A few weeks ago I went out with some new friends, the famed night or as I have already written the infamous morning, the legendary late arrival home. And as I have thought of the evening I have realized a few things. I spent sixteen hours on this expedition, two of which were emotionally trying for me. I have written of those two hours, waved them as proof of my underlying devotion to Carrie. But the other fourteen, I have treated with a wave – yes it was good, but oh the angst.
I have written of a choice – drive my car into the City and be prepared for an early morning escape or travel with my friends. It was raining after all: such a good reason not to take two cars with its implications of safety and maturity. I mean I have only been driving into the City for thirty-six years and yes, sometimes in the rain. I did make a choice that evening. I chose to stay with my friends, to go with the flow, to ride in the backseat knowing I would not have it to myself. I wanted to be with them and to experience all of it. The rain does sound better, but really.
I have been considering this but today was called on it. An out of town friend – one who I am fully out to - phoned and I was telling him of this week's decision to find a place of my own. He is about to end a ten plus year run of sharing the house but not the bedroom with his wife: they did it for the children. He truly can say “been there, done that” and today he honestly noted that it is a severely flawed model. He supports the moving out to enable the moving on. I told him of the weekend, of Carrie’s upset over the late arrival. And he politely but directly made the point that I had made choices and those choices illuminate my desires.
I have wrestled with what to say about that weekend in these pages. Part of me says the unsaid says enough and part of me wants to be a sex blogger with a blow by blow (what apt imagery I suppose) of the whole night. I will err somewhat on the side of modesty, but there are some moments that just stand out. One was going to be the basis for its own post – even had the title picked out: Juxtaposition. Our first stop in the City was a party – one where a catering room is rented out by a specific group – this was an Indian / Caribbean party, quiet at 11 when we arrived, but soon pulsating.
Well into the evening Phil asks me if I want another drink – I have already had a few and suggest that I would be willing to share. He smiles and takes my order. A few minutes later we are perched against the wall on a small speaker, a quiet spot under the circumstances. He goes to kiss me and my mouth is infused with alcohol: we truly are sharing the drink. And as we are “sharing”, a woman comes up in front of us and looking beyond us adjusts her – I was going to say blouse, but it was her cleavage. I suspect we were sitting in front of a mirrored wall, we were just background – she was the picture.
Phil is aware of my gaze and I admit that under other circumstances she could also make me happy. He laughs and says that if he was not there I would be happy to do her then, as would he. My turn to laugh as he lifts the glass, takes another drink and we again kiss, the liquor flowing between our mouths. I tell this for a reason, for it was then for the first time that I truly felt that it was okay to be a gay man and still admire and even desire women. I was not being kicked out of the gay club and more importantly I could not use it as the old excuse to myself. To look at women and pretend that I am not so gay may have worked in the past, but to look and then be right back to “sharing” the drink, Absolut Mandarin coursing back and forth, our tongues dancing, tasting. No, that was a gay moment, pure and simple.
It was a night – and morning - of moments, kissing and touching, blowjobs and hugging. A night of sitting at a table with three other men sharing dinner and a morning of sitting at a table with the same men having breakfast. Moments of humor, moments of sex, some raw and some tender. Moments discussing basements (the live-in variety) and moments discussing New York urban architecture.
I wanted to go with the flow, to have the experience and I did. I write of this on some level to share my story –this is a public blog, not a private diary. But I also write because it is true. And maybe one day sitting alone in my apartment (it is out there somewhere), I will go back and re-read this. And on that day as much as I will want to remember the two hours of angst, a misjudgment, I will instead remember all those other moments. And maybe it will bring a little smile to me and surely it will be a reminder of who I am and why I am where I am.