End of The Line

We have recently discussed selling the house, Carrie and the children relocating to a neighboring state which we have always thought fondly of, and of course my finding my own place. We envisioned many weekends of my visiting and staying with the family in their future abode, but my weeks would be essentially my own, remaining here where my career is firmly rooted and where my new life is slowly starting to sprout.

Inquiries were made, house values determined, feasibility considered, and a choice was made: to do it. It was at first a choice like many of late, an abstract decision, a policy statement. Then on Tuesday a phone call, our local real estate broker, a man we have dealt with over the course of two decades. He thinks it is saleable, he is comfortable with the pricing, he wants to meet. So Tuesday night we do, we meet around our “famed” dining room table. He has papers – this is a business transaction, and not insignificant at that – papers to sign. Carrie and I barely look at each other; we both know the reality of the moment. I sign, slide the papers across the table and pen in hand, she does the deed. The house is on the market.

It has become clear that any hope of continued friendship can only be salvaged by my moving along, with my not being a constant reminder when I am there and even more so when I am not. When the house is sold this will happen by default, but that may take a little time, a little too much time. It is funny the breaking points. In January a quick trip to Chicago and a long journey to the basement. And next weekend, a flight to the West Coast, a few days in a gay resort (such civilized phrasing) and a lifetime to think about it, to think in a new home.

I went apartment hunting today, a man on a mission. At 2:30 PM one might have said “Mission Accomplished.” I filled out an application, left a check for a deposit, and became the proud future tenant of unit 2B. I am deep down both terrified and at peace. After November 15th, there will be many nights to wonder how this came to be, to revisit the last two years. But it is time, time to stop the slow bleed and allow us all to try to rebuild our lives, both together and separately. The last person to utter Mission Accomplished publicly has had a little time to regret the words (if said person knew of regrets). I pray that our road will be smoother, particularly for Carrie who has suffered more than she ever deserved.

Queer as ...

While glancing at blogs I came across Geoff’s entry concerning Queer as Folk and I vividly remembered many years ago watching an early episode of the show. I was straight, married and watched it with Carrie. Of course the fact that I heard about it and watched it (much as I sought out Angels in America on Broadway years earlier) is a commentary in and of itself. The show was real and multi-dimensional – gay people in real life and gay people unlike Will having sex with each other. I watched it a few times, then we gave up Showtime. One less premium channel to pay for, $10 a month saved. But I suspect that I felt too strong a connection, one that I was not ready to admit to, not yet.

And if I am to be completely honest, I remember sitting with Carrie and her hand wandering and feeling me, feeling me get hard at all the “right” places. The episode ended with my receiving a blowjob, but also I suspect with certain things being much harder to deny, though deny we did for another four or so years.

I share this because I still find myself floating in the netherworld. The other night I missed my gay dad’s group – busy at work, a late exit, but also a lack of motivation. If there is such a thing as my gay time, I would rather spend it “being” gay as opposed to dissecting it, at least that was my feeling last evening. And the opportunity for dinner out with my family just felt right.

After dinner while the kids and their friends ran amuck, Carrie and I hid in her bedroom and watched some television. We lay on far sides of the king size mattress, I controlling the temptation to place my hand on hers when I saw it in the DMZ. We watched, we rested, we were comfortable. At that moment I could have stayed forever.

Which is why it is important that I be transported back six years in an instant, that I remember a moment watching Queer as Folk, that I even remember specific scenes – a shower with a new young lover, a scene in a corporate men’s room – and remember my reaction to those scenes, the erections that Carrie monitored as if she knew these days were a coming.

I would love to write of stability, of confidence and of direction and certitude. I cannot. I will keep moving forward as it is the only direction I seem to know and the only path remaining. But I will not deny that my emotions and desires are as labile as ever. Only one thing seems clear at the moment: I should have never cancelled Showtime.