Church Streets, and head off to some address on Capitol Hill. Some holiday party of some acquaintance, and some tunnel out of the fear he had that Roy, or Sean, or Matt or Kevin or Elaine might come blowing into the room and stare him down for his unforgiven transgressions.

So he was quickly out of the neighborhood entirely, and heading east to 3rd Street NE.

As the cabbie was looking for the right house number, Ken started to feel less queasy. He'd felt the usual spinning-room nausea just from sitting in the cab for more than five minutes. "Liquor than beer, you're in the clear," he repeated to himself over and over.

In a flash, he was at the house, paying the cabbie, and then walking up the front walk to the door. Music was playing loudly inside, and through the window he could see a guy with his arms around a woman's shapely waist. She was wearing a santa cap, and they were dancing and laughing. ....

[Posted: December 28, 2004] FEEDBACK PERMALINK