Friday, March 31, 2006
While it is only mentioned in passing on my Blog, music is what touches my soul and moves my heart. It is simply put my passion and judging from little things on your blogs, I am far from alone.
They are having a contest - choosing 90 essential songs. Each person is allowed to submit five songs along with their reasons why. This is not an easy task. The contest runs until April 21st which is good because I need time. I plan on posting my results here - I really am not all that much for formal contests anyway - for all to see. Their explanation of this follows:
What are the songs you just can't live without, and why? Be sure to vote in WFUV's listener song poll. Tell us your five essential songs, and why they're important to you. (We'll pick the best reasons and play them on the air.)
I am not much for tagging, but if anyone wants to take the challenge, I would love to see your choices.
Anyway after my last post, I think some lightness may be healthy for me.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Four years went by between Boston and Washington. The desires that existed on the mean streets that night did not dissipate – no surprise there. In November 1994, a little after I reached the milestone of forty, I found myself going to Washington for back-to-back conferences with a Saturday night in the middle. KA by this point was a strong supporter of my taking the opportunity to explore. To those of you who are wondering what is wrong with her, the answer is her motives were born of living with my increasingly homoerotic fantasies. She needed to know who she was living with and that could not be answered without my in a sense asking. The only rules were I would tell her everything but his name and if we kissed. Rules even I could manage.
Eleven years ago and it is still pre-internet as we know it today. I am focused, I read the phone book, I find the GBLT hotline, and I learn where the bars are: DuPont Circle for those planning on taking the tour. I am organized – contacts, no glasses, leather jacket, condom in the pocket. Saturday night – I am set.
My conference is in Northern Virginia and I head into town. The bars are there, just where they are supposed to be and I go have a drink. Now I have not become Mr. Pickup since Boston, and even when a cute thirty year old walks in, I cannot make the move. In a little bit a guy my age sees me and comes over to talk. I cannot claim to remember the conversation but as clear as day I remember him making a point by putting a hand on my forearm – his left, my right; at that moment the possibility became real. He was gay, as one would expect in a gay bar and he could drink. He did not think I was for real – another suburban married dude whose feet would turn to ice. Our little dance went on for hours – talking, hands wandering and finally in another bar, the hour growing late, he gave me his final test – would I kiss him. I did.
We took a cab back to my hotel – I was tired and he was wasted. We got to the room and I wanted to suck him as soon as we got in the door. We undressed – not the slow sexy type I fantasized about, but there he was, naked on my bed, legs spread and my chance to finally work on a cock without it appearing through a hole in the wall. And work I did, I sucked, I nibbled, I found his balls, my hands wandered freely. I had made it. Only problem was – did I mention he could drink? - he was clearly going to pass out without cumming, so it was nap time.
A little nap and he was back with the living. I remember him going to the bathroom, while I got ready. He came out and there I was, on my stomach, KY out, ready. He commented on my preparedness. He did not understand thirty years of waiting; he had not listened carefully to the fade on All The Young Dudes.
This time he was ready and for the first time, I was fucked by something not made out of rubber. I was in one sense in heaven – the Promised Land – and in another sense disappointed. I waited thirty years – where’s the fireworks, the bells and whistles.
We were ready to nap again. Of course you guys reading this maybe wondering about me. It seems that night my role was clear – I was there to pleasure him – a pure bottom as I have since learned the terms. I humped him and came, but he wasn’t really there for that. We slept, me in his arms, a strange sensation. In a strange way that felt more gay than being fucked.
We woke again. This time silently he put my legs up on his shoulders. He entered me. I was his. I could not believe how deep he went and it felt good but as he kept going and seemingly going deeper, it hurt some. But at that point there was the feeling of no turning back. At that moment I became the bitch of my fantasies.
It was near dawn, and we may have napped again; in the half light of the pre-dawn, he dressed to leave. Not much was said – there was never that much to say and we did have a lot of time to kill in the bar; did I mention he could drink. I gave him cab fare back to town. I always thought he helped himself to another twenty along the way – never much cared. It was done.
Not long after the phone rang – KA knew where I was going and had not heard from me in quite a while. I told all (except for the name and the kiss). It’s funny – I think I remember his name now but had forgotten it for the past decade and the kiss, well there never really was anything to remember.
As the song goes, I’ve said enough, I’ve said too much. There is more – the fallout, the realizations then and more interestingly the realizations now. But that is another post.
It is finally time to leave Washington behind, in so many ways.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Up until three weeks ago I had a weekly lunch date with a guy – my age, married. We probably had seven or eight sessions. I told him of my wife knowing about me before our last encounter and he was freaked at first, but hey – I do give a mean bj.
He knows my job and things were left open. I considered e-mailing that I was taking a vacation, but that seemed so permanent – the one more drink thing I have written about. I knew he would assume I was not calling because of work.
So yesterday I get an e-mail – just saying hi, acknowledging three weeks to go. I e-mailed back noncommittally – yep, three weeks to go. The thing is that three weeks go fast. If I do see him again, I will eventually tell KA, I am incapable of lying. She will not leave me, she will not be surprised. But she will be hurt, how could she not be and the thought of hurting her hurts me.
Three more weeks…
On another more cheerful note, someone sent me a link to a Google video of Chriss Bliss (he is not a porn star though his website will re-direct you on request to Christy Bliss) juggling to Golden Slumbers. It makes me smile every time. The link is so long that it just keeps crashing this post, so if you cannot find it through google video, e-mail me. I am not always sure what shows through on my blog, but I do smile - a lot. I love life, even the rough spots.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
While trying to survive a telephone monologue (I was the receiving end), I came upon this quiz on another blog; normally I would not even post it, but darn it - they nailed me.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
While driving to Boston, we had time to kill and KA suggested this was our chance – one night, a foreign city, and then on with our lives. Well I had waited my entire existence for this moment so no shock. I’m in. The problem was that this was pre CL, pre-internet (hard as that is to imagine). We get to Boston, late Saturday afternoon and check into a modest hotel. We have both been battling colds and just spent four or five hours driving – my driving (KA leaves that for me) – all in all a good night to curl up in bed together. We do not.
That evening at a respectable hour, I go off alone, find a cab and ask him where the gay bars are. That alone was an act of will – if I am asking for gay bars how will he ever know that I am just your typical straight married guy. Of course he knew where the gay bars were and we head off towards that Citgo sign lighting the Fenway night.
Got to hand it to the cabbie – one block, two gay bars. There was the college bar and the leather bar. Now I do need to digress (something I am legendary for): I am not a bar person. Thirty-six years old then, married twice, urban dweller, and I have never picked up a girl – no less a guy – in a bar and for that matter never been picked up either.
I start with the college bar – I do have a degree. I’m a little on the old side, fighting a cold, and with a tad of a confidence problem. Nada. Head down the street to the “real bar”. Now this place is its own world. When I headed from the bar to the side room – the bullpen if you would – the pillory at one end should have said it all. I was out of my league.
Now any other man would have called it a night - a short cab ride away was a hotel with a bed being warmed by my one love. But any one who has been following my tale will guess, I am not just any other man – when I abandon my good judgment, I do it right. I find a cab. Do I ask for my hotel – no! – I ask for the combat zone.
Now I am not sure what I am expecting to find and I was clearly not thinking of Bruce’s song:
It's midnight in Manhattan, this is no time to get cute, it's a mad dog's promenade,So walk tall, or baby don't walk at all.
So here I am – a little shy of six feet, a skinny 145 lbs – walking the “mad dog’s promenade” but not walking so tall. I ask someone about finding a guy – no problem locating women here - and this girl starts to walk with me; she will give me advice. As we’re walking she holds me close and I immediately realize my cash has left. Now for an evening like I had planned, I left my wallet and much of my cash in the hotel, but I still do not like being picked. Words ensue, a shoving match, my glasses fly and the frames break. This is not the night I envisioned. Finally there is a cab and as she pushes me into it she gives me a twenty for cab fare – my twenty. The cab pulls away, me in it; it’s over. My pocket is lighter, my glasses are broken, my forehead is scratched, and I am broken.
The post should end on that note. I spent the night recovering in my KA’s sweet arms. But as I lay in bed a few hours ago, writing in my head, I realized another aspect of it all. For all these years I was a straight guy who went to the wrong neighborhood and was robbed. But as I lay in bed writing, I realized that I was surely in the eyes of the one who rolled me, a “faggot” who was an easy mark. She knew I was not going to the cops – “yes officer, I was looking for a guy to fuck me.”
This post opened with a Paul Simon song - Duncan. That night was supposed to end with the same song:
“Oh what a night, what a garden of delights, even now that sweet memory lingers.”
It did not.
Next stop- Washington DC
Friday, March 24, 2006
We have cool computers here and when I get an e-mail at my work address that little outlook box superimposes on the bottom right corner of the screen.
Now I know I should be fully into my work - this is a busy time - but I have my new gmail account and sometimes I check it during the day. So this morning I am checking my gmail - or maybe I should say Nate is checking his gmail and the little outlook box flickers on - an e-mail from a colleague:
"Who does Nate get charged to?"
I am having a heart attack. I am in panic mode. I reflexively delete the incoming message and then cannot find it. I then realize it is in my deleted items. I read it again.
"Who does Nate get charged to?"
It's still there. After another minute or two of shear terror, I realize. This colleague had been working on a client with a very similar name and had gotten one letter wrong.
I present this for the humor, but as I write I realize it is a commentary on closets - what a horrible way generations of gay people have been forced to live.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Back around ’76, newly in the work force, a few dollars to spare, my best friend and I did the classic trip – flew to LA, drove up the coast, visited SF, headed to Yosemite, back to Frisco and flew home.
When we got to SF, we of course went to Mecca, otherwise known as Haight Ashbury. We arrived mid afternoon and being on vacation went to a bar for a beer. As we were finishing the beer, and I was contemplating a second - we were still on vacation - my friend was in a hurry to move along. I wasn’t sure why, but we travel well together and I assumed I would get another beer along the way, so we left.
Now this was a “corner” bar, nothing trendy, not overly crowded - mid-day. My friend realized something else – it was a gay bar. Now I was in that bar and never noticed a thing. I didn’t doubt my friend – I am sure he was correct. But I have often wondered as to the commentary on me – was I just oblivious or was I in an element that was non-threatening? I always felt it was the latter.
So now that I have made the connection to today – I said this one was tenuous – let’s stay in Frisco a little longer.
1976 – Frisco – a Dead head – I needed music and we found the Shady Grove. I assume it is long gone, but this was an awesome music club. That night we went to see Merle Saunders – he had done an album with Jerry Garcia that was a lot of fun. Somewhere well into the evening – 1 or 2 AM, he did No Woman, No Cry and he just got into the chorus – it felt like it lasted forever – and at that moment in time I had no doubt in my mind “that everything was going to be alright.” Still thirty years later I find comfort in that moment – swaying in the middle of the dance floor knowing it really was all okay.
By the time we left the club, renting a room seemed silly, and we did only have a few dollars to spare. We ended up in a marina in Sausalito, slept in the car and woke to the sun rising over the harbor.
Only a few more slides in the carousel – stay with me now. We headed East that afternoon and was going to camp in the desert, that is until we got to the desert. One look at the campsite, back in the car, heading East again, with a desert sunset, still the most beautiful I think I have ever seen, in the rearview. The camera did not work but as Paul Simon wrote “Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you.”
That night we found ourselves in the Stanislaus National Forest, some mescaline in our pockets, a jug of Paul Masson (mason as the clerk called it) wine, and a peaceful nights sleep on a bed of pine needles.
Enjoy these images because there is nothing pretty when we make our next stop. See you in Beantown.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
I have bared my soul over the last two and a half months on this Blog – infidelities, sex one cut above anonymous, fantasies one would not discuss at a dinner party, but I realize that I have not touched on the most difficult of things: I was the kid picked last for sports. Hell, when we played softball in grade school I had my own position – deep, deep, centerfield. (I am happy to report they never made me actually leave the school yard.)
You may be wondering why after forty years I am raising this today. I have read on the Blogs and in the MSM (main stream media - I always wanted to try those initials) about the autistic kid who had a great day on the basketball court, and I admit I was moved. I then read Ben’s moment of glory and I admit I was jealous.
The problem with a story like that – a true Disney moment – is that it does not represent the typical reality. Now I am not against Disney movements – another deep secret is that I tear up when they score the goal or smack that homer in those “silly” movies. But most days in real life the “water boy” does not sink the shots and does not get carried off on his/hers teammates shoulders.
I can write about this now – not easily I am discovering – but somewhere I have a sixth grade year book with a well meant inscription: “To my favorite deep centerfielder.” The thing is that I kept that book hidden well into my twenties for fear of having to explain what a deep centerfielder was.
So my hat is off to this kid – truly a well deserved moment of glory – but my heart is with all of those other kids who will never make the shot. In celebrating him, let’s not forget the others.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Now Bibydays, Nate, and any other incarnation of me are not fans of the random profile question. But when I created Nate, I got this question:
Unlike a dog, how can a turtle ever be naked?
Now usually I struggle for answers to these questions, but this was a one where my answer was instantaneous:
By coming “out” of its shell of course.
I am quite familiar with the Gods of Music, but never knew there was a god of screen names.
Monday, March 20, 2006
I openly admit – I did not like the name when I started and like it even less now. When I told KA about my blog, I was embarrassed by the name – an ode to infidelity if you would – not by the blog itself. At this point many things have changed including my self definition.
The name Bibydays is a clear statement of not being Bi by night. I guess I assumed that I was “cured” in a sense when I got home. (I am a glutton for punishment and have issues with letting go). Well, it seems I am Bi – whether I hook up day, night or never. My discussions with KA are no longer whether I am Bi –we have moved on to how it impacts our life (measurably), is it realistic that I will not hook up again (questionable),which family members I may come out to and when (my sister and niece, sooner than later).
Anyone who has e-mailed me knows my name. I do not sign Bibydays to personal correspondence. The problem is that I do not have a common name – if I was a Mike or Bob or Joe it would be easy – I would use my name. I do not.
The thing is that my Blog is no longer a transient thing – I have much to say and hopefully you will continue to choose to be part of this aspect of my life.
So I cannot change my URL and it will continue to be http://bibydays.blogspot.com/ and I have no issue with my Blog’s title – I am bi, married, white, male, and still have a few tales left in me – but I will no longer be signing as Bibydays. I have decided to come as close to my reality as possible while maintaining a degree of discretion. With apologies to the singer formerly known as Prince, I am now Nate, the blogger formerly known as Bibydays.
A rose by any other name…
Sunday, March 19, 2006
My vote is “Sticks and stones…” I am a parent (a few times over) and I have not spent much time dealing with sticks and stones. (Maybe we just live in a good neighborhood.) But I have spent a great deal of time dealing with those “words that never harm me.” Us with children have (or will) see the damage done. Us who try will remember our own trials of being on the receiving end.
As you may have guessed I am going back to the subject of yesterday, for hopefully the last time. It seems to me that Dane and I should get the last word on this one There have been comments on my and Dane’s blogs taking various positions. Let me be clear in my view. Dane never attacked me personally but correctly took me to task. It was not just one word – it was the tenor of my posts for a week. I came home from my therapist on Monday and told KA I was better now (sounds like "cured" to me) and she also bitch slapped me.
I think the exchange Dane and I had is an example of how two human beings express their views and reach an understanding. So if the two of us are cool, I hope everyone else is also.
And, words do matter, more, ultimately much more, than “sticks and stones.”
Saturday, March 18, 2006
So this incarnation is that I am tagged with a question, answer it, and then tag others with a different question of my choosing. The question can be anything and if it starts a thread, all the better. Cymber tagged me with the following question:
If you rubbed the magic lamp and the genie appeared, for what purpose would you be using your three wishes?
Now before I attempt an answer, a few comments. I am not good at games – it’s the stick in the mud portion of me – but who am I to turn down Cymber. I also am not good at tagging. I have thought much about is since I was tagged once before (and did not tag back) and clearly it is a fear of rejection thing. But this is not the time for such talk.
Clearly the answer is how many ways can you spell PowerBall, but that does not seem in the spirit, and one spelling would be fine.
My first two wishes deal with some of my children who do not really exist in this blog world so I will tread with some care. I have a daughter getting married. She is quite young for this in my opinion though that is the least of my concerns. She has drive and a fire in the belly. He does not. She has out of the blue become the more significant earner. She understands the twin issues in marriages – sex and money. She thinks good sex will always prevail. So Genie – let her accept our offer to postpone the wedding for a year while they find themselves.
The next wish is for a younger child (and clearly has a level of projection in it). She is on the cusp of middle school – a difficult time at best (raging hormones as we call it) and for a geeky kid without much friends a potential living hell. I wish she could magically skip to high school where I suspect she will find herself along with kindred spirits.
I have decided to keep the last wish for me because I have been writing about this damn genie for the past two months. For those who have not been here for the whole ride, I have learned that once the genie is out of the bottle, there’s no putting it back. So Genie, here goes. I wish I had let you out thirty years ago. I had the chances – hell I was living maybe 50 yards from Sheridan Square – ground zero for homosexuality in America – but did not have the courage. I suspect that had I allowed myself freedom then, I would not be wrestling with you today.
So on to the next part of the exercise. My question is: If you could change one choice in your life, what would it be? (Wish someone had tossed me this one – I could riff for a while.)
As previously said, my personality is not one for tagging, so I will not be hurt if anyone chooses not to play, but in the spirit of things:
Dane –( just seems like you were integral to my growth today and as they say no good deed goes unpunished)
Anyone else who likes the question
But today I am overwhelmed and I realize why. I did a post in January 12th (how you guys hyper-link to a specific post is still beyond me) concerning the incredible percentage of gay / lesbian family members in the generation below mine. These are people I love and cherish. These are individuals who I consider role models for the younger children – not sexual role models, human role models. I spent twenty minutes on the phone with one of them yesterday, the most pleasant twenty minutes of my day. I struggle with my desire to tell them without just blowing up whatever stability I have created. That time will come.
So the fact that I might have pissed some of you off does upset me. But it pales to my upset of how I would have hurt those I truly love by a careless remark.
I have said my piece and will now move on.
I then used the word –Cure – in one of my comments. I used it and I live and die by “what has been read cannot be unread”. As tempting as it is, I have not deleted it. I will however apologize for it and comment on it.
I lay in bed last night considering the horror of what I had written, long before waking to much deserved criticism from Dane.
I do not believe in cures because I do not believe I am sick. I have issues to address. Brian has phrased it as matters of reconciliation, not suppression. Those thoughts deserve their own posting.
I have spent the past four months getting to a point of accepting I am bi-sexual. I have spent the past forty years being bi-sexual, even if I did not always realize it and was frequently unaware of it. (I considered last night my first inkling of being bi and will talk about that in a separate post - it was a long, long time ago).
I am ashamed of cheating on my wife. I am not ashamed of being bi – it does not have that form of emotional content. I am also 5” 11”. Certain things are.
Whether I go to my grave never having sex with a man again or find myself on my knees giving a bj tomorrow, I will be bi for the rest of my life.
I posted the following comment on Dane’s blog a few minutes ago. It is my apology to him and I offer it up to all.
Last night I was awake from 2 to 4 AM thinking of many things, but primarily a comment I made on one of my posts. I had that feeling one gets in life of realizing a mistake and figuring I would correct it in the morning.
I am the blogger you refer to - I appreciate you kindness in not mentioning me by name, but I have always believed in personal responsibility.
I am about to write a post on the subject - I ask that you go to my blog and read it - but the bottom line is that my choice of words and the implications of them was not acceptable to one who chooses his words as carefully as I tend to.
I considered deleting my comment, but it is part of my struggle - as distasteful as it was to me and I am sure even more so to others.
I was going to send you a direct apology before I saw this post (along with a song as liquidated damages) but I have no e-mail for you. I then decided I was going to attach this to whatever your last post was - I did not realize that it would be me.
I hope you choose to read my blog again - I have appreciated your comments over time. I thank you for calling me on this one - one point of this "world" is being "slapped" when necessary.
Written with the greatest humilty, a once again chastened bibydays.
Friday, March 17, 2006
My blog was gone. At first I thought that the work filters had become even more selective, but thats a different nasty screen. Then I had a fellow blogger try (thanks CG) and they also failed, but was kind enough to suggest it may be a blog spot issue, as it was.
The thing was that I was terrified that it was gone. I have some of my posts in the Word files I composed in, but by no means all. I have no record of the comments. I have become attached to this blog.
I am attached to my music and in terror of KA's wrath if I toast her pictures. I have an extra hard drive sitting in my office. I'm unflappable.
I will have to print my blog, find it a warm safe place. It holds way too much of me to have it just disappear into thin air.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
As anyone following my tale knows, I hit a personal low a few weeks ago and after having my wife read my blog entry about it saw my stock go even lower. I rode out the storm and decided that I would try accepting bi-ness as a co-existent state with monogamy, a standard I am still aiming for.
The problem started with my second visit with my new therapist on Monday. Actually the problem had already started; the visit was the opportunity for it to be revealed. As he had suggested, I was giving this a three visit test drive before deciding if he was the one.
I explained to him how well I was doing – no more bj’s for this puppy, home at the hearth, evenings by the fireside (well maybe no fireside, but it sounds so appealing). He was mellow but insisted on touching on topics no longer relevant to me – avoiding certain underage websites (which I do not cruise), avoiding trouble if one finds oneself at the cruising “park and ride” (another thing I have not done). All this good but irrelevant advice. I want Sigmund, so many deep issues to explore. I am not sure whether I have found the right therapist after all.
I go home and explain this to KA. She listens nicely and then in the calmest of fashions proceeds to “bitch slap” me. She is of course right. I have declared myself cured of any issues of being bi in a marriage. I’ll just stop – something I believe I can do by will power, though a more rational underpinning to my behavior may be just a tad healthier in the long run. It is of course my pattern with therapy. I am smart and a relatively quick thinker and somehow manage to convince everyone, particularly myself that all is well.
Once I start to think about it, it seems maybe I have found the right therapist after all. I have expressed behavior that is disturbing to me and seven days later walk in and re-acknowledge it. I then hold it against him that he does not join me in ignoring the last four months (or in the broader sense, the last forty years) – sweet denial.
KA wants to know if the therapist is too similar to me. She may be right again – he’s few years younger, wears a wedding ring and has a feel for bi-ness that seems to go beyond reading the book. I think I will forsake Sigmund for someone who seems to know the trenches we find ourselves in and the demons who are sure to return.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
There is an old Yiddish saying my father, and his father before him used to quote:
When the putz staitz,
The saychel gaitz.
Literally translated, when the penis stands, the common sense walks.
It’s amazing how the basic truths never really change.
I remain honored and humbled that people have taken this journey with me over the last few months. I did not start this blog as a way to “meet” people and make friends, but I have and I thank you. So I will end this post and start a new one because I still have much to say and hopefully my therapy in writing will help someone as much as all your writings have helped me.
(After I posted the above, I looked at my updated blog - a silly habit I admit - and I re-read my banner. I am amazed to see that the "mission" stated the day I started, with no idea of where it would all lead, has been, and continues to be, realized.)
Thursday, March 09, 2006
I suffered a bit of depression before, during and after writing and posting it. I then showed the incredible poor judgment – my capacity for poor judgment of late is a source of constant amazement – of sharing the posting with KA. I thought that having told her most of it already, her reading the actual post would help in my catharsis. Of course the answer is clear – I was worried about my catharsis and blithely ignored her.
Needless to say the post angered, scared and depressed her; we still share a bed, but only through her good graces. It’s a shame because prior to this little crisis, I had come to some serious conclusions.
Underlying everything of course is the issue of my sexual orientation. I have written post after whining post – what am I today? – which is okay I suppose but there is a time to move on. So in that spirit let me say to me and anyone else who happens to be listening: I am bisexual. (In the you can’t make this shit up department, I compose in Word and “bisexual” has the funny red line underneath – Bill Gates wants me to add a question mark.)
Having accepted that I am bi - forty years of denial really seems quite long enough – does that mean I can go have sex with men. I am married and do respect my wife, as hard as that may be to believe based on recent actions. I am still attracted to other women – would I presume the right to have sex with them? So knowing that at some point we are not open marriage people (no disrespect to those who are) I figure I’ll have one more drink while we work things out. Well maybe two more… You get the gist.
So I have come to realize that I cannot say to KA “I’ll never be with another man again” but I can say “I will endeavor not to be with other men while we work through this.” And say that I have.
As I have said often, I no longer have the certitude I once had. But while we try to absorb the magnitude of events in our lives, I can at the least put down my glass and put away the bottle.
And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you
But while not a revelation, there is something that I keep going back to: The NY Times website tracks the most e-mailed articles for the past 24 hours. Three days out this article is still number 3 and has been as high as number 1. They also track for the past seven days – Brokeback is a more than respectable number 6 and still being sent.
This made me think of another article around six months ago that was a solid number 1 in e-mailing for more than a day. It dealt with a park in Queens – Cunningham Park – where around the corner from the soccer fields was the parking area where guys cruised and the woods they sometimes frequented. Much of the description centered around married men on the way from NYC back to the suburbs – a good days work, quick blowjob, and plenty of time for dinner with the family. (I am proud to say this article came as news to me - not the concept but the specifics - I do have my limits; it somewhat offsets the lingering shame of my last post.)
Someone is reading these articles and are struck enough to e-mail them. GBLT, closeted, voyeurs – who knows – but clearly these topics strike a broad chord. As the X files taught us, we are not alone.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Yesterday’s post by Flip made me think quite a bit and I wrote him, but did not send an e-mail, elaborating on my comment. As I thought about it more, I realized that I was on the verge of losing one of the inherent lessons in Flip’s writings: the necessity of being truthful (to me and anyone reading) particularly when it is tough. If I start to censor myself here, then much of why I am here becomes lost.
So back to the topic – Flip goes on CL, sees the “perfect” posting and replies.
I had avoided CL for a while. Of course I had somebody I was “active” with (wonderful euphemism) so going on CL was a bit unnecessary. But over the last week, I found myself going on – as I lay in bed last night I calculated I could be at M4M for my area in say 3 keystrokes and 5 mouse clicks, so, so easy.
I ask myself why and the answer is that I am not sure how long my current bud will last. He is freaked by my having told my wife that I am bi and I was also losing my edge for him. He is my age and my fantasy has always been younger – a cute 30 year old would be nice. In essence, like any addictive personality, I wanted more.
So I go on CL and there is a posting – 18 year old looking for 50 +. He wants a bj, he wants to top: he is 18. I close the posting and a little while later read it again. He’s blond, he is writing my fantasy: he is 18. So I know the right thing – I know when to walk away. So I do the only thing I can – I respond. He answers. He wants a picture. I say no pics. He does not respond. I am on some level disappointed and in many ways relieved.
I sit there over the next few days – checking my Yahoo way too much – and I realize at that moment that I have crossed a line. I am at that moment not comfortable in my own skin. I realize that I am bordering on – no actually crossed over to – self destructive behavior. When my soon to be hired shrink returns my initial call on a Friday, I am happy to get an appointment for Monday morning.
My shrink gets it – he does not tell me to avoid CL, he does not judge my acting out. He tells me no under 25 – a minimum age of reasonableness.
I have for the moment retreated from that line – my reasonableness has returned. But I see how easy it was – and is – to cross again and frankly it’s a little scary.
So I write this with embarrassment, maybe the only emotion I have not covered over the last few months. Vulnerability has never been my strong suit, but I suppose it is just one less level for the new shrink to peel away – he will still have much to work with. I still question my need to post this – part of me says just put it away, leave it be. But another part says be honest and in as we all have learned what has been read cannot be unread, even if I am also the writer.
Don’t be tempted by the shiny apple
Don’t you eat of a bitter fruit
Hunger only for a taste of justice
Hunger only for a world of truth
'cause all that you have is your soul
(As a post-script of sort, as I was cutting and pasting this post, I spoke on the phone with my wife for a moment - She heard my voice and kept asking what was wrong - I sounded depressed. I told her I was fine, but I guess my voice betrays me. I will tell her.)
So I am with a client and as I am pulling on my coat he asks if I drove or took the train. I tell him I took the train - time to read my book and he naturally asks what I'm reaading.
Now I know what I am reading - started it today and am enjoying it so far: Bi Any Other Name. And I consider the question and momentarily freeze - a very brief moment - and go off on a riff about the book I am listening to at the moment. Thank god it wasn't 4 AM.
On the subject of the current book, I just started it but have been thinking of this quote from it:
I am married and monogamous. Not much of a bisexual you say. Yet my bisexuality influences my perception and my decisions. More than having sexual relations with both genders, bisexuality is a mind frame, a reference point from which to view the world. Being bisexual has more to do with potential than actuality. I happended to meet a man with whom I am compatible. He could have been a she. I do realize I am lucky.
Good stuff, but still the bj's...
So last night KA and I had another pre-dawn conversation and she out of the blue asks "Is once a week enough for you?"
Well this is quite aways from don't ask, don't tell, but we do have this new found honesty.
I think about it for a few moments and confess that while I had been seeing him weekly, of late it has been more of a two week cycle and that at two weeks I miss it. Being an honest guy I add that if I were to continue acting out I am not sure this would be the one.
Silence while she absorbs it all and then...
"I was asking about your new therapist."
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Twenty years ago I went to a shrink while in the throes of a divorce. I wanted “permission” and to able to tell my soon to be ex and my family that I had given things a chance. I did get permission, I did not give things a chance, but I do take comfort in that my second marriage is approaching sixteen years – a good run by any measure. I think my therapist was good, but we were focused and did not delve as deep as may have been appropriate.
My second experience was a decade ago and with hindsight – WHAT WAS SHE THINKING! It was a family therapist working with my children, my wife and now me. I sit down and tell her: “by the way I was in Washington last month and spent a great night having sex with this guy but now my wife thinks it best if I not do it again – bad for our marriage. Yes, I have had these feelings for a long time, but I love my wife, so I’m better now.” And she listens and after some discussion (over a period of time), she agrees that it’s all okay. As my kids would say – HELLO – ANYBODY HOME IN THERE?
There were other issues it turns out we never really resolved – this whole thread of my temper with my family. The thing is that not unlike my first therapy I went because everyone thought I should. I wanted to be told I was really okay – in fact quite wonderful – and the therapists were “kind” enough to oblige.
Some day I owe my siblings an apology – they did not know the sexual aspects, but figured out long before me that my therapists may have dismissed me, but I had not “graduated.”
So tomorrow at 9 AM I will go into an office to try again. There are huge differences this time – I walk in for me, not for those around me; I walk in vulnerable, oh so vulnerable; I walk in willing – albeit afraid – but still willing to attempt the hard work. As I write I realize the biggest difference – I walk in not knowing the script in advance. I know what the end should be – me being with KA and my family, but without the script, I don’t know the plot twists in advance. I just pray for the happy ending.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Therefore while a few little things caught her eye, there were no surprises. She has decided not to continue to read it because she wants me to be able to write freely. I think she also figured out that she is effectively getting the "bulldog" edition (is that term still relevant in the digital world) every night before bed.
I am relieved she has read it and we are still moving along. I suppose this is one area where the fear I had erected was always greater than the reality.
Music has been a thread in many of your blogs and if I am baring my essence to the "world", it seems that a few words are in order. I have quoted music in many posts but never discussed it. I think Chelsea Girl put it best when she wrote "iPod, therefore I am." I own a lot of music - I have over 5,000 songs on my computer and when I eventually digitize the rest of my albums and tapes (the ones I care about), the number should close to double. I bought my first album circa 1968 and have not looked back, I have strange bootlegs and concert tapes - it is a part of my essence.
Last June my family decided to ignore my combination of cheapness and inabilty to decide what MP3 player I wanted; they bought me an iPod for father's day. It has been a life changing experience in that my music became accessible. We listen to the stereo again: it is a part of and a backdrop to our lives.
KA, who is good at connecting the dots, points out that the timing of my bi-sexual explorations track closely with the re-arrival of music in my life in such a dramatic fashion. There has been a concurrent theme - my extended family wants to hear the music, they want to share it; after years of being the geek with the obsession, I feel validated. The music has allowed me a freedom I cannot explain - I suppose the inner child re-emerging - just no one including me realized the enormity of the that kid's bi/gay fantasies.
Friday the Gods of Music spoke to me again:
Water spirits singing springing around my head, makes me feel glad that I'm not dead.