Category: The Dating Game

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Note From the Broken Hearted

I threw away a 6 foot dried-up grass yesterday that had dominated my garden for several weeks, once a lovely gracefully arched specimen scavenged from a client’s garden in the hope of finding a new home. Sadly, I was unable to find a home for it, and in the process of tending my broken heart, neglected it. Ted and I have broken up. Despite the knowledge that we were completely wrong for each other, and our obvious differences and complete incompatibility, and the fact that he’s moving in a few days anyway, we enacted a dramatic breakup, completely out of proportion to our relationship. I’m really feeling alone now, which I suppose is good–it’s what everyone says I should be feeling, but it’s difficult, particularly after being in relationships for all of my adult life. I’m having a party tomorrow, to fill the house with friends and merry-making, and to remind me that there is life outside of my soap opera love life.

This affair with Ted has shaken me a bit. Even though I knew how awkward and at times completely wrong we were together, I went ahead and invested a lot of emotion in our interaction. I suppose it’s an hysterical response of sorts, diverting attention away from grieving my relationship with Bob–finding an emotional outlet that’s about passion instead of pain. Why can’t I just take an aspirin?

So today I am a single man again. Really. Finally. Available, the world at my doorstep, open to new experiences, new love, and a new life.

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Iain Rolls In to Town, Ted Rolls Out

So Iain is visiting–finally a real face to match with the little one-inch square version I’ve been communicating with for the past year or so. He’s quite a swell fellow, and a pleasure to hang with. Reese and I introduced him to Spongebob Squarepants Friday night, and we went to SFMoMA today, along with BC, Geoffy, Rootbeer and Qbear.

Yesterday Ted announced that he’s moving at the end of the month, back to Seattle, to finish the work for his doctorate. Next he’ll be applying to post-doc programs, and the roulette wheel has a 1 in 3 chance of stopping at SF. I don’t know how or if I fit into his uncertain future. Last night Funkybear Martin and Brian and English John came over for a faboo lamb dinner that Ted and I made–what a handsome mound of fur those guys add up to–and then this morning Ted and I went for a nice walk with Bruno out to Fort Funston. The lamb, the friends, the dog, the hike… Ted has really softened my transition to bachelorhood by extending much pleasure and sweetness into my life. I’m really going to miss him. I’ve been riding the Ted wave since my (most recent) breakup with Bob (etc), and now I’m about to be tossed back onto dry land, and I’ve gotten quite comfortable floating out here. More than I thought, certainly more than I anticipated. Back to being without–add one more to the list.

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Hopin’ and Prayin’ and Sniffin’

I’ve not been very successful in finding a mouth wide enough for my next grid. I photographed Dean twice already, and even with my new extension tube, couldn’t get quite close enough. Ted has recommended a friend to me, who in college used to brag about the large bottles and such that he could accomodate, but he has some sort of flu-like thing, and so I must wait out his illness. I’m so consumed by this idea that I’m finding it difficult to move forward on a new piece. Does anyone out there have a really big mouth? Surrounded by fur? Call me…

Tonight the parental units come to visit. Oh my god, I forgot to tell you, my brother Mark and his wife, Keith, had a baby, a serene and beautiful little girl, named Cassady Blue, in keeping with Keith’s family tradition of naming the girls after boys. (Keith’s mom’s name is Joe, “Joe Mama.”) Mom and Dad will be here for a week, so get ready for tales of sibling wierdness.

Ted is trying to make me more outdoorsy. I’ve been hiking and running, and next comes skiing and biking. Could you imagine? I am a card-carrying sissy. I just want to hear about people breaking legs on the slopes, and pass in my car those guys in those stupid black biking shorts biking UP (??) Mount Tamalpais. Someone help! Or send me a stand-in. In theory, Ted is supposed to accompany me to some sort of cultural event/activity for balance. Really, I’d rather be in a museum on a sunny day, or passed out in a field in Sonoma County after wine tasting and sex.

Which reminds me, we were talking last night about facades, while dining at the fine Firewood Cafe, and questioning authenticity and gay identity. When lesbians who dress up like little gay dudes were brought up, or maybe it was lesbians who call themselves “bears” and dress up in boots and plaid shirts were brought up, I forget which, and accused of not being authentic, adopting the look and sexual persona of “another,” I blurted out that I feel a sense of estrangement and amusement every time I go to the Lone Star for precisely the same reason, wondering if the appropriation of stripped-down blue-collar masculinity is accompanied by any sense of irony? I hear a lot of bears say, “Anyone can be a bear, it’s about a sensibility,” which I think really means that you, too, could dress up like one. It’s all about what we wear, isn’t it?

Which reminds me, my daphnes are blooming right now. For the next few weeks, I will roam through my garden and weep gently and happily as the most intoxicating fragrance this side of a sweating man wafts through my larger-than-average nostrils and hits some kind of deeply hidden nerve center connected directly to Mount Olympus. Come sniff with me, and be my love…
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Recap

For those of you new to me…

THE MEN OF COCO
currently starring…

BOB: my lover of 11 years. I broke up with him last month. And a few months before. And 3 years ago. We’re still living together in my house until he finishes his book tour and decides whether to live in the lower unit with our son, Reese, or move back into his home in Noe Valley.

CHRIS, “Big Chrissy:” I started dating Chris shortly after leaving Bob 3 years ago. I moved in rather quickly. I moved out 6 months later, but never really left, until last month, when I left them all.

DEAN (Superhairymodel D, or not Dean Smith): the first man I almost left Bob for before leaving Bob three years ago. My greatest inspiration, and the hairiest man alive. (The two go together.) He tried to kill himself last year several times, was locked in the SF psycho ward for seven months, where I finally found him, undergoing electro-convulsive (shock) therapy. I love him like a monkey loves bananas.

TED: my current squeeze. We started dating a few weeks ago, several days after my courageous announcement that I needed to be alone for a while.

COCO: That’s me, Little Bunny Coco.

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Where Does the Time Go?

Today Superhairymodel D came by and dropped his all-too restrictive drawers for a planned diptych, Twin Peaks, my first piece of the year. His fur-enshrouded misty mounds will make for a fine landscape on some I.T. Bear’s mantle. It wouldn’t seem likely that all this thinking I’ve been doing about these bodies is leading me towards landscape photography, now, would it?–well, maybe I should say “the terrain of the body.” His belly button wasn’t large enough, however, believe it or not, for a second piece, a planned lunar pastiche, but I think Ted’s belly should do nicely.

Ted, yes, let’s talk about Ted. I haven’t mentioned him since meeting him, have I? He’s like a mini-Mack, solidly built, with features that are simultaneously boyish and manly, with a wicked little giggle and a cute bubble butt. And freckles. He lives with a sweet German shepherd named Bruno, whose disposition is well-matched to Ted’s affectionate nature. He’s a good cook and seems like the kind of guy you’d like your daughter to marry. If she were into muscle queens. And he’s completing his course work and dissertation for a Ph.D. in Epidemiology. How much more handy (or… sexy?) could this guy be? “Quick, Ted, go over those rates of infection, again, like you did last night, oh yeaaaah!” The past few weeks have involved lots of dancing and general merrymaking, some new muscular contractions, and lots of sweet new friends.

Now I need to get to work. The muse has spread her furry butt in my face. “Coco, step into the light…”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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