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.