Tuesday, February 27, 2007


Of late there are appears to be three Nate’s. There is the daytime Nate, the evening Nate and the late night Nate. The problem is that three Nate’s are exhibiting more personalities than Sybil herself. I suspect this is distressing to Carrie and undoubtedly is taking a toll on me.

During the days I suit up, literally, and am off to work, a veritable pillar of the community. There I have regular e-mail flurries with some of my new friends. These are intelligent, intellectual – sometimes playful, but of late never overtly sexual. These are “dates”, not mere hookups. And they are good, they are validating, they are a reminder of starting a new life, a healthy life.

Then time to go home, home to the land of separation and togetherness, the land of confusion. Dinner with the family, chatting with Carrie while kids do their homework (albeit grudgingly). Sometimes a TV show together and sometimes opposite stair cases. If one needed to pick a phrase for those evenings, comfortable companionship would do just fine. The talk varies – children, our days, and of course TGT.

But sooner or later, it is time to part, the kids tucked in and each of us to our separate bedrooms – well, Carrie to her bedroom and me to my basement fiefdom. In the past we would have been crawling into bed, bone tired and lights out in short order: lights out and eye lids lowered.

But now I find myself in my new home, not quite ready to get into bed, looking for any excuse to extend the day. Ah, the computer. Check the e-mails. Shocker, no new ones in the last few hours, but then the fingers start their magic. But first, time to digress. My history with pornography, particularly porn at home, pales next to the stories I hear. Maybe fear of being caught, maybe cheapness, maybe a sex life laden with homo-erotic fantasies: not much to read or watch. And what I did have – well should I watch them while Carrie is trying to sleep or maybe in the den where the children can wander in.

But that was then. I have my space, I have a computer, and this is the age of the internet. So I have found a few places to wander, familiar haunts at this point. Places where I can just view those video trailers or other eye candy and places where there is opportunity, though I am not nearly bold enough to avail myself of such things – not yet. So I look, look at men, look at gay porn, and I touch myself. And I am successful – every time.

So I wonder which is the real me – the one who engages men in such a healthy fashion, the one who still longs for the quiet companionship of my best friend or the one who throws himself into the blue monitor glow of the nights.

It is strange how I need to write these missives in order to see such simple truths. They are all me and the real goal is to integrate these pieces. To find a place where I can be comfortable with Carrie without ….

As I wrote the last sentence, I stopped typing midstream. I stopped because my thoughts had run ahead and when I looked up and saw where they were going, I was taken aback. It was not where I planned, it was not back to the home and hearth I so desire. But it is real, so back to the paragraph.

To find a place where I can be comfortable with Carrie without constantly torturing her on being back together as once was. To find a relationship where my emotional and sexual desires, my need for friendship and my need for lust can be satisfied in the way that once existed so totally in my life.

Sunday, February 25, 2007


The other night I had a dream, so simple that a blind man could see where it was going.

I am in my car in New Jersey and while the details are scarce, clearly I am on my way to meet a man – a gay man. I turn onto a small street – more an alleyway and I come upon some debris illuminated by the headlights. I throw the car into reverse and back out at high speed, straighter than I could ever drive in real life. I make it to the main road, back out at an angle and throw the car into drive and head into the Lincoln Tunnel, head back to New York, back home.

Clearly my sub-conscious is continuing to battle the obvious – I have crossed the river, there is no going back. It was a manageable dream – no surprises, no massive depth. Eventually I fall back to sleep – not easily, not soon, but the fatigue eventually overcomes all.

Then from my deep sleep I hear a man talking loudly, an altercation maybe. It is coming from the window, from the back yard. I am in terror, paralyzed. I try fighting to sit up; hell I am just trying to move my limbs. They are not cooperating. Finally I struggle to a sitting position and then it strikes me – the dogs are quiet. Three dogs, an intruder out there and no barking: at that moment I realize it was a dream, what other explanation could there be. I get up, go upstairs and all is quiet.

I am hard pressed to remember a moment of such paralysis, such abject terror. Carrie asks was the scream me or my father. I neither know nor care: what matters is the degree of the terror and from whence it came.

This week for the first time there is the realization, the clear knowledge, that there is no going back, there is only going forward. And going forward means I will have to confront my demons, I will have to come out from behind the skirt; I will have to leave the closet behind. Last night at dinner my friends tell me: true friends will be there for me and the hell with the rest. They are of course right, but there are still so many emotions.

Shame – not warranted, but there all the same: shame for being gay, shame for a second failed marriage.

Fear of the whispers, the comments not meant to be heard. Yes, to hell with them, but that is an intellectual statement: those moments will still have an emotional effect – maybe hurt, maybe anger, probably both.

Concern for my children, girls starting middle school, a difficult time at best: we do not live in Chelsea or the like. Statistically I suppose I am not the only gay dad in our school district. I will just be the only one who is out. What might be said to them by the “mean girls”?

Hurt – hurt over what I have wrought on Carrie, hurt for hurting her and hurt from the knowledge that I am typing away in the basement and not lying next to her.

There is much good in my life – a loving and supportive family – immediate and extended, friends who are there for me, for us. New friends – gay men who I can talk to, have a drink with and yes, get hugs from: the base for building a new life. There is a career and colleagues who will support me when they learn of the struggles. There is Carrie – still best friends, still a mutual support system as we start our new lives. And of course Sis who manages to “bitch slap” without ever leaving a bruise.

Most importantly is the thing I tend most to ignore. I am healthier now than I have ever been in my life. I am more confident at work and at home. The rages are less frequent, more controlled. My children refer to the new Daddy – they like him so much better than the old model. (And the older children tell me the model they knew a decade ago makes the “old” model look downright mellow.) Somehow I try to convince myself that the honesty and self-acceptance that made this possible is not necessary to continue the trend. How ridiculous a thought is that?

It’s funny – as I started this post I was in “wallowing” mode. As I finish it, as I think of the good, I realize that ultimately the good will win out. I am where I need to be. And someday, hopefully sooner than later, I will internalize that reality.

Friday, February 23, 2007


Monday night I started a post but did not finish it: a combination of exhaustion and not knowing how to end it. I have finally figured out the ending, but first the post, not completed and not “finished”:

Of late I have oft-times considered labels. I know: asked and answered, sexuality is a continuum, be who you are – it does not need a name. All of which is true but is not an excuse to bury ones head in the sand. My blog title remains unchanged while the underlying life - my life - swirls in confusion. Tales of a Bi “MWM”: I can assure you that I am and will continue to be male and while irrelevant, I am not of color. After that, things get sketchy: Bi – we’ll get back to that – and married – absolutely if one considers sleeping two floors apart a traditional part of that definition.

I do not write here to be cute. This is a subject that is way too important to me and I suspect even more important to others. When describing myself of late, the word is “gay”. It is simple and to the lay person direct. I go out with men, I give head, I get fucked. The guys at the proverbial water cooler would not have trouble supplying descriptive terms of various origins and bi would not be among them. My behaviour, my choices of late – gay.

Yet when I sat in my married bi/gay group last Friday listening to my friends I heard a different definition of gay: men who had not had sex, at least willingly, with their wives for years, men who did not miss it at all, men who did not dream of becoming a fuckbuddy for their wives. Beyond that men who walking down the street would not feel their eyes drawn to a pair, and I do not mean balls, or would not notice a pair of legs that seem to rise forever, men who would not imagine the joys that cleavage can bring.

I no longer doubt that I am one of these men in oh so many ways – the base sexual desires and the quiet conversations and glancing brushes of a hand or arm. And yes, the hugs. When I say I am bi, I feel like I am distancing myself: “I am bi so I am not really gay.” I have used that ploy for much of the last year and cannot continue to use it. So to avoid a lecture to everyone I come out to, I now come out as gay. I do it with comfort and do it with pride.

But there are some troubling aspects. I would gladly make love with my wife right now if she granted me the opportunity. My head will swivel while walking the streets of New York – swivel involuntarily. There is that hetero side, not nearly as strong as the homo side, but both still alive and well. So clearly I am bi. Hell, even my therapist is willing to concede the point – “polymorphous perverse” in his lingo.

That is what I wrote on Monday and I have given it much thought. Last night I had dinner with Carrie – simple Irish basics in a pub which serves the ale in pints, a few pints indeed. I explained this to her, my mixed emotions, my willingness to give up the men, to give us another try. She knew this was coming – I am not a stealth kind of guy. She had given it much thought.

We all know by now she is smarter than me and she realizes that my intentions are honorable but also a formula for disaster. Forty years of waiting, gone in an instant: I don’t think so. She has been catching up on my blog, she understands that I may not be having sex, but those bar room hugs, kisses in the corners, quiet conversations deep into the night – one does not need sex to be gay, to live gay, to find comfort in gay. She points out that hetero’s will never accept my being bi but that gays, particularly of my age will accept me in all gradations – many have been married and some have known these strange mixed emotions.

So while I may meet the technical definition of bi, it is time to leave the fine print behind. I have no illusions of my own ability to backtrack and deny. And I realize that there will be much joy and more pain ahead, but it is time to stop torturing Carrie, teasing with the men in my life, toying with reality.

The strange thing is that I expected Carrie’s reaction and while there is some sadness in me, there is more comfort, comfort in honesty, comfort in direction, comfort in acceptance.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007


In Blogland there are posts and comments, but recently there was a comment and my response which to me form a post all its own.

Spider wrote:
I was looking tonight at your profile picture as I was reading your entry Nate. That is one of my favorite Monet's in that series and that is my favorite series of his.

Then it struck me - your profile picture is an impressionist painting. Impressionism - the artistic school of thought that most leaves open description and explanation to the view. The content and the mood can change based on the lighting or the direction from which you view the piece; and the artist, in this case Monet, can paint the same exact scene 5 times and come away with a different view each time - depending on observation and conditions.

This is where you are Nate - you are a Monet - being viewed by yourself and others differently depending on mood and situation and lighting and which painting we are viewing. And I think this is comfortable for you right now.

I will be interested to see when you change that picture...

Nate (that’s me:) responded:
When I looked for a picture, I gravitated to Monet, but was not very aware of this series - I have always been a fan of the Cathedral at Rouen (which I once was blessed to visit).

When I saw my profile picture I was struck almost as much by the title as I was by the picture: "House of Parliament, Effect of Sunlight In The Fog."

I have thought of changing it, updating the picture, updating me, but I keep getting back to the juxtaposition of sunlight and fog because it feels so representative of the place I am in.

Whatever happens with this process, with my life, during the past year the sunlight has started to cut through my fog, the fog of lack of self awareness,the fog of denial, and it is only in that sunlight that there can be decisions, hopefully right decisions, albeit none will be easy.

Thanks Spider - I chose that painting a long time ago and it is good to finally talk about it.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Emotional Orphan

Ten years ago we buried my father and two years later my mom. I remember standing with my sister after my mother’s funeral and her saying both parents gone: we are orphans. It troubled me – an orphan is a child, it is one of life’s sadness’s. Who are we – adults in our forty’s - to make such a comparison, to make light of the true orphan’s pain.

Over the ensuing years, this has not been an area which has commanded much of my attention. But recently through the discipline of therapy, I have been forced to revisit my childhood – a Freudian tilt to it all. Now I have had a simple enough view – life began around age 14, a time my friends and I called the Renaissance, the beginning of sex and drugs and rock and roll, even if there was not much of the sex. As a late in life child, my parents were older and my mother was beginning down the road of depression blurring into Alzheimer’s. She was simply put, not a presence.

Now therapy – looking inward is good, but there is something to be said for an outside reality and I am the baby of the family. I share some of these thoughts with my sisters – my older sisters – and they add a new layer of reality. It seems that there were some family problems, problems not involving me, problems involving my siblings. And these issues – these issues and my father - took a toll on my mom. An already meek woman, she was jump started into a depression that would color the rest of her life.

I was four at the time. Four.

Now, you may be wondering about the other half of the equation – my father. He was in many ways a dominant figure and in so being he was the one who helped push my mom into the dark alley of depression. He was there in the overview, in the myth, but he was not a day to day dad, he was an off to work dad, he was, as Bob my therapist phrases it, an emotionally absent dad. He was a fifties dad, living in the sixties, but a fifties dad. Fifties by generation and for much of my formative years fifties by age.

So a lifetime of wondering why I had blocked my childhood, a lifetime of thinking my memory was poor – me who has developed a steel trap memory. It was not my memory after all. The reason I do not remember my childhood is that in many ways I did not have one. I have written of Carrie’s childhood, a singularly abusive background, and I tell Bob that I am not comfortable in making issue of my childhood, not when those around me have known worse. But as I say these words, I realize the silliness of engaging in comparative angst – she can have hers and I can still have mine, albeit meager by comparison.

Bob does not agree with comparing childhoods, but he still jumps in. Not meaning to make light of an abusive parent, he asks is not an abusive parent in some ways better than an absent one, a non-existent one. Abuse has an inherent aspect of caring – very twisted, very misplaced, but caring, of existing all the same.

Over the course of the last year, Carrie has coined an expression to describe my behavior – Never Enough. I have not denied this; it has been self evident in too many ways. And I have explained this as a by-product of a life of denial, that first hint of self awareness dating back forty plus years. If I waited that long for anything, would I not be insatiable, at least for a while. While the emotional truth of this is clear to me, with gentle prodding the intellect can see the more nuanced version: looking to fill in that missing childhood, looking for affirmation.

Part of me wants to keep on writing – a good post should have a conclusion, but I fear this one must dangle as I continue to examine intellectually which is ultimately only a prelude to exploring emotionally. I am not ready for the emotions, not today.

Monday, February 19, 2007


Normally my writing feels timeless – I can write on a Monday, post a little later, barely poetic license. But somehow the where and when weighs on me tonight: it is Sunday of the holiday weekend, 9:30 at night, a quiet bedroom tucked away in the Berkshires. I am visiting family, my family, traveling with my little ones but not with Carrie. The young ones, exhausted from the fresh air and the outdoor activities are tucked in, my sister and brother-in-law are in their room reading and surely reviewing the day and I am quietly pecking away, alone in my room. alone with my thoughts.

By any measure it has been a good weekend, love of children and love of family abound, activity and quiet moments in equal measure. But today as we played games, music in the background, I realized my sister had “raided” my iPod – I am the family music man. One of the playlists caught her attention, one named Nate. She loved it and complimented me but I had to demur; Carrie had made the mix, made the mix as a gift to me and it contained the songs of our year, beautiful songs, but bittersweet songs.

And as I sit here tonight I am overcome with the reality of it all, the reality that what I had, what I cherished, will at best never be the same and at worse will lie in tatters at my feet. Yet I feel unable to change the direction, unsure that I would even want to. When I have moments of self doubt, of wanting to undo, I am accused of fear, fear of being alone, fear of the monetary toll, fear of facing myself. There is truth to elements of these, but I do not see these fears as driving the bus as I once did.

Last night I started a post, but was interrupted and stopped. The working title was dance card, a tale of a dance card unexpectedly full. Somehow that post feels empty today, but I mention it because I do not labor under an immediate fear of loneliness – my problem is varying relationships and opportunities with a number of men. So it is not the fear that brings on the melancholy. It is the impossibility of balancing it all.

I do not sit here, laptop warming me, thinking of the men in my life. My thoughts turn to Carrie. But there is a disingenuous element in it all: I will as the night goes on, enveloped in the darkness, find myself thinking of men. I will go home tomorrow and have my e-mail back. Sam is away until Friday, no need to e-mail him. Another friend from my group has e-mailed me – getting together to talk is in my court, he is respectful of my confusion: I will make time - willingly and happily - for a drink and conversation. And yes, the man whose phone number I brazenly asked for in a bar a week back – we are having dinner on Wednesday, I suppose my first real date of this new world.

Yes, disingenuous indeed: thoughts of my love for Carrie being crowded out by my social calendar. I spoke with my brother in law last night, a quiet personal moment. I told him that I thought my marriage could still, even at this late date, be resurrected if I would just pull back from the precipice. He listened and then cut to the chase, asked the question, the one that is always there. He said “What do I want?” And as painful as the answer is, I am enjoying my new life, the attention, the flirting, the brushes and the kisses. It is easy to overanalyze: Freudian interpretations of looking for male power, or simple imagery of the dam finally bursting, or just plain sexual greed.

But one can strip away the explanations, the presumed motivations, the doubling back and missing of Carrie. At the end of the day, I want to continue going forward down this road. The pull may not be easily explained in all its aspects but the pull can surely not be denied. It is the reality of my life.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Valentines - Redux

A year ago today was also Valentines Day, a day two weeks after coming out to Carrie. I have been trying to remember that day – more likely that night, and I cannot. I could ask Carrie – I suspect she remembers, but even I am not that cruel. I do remember writing a post; I go back and read it: no help as to that day, but oh what sweet memories.

Back then my blog was new, not too many people wandering my way. So tonight will be a first, and likely a last: an encore presentation. Before we get to that post I need to add a word about tonight. We are about to have a nice dinner, a family dinner surrounded by loved ones. There had been other thoughts – I found a babysitter, had a reservation – the proverbial table for two. When I told Carrie of this she was appreciative, but was unwilling to do it. She pointed out that eighteen years ago we sat in the bar at the World Trade Center gazing out at endless opportunity. She pointed out that like the World Trade Center, the structure was gone. And she pointed out that something new, something good will be built on that site – on our site, but it is still too fresh.

Which seems to bring me to last years post…

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Valentines Day - 1989
It was our first valentine’s day together and we celebrated in one of New York’s unsung gems – the Hors d'ouverie. When people think of the World Trade Center in happier times they talk of Windows On The World, but next to it was a place for the average man. Before 1991, you could drive into the garage – have your ticket validated so it was free – take a short ride to the main lobby with its narrow windows evoking a cathedral more than an office tower and be whisked up to the top in those massive elevator cabs. You would take a quick left and down the end of the long passageway you could see the dark windows. It was a room built for the night – dark ceilings blending with the windows to be almost seamless with the night, tiered rounded banquettes so two could be alone and one, and the piano player – always there but never dominating.

I don’t think I ever had other than a Bombay martini there – straight up, very dry, very cold – and yes, an olive. I rarely drink gin anymore but when I do I always silently toast that room. Where else for the price of two rounds and a couple of hors d’ouveres could one be with the angels for a few moments looking out as far as the night would allow.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

A New World

I was going to write an “important” post – revelations as I go forward. It is well formed in my head and only awaits my fingers. But I realize that I want to talk about my life, my new life as it forms. I have tried to avoid the “what I did today” style, but I realize that what I do is the true story of the journey. I have threatened to blog less and live more and so I have.

I find myself going out one night each weekend – some with structure and some without. There are two Friday night support groups each month – married gay and gay dads. I have been to each once and will be going back to both of them. It was interesting going first to the married group and then to the gay dads. I was shocked at the dad’s group by the age range – many younger than me, but more than a few my age or older. It seems that the issues of coming out in a family are not limited to school age kids.

I walked away from the dad’s group a bit saddened and did not know why. A well run meeting, twenty interesting men, knowledge to gain and, not being nearly as shy as I once was: knowledge to share. All in all, everything I could ask for. But still some sadness: It took a day, but I came to realize the issue: all these men, mostly separated or divorced, and all seemingly happy with their new lives. Simply put, I was terrified of one more sign of where this could end up – not Will and Grace sharing the house, cooking together, lots of laughter with the wine. Yes, it could still end up there but it can also end up with separate lives and maybe I will find a different level of happiness, but with my happiness, seemingly comes sadness to Carrie.

The groups are the first and third Fridays: that still leaves every other weekend. One was a Saturday night out with one of my new friends from a group – I have already blogged about that. Then last night – another Saturday night – dinner and drinks with Jerry, another guy from the group. Yet another obscenely late meeting time – 9:30 for a bite and then next door to a bar, a piano bar, nice age mix, but clearly on the older side, on my age side.

Now 9:30 is late and hanging out around the house – hi honey, let’s have a glass of wine, I have time before I head to Gay land: I don't think so. So I catch an earlier train knowing I will have an hour to kill, knowing exactly how I will kill it. Now it is one thing to go to a bar – gay or straight – with a friend, a crutch if you would. It is quite different to go it alone, a high wire act without the net.

For a half hour, maybe more, I nurse my drink, fight the impulse to throw a few back, and I do the “walk”, my eyes wander. I am alone. I am lost. I am glimpsing into that lonely future of my fears. And then I find myself next to a man, a man my age, a very fit, very cute man, and somehow there is conversation. It just flows – the details do not matter except to say that I was as always honest. I am separating, I do have children, I will not create a new reality to get picked up. Well, he is divorced – a while now, he has kids. Honesty is pretty cool.

We chat for fifteen minutes and then I have to excuse myself – go around the corner to the diner, go meet Jerry. We part with a smile, but not even an exchange of names. I eat my omelet, have some nice conversation with my friend, but in the back of my mind I wonder will I ever see this man again. A little while later, dinner done, it’s back to the bar. The evening is going well; Jerry and I both came to the evening with no expectations, barely acquaintances from our two hours in a group setting. But we really like each other, we have much in common.

And then, looking up from our settee, there is the other man, talking and laughing in a small group. I catch his eye, he mine and I stand up to say hello. We are each with our own friends, this is just a quick hi. I am insecure, I fear rejection. I will probably never see him again.

But a voice inside me rises – a voice that could not have been found a number of months ago. Without thinking, without letting the fear take over, I tell him I enjoyed talking with him, would like to talk again. He reaches into his wallet and pulls out his card – his cell number, his e-mail. The cell is good and he checks his e-mails. We shake hands, exchange names and part company.

I will e-mail him tomorrow – figure allow a day to go by, allow me to absorb. We may never meet, or maybe have a drink and that will be that. It does not matter. I met him, I conversed as an equal – a fellow gay man with much in common – and I asked for his number. Anything else is gravy.

There was still Jerry who was rooting for me and we still had many hours to talk, to hug, to kiss, to discover what had started as a night of convenience was a night of real friendship. If circumstances were different, if one of us had had a room for the night, there would be more, just not to write.

As the evening started, I was walking up a long, long staircase from the subway and at the top, a penny. I am not proud; I will still pick up a penny. It was heads up and as I picked it up I felt that the evening would be okay.

And so it was.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Nighty Night

As I transition to the basement, an interesting phenomenon has struck me: my bedtime routine. It used to be simple enough – 10 PM, kids in their beds, Carrie and I in our bed: twenty minutes of the 10 O’clock news culminating in the five day forecast (Paul Simon did once write “I get all the news I need on the weather report”) and lights out. There were of course variations but those pale next to the regularity of the routine.

Now I find myself in the basement, frequently before 10 PM. I may have already said my good nights or maybe a brief climb up the steps for the children, but always back to the basement, back to the bed that looks so big for one. And I hesitate – one more e-mail, one more anything. Now I would like to say that my g-mail box is bursting at the seams, a proverbial full dance card. It is not. So it is shortly after 10, the e-mails are answered, the eyelids are drooping, but oh that empty bed.

My fingers dance on the keyboard – there are so many places to go: the standards, Gay.com or Craig’s List and the new ones: Queerclick.com or Squirt.org. Pictures to see, free video trailers to tease and IM’ing – a tough one for this old guy. There are people looking to do things – “bad” enticing things. But it is late, I am in the basement, there is a front door which is still “ours”, not “mine”. So I read and gaze, my hands may dance on more than the keyboard and eventually there is bed, the comfort of sleep.

But I wonder, what if? What if I was in an apartment, what if there was the chance to hook-up one of those nights. Would I leave it as a tease or would I venture out? And if I did venture out how would I feel afterwards? Excited, gratified, sated or would it just be a further reminder of the strange land of being alone, a place I am just not used to.

The basement is an anchor and an anchor can be a stabilizing force, one that keeps us grounded, one that keeps us from drifting aimlessly with each passing current. But an anchor can also be a weight, one that keeps us from exploring, from continuing a journey.

For me, I see it as the former, a steadying force, one that will force me to continue to explore my gayness in healthy outlets, not the semi-anonymous hookups I have been leaving behind. But when I look at my bed at 10 PM tonight, my empty bed, when I bask in the soft blue glow of my computer screen, when I find myself on those websites....

Monday, February 05, 2007


While I frolicked in Chicago a month ago, Carrie spoke to Jane, our daughter whose wedding this summer triggered so many emotions, my daughter who a year ago accompanied me to Brokeback Mountain, a daughter who used to pride herself on her gaydar. Carrie spoke to Jane, spoke of my being gay, of the basement where I today live and write, spoke of my marriage gone bad. I had hoped to speak to her myself, to do my own “dirty” work.

Jane is loyal, particularly to her Mom and Jane was not at all pleased. She was not ready to speak to me – a message conveyed by Carrie. I waited a few days, I e-mailed, and I suggested dinner. A week later she responded, we could meet, and meet we did. A wonderful dinner, talk of jobs, talk of life and talk of our family – her fears for her mother, her worries of global abandonment: we spoke and the fears were allayed.

I have already written of this and tonight it is not senility that brings me back here – it is a sense of love and awe. Anna and Bill moved out Friday morning and Friday night as I wandered back from the gay dads group (yes, I will write of that also) there in the driveway was Jane and Jack, arriving for a weekend of home improvements. Jane may not have married for money and truly only looked for love but she also ended up with Mr. Handyman – the real deal.

As I went to the office on Saturday, the basement improvements began – tiling, wall repair, design considerations, new paint colors for my basement den – a family project with Carrie leading the charge. By the time I arrived home, things were falling into place and I joined the fray.

Now a word about Jack: he was raised to be homophobic – small town, homophobic dad, it was all he knew. But this summer he, with great trepidation, attended my nephew’s gay wedding and he came back changed. Amazing what putting a human face on these things will do. His homophobia was forever cured.

So this weekend a daughter who could not even speak to me for a week after hearing the news, a son-in-law who until four months ago would trade anti-gay jokes with his dad, came together and created an incredible living space for me. Yes, they were motivated with a desire to support Carrie, help her in many ways. But still, this was my new space and they spoke – not with words or platitudes, but with their hands and with their hearts.

And for that my heart leaps with a strange combination of pride, humility and most of all gratitude.


It is with great sadness that I bow to the devils of the internet - nameless, faceless computer generated devils that feel the need to put comments on my blog.

I confess to being a comment junkie - are not we all - but to have the excitement of the comment dissolve into the disappointment of junk mail, is just downright annoying.

So as of a few minutes ago I have turned on word verification for comments. I hate it on other blogs and am saddened to add it here. Hopefully I will someday turn it off after the little buggers give up on me.

Friday, February 02, 2007

Dream On...

I had a dream last night, a minor dream: one that did not even begin to imply revelations. However it was sexually exciting and I awoke aroused and as the dream started to come back to me there was the sense of almost elation – the dream had three women in it, three women who met at the gas station (ask Sigmund, not me) and soon were in a sexual entanglement. And I thought: see there is a bi-side, hiding of late, but still there after all.

Then I started to remember more of the dream and I started to remember the nature of their sexual activity. Two women there together – buying gas, then on the other side of the pump another woman, alone, pulls up. Then the scene changes, not sure where it moved to but the new arrival is on her back and flanked by the friends. And the activities center around some form of oral gratification – they are feeding the woman in the center a liquid, dripping into her mouth. And while there are no men in the dream I realize that even this dream populated with women – pretty, desirable women – is yet another homo-erotic fantasy, though one I cannot accurately define.

I am not one to remember dreams but there have been others in this series, others with women but not my fucking them, dreams of women, but not of pussies. It seems that even my dreams share in the struggle of denial. But there is really no surprise there – what are dreams if not windows into the soul.

The dream is not really striking, not all that much to write about. What the dream represents – homo-erotic longing hiding under the guise of heterosexuality – is surely no surprise. But my initial reaction, joy of having these women visit my dreams, relief that they could still pay a visit… well the balm of that denial was not very long lasting. And maybe that is the measure – not my continuing ability to try to deny: my inability to maintain the denial.

I recently read the significance is never the dream but the interpretation. I suppose we can tweak that to include one’s reaction.

The moving van pulled up this morning and a few hours later Bill and Anna were moved to their new home. Tonight I finally truly take up residence in my basement and yet another phase begins.