Month: December 2006

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Lucky Bachelor #13: Anxiety, France vs. California

Last night I enjoyed a delicious dinner at Bistro 1689 on Church Street with Lucky Bachelor #13. The cuisine is “French/Californian,” and from what I sampled, bistro cooking at its best. We both had the duck confit. The skin was crispy, and the meat just fell off the bone. The sauce served with it cradled the essence of the meat in a smooth richness that didn’t distract or enhance. It just let it be–a little ducky that gave its sweet little life to me. The wine that I had with it did exactly the same thing, stimulating just a small portion of my palette, but with an amazing array of flavor and experience packed into that little corner of my mouth. I find a lot of French wines to be that way, quite different from the California style of assaulting the taste buds from every which-a-way. My salad, of baby romaine lettuce with sauteed mushrooms, was drizzled with a coarse-grained mustard vinaigrette. And love.

So back at #13’s pad, making out on the sofa with the TV blaring in the background, I heard something on TV about the Unabomber and started laughing. “What?” he asked. “I was just thinking about the Unabomber…” but he cut me off before I could complete my thought, mock-offended that my thoughts could so diffused–like a Sonoma County Pinot, and not the French bordeaux that he thought he was sipping. Somehow my thoughts about the Unabomber led to a discussion of sex, and I told him that I wasn’t in a hurry to hop in the sack, having spent 6 months with a guy whom I didn’t really like, but liked having sex with, and very limited sex at that, but still, limited sex within the confines of a relationship structure that had no meaning or substantial content. This time I want to get to know the person first, and see if there’s something relationship-y that can support a sexual exploration. If not then maybe we could be friends. Or just have sex anyway. I just don’t want sex to cloud important things that I need in a mate, like an appreciation of mid-century lighting and Joan Blondell. Or maybe that’s a bunch of bunk and I’m just experiencing anxiety around his fear of more challenging endowments. Just what is too challenging for him, anyway? I know I’m making too much of it, for if he really loved this other guy he would have worked–or nibbled–his way around the problem, but still.

Calm blue waters, calm blue waters, calm blue waters…

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Dinner with Emily; The Dating Game: Juicy Forgotten MM#1 Details

Emily treated me to dinner at Chez Panisse Wednesday night, my second such treat in the last two months. While we didn’t get to sit at the Chef’s table, we did enjoy an equally memorable meal upstairs in the Cafe. I had the fixed meal: mixed greens; porcini mushrooms and polenta; ice cream and chocolate sauce. Getting the simplest-sounding dishes is key to understanding what they’re up to over there, and indeed, everything that could have been expressed in a salad of “mixed greens” seduced and wooed my tender taste buds into complete submission to flavor and freshness.

Emily might be showing with me next October at Mark Wolfe. I hope it works out, she’s hot! Her abstractions are painterly in a way that my work isn’t–gestural and worked, all about surface and color–but her use of line and the grid will play nicely against and with what I’m constructing.

So did I tell you? I’m having a solo show next October at Mark Wolfe Contemporary, 49 Geary, 2nd Floor. Mark your calendars! It’s my most ambitious project yet, and it’s going to take me about 8 more months to get it all shot, printed, and framed. The show seeks to expand the current bear stereotype of the Carhart-clad he-man: “tee-hee-heee” instead of “yeaaaaah.” Stay tuned for more details!

Oh. I forgot to mention one of the most memorable things about my recent rendezvous with Married Man #1. Well, it turns out that he’s a bear porn star! I made him turn on one of his movies while we were defiling his marriage bed. Every so often I’d see through a jumble of legs and arms and thises and thatses and see our positions mirrored by what was happening on the screen, like one of those mirrors that replicate their reflections to infinity. He said the same kinds of things that porn stars say, too, like, “Yeah,” and those instructive comments that always crack me up, and of course the astute “you like that blankety-blank, yeah” observations. His star quality was apparent, and with a smoldering kind of warmth and understatement that had me believing everything he said–and clapping!

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Private vs. Public

I suppose that within a couple of days, I’ll go through every one of my journal entries–again!–and make them publicly accessible. I experienced a little jolt when the ex of a guy that I recently went out with got bent out of shape over something I wrote. Jeesh. It’s my life! In a typically hysterical response I made every entry “friends only,” as if I could contain my publicly posted thoughts within our little community. This took a few hours.

I’ve struggled over maintaining an essence of a personal life, believe it or not, and complete disclosure. I’ve never been good at keeping things secret anyway, and while there are issues and experiences that I might not discuss without a little prodding, I’ve found it liberating to write openly about my dating life. There are even men on my friends’ list whom I’ve dated, and I figure it’s better all around if everybody knows where I’m at, even if where I’m at is in several states at once. Love me, love my schizophrenic befuddlement.

Bob, my lover of 11 years, writes autobiographical fiction, really experimental pornography. While we were together he pushed me to integrate my obsessions into my artistic expression. I’m not comfortable being though of as a writer, but journaling has provided a satisfying outlet for something that feels authentic. Like it or not. I mean, here I am with my insecurities and indiscretions, fumbling around trying to make sense of it all. Love is somewhere at the end of this trip, but it’s also love that keeps me moving along.

Look in your heart and let love keep us together. What ever.

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The Dating Game: Married Man #1 and Bachelor #13 Double Feature, Take 2

My Married Man asked me over this afternoon. Is there an equivalent male-gendered term for “mistress?” Today was only our second rendezvous, but already we’ve become quite attached. He confided in me that he’s got a crush on me—he used those words, delivered like Juliette Lewis in her amazing star turn in the remake of Cape Fear. Evidently he doesn’t talk with his other sex buddies. We talked for a very long time this afternoon, mostly about relationships and Carol Reed, and again, four Moments of the Clouds and Rain between us. When he asked if I was dating anyone, or having intimate relations with other married men, I could sense that he could see something in our interaction that he was yearning for as a main course, instead of the amuse-bouche that we’ve become.

A few hours later, back at Casa Coco, Lucky Bachelor #13 came over for dinner and Meet Me in St. Louis. We didn’t exactly dance the hoochie koochie, but we did finally do some serious making out. I was so pooped from my earlier encounter, that I asked if he’d be comfortable staying at first base. So we kissed and talked and kissed and talked. It was like being in the 7th grade again, and kissing Lori Simpson at the dance, only without Styx…

I’m sailing away, set an open course for the virgin sea
I’ve got to be free, free to face the life that’s ahead of me
On board, I’m the captain, so climb aboard
We’ll search for tomorrow on every shore
And I’ll try, oh lord, I’ll try to carry on
That was the makeout part, remember?

Anyway, back to my entry here… I’ve been thinking about Bachelors #12 and #9, looking forward to seeing them in the new year. #12 called tonight just as I was about to start the movie, and hearing his voice felt very comforting. No, it was more than comforting, it was familiar. Not familiar like reminding me of something else, but familiar like touching something inside of me that hasn’t been touched in a while.

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The Dating Game: More Virtual Loving, Married Man #1 Bails, “Masculine” Potential

My Man in Ohio is back on the radar. My Married Man came down with a cold, or cold feet, and left me all dressed up and nowhere to go, so after watching Scoop with Big Chrissy, I chatted with my Ohio Man for a few hours. Here’s how the conversation went…

I’d say something complimentary and brash, but with enough self-depracation to avoid being thought of as aggressive.

There’d be this really long pause.

Someone else would message me.

I’d respond.

There’d be another really long pause.

I’d get a message from someone else.

Click click click click click click.

Another message from a new guy.

“No, I only use water-soluble products–it’s my name, ‘CHRIS KOmater.'”

Pause.

My Man in Ohio’s response would finally come through.

I’d respond.

That was one hour.

I did meet someone new and local over the course of our conversation, a potential real live future contestant on the Dating Game! He’s the most handsome guy on the internet. Really, I’m not kidding. I’ve seen him online and could never imagine sending him a greeting, much less receiving one from him. His masculinity is the kind that you just assume carries a little tag that says “No fats, no femmes.” (I fall screaming into the latter category.) His message was succinct: “Woof!” I wrote back, “Are you woofing at me?” Well, not only did he let me know that I was indeed the object of his woof, he meticulously described how he was going to stimulate every pleasure center on my body. Stunned, my fingers typed out indecencies the likes of which I haven’t even tested yet, but my fantasies flowed freely, drenching his screen and mine in copious and inspired fiery prose.

And god bless the daddy who’s got his own…

Tomorrow it’s out to dinner with Emily…

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Dolls, the Dating Game: #13, MM#1

It’s my yard so I will try hard To welcome friends I’ve yet to know! Oh, I’ll plant my own tree!
My!
Own!
Tree!
And I!
(pause)
Will!
(pause)
Make!
(pause)
It!
(pause)
Grow!

Dean and Doug and Big Chrissy came over for dinner and The Valley of the Dolls Saturday night. Earlier Dean received a favorable but unsurprisingly not-cogent review in Our City’s Paper by Our Big Art Critic. Mr. Critic wrote that, for Dean, “Thinking seems entirely subsidiary to process.” In reality, Dean’s mastery of technique allows him to articulate his ideas through a labor-intensive process that mirrors the complexity of his thinking. Our Critic is smart enough–I should say, learned enough–but he lacks an ability to connect with, or even see, what artists are doing or saying. He consistently compares art to work that’s already been written about–ideas that have already been developed by other writers. If he can’t think of a comparison, he writes stupid shit like that. I love Peter Schjeldahl, who writes for the New Yorker. Not only is he incredibly smart, but he consistently brings his personal experience and biases to everything he writes about.

Anyway, I want my dolls!!!! What a fun movie. I’ve been humming the theme song for days and twirling around my house in a technicolor-infused holiday spirit.

Bachelor #13 has made a few more guest appearances at Casa Coco. I showed him Uncut, not the John Greyson movie, but the stupid Italian penis exploitation-fest. For the entire film, our headless hero tries to get laid, while the camera stays trained on his pee-pee. It’s a nice enough peep to watch, especially his balls going up and down with his changes in vocal intonation. He’s stuck in bed following an accident in which he mangles his leg–his girlfriend is presumed dead, and the police are suspicious–yet his thoughts are solely on getting laid, and every attempt is waylaid in often hilarious situations–and that’s the joy of the film. Unfortunately, it takes a few silly turns that make it one of the dumbest movies I’ve seen. Plus he’s a muff trimmer, and you all know how I feel about that.

Speaking of muff-trimming, #13 spoke favorably of the film’s star’s “haircut,” much to my dismay. Clip your hair below the neck and suffer the consequences, bachelors.

Oddly, I seem to have most in common with Married Man #1. I’ll be seeing him again tomorrow night. He quotes Pinter, reads, knows stuff…

When did I get, where did I
Why am I lost as a lamb
When will I know, where will I
How will I learn who I am
Is this a dream, am I here, where are you
Tell me, when will I know, how will I know
When will I know why?
When will I know why…

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The Dating Game: Married Man #1, Bachelor #13

The Dating Game has taken an unexpected turn in a new direction; Casual Intimate Relations! I’ve met and gone out with a few sweet men since my last entry on the subject, but have been keeping my pearl beyond all price safely tucked away. Well, mostly. And except for this last Sunday…

I had placed a new personal ad on a site called Daddy Something-or-other, not imagining that all these cute guys would be hitting me up calling me “Daddy!” I took my ad down after a few days. There were either old dudes who wanted me to wear diapers, or young guys wanting–and needing, I might add–to be spanked. But I did meet one guy, exactly my age. “This bowl of porridge was JUST right…” Big floopy ears, adorable smile, soft pink skin. Keep in mind, I advertise myself as someone interested in almost everything, except for network TV and, importantly, one-night stands, but my profile has a picture of me shirtless in a come-take-me-now kind of slumped availability, so my carefully edited profile, and desired relationship orientation, is frequently overlooked. He didn’t seem to notice or care, told me he has a partner, and was very frank about his need for intimacy outside of his relationship. I warmed to his openness immediately, and even though I seek the Grail, decided to take him up on his kind offer to perform a lapdance for me at his place.

I told him that I’m not one to hop in the sack with a stranger, that I needed some other kind of connection. Is it okay if we just meet for tea and chat? He was very agreeable, and invited me over for Sunday morning tea. I got to his place and he ushered me into the bedroom, dimly lit by candle, condoms and lube on his nightstand, neatly folded towel on the edge of the bed. “I thought we’d lie on the bed and get to know each other. First.” Hmmmm, my idea of tea hadn’t been articulated clearly enough, obviously, but he did get the gist of my wish–to make a connection that might lead to physical intimacy, rather than the other way around. We talked and talked and talked, about San Francisco writers, history, art, his lover, school… I really liked him! He didn’t seem like a predatory power bottom at all, but someone genuinely interested in relating intimately in a full way. We connected. Four visits to the orgasmatron later, I left in a cloud of delicious aromas and an occasional gust of latex.

So there are beautiful people out there who can relate to me authentically and completely, within more limited parameters than I’m used to, and not push me out of my Bachelor ‘Hood. I’ve been liberated from the shackles of biological determinism!

Later that day…
I didn’t even have time to take a shower before Lucky Bachelor #13 showed up at my doorstep and whisked me away for goose and venison at Suppenküche. He had called me up the night before while I was in my bubble bath drinking a martini to announce that he had broken up with his boyfriend and would love to pick up where we had left off. Well, we had met only once, a memorable afternoon chat a few months back, but I was still in the process of prying myself from Bachelor #8, and by the time I gave him a second call he had met someone else and was even learning Hebrew and going to Synagogue with the guy! Of course, I was insanely jealous–just my type to dive in headfirst and so enthusiastically.

So anyway, at dinner we talked of how much we had learned from our respective doomed affairs, how we were each dating, enjoying being relatively young and single and free, blah blah blah. He told me that one reason he left his boyfriend was because his boyfriend was overdeveloped in a specific area that made relating to that region too great a challenge. He was afraid I’d think he was shallow, and I quickly calmed him by saying that of course he would feel bad about not being able to please his partner, and I understood how upsetting that would be for him. I nervously asked him “well, just how overdeveloped was he?” but didn’t get a response that I could really wrap myself around. I wanted to tell him that Bob had the exact same problem when we were first together, but with hard work and determination… But I didn’t. I put my coat on my lap, a faint whiff of latex wafted to my nose and I smiled.

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The Dating Game, Maybe, and Anselm Kiefer

So I’m not too sure if last night was a date, but I had a great time a’dining and a’movie-ing with a great fellow. I even got a great kiss at the end of the night, which, for me anyway, was enough to qualify the evening as a bona fide Dating Game episode. We watched Brick, a contemporary noir film set in a southern California high school. The narrative, dialogue, and plot development were straight from Cain and Chandler, and played out in a very straightforward way, with no mannerist or stylistic flourishes, or Shyamalan-esque twists of the genre, other than kids enacting a classic noir tale. A very smart and fun movie.

This morning I woke to an amusing note from a fellow on Bear411: “Let’s keep in touch. We have some similar interests!” I took a gander at his profile… “Sleazy top bear pig into watersports, smokesex, three-ways, groups…” Smokesex? I can’t even imagine what that could be.

A few days ago Dean Smith and I, along with husbear Doug, and niece Jamie, visited the Anselm Kiefer show at SFMoMA. It’s a very powerful show, very beautifully installed, with lots of room to take in these very large works. They’re not just large physically, each is endowed with a heaviness of mood and content. The compositions are fairly uncomplicated, filled with magnificent brush work and dynamic materials. Despite the historical themes, Kiefer is always present as an artist, interpreter, and participant. They’re both grand and personal—like Elizabeth Schwarzkopf singing in your shower. We had an amazing dinner afterwards at Cafe Claude, which has become our little restaurant. I had a salad of greens, potatoes, bacon, and fois gras. Clothespin on aorta! This was followed by a seared tuna chunk swimming in a fabulous sauce of mushroom, cream, bacon again, and something else that overwhelmed the fish but was so delicious I forgot about the fish and just enjoyed it as a medium for carrying the sauce to my mouth. Liquid chocolate cake for dessert. This week’s food theme will be cruciferous and high-fiber.

Tonight I have a date with a gardener bear dude. Oh wait, I forgot to tell you about the little dude at Tower Market yesterday morning. He walked past me as I was making my cheese selection, and stared at me so intensely that I blushed and giggled, embarrassed that I could be the object of such a gaze. He was somehow in all the aisles that I ended up in, that same hungry look, the same blush and giggle, until I finally just walked up to him,

“Hi, I’m Chris.”

“Hey, I’m Chris, too! Are you single?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh, I’m not.”

“—-.”

“—-.”

I’m frankly not sure what would have been different if I had responded that I was also unavailable, but I gave him my card, anyway. He’s so cute! The kind of cute that hurts. And topples presidencies.

**Brring**

**Brring**

So that was Gardener Bear Dude, canceling. He’s sick. What to do tonight?

The adventure continues…

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My Day Without Art

Today is the Day Without Art, the day of action and mourning in response to the AIDS epidemic. It’s also Manny’s birthday–or would have been his birthday. We were together for 8 years, until he died of AIDS complications in 1992, making me a widower at 28. I’ve mentioned him many times over the years, since but a wee LJ laddy, and despite all the friends and lovers that I’ve lost, his death remains the most significant, the most disruptive and powerful event in my life–the knowledge that we lumps of carbon are so briefly animated, and then so completely disintegrate into absolute nothingness. I didn’t know what nothingness was, what being alone really meant or felt like. When I go to his grave, I don’t talk to him, or imagine that he can hear me, or that he’s waiting for me in some white cloud-filled hotel suite–I think of his beautiful body turning to dust below me, and how disorienting it is that I can still hear him calling my name, laughing. I close my eyes and feel him blowing in my ear, touching my cheek. Nothing remains of him, just what’s locked in my head, for me. Todays’ the day that I celebrate his birth, his life, and grieve what has been taken away from all of us so prematurely and so cruelly.