Chris Meets Manny

20 years ago today, Manny Scrofani walked into Marcello’s Pizza, near midnight, and asked me to go home with him. I was working my way through the San Francisco Art Institute, and inadvertently already dating several older guys, including Ron, the owner of the Valencia Rose and later Josie’s, and I was not in the mood for another dude of his free-loving and non-committing generation. “How old are you?” “40,” he lied. “Do you realize I’m 19? Is that even legal in California?” We went on like this for a while. He liked the feistiness of my resistance. He obviously had been drinking, and stopped in for a slice on his way home, just up the street. “Look, here’s my address, stop by after work if you like, if not, fine.” I didn’t even take his note, leaving it on the counter as he tossed his scarf over his shoulder and shuffled out the door. “Presumptuous old dude.”

At 2:30, when I got off work, I thought, “Oh, well, what the heck, what’s one more?” and walked the additional 1/2 block to his house (I lived just down the street from him). He answered the door in a loosely tied robe, and immediately grabbed me and took a big bite out of my twinkie lips. I remember vividly my first scent of him, his breath laced with some cheap Italian wine varietal. He tossed me in his hot tub and we made love all night and the next morning. In the morning I made my way home and switched gears back into student mode, and didn’t pursue him too intensely until the following summer, when I discovered that I was profoundly, intensely, sickeningly, bricks-dropped-on-my-head in love.

I blurted out one morning, “I love you, Manny.” He waited a moment and then told me that he didn’t love me and never would. Clearly, he just didn’t understand the love he felt for me because it was so deep. I would help him understand. It was a maddening time, and after I discovered my love for him, I discovered that he wasn’t 40, but 53, which he matter of factly mentioned after seeing Back to the Future and reminiscing about the time of the film. I said, “Manny, you were only around 10 years old then,” and he replied that he was in college. “You fucker, you told me you were 40–40’s my limit. You’re a generation over my limit. When I’m 40 you’ll be 74. I can’t be in love with a 53 year old…” but it didn’t matter to him, he still thought that he didn’t love me and was probably hopeful that I was finally going to ease up on the assault to take his pearl beyond all price.

About a year later, he told me he loved me and wanted me to move in with him. I was Ann Miller dancing across the Castro rooftops. I’d won the Grand Nationals and married Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. When I’d come home from school and see his car in the driveway, I’d run up Collingwood Hill to see him, and hold him. I’ve never loved anything so intensely and with such tenacity, or with such passion and urgency.

Manny died when I was 27, in 1992, 8 years after we met. I couldn’t forgive him for leaving me, I still can’t. I’ve learned to live with a huge gaping hole in my side, that has never gone away, that never will. I live in our house still, I read from the spot where he died in my arms, I tend his garden, I remember. His death was very quick, or at least the brutal part, really only about two weeks in bed. Changing his diaper during those last weeks, giving him spongebaths, I was still excited by him, even when he swelled from edema and his legs were covered in lesions. I kept telling myself during those weeks that I’d forget about the awful state that his body had deteriorated into and remember only his beauty, his laugh, the smell of his skin and hair, but I haven’t forgotten those other things.

In college I made a series of images in which I placed myself in his family photos, taken when he was around my age. (This was before photoshop, so the montage was deliberately sloppy, to draw attention to my imposition into his life.) The final image in the series shows us on the beach, Manny looking right into the camera, my Burt Lancaster, and me lying at his side, my cheek against his arm, imagining that his warmth would never end.

Perverts

So Reese, who claims to be resisting puberty and any kind of sexual talk, is suddenly very interested in Bob’s writing. Bob’s a sort of experimental autobiographer, whose writing includes very graphic illustrations of gay sex. The other night Reese and I were doing some research online for his science project, and I noticed that he was searching for articles about Bob’s books. I re-focused him on the project, but later that night he found a copy of one of Bob’s steamier novels and had only read one paragraph by the time I pulled the book from his shocked gaze, but too late.

“My dad’s a pervert,” he said.

“Reese, your dad’s not a pervert. A pervert is someone who hurts other people with his sexual interests. Bob’s a very well-respected writer who writes about adult sex. You’re much too young to be reading about that, and if you’d like to read something by him that’s appropriate for someone your age, let’s read one of his short stories together.”

And back and forth we tussled. I think that his curiosity about and fear of his own sexuality are being expressed through this sudden interest in Bob’s writing.

Later that night Reese suddenly asked Chris, “Chris, is your dad a transgender? Why did he have a sex change?”

Chris explained the details of his dad’s sexual re-assignment, and when asked by Reese about how it felt to have one’s father change gender, Chris replied, “Well, do you know anyone from school who reads Bob’s books?”

“Yes, Mr. _______.”

“Does that embarrass you? We’re all embarrassed by our parents, how do you think I felt?”

I wouldn’t be embarrassed if my dad were transgendered!” in a shocked voice.

Anyway, here are some pictures that Reese took of my dinner last night. He posed us all to conform to his idea of how we should be represented:

Coming Out Day, 1981

I didn’t really know that I was “gay,” even though I had already fallen in love with numerous guys since Kindergarden, until I was a Sophomore in high school, and Donna, a Junior, asked me, sort of jokingly I thought, if I were interested in a three-way with her and Sam, Sam the mini Mick Jagger, and I answered, “You’d be bored.” Well it was like a big light bulb went off over my head and suddenly all the dots were connected and fireworks were exploding everywhere and I was crowned Miss America. “Really?” she asked, and I just burst out “Yes, I’m gay!” My sister lived in San Francisco, so I called her up as soon as I got home and told her, and then all of my other siblings, one at a time, and then my girlfriend, and all of my friends, and then Sam–who told me he was, too! We had sex the very next day, and I stepped into some sort of movie where dreams really do come true and anyone can sleep with Mick Jagger. I decided to wait until I moved out for college to tell Mom and Dad, and let them deal with it without me. When Mom got my letter, she called Diane crying saying that she couldn’t imagine me having sex with another man. Diane said, “Mom, I can’t imagine you having sex with Dad” and that seemed to put things in perspective. My mom is great. In Birmingham, Alabama, if anyone says anything negative about gay people, she proudly says that she has a gay son and that there’s nothing wrong with being gay. Yay, Mom! Dad, on the other hand, is okay with it all, but he tries to fit me into some idea of homosexuality that is comfortable to him. Like, he corrects me whenever I mention that Reese is my son, “No, no, no–you’re more like an uncle.” Whatever, Dad. He still loves me. I inadvertently came out to my entire school when my boyfriend Robert and I were making out in the Hyatt elevator, on our way to a school party on the top floor, and suddenly the doors opened, and there was my class, suddenly quiet as I pried Robert off my lips and burbled, “Hi, y’all! This is Robert!” Robert–I wonder whatever happened to him? He took so much Vitamin A that his skin was kind of orange and he tasted like Retin-A. He drove a BMW, and we’d park behind UAB on rainy nights and make out in it. I can still smell the stew of sweat, Polo, and rich Corinthian leather.

So my coming out was more like being handed the missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle. I was never oppressed by my ignorance, I just didn’t know that a queer was something more than what everyone already called me for what I thought were different reasons.

The Sounds of Love, and a High Utility Bill

The boyfriend of the guy downstairs is visiting for the weekend. He comes to town for any gay event where he gets to take his shirt off and show off his lobster-colored musculature. I usually take the occasion of his visits to stay on the hill at BC’s, but Reese is spending the night, snoozing away in the next room, bless his melatonin level, and I will be kept up all night by the sounds of their operatic love making in the bedroom below. Really, all night. It’s not just headboard banging or little moans–the house shakes, the windows rattle, they scream, fall off the bed many many times, make really loud promises to each other that even I know they won’t keep, and seem to impart more fluids than seem humanly possible to replenish in such a short span. This is all prefaced by the 2 hour–what, shower? I don’t know exactly what is being cleaned and how, but I can hear water running for 2 hours. Bob used to love listening to the sounds of their boinking, indeed he was quite inspired, but I still wash dishes by soaping them first and then rinsing, like we did in the drought, and can’t get past the 2 hour, what, douche? Remember washing the car with a CUP of water? Stop the presses, I smell a cigarette being smoked in the garden… Glory be, I’m going to get some sleep tonight.

LiveJournalers of the World

The Muffin Man swept into town, and got all of the LiveJournal folk together in a place where alcoholic beverages were forbidden–and in daylight–under the palms of Dolores Park, for a picnic. It was jarring to meet people whose 100-square-pixel representations I had already developed intimate relationships with.  Bigredpaul, just stunning in his Van Gogh in Arles get-up, and I discussed this a bit, and I realized why I felt no compulsion to interact meaningfully with anyone in particular. I was seeing people who I’d spent the last several years with, who tell me everything that’s going on, everyday, without a moment’s break. Enough meaning, and pass me another fried chicken leg.

Big Chris has abandoned me. Or, rather, I’ve told him to abandon me. How do you kids stay up so late? I can’t wait to be older. Then it’ll seem normal my wanting to curl up to Flannery O’Connor instead of Samuel Adams. Have one for me, okay? Nighty night cats and kittens.

The Sound of One Chrissy Clapping

I saw Bob last night, arm in arm with a really rough-looking, quite unattractive younger fellow who could have only been one of those guys from Craig’s List who advertises free special servicing to older gents. “What a slut,” I thought to myself, and then opened the door to Magnet where Chris and I were going to find out about the milky discharge seeping from one of my special places. The doctor kept saying “Gonorrhea” and “Chlamydia,” until I interrupted and asked, “Wait a minute, Doc, you keep saying ‘gonorrhea’ and ‘chlamydia’–can this be something else? Like something I got from a toilet seat, or a swimming pool? Can one get gonorrhea or chlamydia spontaneously?” He described a scenario in which a bacterium other than the ones that cause gonorrhea and chlamydia could have wiggled its way up my urinary tract and caused the infection, a scenario that pretty accurately described the conditions of Saturday night at BC’s. Whew. I had thought I was just really excited the past few days. It was only when the evidence of that supposed excitement continued appearing inappropriately and long after any kind of stimulating interaction that I got concerned. Lucky for BC it’s probably not gonorrhea or chlamydia, or he’d have some serious explaining to do. We can’t have relations for 3 days, so I’m looking forward to a nice quiet weekend for a change.

Pool Party

My apologies to everyone who thought they were going to a pool party/orgy at Mack’s boyfriend’s house yesterday. And I’m glad that you didn’t bring fish, as I misunderstood that, too.

So yesterday was one of the three days in the year when one could actually go swimming in the bay area, and that’s what we did. Chrissy, Victor, Davide and I piled into the car and made our way north to a pool party in Sausalito, thrown not by Mack, nor his boyfriend, neither of whom was there, but by Bob Major, evidently inviting the Potluck mailing list. Even though Mack didn’t show up, there was plenty of hairy flesh floating in the pool, and many activities worthy of a nice porn compilation called “Saucy-lito” or something…

Let’s take a closer look at all that this young fellow surveys…

That’s Joe, or Justin, I always get them confused, having the tête à tête with Erik. I’ve only seen Justin and Joe naked, having met them at Kabuki Hot Springs a few times, and their bodies are practically identical. They move through space together like synchronized swimmers. On the right is a pair of guys who never stopped kissing, so I didn’t get to meet them, but they made nice pool toys, bobbing up and down so passionately.

Many LiveJournalers were in attendance, including bigreddee, pyrogeoff, and.. well, actually, just us. But we rocked the party! Victor’s sense of humor is so sharp and quick, a nice balance to Davide’s old-man affect. Davide’s what–19? And please, if you’re going to invite Davide to a party, make sure to put slip covers on the furniture. As soon as that Italian accent slips out, the bears are on him like bees to honey.

Olympics, Baskets, Lone Star, Mike Leigh

Big Chrissy and I are watching the Olympics on the big screen. D is safely locked up for the night–I’ve left messages with his doctors and will talk with them tomorrow about new med strategies and phasing out the shock treatments. BC and I are watching beach volleyball, which had to be dreamed up by some straight dude. Did you catch Misty and Kerri rolling on top of each other after their win tonight? Did the ancient Greeks play beach volleyball naked? Thank the gods for Greco-Roman wrestling–and that hot Polish dude. Isn’t there dude beach volleyball? Why isn’t that aired during prime time? My and BC’s comments are pretty much restricted to basket sizes, butts, and back hair. Did you know that one group in the ancient Olympics used to award crowns of celery to winners of their particular event? When I went to Greece a few years ago, Chris loaned me his cell phone for emergency use–“Chris I’m calling you from the Parthenon!” “Chris, that’s the sound of goats in Arcadia!” He tells me he’s still paying off the bill for all of my emergencies.

This weekend we picked up little Geoffy and swept him to SFMoMA for the William Eggleston show. Man, what color. I’m so through with black and white. For a while, anyway. Geoff’s really such a fun guy, like a big kid. He gave us some candy that he brought home from the Mother country, and I ate a whole bag of the colorful shiny chocolate thingies today. I know, I should be injecting botox into my face before my high school reunion, not 500 grams of saturated fat. I got to see him again on Sunday when Dean Smith called from the Lone Star and told me to get off my butt and get on over to the bar. I had been hiking with  D earlier and recovering from massive quantities of dim sum from Ton Kiang. I want to die in Ton Kiang—a steamed barbequed pork bun stuffed in my mouth and a smile on my face. So I rushed on over and joined Dean and his lover Doug, BC, Davide, looking frighteningly stressed out–aren’t they taking care of you in your new home? You need to come back home to 20th Street and chill, dude!–and lots of bloggers glimpsed and waved or winked at. Is it always that crowded on a Sunday afternoon? What fun! Denny, the namesake of Bob’s recent book, was there, and we commiserated on our Bob-lessness, and another Bob, former media curator at SFMoMA and perhaps interested in bears too late to take an interest in what I’m doing, but it was nice to see him in a different context.

Mike Leigh’s Abigail’s Party is coming out on dvd, and if you haven’t seen it, you should. Alison Steadman’s performance is one of the great comic performances of the last century–just brilliant. She was Mike Leigh’s Dietrich.

Little Bobbie

Okay Bob Hoskins fans, Dennis Potter’s brilliant 1978 mini-series Pennies From Heaven is FINALLY being released on DVD. I recorded it on VHS years ago, and the full frontal nude scene featuring Bobbie’s Little Bobbie has completely eroded into magnetic fuzz on my copy, due to the repeated rewinds and freeze-frames, so let’s hope to high heaven that they didn’t edit out the most glorious two seconds of British cinema for this edition.

It’s Tuesday Already?

Sunday was such a beautiful day–“Let’s go to the beach!” I impulsively yelled at Davide. So we made our way to the chilly, foggy, almost completely empty Black Sand Beach in the Marin Headlands, the fog occasionally parting to reveal the sun-baked city across the bay. The couple next to us performed their rendition of a Live Male-Female Love Act–start to finish in like, 10 minutes. I could see fascination, horror, and lust register simultaneously on Davide’s shivering face. The tattooed goose flesh and legs waving in the air were the perfect backdrop to our discussion of love, film, and our problem with the supposed disjunction between reality and fantasy.

That night I went to Peter and Luis’ for another of Luis’ extraordinary dinners. Peter and I sat in front of the TV, watching Six Feet Under as Luis fed us 2 plates each of pasta with a buffalo and venison Bolognese, green salad, and then, really, the best bread pudding that I have ever had. I’m starting to cry thinking of it. Using bread from Tartine, he sliced the bread and placed it in the pan in such a way as to retain the loaf shape, and then served it that way, so that the bottom was all custardy and the top crispy. Please help me think of a way to evict Albie downstairs so that I can have Luis live and cook for me me only me. My stomach hasn’t stopped singing since Sunday night, some vaguely familiar Neopolitan love song.