Month: December 2003

Posted on

Crisis Resolved, Bath Buddies

Well, it looks like Stephanie’s financial crisis has been resolved. BC and I began the day addressing our newly separated lives in intimate detail, moving swiftly from boyfriends to girlfriends, awkwardly at first, and then with quite a bit of enjoyment. We know each other so well, and both seem to be moving quickly in the directions that drew us together in the first place, so perhaps that contentment is an acknowledgment of the success that we’ve wanted for each other.

At 3:00 the pizza came. A stuffed pizza, with mushroom and sausage–good lord who dreamed of such a divine combination of sensation and pleasure.

Later we took Steph out to a really nice dinner at Erwin, in Boystown, a new American cuisine restaurant, where they serve martinis that are as big as my head. I had only one–tonight I wasn’t the guy with the lampshade on his head–the crab cakes, and the duck confit/venison dish (is that like mid-western surf and turf?), and the sour cherry pie. Dedicated to my commitment to new experiences, we put Steph in a cab and made our way to the Steamworks.

Now, I’m sure that many of you have experienced this kind of sexual environment before. My relation to my sexuality is quite complex, involving a lot of romance, intense emotional bonding, and eventually sex, which steamrolls into an ever more and more involved and complicated experience. I’ve never been to a sex club. The closest I came to a public sex experience was at the Folsom Street Fair a few years ago when Bob forced me into dropping my pants to compete in the “Hot Cock Contest,” loudly exaggerating, like a proud stage mother, the length and circumference of my faithful friend, which much to his horror, and mine, shriveled like a walnut once on stage. The guy taking the picture even asked–“Does it get bigger?” There is a picture of my loser penis somewhere, not even Miss Congeniality. Okay, back to the Steamworks… Chris was a great guide. I wore my contacts, which I hadn’t worn in perhaps four years, my vision a bit blurry, so it was like walking through a dreamy landscape of naked bodies and artificial attitudes. I can’t get past the attitudes and artifice. I like to talk during sex, to communicate, laugh, say stupid things, promise this and that… I giggled the entire time, not the least bit excited. In the steamroom I fell asleep for a moment to wake up to all these guys gathered around me, suddenly the center of a phallic devotional movement. I giggled again, closed my eyes, and then they were gone. Just like that. Chris led me through the maze, where all these pee-pees jutted out from the walls above like the arm-held candelabras in La Belle et la Bête. Some heads bobbed up and down on the projectiles, while Chris was cruised by this really cute guy, who kept trying to reach for Chris’ special place, only to be cut off by an intercepting mouth or hand, the two only connecting visually. Chris told me that all these guys were cruising me, but I was completely oblivious, even to the two hairy backs in the place. He even guided me toward one of the hairier backs in the hottub, who evidently was interested in me, but I really just wanted to talk about the decorative arts.

It was great to have had this experience and to embrace the mono-sexual me. I’m just not into bodies, that is, bodies free of intellect and humor. A part of me has pined for the sexual freedom of the late 70’s, perhaps because so many of my lovers came of age during that time. I see a great deal of gay identity tied to such freedom and I needed to address my estrangement. I’ve been married since age 18, and always felt a sadness at having missed out on anonymous and voluminous sexual romps. Well, I’m just not not that kind of guy it turns out. I love deeply and madly, and that’s about it. Maybe for only a few hours, but never casually. Ho hum.

Tomorrow it’s museums…

Posted on

Chicago a Go-Go

The Big Dude and I are in Chicago, ostensibly to help Chris’ dad, Stephanie, with resolving her current financial crisis, but actually feeling out our new relation to each other as friends, although thus far I’ve been challenged with several character assaults and emotional manipulations that I calmly deflected: the Teflon Little Chrissy. We’re staying in the Ambassador East, flirted briefly with checking in as Mr. and Mr. Townsend (pronounced “Towns-end”), the character Cary Grant was mistaken for in North by Northwest when he stayed here with Eva Marie Saint. Chicago is cold, like freezing cold. Since Stephanie is nearly my size, I get to wear her full-length furs when I’m here, so there’s no need to fret, Concerned Readers, I shall remain warm, and glamorous.

Posted on

Overgrown Calves

I’ve been singing Carpenters songs today. Unironically. Not just humming, but tossing my imaginary brunette locks from side to side as I sit on top of the world looking down on creation. Last night Teddy Bear and I saw I Vitelloni, which was a bit of a disappointment, but interesting to see themes and characters that Fellini would later develop more fully and imaginatively. Character development and plot were subdued to the point that when Fausto eventually does get the beating that he’s been asking for, we’re just not interested. And he should have gotten the shit kicked out of him anyway instead of that namby pamby spanking. I felt stuck between wanting more harsh neo-realism or, well, Fellini.

Posted on

Fingers and Messes

So I was a little out of control last night. Just a little, and hopefully not all that noticeably so. I vividly remember a finger in my mouth and the smell of soap and the exquisite sensation of arm hair against my cheek. I was at BC’s, watching the finale of Angels in America with some swell Live Journal dudes, only one martini down, but intoxicated by the nearness and warmth of sweet and handsome comrades.

Jack and Steve, let’s play bridge!

Remember Marlene Dietrich’s observation of the bloated and disheveled Orson Welles in Touch of Evil? “You a mess, honey.” I’m feeling a little better today. Thanks for putting up with me, everybody.

Posted on

Little Eshter and Bob’s Book-Release Party

I just got back from Bob’s reading and book-release party at Modern Times. Bob began by playing Little Esther’s Love Will Break Your Heart on a portable cassette player, pointing to the tape to emphasize the truth in her pained denunciation of romance. I kept my composure through most of it, although he didn’t look at me at all during his performance, and like an idiot I sat in the front row so that I could greet all of our friends. He read from his Purple Men 2002 story, which is basically the story of our relationship, with details of this or that friend and lover tossed in–our tea and paper and waggling his pee-pee at our neighbors in the morning, our asparagus-scented cum fests, my stalker, our goldfish Francie and Cleo. I lost it after Francie and Cleo, used by him allegorically, relating the fishes’ mortality and domesticity to that of the central characters, Darrell and Trent. Bob’s a great writer, and there’s so much lyricism, humor and histrionics in his narcissistic explorations of the character, “Bob.” I complained for years of having to listen to story after story about L’s asshole at reading after reading, or having his new book named after his former lover, Denny. “When are you going to write about me?” I’d wail, like Lucy, eager for my turn in the spotlight. “You’re going to have to hurt me first,” he always replied, “and you’ll be sorry.”

Posted on

Letter to BC

Distance is something that can be achieved with a shift in emotional as well as actual proximity. I do love you, and I do believe that we can help each other though this. Yes we’re going to piss each other off, and yes we’re going to hurt each other, and yes, you may need some actual distance from me to reposition yourself in relation to my limitations and my own grieving process. Bob has cut me off, that’s how he does it, a systematic breakup including lots of conversations with friends, direct anger at me, powerful anti-depressants, a period of being alone, and then da!da! we’ll be friends. He’s done it before–I’m now in the group that’ll get together with Bob and his new boyfriend for New Year’s Eve and for trips to Umbria; Denny, Loring, Stanley, etc… I’ve spent several years separating myself from the specific things I wanted from you that you weren’t able to address or acknowledge–Love him for who he is now, not what he’ll be–and perhaps this is why I cling to the possibility that you can make a shift with me around, too. I can’t address your desire, but I can love you and support you and be a fabulous friend and fun companion. But if my presence is causing too much distress, I will respect whatever you need, and I will love you through it.

Posted on

Potluck

I’m shy. I have never walked into a bar unchaperoned. If I’m supposed to meet someone at a bar, I make sure that I’m late. The other night I was invited to “potluck.” Not “a” potluck, or “the” potluck, but “potluck,” I was told–“Bear Potluck.” It’s a rowdy gathering of bear guys, and you’ve probably all heard about this event, but since I’ve been married for the past 10 years, invitations to such events have slipped by, passed over in favor of an Ophüls film, or tea with X, the son of the late Fluxus artist. I decided that since I’m starting over, I’d better start by addressing my social anxiety, and eagerly accepted the invitation. As soon as I got to the (I like articles) potluck, anxiety melted away as stunning furry man after stunning furry man smiled at me and shook my hand and hugged me and welcomed me and in several instances squeezed this or that appendage, my erotic life suddenly extended into public interaction. There was a cute gaggle of skinny beardless dudes, former Michiganites, who didn’t mingle much beyond their clique, floating through the party like little ducks, one behind the other. My community has traditionally been one of artists and writers, people involved in the arts in some way, our bonding advancing and nurturing our careers and work. I felt very Hugh Heffner at the party, enveloped in a whirl of big beautiful bunnies, inspired to create.

Yes, I’ve been seeing more of Ted, too.

Posted on

I Woke Up in What This Morning?

A fabulous breakfast with Dean and Emily this morning in Oakland: Emily wore a blue cookie-monster coat and radiated glamour and confidence; Dean was his charming self, the successful and talented artist, still glowing from his success at Christopher Grimes last month. A few years ago we talked about starting a band. I wanted to play the tambourine and be beautiful, a bearded Lori Partridge. They are my best friends, and really lifted my spirits today. They listened with wonder to my tale of shattered hearts left in the wake of this week’s boyfriend shakeup. At one point I looked at them and saw reflected on their faces the memory of me a few months ago saying how I’d never leave Bob, that they shouldn’t take me seriously the next time I announced my need to have a boyfriend my age, etc… Bob wouldn’t take me back at this point, I’m sure. I sure wouldn’t. So I’ve been very up and very down this week. And Bob’s a cold fish.

Oh wait, did I tell you guys about this? I’ve broken up with Bob, my lover of 10 years. The same one I broke up with him a few months ago, but we’ve continued cohabitating in this Boschian domestic scene, and following the Big Chrissy drama, I decided to take some responsibility for my loved ones by telling them to run as far away from me as possible. His new book just came out, so he’ll really be moving on, to Europe in January for a two-week book tour. We’re not quite sure what to do about the living arrangements. I’m staying in my studio downstairs, until Matthew comes to town tomorrow night for Bob’s book-release party and the launching of the Clear Cut Press. I’ve offered Bob the unit below ours, and above my studio, so that he and Reese can continue being a part of my life. Besides, we love living here, and this has been his home, too, for 10 years…

Okay, okay I hear you. You don’t even have to say it.

Is this denial?

This doesn’t seem real yet.

Posted on

Never Mind

Things happen quickly here in the Land of the Chrissies. BC and I just spent a remarkable evening together recommitting ourselves to our friendship, planning a trip to visit his dad, Stephanie, and listening to Terry Gross’ interview with Tony Kushner. My best friend. Again. Yippee!

Thanks Big C for letting me out of the doghouse. Organizing a world without you didn’t seem possible, certainly not one as bright and dramatic.

So my 60-something Boss has undergone extensive plastic surgery. The botox injections, steroids, and facial peel gave way on Thursday last to a major restructuring of his face, turkey neck and eyebags hacked off and everything pulled up to his forehead. He looked like Frankenstein’s monster today, with thick shoelace-stitches up the sides of his face, and staples all up and down his temples, black circles under his eyes. I screamed when I saw him, the walking dead. A hot 25 year younger-looking corpse.

A blossom fell and very soon
I saw you kissing someone new beneath the moon
I thought you loved me, you said you loved me
We planned together to dream forever
The dream has ended, for true love died
The night a blossom fell and touched two lips that lied

Posted on

Ouch

Big Chrissy and I were up all last night, talking and moping. Our processing was briefly but pleasantly interrupted by the arrival of Victor, Trey, and in-town-for-the-weekend J, all of whom came by to watch Angels in America on BC’s big screen. The film certainly didn’t do much to calm me, although the company was a swell group of guys, and behind my nervous giggle I stifled back the tears about to wash over both of us. Perhaps I’d like to remember this pain in my gut and head as something real, instead of this imagined pain of longing that only occasionally bubbles to the surface as vain-hearted attempts at constructing a new improved reality and identity.

Chris has decided that since I’m not able to commit myself to him in the way that he’d like me to, he needs some distance from me. Actually, not just distance, he needs to not see me “again.” You’ve all seen me occasionally making these grand statements about what I need to do, who to be with, where to go, confidently moving forward on this and that… well, Chris pointed out that I seem to be most resolute in my indecisiveness. I’m not ambivalent about how I feel about him. I love him. And I hope he will let me in again someday.