Last night I went to see a group of plays structured around the theme of death. My Concubear (#2) directed several of them, and wrote one as well. The plays varied from serious to funny, with most of the serious ones being pretty awful–except of course for Concubear (#2)’s, which contained really good writing, great direction, and the best acting. I was very proud. The funniest play was about two gay men falling to their deaths after accidentally driving their car off an exceptionally high lookout point. The play opens with them on pedestals waving their arms and legs as if falling through space, and proceeds through the last hilarious moments of their lives.
It was the first time I’d seen my bear mistress outside of his dark apartment, the first time in shoes, even. He has a very interesting presence, much taller in shoes–well, and standing up–and he has these cute round ears that stick straight out from his round face, like a big goateed Pixar mouse. He was just adorable.
I didn’t sleep all night last night, my jealous Scorpio dark side struggling against my supportive Gemini Rising, worrying about Concubear (#1), who was out on the town with a visiting Italian by the name of “ItalyStud.” To paraphrase Hellen Lawson, “The only stud that comes out of a Chris Komater show is Chris Komater, and that’s ME, baby, remember?” This morning I called promptly at 8. “Hi, it’s Chris, just wanted to see how you are, what’s up…?” “The date went really well.” “Oh, what date? Oh right, the italian guy. I’m glad to hear you had a nice time.” “I’m not used to guys being so sweet to me–well, except for you–and treating me so well–well, except for you…” and on and on. Grrrrrrr. At least they didn’t do the mambo italiano. So he says…
I know that it’s just envy–that he’s directing his affection towards something other than me. But what would I do if he ever directed his energy towards me again? I’m a one-man cat, dig? It is clear that my Concubear (#1) and I don’t have much in common and wouldn’t make it as a couple, even if he suddenly decided to devote himself to that end—although our history goes back about 10 years, and our lovemaking like unlocking some previously unfathomable mystery of the universe, and for a time, when I was unavailable, he was chasing after me. I’ll have to tell you the amazing story of our epic l’amour fou some day, or write a book about it. A big difference between us–and the deal breaker–is that he gets heated up by new and continued conquests. I want just one lover who wants just one me. These Concubears are just keeping the machinery working until HE comes along and sweeps me off my feet, but man is it difficult to be, or even appear to be detached when that’s all I want to do is bitch-slap that so-called italian stud.
I’ve never gone so long between relationships. The stakes seem higher—feeling older and wanting something to really last, to feel challenged—or maybe I’m just less willing to settle. I used to bitch at my friend Barry that he would never marry because he had some idea of perfection in his head that no one could possibly live up to. I fear sometimes that I’ve become Barry. Then I quickly shake myself like Bette Davis shaking Miriam Hopkins in Old Aquaintance, and calmly say, “Chris, relax, your expectations aren’t unrealistic, you just know what you want, hang in there, little buddy!” And so I hang. And hang and hang… Meanwhile gravity continues to do its thing.