So I had sex today for the first time in two years. To a different man for the first time in 7 years. For some reason, I'm not wierded out by this.
I got most of my kid in a candy store issues settled in my 20's. Like most of my gay bretheren, denied the rites of passage that adolesence brings our straight counterparts, I indulged my carnal needs late. By the time I was 27 I was ready to settle down to hearth and home and promptly did so when my first husband arrived on the scene.
After the experience of a long term relationship, I realized I was so much better as a one man's man. Casual sex, while fun didn't really fit my persona. I wanted and needed to care for just one guy and to share the intimacy of sex with him alone.
So in the interregnum between husbands, I didn't have sex. Though the time between husbands was admittedly short. A scant 12 months.
As my present ex husband's and my relationship morphed into it's current incarnation, we didn't make love for 2 years. It was missed to be sure, but with work and school, there were other distractions to occupy the void. It was easy to settle into a sexless existance.
Well school is done, the job hunt has been fruitless, my ex is gone and the gym is just not enough of a distraction. I have been thinking about sex, and the lack of it in my life.
As well as my need for it.
For the past month or so, I've been chatting with this young man. Suffice to say, I'm old enough to be his father. The fact that I've even considered associating with someone so young should speak volumes about how my past prejudices towards younger gay men have changed. Since I came out I dated and had sex with exclusively men older than myself.
That changed today.
I found myself this past month the object of the affections of a younger man. I must admit, I was flattered and pleased by this development. It never occured to me, that I could and would eventually become the older man.
He was passionate, tender and loving. Holding him, kissing him, making love to him was an amazing experience. Not just for the physical connection, but the emotional one. Today I got to experience what my ex husbands must have felt with me that first time. It was a transformational moment for me, and I am grateful beyond words for the joy this young man brought me today.
I don't know if there will be more time spent with him or not. I hope there is for he is an amazing lover for one so young. More than that though his zeal today awoke my long sleeping passion.
I've missed that more then I realized.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Equinox
Equal parts day and night.
That's what equinox is supposed to be. Twice a year we hit that perfect moment of balance where the distance between dawn and dusk is 12 hours. A moment of celestial and earthbound harmony.
So why do I feel so unbalanced?
Since I was a child, I've struggled for balance. I lacked it completely in my formative years. My father, an alcohol and drug abusing Vietnam veteran, never had it himself and was incapable of passing on any sense of security to me. What peace and stability I have come by has been of my own creation.
Yet as an adult, I struggle with control. I have this deep overwhelming desire to be in contol of everything. From the biggest issue, to the smallest detail I must maintain all options over any outcome, or I become a wreck. Both of my exes consider me a control freak.
I have to agree with them.
I've been country and western dancing for about 15 years now and it wasn't until this past April when I finally began to learn to follow. I tried to learn to follow when I first started. God knows I tried.
I was a disaster. Unmitigated. Total. Abject. Falure at following. I was about to give up when a sharp eyed dance instructor pulled me aside and asked a rather pointed question;
"Honey what do you like in bed?"
Thinking this was the worst pick up line I had ever heard (though he was cute, but I digress,) I said;
"I'm sorry, but that's a little personal given I'm just here to learn to dance".
He smiled and said;
"Just answer the question, are you a top or bottom? I only ask because it will make this easier for you if I know."
Amazed at his candor but eager to figure out where on earth he was going with this I replied,
"I like to pitch."
His reply was one word,
"Lead."
I've been leading ever since.
It's stereotypical for sure, but once I was starting off facing the line of dance and not having my back to it, I was like a duck in water. It came easy. It was graceful.
I was good.
But with all the drama of this year, a former partner who's changing sexes on me, a lost job and turning 40, I figured in for a penny in for a pound right? I made an agreement with myself that I would begin to surrender control and just let things happen. After years of needing to be in control, it was time to take a break and let someone else worry about it.
Which brings me to following and Lawrence.
My friend Lawrence asked me to dance the first night I returned back to country and western dancing. Tall, handsome and incredibly sweet Lawrence is an amazing dancer. Fearless on the floor he leads as gracefully as he follows. The man knows every line dance. Gifted with boundless energy and a disarming charm, Lawrence makes all of his dance partners feel at ease.
So on that first 2 step, I explained to Lawrence that in all the time I've been dancing I'd never learned to follow. A mischevious grin breaks across his face. Lawrence has a mission.
Never give a Taurean a mission.
On the ensuing dance I find myself facing the wrong way. Lawrence is a stern but patient teacher. He pardons my failings. He's generous with praise and tactful with corrections. He is everything a good instructor should be.
Best of all, he doesn't let me quit. As I find myself in this odd position of being out of control, I sense the fear welling. What if I make a mistake? Oh my God, what if I look bad in front of all of these people?!?! And on my first night back?!?!
Good Lord Mary, get over it.
I did.
It still doesn't feel natural to me, but I am becoming a better follow. Time, the patience of good leads and my willingness to be open will only allow me to improve. I am becoming ok with leaving someone else in charge for a change, well at least on the dance floor.
Only time will tell about the rest.
So last night, I ran into the flyboy. The handsome doctor/lawyer whom I wrote a bit ungenerously about a couple of weeks ago. He's sweet and kind, and my literary treatment of him did not do him the justice he deserves.
He and I danced last night. It was glorious to hold him even if it was for only a few transitory moments. We chatted a bit and it was there. Still. This odd sense of attaction. On both our parts, and for a moment, it felt like he gave into it. But as with a couple of weeks ago, he pulled away.
It's maddening.
I would like there to be more, but I know I can't push. All I can do is be me, and if that is enough then he'll respond. The rest is out of my hands.
Wait! That means it's out of my control.
*sigh* Maddening indeed.
That's what equinox is supposed to be. Twice a year we hit that perfect moment of balance where the distance between dawn and dusk is 12 hours. A moment of celestial and earthbound harmony.
So why do I feel so unbalanced?
Since I was a child, I've struggled for balance. I lacked it completely in my formative years. My father, an alcohol and drug abusing Vietnam veteran, never had it himself and was incapable of passing on any sense of security to me. What peace and stability I have come by has been of my own creation.
Yet as an adult, I struggle with control. I have this deep overwhelming desire to be in contol of everything. From the biggest issue, to the smallest detail I must maintain all options over any outcome, or I become a wreck. Both of my exes consider me a control freak.
I have to agree with them.
I've been country and western dancing for about 15 years now and it wasn't until this past April when I finally began to learn to follow. I tried to learn to follow when I first started. God knows I tried.
I was a disaster. Unmitigated. Total. Abject. Falure at following. I was about to give up when a sharp eyed dance instructor pulled me aside and asked a rather pointed question;
"Honey what do you like in bed?"
Thinking this was the worst pick up line I had ever heard (though he was cute, but I digress,) I said;
"I'm sorry, but that's a little personal given I'm just here to learn to dance".
He smiled and said;
"Just answer the question, are you a top or bottom? I only ask because it will make this easier for you if I know."
Amazed at his candor but eager to figure out where on earth he was going with this I replied,
"I like to pitch."
His reply was one word,
"Lead."
I've been leading ever since.
It's stereotypical for sure, but once I was starting off facing the line of dance and not having my back to it, I was like a duck in water. It came easy. It was graceful.
I was good.
But with all the drama of this year, a former partner who's changing sexes on me, a lost job and turning 40, I figured in for a penny in for a pound right? I made an agreement with myself that I would begin to surrender control and just let things happen. After years of needing to be in control, it was time to take a break and let someone else worry about it.
Which brings me to following and Lawrence.
My friend Lawrence asked me to dance the first night I returned back to country and western dancing. Tall, handsome and incredibly sweet Lawrence is an amazing dancer. Fearless on the floor he leads as gracefully as he follows. The man knows every line dance. Gifted with boundless energy and a disarming charm, Lawrence makes all of his dance partners feel at ease.
So on that first 2 step, I explained to Lawrence that in all the time I've been dancing I'd never learned to follow. A mischevious grin breaks across his face. Lawrence has a mission.
Never give a Taurean a mission.
On the ensuing dance I find myself facing the wrong way. Lawrence is a stern but patient teacher. He pardons my failings. He's generous with praise and tactful with corrections. He is everything a good instructor should be.
Best of all, he doesn't let me quit. As I find myself in this odd position of being out of control, I sense the fear welling. What if I make a mistake? Oh my God, what if I look bad in front of all of these people?!?! And on my first night back?!?!
Good Lord Mary, get over it.
I did.
It still doesn't feel natural to me, but I am becoming a better follow. Time, the patience of good leads and my willingness to be open will only allow me to improve. I am becoming ok with leaving someone else in charge for a change, well at least on the dance floor.
Only time will tell about the rest.
So last night, I ran into the flyboy. The handsome doctor/lawyer whom I wrote a bit ungenerously about a couple of weeks ago. He's sweet and kind, and my literary treatment of him did not do him the justice he deserves.
He and I danced last night. It was glorious to hold him even if it was for only a few transitory moments. We chatted a bit and it was there. Still. This odd sense of attaction. On both our parts, and for a moment, it felt like he gave into it. But as with a couple of weeks ago, he pulled away.
It's maddening.
I would like there to be more, but I know I can't push. All I can do is be me, and if that is enough then he'll respond. The rest is out of my hands.
Wait! That means it's out of my control.
*sigh* Maddening indeed.
Friday, September 11, 2009
In Remembrance
8 years ago today, I was still married to my first husband Steven. The romantic part of our relationship had ended and we had taken to sleeping in separate rooms. For some reason, I had slept through my alarm and woke with a start as the morning sun filtered into my room.
As is customary, I flipped on the TV as a headed to the shower. As I began my morning routine in haste due to my late awakening, I caught the phrase "towers are on fire" eminating from the television. I stuck my head out of the bathroom in time to see the first tower collapse.
As with most Americans that day, I was in shock. Not realizing what was going on, I bolted down the hallway to Steven's room and said "babe you need to see this". He looked at me, saw I was scared and immedately grabbed me and pulled me into his warm embrace.
After making me feel safe, which was his great talent, he came with me down the hall to my room and we watched together in horror the unfolding scene. Coming to my senses, I announced I needed to get to work. Steven looked at me with those steel blue eyes and begged me to stay.
I couldn't.
Two months prior I had taken a position with Kaiser Permanente. As a department director, I was a first responder and was required to be at the facility during times of disaster. I assured Steven I would be getting called at any moment, and that my duty required me to go.
Knowing I was right, he let me go, reluctantly.
I rushed out of the house and headed to work. As I drove down 880 toward the Dumbarton Bridge, I noticed two things. No traffic and shell shocked drivers.
I approached the toll plaza noticing again, the complete lack of traffic. It was as if I was out on an early Sunday morning. The buzz of activity that is the hallmark of Bay Area freeways, hushed as a psalm.
I handed my fare to the toll taker but she refused, saying "we're not taking fares, the national guard thinks it's too risky". I noticed for the first time that national guard units were flanking the toll gates. A young sargent waved me though the toll plaza and I watched in my rear view mirror as the bridge was literally closed behind me.
It was surreal.
Realizing I had no radio at work, I stopped at a Target store on the way into the hospital. Barely 9 in the morning and the lot was packed. I rush in and see panic buying for the first time since the Loma Prieta earthquake in '89.
I grab a radio, one of the last on the shelf. After what seemed like an eternity, I'm out of the checkstand and headed back to my car. It's funny the things that go through your mind as a disaster unfolds around you.
It was hot that morning. Indian Summer had arrived in the Bay Area, something us natives looked forward to. While the rest of the country basks in the June and July sun, SF is usually socked in by the ubiquitous fog that my native Bay is known for. September and October were the Bay's summer months.
The heat reminded me that it was also hot those October days not long ago when the ground shook and fires raged. Both Loma Prieta and the Oakland Hills Fire had occured on days just like this. Hot, acrid and hazy the late summer, early fall sun slung low in the sky.
As I sat in my office, listening to the news coverage, I began to write. What follows is what came out of me that day. I post this in rememberance of that day, and those innocent souls who were lost to a needless malice.
Autumn's Ashes
We are a nation of ashes.
A Phoenix people.
A Nation with a foundation built upon fallen empires.
Made of Native bones and timber.
Her joices raised by the sweat and toil of slaves.
Her Roof divided by intransigent Rebels.
Mended by Battle Hymns, and penitent blood.
This young temple, this last best hope for freedom has held.
Fast against beligerent Teutonic bears, and ambitious Rising Suns.
Her guardians are strong.
Her worshipers many.
Twin columns fell today.
Smote in defiant challenge.
Unnatural rain falls hard on Manhattan.
Brick and bone and flesh.
And from this unholy hail,
The Phoenix people will mix.
We will mix as we hear the bell toll.
We will mix by the torch's light.
We will mix as our stars blaze white in a field of blue.
We people of alchemy.
We will blend the ancient ash with the new.
And from this Martyr’s mortar,
We will
The
Firebird
To
Rise.
As is customary, I flipped on the TV as a headed to the shower. As I began my morning routine in haste due to my late awakening, I caught the phrase "towers are on fire" eminating from the television. I stuck my head out of the bathroom in time to see the first tower collapse.
As with most Americans that day, I was in shock. Not realizing what was going on, I bolted down the hallway to Steven's room and said "babe you need to see this". He looked at me, saw I was scared and immedately grabbed me and pulled me into his warm embrace.
After making me feel safe, which was his great talent, he came with me down the hall to my room and we watched together in horror the unfolding scene. Coming to my senses, I announced I needed to get to work. Steven looked at me with those steel blue eyes and begged me to stay.
I couldn't.
Two months prior I had taken a position with Kaiser Permanente. As a department director, I was a first responder and was required to be at the facility during times of disaster. I assured Steven I would be getting called at any moment, and that my duty required me to go.
Knowing I was right, he let me go, reluctantly.
I rushed out of the house and headed to work. As I drove down 880 toward the Dumbarton Bridge, I noticed two things. No traffic and shell shocked drivers.
I approached the toll plaza noticing again, the complete lack of traffic. It was as if I was out on an early Sunday morning. The buzz of activity that is the hallmark of Bay Area freeways, hushed as a psalm.
I handed my fare to the toll taker but she refused, saying "we're not taking fares, the national guard thinks it's too risky". I noticed for the first time that national guard units were flanking the toll gates. A young sargent waved me though the toll plaza and I watched in my rear view mirror as the bridge was literally closed behind me.
It was surreal.
Realizing I had no radio at work, I stopped at a Target store on the way into the hospital. Barely 9 in the morning and the lot was packed. I rush in and see panic buying for the first time since the Loma Prieta earthquake in '89.
I grab a radio, one of the last on the shelf. After what seemed like an eternity, I'm out of the checkstand and headed back to my car. It's funny the things that go through your mind as a disaster unfolds around you.
It was hot that morning. Indian Summer had arrived in the Bay Area, something us natives looked forward to. While the rest of the country basks in the June and July sun, SF is usually socked in by the ubiquitous fog that my native Bay is known for. September and October were the Bay's summer months.
The heat reminded me that it was also hot those October days not long ago when the ground shook and fires raged. Both Loma Prieta and the Oakland Hills Fire had occured on days just like this. Hot, acrid and hazy the late summer, early fall sun slung low in the sky.
As I sat in my office, listening to the news coverage, I began to write. What follows is what came out of me that day. I post this in rememberance of that day, and those innocent souls who were lost to a needless malice.
Autumn's Ashes
We are a nation of ashes.
A Phoenix people.
A Nation with a foundation built upon fallen empires.
Made of Native bones and timber.
Her joices raised by the sweat and toil of slaves.
Her Roof divided by intransigent Rebels.
Mended by Battle Hymns, and penitent blood.
This young temple, this last best hope for freedom has held.
Fast against beligerent Teutonic bears, and ambitious Rising Suns.
Her guardians are strong.
Her worshipers many.
Twin columns fell today.
Smote in defiant challenge.
Unnatural rain falls hard on Manhattan.
Brick and bone and flesh.
And from this unholy hail,
The Phoenix people will mix.
We will mix as we hear the bell toll.
We will mix by the torch's light.
We will mix as our stars blaze white in a field of blue.
We people of alchemy.
We will blend the ancient ash with the new.
And from this Martyr’s mortar,
We will
The
Firebird
To
Rise.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
The Observer
Writers are one part observers. We watch and absorb. Drinking in experiences, moments and storing them for later use.
Another part of the writer's make up is that of documentarian. Recording the past between dotted i's and crossed t's. Making sense of events that have transpired, bringing order to chaotic memory.
The best part of a writer though is that of the storyteller. For those of us who tend to the craft of the written word, be we professional or plucky novice, it is in the end the story that matters most. Conveying in our own unique way our vision, our observations, our comments on the world as we see, experience, and live in it.
I've always enjoyed writing. Since I was a boy, I would make up stories and regale my family and friends with them. Common notes to be found on my earliest report cards from my instructors included "vivid imagination" and "full of ideas".
Not much has changed.
One of my most common writing devices is poetry. I've always enjoyed conjuring images of orphic legend, and mystical whimsy. Poetry lends its self well to that end.
This though, this free form writing style has not always been easy for me. The mechanics are simple enough. Both time and training have brought out in me a skill and deftness in writing style that I have come to be proud of.
No the difficulty for me has always been being honest when I write. It is far too easy to to take license with a past recollection. To not be totally truthful, and to modify or reorder events so that the "story" I tell sounds better.
For this reason, I spent most of my time writing poems. In that medium, the words "truth" and "lie" mean nothing. The work simply is.
Yet a funny thing happened on the way to my free formed writing. Much of the poetry I've written over the past several years has taken on a totally different aire. The truth of things I tried to avoid within my free formed writing crept into my poetry.
There is credibility in the old maxum "truth will out".
So I am going to post some of the poems I have written, since many of them share truths about me I still have a hard time expressing in free form writing. Some of the poems will have commentary from me, and others will not. If you are reading my blog I charge you with the reponsibility to draw your own conclusions. Fill in your own gaps. Take up the 1st role of a writer. Watch. See.
Observe.
I'll start with the poem where this blog draws it's name from.
Shards of Self
This mirror is broken.
Angry shards glare from the bottom of the tub.
Red rain falls on cold porcelain.
Dead glass glitters at me.
Truthful facets revealed,
In silver paper
peeling away
from paste.
In this room where no daystar enters, This gaping maw of sterile white oblivion,
Reversed reflection is reality.
For mirrors know no fidelity.
A false gem too late discovered.
This ancient need and newborn ignorance, caused a warp
In the weft of my weave.
Cruel fate, my Demigod does not defend.
Penelope must take the Implacable Suitors' hand.
Crimson red I drip away.
Upon fragments of sharp,
silver backed,
glass.
For Walt, Oscar and Alan
Listen!
Listen to a voice that echoes out
And back again!
Listen to my elegy of
Sophistry!
Gone is naieve faith.
Eye Sockets gape.
Ripped open by the cruel Hands of men in cassocks.
Evil was Taught me by women in habits.
Raw my Wicked flesh was laid.
My wounds salted With a callow Catechism, infused with
Puritan past steeped in parched tradition
Like so many Hebrew scrolls.
Black robed Pipers
led me to their earth bound
Perdition.
Fallible hands from Levitican Words
artfully fashioned my stained glass
Prison.
They reviled me, with self-righteous
Gazes of disdain.
With these silent stones
They cast in malice my soul was shattered.
For I dared to Love Unnatural.
Still
I yearn.
For my Messianic Percivle's body
and his Blood tinged grail that cups
my salvation.
Rice Paddy Legacy
He was 19 when called.
The dropout drafted by
Family first, country second.
Birthed from Huey's belly,
Into wet green squares of
Afterbirth.
Home he bore His nightmares and loosed
Them on my youth.
He
Medicated with pale Horse
And bankrupt Spirits.
I hated this rice paddy
Soldier.
My childhood stolen
By a greedy Uncle Sam.
The warrior awoke to answer
The cries of younger siblings.
His chemical haze lifted by
Track meets and football games.
And I was forgotten.
Here alone.
In muted green anguish I circle.
Orbiting my Scorpion star
In frozen
Plutonian rage.
Another part of the writer's make up is that of documentarian. Recording the past between dotted i's and crossed t's. Making sense of events that have transpired, bringing order to chaotic memory.
The best part of a writer though is that of the storyteller. For those of us who tend to the craft of the written word, be we professional or plucky novice, it is in the end the story that matters most. Conveying in our own unique way our vision, our observations, our comments on the world as we see, experience, and live in it.
I've always enjoyed writing. Since I was a boy, I would make up stories and regale my family and friends with them. Common notes to be found on my earliest report cards from my instructors included "vivid imagination" and "full of ideas".
Not much has changed.
One of my most common writing devices is poetry. I've always enjoyed conjuring images of orphic legend, and mystical whimsy. Poetry lends its self well to that end.
This though, this free form writing style has not always been easy for me. The mechanics are simple enough. Both time and training have brought out in me a skill and deftness in writing style that I have come to be proud of.
No the difficulty for me has always been being honest when I write. It is far too easy to to take license with a past recollection. To not be totally truthful, and to modify or reorder events so that the "story" I tell sounds better.
For this reason, I spent most of my time writing poems. In that medium, the words "truth" and "lie" mean nothing. The work simply is.
Yet a funny thing happened on the way to my free formed writing. Much of the poetry I've written over the past several years has taken on a totally different aire. The truth of things I tried to avoid within my free formed writing crept into my poetry.
There is credibility in the old maxum "truth will out".
So I am going to post some of the poems I have written, since many of them share truths about me I still have a hard time expressing in free form writing. Some of the poems will have commentary from me, and others will not. If you are reading my blog I charge you with the reponsibility to draw your own conclusions. Fill in your own gaps. Take up the 1st role of a writer. Watch. See.
Observe.
I'll start with the poem where this blog draws it's name from.
Shards of Self
This mirror is broken.
Angry shards glare from the bottom of the tub.
Red rain falls on cold porcelain.
Dead glass glitters at me.
Truthful facets revealed,
In silver paper
peeling away
from paste.
In this room where no daystar enters, This gaping maw of sterile white oblivion,
Reversed reflection is reality.
For mirrors know no fidelity.
A false gem too late discovered.
This ancient need and newborn ignorance, caused a warp
In the weft of my weave.
Cruel fate, my Demigod does not defend.
Penelope must take the Implacable Suitors' hand.
Crimson red I drip away.
Upon fragments of sharp,
silver backed,
glass.
For Walt, Oscar and Alan
Listen!
Listen to a voice that echoes out
And back again!
Listen to my elegy of
Sophistry!
Gone is naieve faith.
Eye Sockets gape.
Ripped open by the cruel Hands of men in cassocks.
Evil was Taught me by women in habits.
Raw my Wicked flesh was laid.
My wounds salted With a callow Catechism, infused with
Puritan past steeped in parched tradition
Like so many Hebrew scrolls.
Black robed Pipers
led me to their earth bound
Perdition.
Fallible hands from Levitican Words
artfully fashioned my stained glass
Prison.
They reviled me, with self-righteous
Gazes of disdain.
With these silent stones
They cast in malice my soul was shattered.
For I dared to Love Unnatural.
Still
I yearn.
For my Messianic Percivle's body
and his Blood tinged grail that cups
my salvation.
Rice Paddy Legacy
He was 19 when called.
The dropout drafted by
Family first, country second.
Birthed from Huey's belly,
Into wet green squares of
Afterbirth.
Home he bore His nightmares and loosed
Them on my youth.
He
Medicated with pale Horse
And bankrupt Spirits.
I hated this rice paddy
Soldier.
My childhood stolen
By a greedy Uncle Sam.
The warrior awoke to answer
The cries of younger siblings.
His chemical haze lifted by
Track meets and football games.
And I was forgotten.
Here alone.
In muted green anguish I circle.
Orbiting my Scorpion star
In frozen
Plutonian rage.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Blondie and Jeff
My writing process is funny to most. I seldom read or edit what I write for content. What ends up on the page pretty much is what I feel the moment I type it. I guess I have a good internal editor that keeps everything in focus and on point.
I know this is a blessing and I don't question it. I simply accept the gift and write. Sometimes it's painful, to reread what has spilled out of me. My writing seems so raw, viseral and otherworldly that there has been more then one moment, I've nearly consigned it all to oblivion. A "delete" and done.
But I think better of it and continue on. Life is like that, you make mistakes, have regrets grow from them and move on. I've accepted this cycle as the way things are, and live accordingly.
So about one of those regrets.
In an ealier post, I mentioned a friend who took me to the Midnight Sun and then to the Rawhide. This post is about him, and a long held regret I've had. Blondie is so much more than a friend, he is my touchstone.
Allow me to explain.
Long ago when I was in my 20's, I stumbled upon gay.com. This discovery helped me to explore what it was to be gay for me, and paved the way for my coming out. I had it easier than most. My folks, brothers and friends were all accepting, supportive and loving. Again I realize this is a gift and I am grateful everyday to be that rich in supportive people.
One of the first people I met on gay.com was my friend James. James is the epitome of beautiful. Classically handsome, sweet and the biggest heart this side of a whale or labrador. There is no artifice with James, he is real down to the core of his being.
I didn't have to act the straight, macho, barrio boy with James. I got to be me. James was the first person to know me without the mask. That cleverly fashioned device society, culture, religion imposes upon, no demands of young Latino men. The young gay man who saw promise of love in every man's smile.
It was freedom. It was liberation. It was but the first gift given me by Blondie.
When I met James, it was like I already knew him. We fell in easily with each other. Conspiritorial winks, knowing looks. It's as if there was a time and place before where we had known each other and been connected. It was and still is an important relationship for me.
I had been there for him when he broke up with his boyfriend. He had been there for me as my young gay heart was bruised by my first forays into dating men. James kept me from becoming a classically jaded gay man. His wisdom and compassion kept me sane, gave me hope and a goal to aspire to.
Forget Michael Jordan. When I grew up I wanted to be like James. I still do.
James and I would frequent the Rawhide every Friday and Saturday religously during those heady days of the 90's. The Rawhide in the 90's was like San Francisco's Studio 54. Everybody wanted to go, and the place was always packed. I had a front row seat to it all thanks to James.
Not long after James' break up, I met another man. His name was Jeff. Dashing, clever, funny, never a more beautiful pair of eyes had I seen. I had orginally entertained the idea of dating Jeff. He and I met and found in each other more comedy than chemistry. I wasn't crushed, rather grateful for a new friend.
Jeff had been there for me too. Gay Rodeo Weekend I was on my way down to San Jose to meet Jeff. We were going to head to some of the events and then to the big dance afterward. On my way down I was rearended by another vehicle barely escaping serious injury. It was Jeff who came and rescued me from the side of the Nimitz.
He mothered me that day as only a gay Jewish man can. He tended me, cared for me. Made sure I was comfortable. Through his ministrations, I shook off the shock of the accident and we managed to go 2stepping that evening.
It takes more then a car crash to keep this cowboy off the dance floor. But I digress.
It was Jeff's sweetness and attentiveness that put a wild idea in my head. I had danced with both of these men at the Rawhide and I had even introduced them to each other one night. James had said to me after meeting Jeff "that one could be dangerous for me".
Matchmaker, matchmaker bring me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch.....
So I ask them both to meet me at the Rawhide. As always, they were both gracious and defferential. They agree not knowing what I intended. So I arrive with James and along comes Jeff.
Can you say skyrockets?
I whisper to James "sorry sweetie I have a date, you're on your own with Jeff". If looks could kill I would have been powder on the pavement. Yet I knew even in that "oh no you DIDN'T!" look there was joy. Pure, unadulterated, real joy. I made my goodbyes to both of these men who I had come to love and respect as friends, brothers, family and excused myself.
They have been together ever since.
These men made it a point to include me in everything. Gratitude for the small part I played on the grand stage that is their love. The inexorable, unshakeable, eternal love these two share.
And I abused that love. This dear readers is my unpardonable sin. My regret.
I allowed myself to become distant from these two men who I loved best of all. Distant to the point where they became a photo on a dresser. A memento of a life past as I walled myself away in my exurban chrysalis. Shadows and shades in a distant memory.
Then a month ago, through the miracle that is Facebook, I get an invitation. From James. "I've been looking for you FOREVER! I miss you!"
And I burst into sobs. Deep soul wrenching on the floor in the fetal position sobs. Despite all the time that has passed between us, James misses me.
My Blondie misses me.
So this past Friday my dear sweet friend invites me to his 4th photographic exhibition. I arrive in San Jose at First Friday. A gathering of motley artists that occurs every 1st Friday of the month. There amid the digitially captured colorful clowns of Venitian carnaval meticulously framed by his lover Jeff, I see James.
My Blondie.
And all the ache and hurt and pain of the last year fall from me in the glow of that smile that rivals the daystar this little orb circles. We embrace and its as if no time has passed at all. There within the booths of framed art it is still there the love that these two men share. Strong and vibrant as the day it was born in front of the Rawhide.
I stay for the whole event. I assist with the break down and then we have a drink at the local gay pub. As we sit there amid our drinks and the throbbing music that is ubiquitous among young queers of every generation, Blondie leans over and says: "Thank you again for introducing us, I have never known happiness like this before".
No Blondie, thank you. Thank you for all that you and Jeff have given me. Thank you both for your friendship and comfort. The two of you have given me the greatest gift I could ever receive. Allowing me to bear witness to what God's grace truly is:
Love.
And I will always always always be grateful to both of you for this.
My Northern Stars.
I know this is a blessing and I don't question it. I simply accept the gift and write. Sometimes it's painful, to reread what has spilled out of me. My writing seems so raw, viseral and otherworldly that there has been more then one moment, I've nearly consigned it all to oblivion. A "delete" and done.
But I think better of it and continue on. Life is like that, you make mistakes, have regrets grow from them and move on. I've accepted this cycle as the way things are, and live accordingly.
So about one of those regrets.
In an ealier post, I mentioned a friend who took me to the Midnight Sun and then to the Rawhide. This post is about him, and a long held regret I've had. Blondie is so much more than a friend, he is my touchstone.
Allow me to explain.
Long ago when I was in my 20's, I stumbled upon gay.com. This discovery helped me to explore what it was to be gay for me, and paved the way for my coming out. I had it easier than most. My folks, brothers and friends were all accepting, supportive and loving. Again I realize this is a gift and I am grateful everyday to be that rich in supportive people.
One of the first people I met on gay.com was my friend James. James is the epitome of beautiful. Classically handsome, sweet and the biggest heart this side of a whale or labrador. There is no artifice with James, he is real down to the core of his being.
I didn't have to act the straight, macho, barrio boy with James. I got to be me. James was the first person to know me without the mask. That cleverly fashioned device society, culture, religion imposes upon, no demands of young Latino men. The young gay man who saw promise of love in every man's smile.
It was freedom. It was liberation. It was but the first gift given me by Blondie.
When I met James, it was like I already knew him. We fell in easily with each other. Conspiritorial winks, knowing looks. It's as if there was a time and place before where we had known each other and been connected. It was and still is an important relationship for me.
I had been there for him when he broke up with his boyfriend. He had been there for me as my young gay heart was bruised by my first forays into dating men. James kept me from becoming a classically jaded gay man. His wisdom and compassion kept me sane, gave me hope and a goal to aspire to.
Forget Michael Jordan. When I grew up I wanted to be like James. I still do.
James and I would frequent the Rawhide every Friday and Saturday religously during those heady days of the 90's. The Rawhide in the 90's was like San Francisco's Studio 54. Everybody wanted to go, and the place was always packed. I had a front row seat to it all thanks to James.
Not long after James' break up, I met another man. His name was Jeff. Dashing, clever, funny, never a more beautiful pair of eyes had I seen. I had orginally entertained the idea of dating Jeff. He and I met and found in each other more comedy than chemistry. I wasn't crushed, rather grateful for a new friend.
Jeff had been there for me too. Gay Rodeo Weekend I was on my way down to San Jose to meet Jeff. We were going to head to some of the events and then to the big dance afterward. On my way down I was rearended by another vehicle barely escaping serious injury. It was Jeff who came and rescued me from the side of the Nimitz.
He mothered me that day as only a gay Jewish man can. He tended me, cared for me. Made sure I was comfortable. Through his ministrations, I shook off the shock of the accident and we managed to go 2stepping that evening.
It takes more then a car crash to keep this cowboy off the dance floor. But I digress.
It was Jeff's sweetness and attentiveness that put a wild idea in my head. I had danced with both of these men at the Rawhide and I had even introduced them to each other one night. James had said to me after meeting Jeff "that one could be dangerous for me".
Matchmaker, matchmaker bring me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch.....
So I ask them both to meet me at the Rawhide. As always, they were both gracious and defferential. They agree not knowing what I intended. So I arrive with James and along comes Jeff.
Can you say skyrockets?
I whisper to James "sorry sweetie I have a date, you're on your own with Jeff". If looks could kill I would have been powder on the pavement. Yet I knew even in that "oh no you DIDN'T!" look there was joy. Pure, unadulterated, real joy. I made my goodbyes to both of these men who I had come to love and respect as friends, brothers, family and excused myself.
They have been together ever since.
These men made it a point to include me in everything. Gratitude for the small part I played on the grand stage that is their love. The inexorable, unshakeable, eternal love these two share.
And I abused that love. This dear readers is my unpardonable sin. My regret.
I allowed myself to become distant from these two men who I loved best of all. Distant to the point where they became a photo on a dresser. A memento of a life past as I walled myself away in my exurban chrysalis. Shadows and shades in a distant memory.
Then a month ago, through the miracle that is Facebook, I get an invitation. From James. "I've been looking for you FOREVER! I miss you!"
And I burst into sobs. Deep soul wrenching on the floor in the fetal position sobs. Despite all the time that has passed between us, James misses me.
My Blondie misses me.
So this past Friday my dear sweet friend invites me to his 4th photographic exhibition. I arrive in San Jose at First Friday. A gathering of motley artists that occurs every 1st Friday of the month. There amid the digitially captured colorful clowns of Venitian carnaval meticulously framed by his lover Jeff, I see James.
My Blondie.
And all the ache and hurt and pain of the last year fall from me in the glow of that smile that rivals the daystar this little orb circles. We embrace and its as if no time has passed at all. There within the booths of framed art it is still there the love that these two men share. Strong and vibrant as the day it was born in front of the Rawhide.
I stay for the whole event. I assist with the break down and then we have a drink at the local gay pub. As we sit there amid our drinks and the throbbing music that is ubiquitous among young queers of every generation, Blondie leans over and says: "Thank you again for introducing us, I have never known happiness like this before".
No Blondie, thank you. Thank you for all that you and Jeff have given me. Thank you both for your friendship and comfort. The two of you have given me the greatest gift I could ever receive. Allowing me to bear witness to what God's grace truly is:
Love.
And I will always always always be grateful to both of you for this.
My Northern Stars.
September and everything after
*sigh* Men.
My sleep schedule is once again all off. Went to bed at 2am tossed and turned most of the night and am now up wide awake at 7:30am bright eyed and bushy tailed. What might men have to do with this?
Perhaps it's because I am trying to date again. Lord knows why. As if there isn't enough instability and upset in my life at the moment. But then this is my nature; to pour gasoline on a fire. Rather then use some medium to extinguish the blaze, I'm busy feeding the conflagration.
I don't know why I do these things to myself.
I am clearly not ready to date again. I am still not happy with the way I look. No I'm not body dysmorphic or one of those gay body nazis who counts every bicep rep and calorie.
I just am not satisfied with my appearance. It took years to baloon up to the size I was and in 7 months I've dropped a lot of weight. Of course I want it all now, the waist, the chest, the arms and the man. True to my Aries nature, I'm not big on patience.
I'm still unemployed. The longest stretch of unemployment for me since my senior year of high school. Then I wanted to enjoy my last year and all the events that go with it.
Now, I just can't find anything. I got my Master's degree thinking it would help me find a job. Instead it's been a hinderance. I'm beginning to hate the word "overqualified".
Which brings me full circle back to the dilemma of men.
As I've been out rekindling my passion for various things I loved to do before "the relationship" ended those pursuits, I keep encountering guys I find attractive. Yet, due to the above mentioned drawbacks, said men are wholly unatainable at the moment. I mean who wants to date a overweight, unemployed, loser right?
Granted, despite my present outward appearance and employment status I do have a couple of things going for me. I have a masculine demeanor, which in the gay world is akin to catnip. Everyone wants the straight acting and looking guy. I'm a beer drinkin', muscle car drivin', sports watchin', country music listenin' fag. There ain't too many fellas like me around and consequently I'm attractive because of my rarity.
I also look good in a cowboy hat, but I digress.
So there have been more than a couple of men as of late who have expressed a spark of interest. Take for example this latest foray. I met this gentleman last Saturday. Here's a man with two professional degrees, a former armed forces officer, avid boxer, swimmer. Loves professional baseball, sailing and is "ohmygod" beautiful. Blue eyes, shaved head, killer smile and body.
This man approached me.
Me.
So we dance a great deal on Saturday evening. He confessing a desire to become a better follow after years of being a lead, me willing to oblige. As I lead him on the floor our manner is easy, smooth. Sometimes you just get lucky and you find you have good dance chemistry with a new partner. This was one of those times.
We have an absolute blast, and to my utter surprise and shock, he gives me his card. He asks me to call him, as he'd like to get to know me better. Then he gives me a kiss goodnight.
Wow.
So I shoot him an email upon arriving home late Saturday evening letting him know I'll be in the city Sunday to dance again. I invite him to an early dinner if he has time, no pressure no worries, trying to be as casual as possible about it.
He accepts. We dine. The body language is open. Interested. Attracted even. Earlier he had stated he had a number of things to do, so he wouldn't be able to go dancing. Suddenly he announces he'd like to go.
And foolishly I allow myself to think that maybe, just maybe there could be something here.
I offer a ride, he declines. He doesn't want me to have to leave early on his account. I rebuff his refusal, telling him that I usually leave early on consecutive nights of dancing anyway. He smiles. Did I mention the smile? The "resistanceisfutile" smile?
So we go to Sundance. We dance and dance. It's wonderful and hot as blazes as usual. He removes his tee-shirt to reveal what I had only imagined; "thedamnthatmanishawt" body. Tanned, toned just the right amount of hairy. He's stunning.
Can you see it coming? Yep, I falter. Up until the "big reveal" I am confident. Cool. I couldn't care less what anyone thought about seeing me with him.
But that shirt comes off and suddenly, I'm the big fat unemployed loser again. In my mind I am the object of scorn and looks of "what on earth is HE doing with HIM?!?"
I deflate like a baloon shot through with a slung stone. Sadly, I know he sensed it and just like that, the spell was broken. We dance one last time, and as the song ends he turns to me on the dance floor looks me in the eye and leans in to kiss me.......on the cheek.
And I know.
I ask if he's ready to go, and he answers in the affirmative, the slightest hint of regret in his eyes. I drop him off in front of his place. A light peck on the lips from him followed by the coup de grace statement "you're a sweetie". Translated: "what on earth was I thinking?"
As I drive away into another San Francisco summer night that began with such promise and ended the only way it could a lyric popped into my head:
I walk along these hillsides In the summer 'neath the sunshine/
I am fettered by the moonlight falling down on me/
Change, change, change.
Irony can be cruel sometimes.
My sleep schedule is once again all off. Went to bed at 2am tossed and turned most of the night and am now up wide awake at 7:30am bright eyed and bushy tailed. What might men have to do with this?
Perhaps it's because I am trying to date again. Lord knows why. As if there isn't enough instability and upset in my life at the moment. But then this is my nature; to pour gasoline on a fire. Rather then use some medium to extinguish the blaze, I'm busy feeding the conflagration.
I don't know why I do these things to myself.
I am clearly not ready to date again. I am still not happy with the way I look. No I'm not body dysmorphic or one of those gay body nazis who counts every bicep rep and calorie.
I just am not satisfied with my appearance. It took years to baloon up to the size I was and in 7 months I've dropped a lot of weight. Of course I want it all now, the waist, the chest, the arms and the man. True to my Aries nature, I'm not big on patience.
I'm still unemployed. The longest stretch of unemployment for me since my senior year of high school. Then I wanted to enjoy my last year and all the events that go with it.
Now, I just can't find anything. I got my Master's degree thinking it would help me find a job. Instead it's been a hinderance. I'm beginning to hate the word "overqualified".
Which brings me full circle back to the dilemma of men.
As I've been out rekindling my passion for various things I loved to do before "the relationship" ended those pursuits, I keep encountering guys I find attractive. Yet, due to the above mentioned drawbacks, said men are wholly unatainable at the moment. I mean who wants to date a overweight, unemployed, loser right?
Granted, despite my present outward appearance and employment status I do have a couple of things going for me. I have a masculine demeanor, which in the gay world is akin to catnip. Everyone wants the straight acting and looking guy. I'm a beer drinkin', muscle car drivin', sports watchin', country music listenin' fag. There ain't too many fellas like me around and consequently I'm attractive because of my rarity.
I also look good in a cowboy hat, but I digress.
So there have been more than a couple of men as of late who have expressed a spark of interest. Take for example this latest foray. I met this gentleman last Saturday. Here's a man with two professional degrees, a former armed forces officer, avid boxer, swimmer. Loves professional baseball, sailing and is "ohmygod" beautiful. Blue eyes, shaved head, killer smile and body.
This man approached me.
Me.
So we dance a great deal on Saturday evening. He confessing a desire to become a better follow after years of being a lead, me willing to oblige. As I lead him on the floor our manner is easy, smooth. Sometimes you just get lucky and you find you have good dance chemistry with a new partner. This was one of those times.
We have an absolute blast, and to my utter surprise and shock, he gives me his card. He asks me to call him, as he'd like to get to know me better. Then he gives me a kiss goodnight.
Wow.
So I shoot him an email upon arriving home late Saturday evening letting him know I'll be in the city Sunday to dance again. I invite him to an early dinner if he has time, no pressure no worries, trying to be as casual as possible about it.
He accepts. We dine. The body language is open. Interested. Attracted even. Earlier he had stated he had a number of things to do, so he wouldn't be able to go dancing. Suddenly he announces he'd like to go.
And foolishly I allow myself to think that maybe, just maybe there could be something here.
I offer a ride, he declines. He doesn't want me to have to leave early on his account. I rebuff his refusal, telling him that I usually leave early on consecutive nights of dancing anyway. He smiles. Did I mention the smile? The "resistanceisfutile" smile?
So we go to Sundance. We dance and dance. It's wonderful and hot as blazes as usual. He removes his tee-shirt to reveal what I had only imagined; "thedamnthatmanishawt" body. Tanned, toned just the right amount of hairy. He's stunning.
Can you see it coming? Yep, I falter. Up until the "big reveal" I am confident. Cool. I couldn't care less what anyone thought about seeing me with him.
But that shirt comes off and suddenly, I'm the big fat unemployed loser again. In my mind I am the object of scorn and looks of "what on earth is HE doing with HIM?!?"
I deflate like a baloon shot through with a slung stone. Sadly, I know he sensed it and just like that, the spell was broken. We dance one last time, and as the song ends he turns to me on the dance floor looks me in the eye and leans in to kiss me.......on the cheek.
And I know.
I ask if he's ready to go, and he answers in the affirmative, the slightest hint of regret in his eyes. I drop him off in front of his place. A light peck on the lips from him followed by the coup de grace statement "you're a sweetie". Translated: "what on earth was I thinking?"
As I drive away into another San Francisco summer night that began with such promise and ended the only way it could a lyric popped into my head:
I walk along these hillsides In the summer 'neath the sunshine/
I am fettered by the moonlight falling down on me/
Change, change, change.
Irony can be cruel sometimes.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Compass Points
So I've been feeling like an old jalopy as of late. Backfiring and sputtering my way from one moment to the next never sure if I'm going to make my destination. It's disconcerting, yet I'm glad for the forward motion even if sometimes it's nothing more then inertia.
One thing I am enjoying is the rediscovery of the country and western dance scene. When I was a gay sapling back in the day I was introduced to the Rawhide in San Francisco by a rather circuitous route. I'll set the scene.
It's 1995. 26 year old overweight, shy and scared young homo boy discovers gay.com. He makes some great online friends. A group of them decide to meet. Dinner at Bagdad cafe in the Castro. A grand time is had by all. Until.....
My gay bretheren discover I have never been to a gay bar. Looks ranging from shock to understanding to a mischevious twinkle pass over the faces of my dinner companions. It is decided we shall venture to a bar for a nightcap to expose said young homo to his first meat market...er....gay bar.
And thus was born my first visit to the Midnight Sun, the quintesential twinkie stand and model bar in the Castro. The place is packed. Liza is on the video screen above, and the twinkies look derisively down their noses at said young fat homo boy. I have never in my life felt so out of place and ugly in my life. The only things missing were flying tampons and shouts of "plug it up! plug it up!"
Oh and telekenitic powers that I use to exact my revenge, but I digress.
I flee the Sun. I vow never to return to the Castro where I'm worse than invisible. I'm fat.
A few days later, one of my "friends" calls to apologize. It was all a joke gone horribly wrong. Can I ever forgive them blah blah blah. Sure, I say. I don't hold grudges. My psyche and self esteem will heal.....eventually.
As a gesture my friend says he want's to make it up to me. Meet him at 7th and Folsom on Saturday, and bring my boots and cowboy hat if I have them. I remark I spent my summers on a ranch in the Central Valley, boots and straws are standard issue, and I happen to have both.
So there I am, standing on 7th and Folsom at the appointed time looking up at a sign identifying the bar as the Rawhide II and what appears before my wondering eyes?
Cowboys.
Hot Cowboys.
Hot Gay Cowboys.
The Rawhide is dark and smoky. A small dance space lies just beyond a rutted wooden floor. There is a Remmington bronze perched near the entryway. Steel saddle stools line the bar and the strains of country music poor from a small DJ booth at the far end of the dance floor.
Then I see them. Two men dancing, two stepping across the slanted wooden floor. I swallow hard to clear the welling emotion. My friend sees me and smiles. He steps over and gives me a hug that would become a familar and desired embrace and he gently whispers "welcome home".
And it was. It was warm and familiar and known. I knew these men, and this place even though I'd never set foot in the Rawhide in my life. For once, I finally knew in my deepest being what it felt like to simply belong.
It was glorious.
And yet, twice now I've let that slip away. Twice I've allowed the men in my life to pull me away from that warmth, that sense of belonging. As I blog this, I still don't know why.
In both relationships, initially they shared this communion with me. I'd push them around the dance floor, blissfully sharing the joy that spills from me when I dance with my lovers. We'd smile and sway keeping the 3/4 time of a slow country waltz.
But then we'd go less often. Desires to do other things, or pleas of exahustion, or gripes about the long drive would find me home on dance nights. My joy and relationships slipping away like so many grains of sand.
Yet in my most trying times, I've always come back to country dancing. It has been my safe harbor, my solace and comfort. My place of healing.
I step onto a different dance floor now, as Sundance has supplanted the Rawhide. Though the venue has changed the feeling has not. The magic of that night when I discovered the joy of partner dancing has never faded for me. After 14 years and two husbands it is the dancing that has remained.
My constant, unwaivering pole star.
One thing I am enjoying is the rediscovery of the country and western dance scene. When I was a gay sapling back in the day I was introduced to the Rawhide in San Francisco by a rather circuitous route. I'll set the scene.
It's 1995. 26 year old overweight, shy and scared young homo boy discovers gay.com. He makes some great online friends. A group of them decide to meet. Dinner at Bagdad cafe in the Castro. A grand time is had by all. Until.....
My gay bretheren discover I have never been to a gay bar. Looks ranging from shock to understanding to a mischevious twinkle pass over the faces of my dinner companions. It is decided we shall venture to a bar for a nightcap to expose said young homo to his first meat market...er....gay bar.
And thus was born my first visit to the Midnight Sun, the quintesential twinkie stand and model bar in the Castro. The place is packed. Liza is on the video screen above, and the twinkies look derisively down their noses at said young fat homo boy. I have never in my life felt so out of place and ugly in my life. The only things missing were flying tampons and shouts of "plug it up! plug it up!"
Oh and telekenitic powers that I use to exact my revenge, but I digress.
I flee the Sun. I vow never to return to the Castro where I'm worse than invisible. I'm fat.
A few days later, one of my "friends" calls to apologize. It was all a joke gone horribly wrong. Can I ever forgive them blah blah blah. Sure, I say. I don't hold grudges. My psyche and self esteem will heal.....eventually.
As a gesture my friend says he want's to make it up to me. Meet him at 7th and Folsom on Saturday, and bring my boots and cowboy hat if I have them. I remark I spent my summers on a ranch in the Central Valley, boots and straws are standard issue, and I happen to have both.
So there I am, standing on 7th and Folsom at the appointed time looking up at a sign identifying the bar as the Rawhide II and what appears before my wondering eyes?
Cowboys.
Hot Cowboys.
Hot Gay Cowboys.
The Rawhide is dark and smoky. A small dance space lies just beyond a rutted wooden floor. There is a Remmington bronze perched near the entryway. Steel saddle stools line the bar and the strains of country music poor from a small DJ booth at the far end of the dance floor.
Then I see them. Two men dancing, two stepping across the slanted wooden floor. I swallow hard to clear the welling emotion. My friend sees me and smiles. He steps over and gives me a hug that would become a familar and desired embrace and he gently whispers "welcome home".
And it was. It was warm and familiar and known. I knew these men, and this place even though I'd never set foot in the Rawhide in my life. For once, I finally knew in my deepest being what it felt like to simply belong.
It was glorious.
And yet, twice now I've let that slip away. Twice I've allowed the men in my life to pull me away from that warmth, that sense of belonging. As I blog this, I still don't know why.
In both relationships, initially they shared this communion with me. I'd push them around the dance floor, blissfully sharing the joy that spills from me when I dance with my lovers. We'd smile and sway keeping the 3/4 time of a slow country waltz.
But then we'd go less often. Desires to do other things, or pleas of exahustion, or gripes about the long drive would find me home on dance nights. My joy and relationships slipping away like so many grains of sand.
Yet in my most trying times, I've always come back to country dancing. It has been my safe harbor, my solace and comfort. My place of healing.
I step onto a different dance floor now, as Sundance has supplanted the Rawhide. Though the venue has changed the feeling has not. The magic of that night when I discovered the joy of partner dancing has never faded for me. After 14 years and two husbands it is the dancing that has remained.
My constant, unwaivering pole star.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
East of Barbary
So it's been several months since I've last written. In that time I've had a lot of time to think about my life in general and my former relationship in particular. Rereading my raw posts I can't help but feel a twinge of angst about it all.
I do feel in many ways that something was stolen from me. It's like that cruel moment where someone rips a warm blanket from your sleeping body exposing you to a icy cold room. The shock is sudden and sharp.
Change is like that cold room and change has never come in small bites for me. My life is replete with moments of total and complete upheaval. This episode of universal karmic reordering included. Since February I've lost my job, my relationship, and 50 pounds.
Ok so I'm not grousing about the 50 pounds.
Experience has taught me it's best to embrace change, otherwise you get flattened in its wake. So the interregnum between posts has seen me let go of my former love, reconnect with the country and western dance scene, and an attempt at becoming a physically healthy person again.
This blog is a go at becoming a more emotionally healthy individual.
When I was a boy, I used to keep everything I felt bottled up inside me. So much so that at 15 my pediatrician diagnosed me with bleeding ulcers. This sweet dear man sat me down and told me "son, it's better to speak your mind then hold it all in. The only person who suffers when you don't speak up, ultimately is you".
It was a revelatory moment.
In the tradition of that childhood epiphany, I have decided to commit thought to digital diary as a way to make sense of all that has happened and obtain some kind of peace from it all. No goals, no metrics, no rules. A true attempt at free association.
So consider the first three pain burdened posts prelude to the story that really begins with this entry. I have begun to build a different life here in the outer rings of San Francisco's orbit.
I will find happiness again, and I'll do it here. East of Barbary.
I do feel in many ways that something was stolen from me. It's like that cruel moment where someone rips a warm blanket from your sleeping body exposing you to a icy cold room. The shock is sudden and sharp.
Change is like that cold room and change has never come in small bites for me. My life is replete with moments of total and complete upheaval. This episode of universal karmic reordering included. Since February I've lost my job, my relationship, and 50 pounds.
Ok so I'm not grousing about the 50 pounds.
Experience has taught me it's best to embrace change, otherwise you get flattened in its wake. So the interregnum between posts has seen me let go of my former love, reconnect with the country and western dance scene, and an attempt at becoming a physically healthy person again.
This blog is a go at becoming a more emotionally healthy individual.
When I was a boy, I used to keep everything I felt bottled up inside me. So much so that at 15 my pediatrician diagnosed me with bleeding ulcers. This sweet dear man sat me down and told me "son, it's better to speak your mind then hold it all in. The only person who suffers when you don't speak up, ultimately is you".
It was a revelatory moment.
In the tradition of that childhood epiphany, I have decided to commit thought to digital diary as a way to make sense of all that has happened and obtain some kind of peace from it all. No goals, no metrics, no rules. A true attempt at free association.
So consider the first three pain burdened posts prelude to the story that really begins with this entry. I have begun to build a different life here in the outer rings of San Francisco's orbit.
I will find happiness again, and I'll do it here. East of Barbary.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Searching For Grace
So now that it's out in the open, it's my turn to decide. Our relationship was, is founded on acceptance. No secrets, no fear, no lies not matter how hard the truth is to say or hear.
So how do I accept this?
How do I accept his desire, need to be a woman? How do I say "OK" to the one thing that will end irrevocably and without question the relationship we have built? How do I bring myself to let him, our life, all of it go without a fight?
And I want to fight. With every cell in my body. With all the strength and courage I can muster I want so bad to say "No! I will NOT let you, us go!" Not like this, not with silence and resignation and quite aquiesence.
But I love him. I am still IN love with him. To fight this would be to say that his feelings don't matter and they have always mattered to me. Above all else.
Above my own.
I have only ever wanted his happiness. It has been my life's mission since we met in London's square to make a happy healthy space for him. A place where the monsters of his childhood could not reach him.
I will not become the monster that keeps him from finding his true self. Even if it means I bury the romantic love I still feel for him. I will surrender myself to the silence I must maintain.
And every day I will hope and pray and struggle and scrape for every ounce of grace I can find.
What else is there to do?
So how do I accept this?
How do I accept his desire, need to be a woman? How do I say "OK" to the one thing that will end irrevocably and without question the relationship we have built? How do I bring myself to let him, our life, all of it go without a fight?
And I want to fight. With every cell in my body. With all the strength and courage I can muster I want so bad to say "No! I will NOT let you, us go!" Not like this, not with silence and resignation and quite aquiesence.
But I love him. I am still IN love with him. To fight this would be to say that his feelings don't matter and they have always mattered to me. Above all else.
Above my own.
I have only ever wanted his happiness. It has been my life's mission since we met in London's square to make a happy healthy space for him. A place where the monsters of his childhood could not reach him.
I will not become the monster that keeps him from finding his true self. Even if it means I bury the romantic love I still feel for him. I will surrender myself to the silence I must maintain.
And every day I will hope and pray and struggle and scrape for every ounce of grace I can find.
What else is there to do?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Revelations
It's been seven months since my husband's big "reveal". Yet it seems longer. Looking back I suppose I should have suspected something was wrong. But as usual I blinded myself to the obvious.
I excel at self destruction.
We hadn't made love in more then a year prior to his confession of transgenderism. He thought I wasn't attracted to him anymore, despite my constant protestation otherwise. I could never convince him that the problem was mine, not his.
And it was my problem.
He was, no, he is beautiful. He of the sea grey eyes and flaxen hair. He of the slight frame and crooked smile. He of the slight southern drawl that betrayed his small town heritiage. He of the classically trained opera voice that left the profession just as he was about to break. Abandoned because he was positive and his lover left him over it. He of the Outband, formed in rage and anger and a desire to recapture his Southern roots. He was everything I have ever wanted in a lover, a friend a husband.
Yet for more than a year I lay beside him every night unable to rouse the passion I held for him. Not from a lack of effort mind you. He would touch me as only he could. I would lay on his chest cradled in his love for me. Eventually, we would kiss, roll over and go to sleep. His yearning to feel me inside him unmet while I mortared another brick in the wall of my self hatred around my heart.
My unhappiness is of my own creation.
I hate so many things about myself. I hate my body. It's folds and buldges that undulate when I laugh, walk, dance.
I loathe my inability to finish anything. I start projects, a gym regimine, a Master's program, a short story, a poem. Ultimately, I abandon them all at the brink of completion. As I approach the end of each of these goals it's as if I am staring into an abyss. The fear of falling in grips me and I back away turning from the finish line.
I'm weary of abandoning victory and success. Yet it seems at times that my dharma is nothing but failure and discord. My spirit seems incapable of holding happiness for more than a fleeting transitory moment.
And that is what quelled my physical desire for my husband.
It wasn't always so.
When we first met, I couldn't keep my lips, hands or body off of him. I wanted, needed to be connected to him, inside of him as if he was the only thing anchoring me to this existance. My teather in a windswept world.
And he obliged, as only he could. He welcomed me with a passion that matched my own. I filled the same need for him. I salved his ache and desire to be loved. I was his safe place, his haven from the demons of his broken childhood. I was faithful like no other lover had been.
We loved each other as we were. There was no desire to change the idiosyncracies that exisited. No need to smooth over the rough edges. We took each other at face value. This was the comfort we sought out and found in each other.
Acceptance.
And I reveled in it. I drank in this unique life experience by the tankard. I was giddy with love and joy and contentment like I had never known.
We joined our brothers and sisters during San Francisco's "winter of love" and pledged ourselves to each other. When the marriage was annulled by the short sighted California Supremes, we filled out our domestic partnership as fast as our fingers would fly.
Then in June came the glorious news that at last, we could marry. And we did. In front of my parents. The two people who had modeled for me what a marriage could be. Married for 40 years, enduring the demons of my father's war ripped psyche. His alcoholism, his drug use. A pair of pillars that had raised three sons to be good and honest and true. They still carried a torch of love and commitment and joy for each other that I continue to see burn in their gaze.
In front of his mother. She who had never flown on a plane. She who hadn't strayed more then 100 miles from Nothern Mississippi, she who had endured the same beatings and monstrosities that my Love had. She who a scant 9 months earlier, had been freed from her earthbound perdition when her jailer nie husband blew his brains out as he sat in a swing under a humid October sky.
Ours was a love that was meant to mend these tears in the fabrics of our collective souls. And I thought it had. I believed that this committment would free me from my self loathing because he loved me for who I was. Not some image that I or he or society had created.
I never for a moment realized that he was more broken then I. That the dam of his great secret was about to burst sweeping me to this lonely sand bar I now find myself marooned on. That my Love, out of nothing more then a desire to be honest, with me, with himself, and with the world would destroy my contentment.
My happily ever after.
I excel at self destruction.
We hadn't made love in more then a year prior to his confession of transgenderism. He thought I wasn't attracted to him anymore, despite my constant protestation otherwise. I could never convince him that the problem was mine, not his.
And it was my problem.
He was, no, he is beautiful. He of the sea grey eyes and flaxen hair. He of the slight frame and crooked smile. He of the slight southern drawl that betrayed his small town heritiage. He of the classically trained opera voice that left the profession just as he was about to break. Abandoned because he was positive and his lover left him over it. He of the Outband, formed in rage and anger and a desire to recapture his Southern roots. He was everything I have ever wanted in a lover, a friend a husband.
Yet for more than a year I lay beside him every night unable to rouse the passion I held for him. Not from a lack of effort mind you. He would touch me as only he could. I would lay on his chest cradled in his love for me. Eventually, we would kiss, roll over and go to sleep. His yearning to feel me inside him unmet while I mortared another brick in the wall of my self hatred around my heart.
My unhappiness is of my own creation.
I hate so many things about myself. I hate my body. It's folds and buldges that undulate when I laugh, walk, dance.
I loathe my inability to finish anything. I start projects, a gym regimine, a Master's program, a short story, a poem. Ultimately, I abandon them all at the brink of completion. As I approach the end of each of these goals it's as if I am staring into an abyss. The fear of falling in grips me and I back away turning from the finish line.
I'm weary of abandoning victory and success. Yet it seems at times that my dharma is nothing but failure and discord. My spirit seems incapable of holding happiness for more than a fleeting transitory moment.
And that is what quelled my physical desire for my husband.
It wasn't always so.
When we first met, I couldn't keep my lips, hands or body off of him. I wanted, needed to be connected to him, inside of him as if he was the only thing anchoring me to this existance. My teather in a windswept world.
And he obliged, as only he could. He welcomed me with a passion that matched my own. I filled the same need for him. I salved his ache and desire to be loved. I was his safe place, his haven from the demons of his broken childhood. I was faithful like no other lover had been.
We loved each other as we were. There was no desire to change the idiosyncracies that exisited. No need to smooth over the rough edges. We took each other at face value. This was the comfort we sought out and found in each other.
Acceptance.
And I reveled in it. I drank in this unique life experience by the tankard. I was giddy with love and joy and contentment like I had never known.
We joined our brothers and sisters during San Francisco's "winter of love" and pledged ourselves to each other. When the marriage was annulled by the short sighted California Supremes, we filled out our domestic partnership as fast as our fingers would fly.
Then in June came the glorious news that at last, we could marry. And we did. In front of my parents. The two people who had modeled for me what a marriage could be. Married for 40 years, enduring the demons of my father's war ripped psyche. His alcoholism, his drug use. A pair of pillars that had raised three sons to be good and honest and true. They still carried a torch of love and commitment and joy for each other that I continue to see burn in their gaze.
In front of his mother. She who had never flown on a plane. She who hadn't strayed more then 100 miles from Nothern Mississippi, she who had endured the same beatings and monstrosities that my Love had. She who a scant 9 months earlier, had been freed from her earthbound perdition when her jailer nie husband blew his brains out as he sat in a swing under a humid October sky.
Ours was a love that was meant to mend these tears in the fabrics of our collective souls. And I thought it had. I believed that this committment would free me from my self loathing because he loved me for who I was. Not some image that I or he or society had created.
I never for a moment realized that he was more broken then I. That the dam of his great secret was about to burst sweeping me to this lonely sand bar I now find myself marooned on. That my Love, out of nothing more then a desire to be honest, with me, with himself, and with the world would destroy my contentment.
My happily ever after.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Thorns
Where do you go?
Where do you go to get rid of the pain of a loss so profound it feels as if your very soul has been ripped from you? How do you empty a bottomless well of anger and rage and resentment so deep the oceans of the world would be but a drop in the vastness of its size? How do you let go of something you've spent the last 6 years nourishing, tending, growing when it rises up and says to you "I don't need you anymore?"
I thought I was through with this. I thought, "I'm over it, I've moved on".
Then I see him and it shatters all over again. I hear his voice on the phone and the stitches I've applied to my broken heart rend like gossamer in a spring zephyr. I am reduced to a quivering mass in a bed I am reluctant to change the sheets of because it means removing the last vestage of him; his scent.
I've loved and lost before. This is not new. This is a path well trod, rutted and landmarked.
Yet this, these feelings of abject terror, of age and loneliness and the absolute certainty that this was not supposed to end like this, this was supposed to be "forever", I promised, he promised, we promised, is.
I could have accepted it if he cheated. I would have been ok with an open relationship. But this? This is the bridge I cannot cross. This is the only place I cannot go.
For he, the man that I thought was the man I would grow old with, the man who I would raise a child with, the man I thought would be there till death do us part has decided.
He wants to be a woman.
I don't know where to go with this. I am not even numb. I am void. It's as if the place I once occupied in this space and time is now vacant. A blank empty space where I once was.
There are voids everywhere.
Hangars where his clothes once were. The medicine cabinet's gaping maw lacks the elixirs and vials that rendered his sickness "undetectable". The cold black hole in my bed that once held his warm, soft, sweet body.
I seem to have one too many things now. Two closets, two sinks, two nightstands where the solitary form of each suffices now. It is the singular nature of my condition that I must become used to now.
I don't know where I will end up on this new unplanned journey. I was settled into my comfortable little life. I was content. Now all of that has changed. I hope you will join me on this part of the journey. I don't know how long this will last, or how interesting it will be. I make no promises.
There is one thing that I do plan on doing first thing tomorrow.
I'm changing the sheets.
Where do you go to get rid of the pain of a loss so profound it feels as if your very soul has been ripped from you? How do you empty a bottomless well of anger and rage and resentment so deep the oceans of the world would be but a drop in the vastness of its size? How do you let go of something you've spent the last 6 years nourishing, tending, growing when it rises up and says to you "I don't need you anymore?"
I thought I was through with this. I thought, "I'm over it, I've moved on".
Then I see him and it shatters all over again. I hear his voice on the phone and the stitches I've applied to my broken heart rend like gossamer in a spring zephyr. I am reduced to a quivering mass in a bed I am reluctant to change the sheets of because it means removing the last vestage of him; his scent.
I've loved and lost before. This is not new. This is a path well trod, rutted and landmarked.
Yet this, these feelings of abject terror, of age and loneliness and the absolute certainty that this was not supposed to end like this, this was supposed to be "forever", I promised, he promised, we promised, is.
I could have accepted it if he cheated. I would have been ok with an open relationship. But this? This is the bridge I cannot cross. This is the only place I cannot go.
For he, the man that I thought was the man I would grow old with, the man who I would raise a child with, the man I thought would be there till death do us part has decided.
He wants to be a woman.
I don't know where to go with this. I am not even numb. I am void. It's as if the place I once occupied in this space and time is now vacant. A blank empty space where I once was.
There are voids everywhere.
Hangars where his clothes once were. The medicine cabinet's gaping maw lacks the elixirs and vials that rendered his sickness "undetectable". The cold black hole in my bed that once held his warm, soft, sweet body.
I seem to have one too many things now. Two closets, two sinks, two nightstands where the solitary form of each suffices now. It is the singular nature of my condition that I must become used to now.
I don't know where I will end up on this new unplanned journey. I was settled into my comfortable little life. I was content. Now all of that has changed. I hope you will join me on this part of the journey. I don't know how long this will last, or how interesting it will be. I make no promises.
There is one thing that I do plan on doing first thing tomorrow.
I'm changing the sheets.
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