I have long used the phrase “accede to reality” - a simpler way of saying reality will always win; however I seem to have lost sight of it on my journey or maybe there were too many realities competing. Today reality stood up and hit me square on.
I wrote yesterday’s post at home, saved while I worked and of course password protected. After writing the post I continued on with what was going to be today’s post, the happier side of Chicago. KA was going to read my letter this morning, not that I had not already told her all, and I left the original for her in our bedroom. While on the computer she sees a Word file – 35,000 Feet - and realizes this is the transcribed letter: why waste time wading through my difficult hand writing. The file has a password that I once told her – an act of faith that I shared it and an act of faith that she did not use it.
But this was different: she was not reading my private files; she was reading the letter to her, one I told her to read. She opens the file and reads the letter, presumably painful enough even with having heard it all. Then there is more on the page, a post titled fifteen hours. She reads this:
As one would expect in a blog world of gay/bi men, no small number of whom are married, relationships and sex are unavoidable topics. I have been a distinct minority – one whose relationships with men all would qualify as anonymous or semi-anonymous. The closest to a relationship had been another “MWM” where we had “lunch” (and a “breakfast” or two) half a dozen times. We spoke in some vagaries but never shared as much as a glass of water. My gay/bi definition was based solely on these sexual encounters and my fantasies – a strangeness noted by more than a few of you over the last few months.
I have discussed the emptiness of my Thursday date and touched on my Friday in my last post. The thing is that Friday deserves more than a passing reference. For ease my wife has named him Joe and that works fine: the fact that KA has given him a name just adds to the Dali-esque state of my life.
Joe and I spent a week e-mailing. From the first exchange there was a connection – something that cannot be explained but one just accepts. When I did not hear from him for a day I never said another CL encounter: I knew the next e-mail would come and we both knew we would meet.
Meet we did. A glass of wine, talking of our lives, fun, and dinner in a local place. At one point in our e-mails we had talked of just ordering in dinner and when I wrote back maybe we should go out, he knew – part of the evening was being in public. After dinner we went to a gay bar – not for long but for the first time I was not (as my therapist calls it) doing the walk. I had a guy and we could touch and dance and throw in a kiss.
We had more fun and slept - half me spooning him and half him spooning me. There was not much time in the morning – a conference to attend – but enough for a cup of coffee, more aimless, comfortable talk.
So for the first time I understand a little of what many have tried to tell me. So many good things come from having that real connection, not the least being the most incredible gay sexual experience of my life.
Of course the good news is he lives a thousand miles away and the bad news, yes he lives a thousand miles away. We will keep in touch – we have become friends – and at some point I will have another weekend with him, but Chicago is a thousand miles away.
As I wrote Joe earlier:
At this point I am happy back home in my shell. I know that if I go on CL, and I am strangely not motivated to do that now, I will get hundreds of "Thursdays" before my "Friday" comes and I do not have the strength for hundreds of dances while still being here.
I have often written that the body does not lie and Friday it spoke loud and clear. And it was good.
She read it, all of it. I called to check in, a typical late morning call and she told me. She is in shock and I am beaten. Only two hours till my therapist; how fortuitous. You must realize the day started alright – I must have driven a mile before a song reduced me to weeping –
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
I do not remember all I wrote and I open the file – I had e-mailed it to work – and I re-read it. The horror. But there is also the knowledge that there is nothing there that I can disclaim and maybe it is better. Lies come in many ways; for me they are lies of self denial. Anyone reading the post can see where I am and I cannot deny it no matter how much I want to.
I suppose some are wondering where am I typing, where am I sleeping. KA thought about this today I am sure but she would not allow my transgressions to harm the children, our family. There is a reason she is my best friend and I do love her fiercely. The basement is far away, not part of our world as the children sleep and wake. We will share a bed but the exercise machine in the office – the old extra bedroom on the second floor will need a new home. A couch will be bought this weekend – one comfortable for sleeping on nights when the need arises. The children will notice an occasional sleeping person but it is just that pesky snoring.
When I started with my therapist I told him of the joys of therapy when not in crisis – an opportunity for real work. I thought to myself after a few sessions, what type of therapist doesn’t have tissue boxes. It seems I started in therapy as an intellectual game, a way of assuaging my guilt and my wife’s fear. The tissue boxes were there all along – it just took until today to find them. I am empty – nothing to write, nothing to give.