Tales of a Bi "MWM"

Gypsy

2009-12-11T03:10:00.003-05:00

It is almost four years since I started this blog and more importantly since I started my journey. While I no longer write often - pressures of time, sometimes too little to say and more often too much, it seems wrong to ignore an anniversary. Not so much wrong for you, anyone left reading, but wrong for me.

So where am I with my life? When people question where am I living I typically respond that I am a gypsy. I have my apartment in the 'burbs. It's been two years and I just signed on for two more. By the time the four years draws to a close maybe I will have spent a years worth of nights there.

And then there is Phil’s apartment in the City: another third of my life. (Let's be honest - an evening in a very quiet suburb or the center of one of the world’s great Cities. Throw in a boyfriend and the choice is pretty easy.)

And then, yes then, there are the weekends. The country "home", seeing the kids, time with family and of course Carrie. Now I would love to say she is the add-on, there because of the kids, not central to my experience. But that would be disingenuous bordering on pathological.

I do spend time with my children but at age thirteen, they come and go and as any parent should be, I am there but am also aware of the futility of forced face time. So Carrie and I share the house - her house - on the weekends. As I recently told a friend we share everything but bodily fluids.

As I started writing this in my head I realized that the gypsy description was broader than I first envisioned. I fear that I am an emotional gypsy, dancing in many camps yet not "all in" in any of them. Carrie would scoff at this saying I have it all. And she is correct, in most ways I do - Carrie who still allows me in her life, Phil who is learning to say the"L" word even without a few too many drinks and the many friends and colleagues who continue to accept me gay or straight.

So why the trouble with "all in"? I am the king of jumping feet first and assessing the long term consequences later. But I also have been a serial lover – always in love, always with one person, just not always the same person - but always one at a time. For one with my track record it may seem a bit self-serving, but there is an honesty to it all, one that allows me to look in the mirror with some sense of comfort.

As this post is written over the course of days, I share some of it with Phil who points out that I am “all in”, just with Carrie. I ask how that can be when she and I rarely touch. But he has a point; Carrie and I speak daily, the kids as the base but so much more in our lives (another post when I have real fortitude). I readily admit to loving her while accepting the inherent impossibility – I am gay and fear there is no changing and truth be told, not sure that I would if I could.

Phil is trickier. There are the structural issues. The eleven year age difference does not overly faze me.But he is semi-retired and as he eases into that world, he can float freely, time here but also time there, oh so many there’s, while I remain rooted – job and family. What will happen when he takes the “sabbatical”, a month in Florida, three months in Europe? I suspect there is a defense mechanism at work, hedging my emotional bets. Meanwhile, we also speak daily, share most evenings and even more nights. Sort of like the line from Fiddler – if that’s not love, what is?

I sit here – typing and thinking, looking for some magical words to elegantly end this post but uncharacteristically they do not easily flow… Four years is a long time and the words that come to mind are grateful and humbled: grateful for all that I emotionally have, “all in” or not, and humbled that I have it, considering how rough this road has been on so many.

As I do my final edit I realize that I glossed over what might be the essence of where I find myself emotionally – maintaining two "all in’s" simultaneously. It is so much easier to claim gypsy status than to address two “all in’s and the inherent instability that represents.

Joy & Sorrow

2009-12-14T22:08:00.002-05:00

Thanksgiving came a little late this year, the product of scattered adult children. It may have been a Friday but a perfect Turkey, multitudinous sides and a coalition of the willing; what else does one need. It is the coalition which was particularly striking: Carrie and most of our children including Anna and her new addition (in what is now also their home), another daughter's in-laws and in what may be the strangest twist Carrie's ex, the biological to the step-daughters I raised. He comes with the new wife, a kid, a partridge... Alright, no partridge.

Carrie's house is getting used to it now that Anna is part of the mix, Anna and child. Her father, the ex, has become a regular and it almost seems normal. Stranger are the visits from the pedophile's parents. It is their grandchild also, distressing as it all may be.

Dinner goes well - whatever discomfort some may have brought to the table, forgotten in the passing of dishes. Carrie did the toast - it is her home- and did it well. But I had my own, for me and now for this page.

I still remember the lyrics of the first song I memorized - not because I was trying but based on the both incessant listening and the depth of the resonance in a fourteen year old’s brain:
"It’s no matter if you’re born to play the King or pawn
For the line is thinly drawn 'tween joy and sorrow" (Paul Simon)

It feels like we - our family - have spent the past number of years testing that line, frequently surging into it. And every time we border on breaking through and testing sorrow verging on despair, we seem to bounce back. The Jewish liturgy has a refrain that God offers us life or death and daily reminds: "Choose life". It is really all any of us can do. And with all of the problems, all of the issues and setbacks, we still manage to embrace life, particularly our newest testament to the magic of creation.

A Mid-Summers Nightmare

2009-12-13T14:33:00.003-05:00

It was a long time ago, three years back, that I posted “Homeland Insecurity”, probably the most difficult post I had to write. The link is here but the story is simple enough. A daughter, an imminent marriage, a visit from the Fed’s… A soon to be son-in-law was being investigated for trading underage pictures. For reasons we can only guess, the problem went away – lack of the damning computer, issues of evidence: we don’t really know nor do we really want to. What we do know is that as time elapsed his family was quick to believe him, believe they weren’t really underage, a Playboy moment in the internet age.

Bill and Anna saw a therapist, talked, and to our horror decided to reschedule the wedding. Our family, immediate and extended, would have done anything to stop it but ultimately it was the choice of our daughter and concerned as we were, she is still our daughter. I can feel the cringing starting but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The wedding is rescheduled and we are troubled, deeply troubled. Time for a talk, not with Anna – she knows our views, time for a chat with Bill, a kitchen table talk. We sit across from each other and I express my concerns, my deep concerns. I don’t really accept that he was investigated for having pictures of buxom sixteen year olds. I tell him that the marriage is a big responsibility. He listens, sympathetically nodding; he assures me, he would never hurt my daughter.

I remain concerned, look him in the eyes and tell him “You can’t choose your orgasms.” I stress that what excited him once, will yet again. He listens, not so happy now. That night my daughter tells me that he was okay with our talk, okay except for that one comment, that one uncalled for comment. I back off – my point was made, no need for a war.

This summer was off to a quiet start and one week night while laying in bed with Phil the phone rings – yes, a late night call. It is close to midnight and it is Anna. She is in her newly purchased house after a day of work and evening of school, resting her pregnant body. Yes, she is with child, six months worth. And Bill is missing. Family is gathering, police are called: maybe a wreck on a highway. Bill is responsible, not one to disappear, not one to ignore his phone. Finally at 2 AM the police are there to take the missing persons report when they get some news – he has been arrested one county over. No word on why, the arraignment will be in the morning.

Now we are secretly hoping for something “easy” – drunk driving, disorderly conduct or the like. Hope as we do, I can only think of one thing: you can’t choose your orgasms. The next day we gather at the courthouse and get the word. A police officer saw a car parked in front of a school and went to investigate: Bill, pants down, in the act, a fifteen year old girl with him. A life, in an instant unraveled. No, many lives, so many lives, unraveled in that instant.

I would love to say that was the worst: it was not. A month later a second arrest: earlier in the summer there was a thirteen and fourteen year old, a drive back to his house, my daughter’s house, and a sexual act in the bedroom – in my daughter’s bedroom. No low bail this time, the courts seem to finally get it.

What is there to say? I am a proud grandpa, the divorce is in the works, the house sold, the bedroom furniture abandoned. Bill is in jail – a plea bargain in the works, presumably real jail time in his future.

Over the last few months, in different venues, I have recalled the kitchen table conversation and I have recounted “the” quote and the response. Looking back clearly it did touch some sort of nerve. But what has been most fascinating has been the reaction of others. Five simple words, a mere six syllables and yet such power, such discomfort. Carrie has suggested that I lose the story, clearly more trouble than it is worth. But I am loathe to acquiesce, to distance myself from what I hold to be such a basic truth: “you can’t choose your orgasm.” True for him, true for me, true for us all. For most of us a truth and a non-issue but for the sick few a sad truth that is inescapable.

Stirrings

2009-09-12T14:22:00.002-04:00

Recently Phil and I were driving along the west side – an area that now gives new meaning to urban renewal but once was the seamy side of town. While being gay is not seamy per se, let’s face it – gay leather biker bars… not exactly part of mainstream society. As we drove I realized that the tenement buildings that once housed the Ramrod were now high rises – expensive high rises.

Many years ago – had to be 1974 – I had a college roommate. When we reached a certain moment in our senior year I walked over to the hair stylist – a trendy East Village place at the time – and cut off my pony tail, put on a suit and joined the working world. Michael was cut from a different cloth – he imagined being a writer but his vision was not so much of a typewriter as it was a bottle of Bushmills and a pack of Camels or maybe Gauloises if he was feeling both flush and French at the time.

As you might expect he did not have much money in his pockets and found cheap housing – a third floor walk up above the Ramrod, a view of an elevated highway and abandoned piers. Now he was straight and with a cigarette dangling walked the streets unaware of the surroundings and, I suspect, the surroundings were happy to give him his berth.

All of this came back to me as we drove past the spot or more specifically a moment was recalled. One night Michael and I were out and I drove him home – yes, with the real job came a real car. I cannot remember the circumstances of our being together but I can tell you it was a Saturday night in the fall, somewhere around that midnight hour and the Ramrod was happening – Harleys lined up, men without shirts, a world before aids. I rolled to the curb and he hopped out and scampered up the stairs. I watched the scene for a moment and then eased back into traffic, heading home. I cannot tell you where I was living – an age of moving around, cannot remember any faces on the street, but in some sense I can still feel the evening, in a vivid sense emotionally.

There are other stories like that from that era. Being in an elevator – the Friday night visit to my Village friend – with a man whose nipples stood out. Even now knee deep in the gay world, I have not seen a pair quite like those. A fleeting moment yet a clear memory. There are others…

I share this with Phil, struggling to explain it. I did not think of it as being gay – did not think of me as being gay – yet the moments were undeniable. Phil says “stirrings” and the word catches me. Indeed there were stirrings, stirrings as one barely approaching puberty, stirrings as a college student, and stirrings beyond.

There came a point when I suppose I graduated. I had different words then. If I lay in bed and imagined a man it wasn’t that I was a homosexual or bisexual: I was just sexual. It was easy to do, especially when having a more than satisfactory heterosexual relationship. Though I suppose if I was to write of those times I would need to change the title of the story. I guess if you have enough stirrings it is inevitable that one day you will wake up to longings.

Last night I had a quiet evening and at one point was online watching a gay video chat room. Usually the fare is someone showing their thing, lazily jerking off until the moment when it is no longer lazy. Last night had an addition – a popular one at that: a man most noticeable by his bulging midriff lying back while a boy gave him quite the blow job. The boy looked about eighteen or nineteen – too young for my tastes and bordering on questionable judgment on the part of all. Yet I did watch for a while and as I thought about it afterwards I came to understand the attraction. I did not want to be receiving a blow job from him – I am quite happy with the experience of age. I wanted to be him, to be eighteen, to be giving a blow job, to be accepting this part of who I am. To have had more than just stirrings.

Just A Story

2009-08-05T16:17:00.002-04:00

As I head off on vacation, I read an e-mail from my new friend Tammy – she likes my stories, so here's one to hold her. A brief background - Phil has a gay first cousin who lives in Chelsea with his partner. Of course Phil is not out to them. A year and a half ago he is invited to a football playoff party and I tag along - there I am, a gay man at a gay party acting straight. Really. We had dinner with them last summer and they asked about summer vacations - Phil and I were going to the Pines in a few weeks but Phil, not being stupid, quickly jumps in that he is going to see a friend in PA. Afterwards I swore I would not see them again, not until he was out - I have my pride and I have my limits.

Fast forward to Sunday night, A Viagra at the apartment, a burger at the Viceroy and then a night cap at Rawhide. We are in the zone, kissing, touching and at one point just at the front of the bar, drinking. Phil all of a sudden whispers: “Don't look up and follow me to the back.” Head down I quickly shuffle and once there ask why. He nods to the front - his cousin is there, with his partner, sitting in the seats we just vacated.

Shocking turn of events. Phil's first reaction was how to get out unseen - he had not planned on this, he was not ready. As we talked he came to realize both the silliness of it and also the difficulty of slipping by someone sitting by the door. He is ready. We walk up and say hello. Maybe a raised eyebrow on their part - maybe. Big hugs hello and then some conversation. Surprised they were not. Not even close. So a good resolution and now I can even see them again.

Anyway, my story for the road, a non-story really. There will be more non-stories I suspect, more people who if they raise an eyebrow at all, it will be to acknowledge the moment more than to register surprise.

Winning and Losing

2009-07-16T19:43:00.002-04:00

Recently I have been e-mailing with a new friend Tammy, a very pretty lesbian in her early thirties. She lives with a woman but the excitement has long faded and there is a world of women out there, one in particular who makes her heart pound and juices flow. She is not ready to walk away from what she has – the comfort, friendship and emotional bond, but she is also not ready to resign herself to a life of, to use a term, quiet desperation.

As I listen to her story I try to think of words of wisdom and I go back in time – December 1981. A client has a holiday party that was ahead of its time – a warehouse space, top shelf all the way, a harbinger of the excesses that the current decade perfected. What made the night special was the opportunity to be with Karen, a cute little legal secretary I was infatuated with. At this point in my very straight life I had a girlfriend I semi-lived with – Stephanie and I were the proverbial square peg in the round hill, only in our twenties and already playing out the string.

The party had raffles – everyone got a ticket as they walked in the door. My partner, older and supportive of my intentions, joined me as we sought out Karen and as we sat down for dinner we spread the three tickets – ours and hers – in front of Karen, a peace offering of sorts. Eventually they get to the drawings and my partners number comes up – lunch in a famous New York restaurant. Well a McDonald’s gift certificate is always useful. A few other winners and then Karen’s number: a swatch watch, or the equivalent of the day. A few other winners and then we hear my number: two tickets to 42nd Street, orchestra seats, a Saturday night. Primo tickets to the Broadway show of the season.

The evening ends and back home to Steph. Now I should have been quite talkative – a raffle, three tickets, three winners, and one of the best prizes to moi! I don’t say a word. I think she is my girlfriend; we tend to spend our Saturday nights together. And I think I did win these with Karen and to be honest what a great opportunity to extend a new friendship – hell maybe even get into her pants. A balancing act: the existing, albeit not particularly healthy relationship or throwing it all away for the dream. I still remember the back and forth and the way I came to decide. It was clear that the relationship at home had gotten off track and I decided that I would blow the roof off and maybe, just maybe, things would end up back on course. Or possibly we would be blown so far off the tracks that we could no longer ignore the pathology. Either possibility seemed better than where we were, bordering on the quiet desperation. Karen it was.

The beginning of the end of the Stephanie era: it would take another year or so, a long playing swan song but eventually the end came and I suspect we were both much better for it, even if I did not know it at the time. Karen – a wonderful night at the theatre, a friendship which years later I single handedly destroyed: a story for another day.

It all comes to my mind as I think about Tammy and particularly as I think about my relationship with Phil. The last group of posts written for a person who does not read my blog, a pretty silly way of communicating. It is time to talk more openly, to risk putting things back on the tracks or maybe blow them up. Phil and I talk, more than once, no revelations, no magic bullets, but we talk. And an interesting thing happens: we get along better, the sex is wonderful, and there is a sense of optimism.

Sometimes in order to win you have to be willing to lose.

Personal pride

2009-07-07T10:07:00.001-04:00

Everyone loves fireworks and this year the “tweenage” children decide they want the full show – Macy’s fireworks over the Hudson River, one of those things you do with a million of your closest friends. I can’t blame them and actually look forward to the adventure. We park the car in suburbia – this is a train night, stupid I’m not. Before leaving the car I prepare – pull my drivers license and credit card, train tickets and cash: no need to carry everything I own.

My key chain seems to always have more on it than one would think necessary so car and house key are on one ring and all sorts of things are on the other. I remove a key from the everything ring and start to slide it on with the car and house key – the “real’ ring. The kids notice – there is not much they do not – and ask what That key is?

Now they have heard Phil’s name over the years, usually by accident, always fleeting, almost with shame, a mirror of my own insecurities. However a theme has emerged over the last few months, one sponsored by Carrie, welcomed by me, and tolerated by Phil: it is time for Phil to meet the family. Not in a Meet The In-Laws formal weekend visit: a more unstructured whenever the paths cross moment.

“What is the key for?” they ask again in unison. I answer simply: We will be in the vicinity of Phil’s apartment and in case we need a place to go – whatever the reason – it is good to have the key. “What if Phil is there?” I answer “Phil is not there.” “How do you know?” “Because I know where he is. And if he is there, you will meet him”

We did not need the key – I never expected we would – but what a liberating moment: his name spoken, not whispered, his existence and my key acknowledged. They may not have met tangibly last night, but in some sense I feel a bridge was crossed, more by me than by them. I suspect they had crossed that bridge a while ago – stupid they’re not.

Somehow it all seems to tie in: “Pride” is important, a group believing in itself, but I suppose that pride as reflected in our day to day lives is much more important for without that there never could have been “Pride”. And when one can banish shame, if only for a moment, there is a vacuum that pride will eventually fill.

Pride – Part 3: Why

2009-07-06T08:24:00.000-04:00

Why as in “why am I writing this, what is my point.” The evening festivities are no surprise – a quick bite to eat in the Village, parade vestiges all around, up to Chelsea for a drink in Rawhide, a bar worthy of its name and then way uptown to the Townhouse, as upscale as it sounds. Some drinks surrounded by our community and home to bed though not to sleep.

It all does make sense to me, a full day, time for me, time for us. But I do realize, having written this over a few days and having re-read it a number of times that it does not really make sense: I have described a situation of inherent imbalance as if it was as stable as Manhattan’s bedrock base. There is a part of me that can explain why it all works: I have my children and get to spend time with them while Phil is occupied with Stan. I am not ready to jump all in and say let’s play house together. Makes sense…

Yet we are playing house, together most weeknights and the ones where we are not we know where the other is, what the other is doing. We talk every day; we are best friends and lovers. So the question is do I have the best of all worlds or am I just willing to ignore the downsides? And whose downsides are they? While I do not agree with Phil’s management of the situation – his children or Stan, that seemingly endless ability to compartmentalize, is it really my concern?

There are two answers here. Clearly on one level it is not my concern so long as it has no direct impact upon me. But I fear the other answer is that it is my concern. The fact that Word tells me I am approaching fifteen hundred words on the “Pride” posts, the fact that I felt the need to circumnavigate my boyfriend, fearing an uncomfortable moment, these are tangible events, measurable and real. I suppose that is the nature of relationships, the baggage becomes shared.

It is all comfortable for now and I am a patient man. Things will not change today or tomorrow but life like water does find its own level. The excitement of this journey and the Blog which tracks it, has been that unlike a novel, no one, least of all me, knows the ending, probably because short of death there is no ending, just the ride with its pleasures and its pains.

Pride – Part 2: Hitting the Streets

2009-07-05T08:52:00.001-04:00

Sunday arrives and after a weekend with my kids I head south to New York City. The parade covers miles but I head down to the Village, where forty years ago at the Stonewall one might say the parade began and is now where it ends. The streets are crowded and as a middle aged white male I blend into the background and watch the show. Parades, even “my” parade, don’t do much for me so after a few minutes I head down to the Dugout, a bear bar, to get a beer. It is packed, the type of environment where Phil is instantly best friends with the person pressed next to him but where I quietly sip my drink. After a while I head out to the street, some people hanging around, and most importantly air to breathe.

As I am standing there a fellow starts to talk with me – a few years older and one who has been there for the past forty years. Mark brings a different perspective, we are both wandering alone, so we decide to wander together, and wander we do for the next three hours. There is talking and a certain element of sexuality. We talk of life, relationships and hooking up. At some point I check my cell phone and there is a missed call from Phil. It seems that Stan and his friend have wandered off and Phil is available. We arrange to meet – me, my new friend Mark and of course Phil; we pick a spot but with the parade, closed streets, crowd control, this is more an odyssey than a stroll.

We arrive and it is strangely uncomfortable – Phil and Mark are not cut out for each other and Phil decides to head back to the Dugout where his friends have gone while Mark and I wander the other direction, potentially back to the apartment…. As we wander Mark’s desires cool with the air and the moment, if there was one, is gone. Mark thinks his old boyfriend may be at the Dugout and wants to walk back there. Now it is getting interesting – the Dugout is where Phil went to reconnect with Stan and his friend. It is not a big place – running into them is almost assured. I call Phil – he knows the dilemma quite well – and he tells me to do what I like, not exactly a ringing endorsement for running into them. I am happy to skip it all but Mark is hell bent on going and at that point we were still wandering together.

We approach the bar and I immediately spot Phil and the crew – standing on the street talking among themselves. And I realize that I am not ready for this, I cannot go and make believe that I have not seen Phil in weeks or months. Presumably Stan has a good idea that I am still in the picture but while I may write like a drama queen, I try not to live like one. Circumnavigating them is not difficult and Mark and I check out the scene. Now Mark is nice but three hours was just fine so I excuse myself to head into the bar for a beer before hitting the streets again. As I approach, there is Phil and Stan, presumably saying good bye, arms wrapped around each other, a very private moment in a very public place.

Now this is no surprise – they spend a night or so together each week, close friends for upwards of seven years. I quickly slide into the bar and over a Bud light consider it. Of course they were saying good bye and after downing my beer, out comes the cell. Phil, on his own now, is not far away – we speak for a moment and five minutes later it is time for the evening festivities to begin…

Pride - Part 1: Setting the Stage

2009-07-03T17:10:00.002-04:00

I am not sure if this is a diary entry more than a blog post, but not having a little book with a clasp this seems to be the only repository for my thoughts, even when it is more for me than for you. Last weekend was “Pride” – an event which, like some artists, has been reduced to a word. I am not inherently big on Pride or similar events: I am not a parade goer, not one for public displays with strangers. It sort of reminds me of the two vegans in my office – one high on the pecking order and the other working the mailroom. The mailroom fellow thinks of the two of them as kindred spirits and the other fellow thinks they are incredibly different unrelated people who happen to share one thing. But yet again I digress.

Last year I went to Pride with Phil and Stan – a party high above the fray at one of their acquaintances and then wandering the streets and a beer at the Dugout. Now that we are in the era of Phil having bifurcated his life, I assumed that Pride would be a Stan day and the thought of wandering myself was not sending me.

A few days before that weekend I am at a cocktail party – a networking event for us white collar types and in spite of my gayness (or maybe becasue of it) I find myself chatting up a cute tall blond maybe twenty years my junior. I confess, there is still a bi next to the gay and while I am not hitting on her, the company is nice. As we talk some more a few comments – references to Chelsea and the Pines – so being me I point out that I have been to those places. In an instant high fives and my new lesbian friend confesses she thought I was gay but was confused by the talk of my children. Tammy and I are friends. She does not so much ask if I am going to Pride as assume I am. And at that moment I realized that I needed to go – it is the life I have chosen, or maybe the life that chose me.

That night Phil tells me that Stan has a friend coming up for the weekend so I think, great, Phil is no longer tethered. It turns out I was half right: Phil would be around that evening but for the day it was a threesome again, just I was not one of the three. At first there was some disappointment, but then I realized this was a good thing: so much of my gay life has been not only with Phil, but through Phil; his friends have become mine, but of course they are still his. A day on my own would be a healthy enough event, maybe a dose of some reality for better or worse.

Unreality

2009-06-14T13:58:00.002-04:00

It seems that over time I have written much of reality – I am sure there is at least one post with that as its title. Yet it seems that much more of my current life is devoted to unreality, or so I tell Phil and so Carrie tells me. Of course in Phil I see it but I am sure that Carrie is confused which can only mean that as usual she is on to something.

Phil’s unreality has to do with that capacious closet – after seven plus years as a gay man, it still remains a mystery to those closest to him. He likes to remind me that his sex life is his own business – would a straight couple tell their children their favorite positions: “Morning Johnny – your Mom gave me an awesome BJ last night.” Yet as Phil will be off at a local gay pride event today I cannot help but wonder how many of those men and women define their gayness solely as a matter of sexuality. Do old fags who don’t do it anymore turn straight? While my activities at times may tend to belie it, I would like to think that I am more than the Craigslist “Sr8t man giving bj’s.”

Of course the scary part is that my unreality may in some ways top Phil’s. I live in many worlds which seems fine to me though maybe not to those floating in my various orbits. A recent day stands out: In the morning I e-mailed my first wife in anticipation of a visit to her and my grown children all of whom have relocated out west. I was staying in her home and she wanted to join me in a visit to some friends from grade school. Why not? Later that day I arranged a Saturday night dinner with a friend from college and his wife with Carrie in her home. (Last night was the dinner – we will get to that in a moment.) After arranging dinners involving my first ex (as she likes to describe herself) and with Carrie, I left the office and went home, pure Ozzie and Harriet in the alternate universe, to Phil, the boyfriend “of sorts”.

Last night was the dinner – Carrie and I as hosts. She cooked up a storm, wine for all, conversations flowing from topic to topic. Four hours after they arrived, hugs, kisses and goodbyes. All seemed well to me. Then as we started the clean up Carrie points out how she had once assumed she would be our friends – a couple going home after an evening out, a couple retiring to their bedroom, to their bed, to their life. She points out the evening was wrong – this was my old friend, my “turf”: Phil and I should have been having them to dinner. She is amazed – at me. To her mind our guests, while to polite to say anything, shared her discomfort, her sheer amazement at the bizarreness of it all. While this last piece can be confirmed – my friend while discrete is incapable of not being honest. He would answer fairly.

Maybe someday I will ask, a conversation over a glass of wine or coffee. But the answer seems irrelevant because Carrie’s point seems well taken. We may still be a family, a bond that survives much, but how can we be a couple. We speak daily, we share so much, but ultimately we retire to our separate corners with nary a hug or a peck. I may harbor some dreams of climbing into her bed, snuggling close but it is as likely as my lottery dreams: wonderful diversions grounded in total awareness that it is not happening.

It is a Sunday early afternoon as I type – the children watching a movie and then hopefully some time together. Frank is likely on his way to that gay pride parade. It is a distance and I am happy to be with the family, but Carrie has a point. If one is creating a new life, if one is willing, right or wrong, to sacrifice so much, then at some point one has to also embrace that life. But to me it is much simpler: in my haste to create one life, I have ended up with many lives – too many. The goal has to remain to bring the strands together and create whatever tapestry is me.

Sorted Details

2009-05-08T17:10:00.004-04:00

A few weeks after that first meeting, Phil e-mails: a friend from out of town, Saturday night, what could be bad. Back to the sub-division and into the car for our night out. I have written of that night, a post well named, Inexorable, a post I choose not to read today. The back seat with the friend, who knew what could happen back there, a night of dancing and drinking, and yes, a night of sucking and fucking: what could be bad. And the next day, arriving home not before dawn, but well afterwards, but I digress…

A week or so later, I get up my courage and suggest to Phil we grab dinner after work, two guys with the jacket and tie. In a testimony to my insecurities, I am surprised when he agrees. I am sure we played, but remember the walk after dinner, talking, taking in the familiar sights. So it started, white collar weeknights, not in the sub-division but in the City. As in any relationship, not so much steps as a ramp gently escalating from acquaintances to friends to more.

Of course I still have my family, children, Carrie, a life, so while I spend time with them, particularly weekend time with them, Phil has his time with Stan. Our circles continue to overlap – Phil may spend a day with Stan at the beach and I will join them for dinner, comfortable affairs, no expectations, no disappointments: a pattern that sounds strange in the telling but seemed quite normal in the being.

Stan was a confirmed bachelor of the gay world, happy with his friendships and his freedoms, not looking to get “married”, not capable of love as us straight guys once knew it. But a funny thing happened with the arrival of Nate: as Phil split his time and presumably his emotions, Stan realized that after seven years he had also been on that gently sloping ramp, he realized that he had quietly fallen in love. Ah, the plot thickens.

Not bad – I have managed to compress more than a year into a few paragraphs – the changes in dynamics gradual, the ramp ever so gentle. So a new pattern emerges. Phil has his time with Stan, I with my family, and we have our time together. But now the triangle is gone, and while I suspect that Stan can connect the dots, he no longer has any dots to connect. Phil doesn’t deny me, my existence secure, but he does not discuss me either. He is with Stan or he is not, my name left off the playbill. This iteration has lasted for maybe eight months now and it has been easy enough. Winters are a busy time, short days, busy at work, throw in some holidays and before you know it, spring.

But now that spring is sprung, I wonder how it continues to play out. Last summer we had those dinners in the sub-division, the triangle and more, salmon and wine. This summer I will see my family and I will see Phil. But it is inevitable that there will be days I will work and Phil will go to the beach with Stan and afterwards, there will be salmon and wine: I just won’t be there.

I of course am guilty in this also, on the positive side being cognizant of my family responsibilities – no, responsibilities sounds like a chore, more like family opportunities. But on the other side is also a bit of continuing to hedge my bets, this strange belief that I can go home again.

I have stretched my legs, wandered a bit, trying to end this post, but there is no end, yet another work in progress. And that is okay. When I found myself leaving the basement, moving to the apartment and realizing I had a boyfriend, all at once, my friends were concerned, fearful that I traded straight marriage for gay marriage, on the rebound no less, concerned that there needed to be some time to define myself not as Carrie’s husband or Phil’s boyfriend, not as my children’s parent, but as me. Not bad advice and not an easy task. As long as that ramp eases upward, the trip should be fine, where ever it may lead.

Of Sorts

2009-05-07T20:47:00.002-04:00

Over the last two years there have been these cryptic references to Phil: on occasion my “erstwhile” boyfriend and at other times my boyfriend “of sorts”. On the whole I have not dwelled – nor delved – into Phil in these pages. Part of it was who knew how long the ride would be, part was some attempt at privacy after years of life on the stage, and I suppose another part was the difficulty of the story - difficulty in expressing a nuanced situation adequately and difficulty in unraveling my own very complex emotions. It seems that I am finally for a road trip in time.

Two years ago I was new in the basement still feeling my way – lots of blogging, an occasional married gay meeting, sometimes a Saturday night out: none of which yielded what was – and remains – an essential part of my definition my being gay – sex with men. So one Saturday night, home alone, I put an ad on Craigslist. A night spent e-mailing with some scary freaks (the one who wanted my address so he could come play with Carrie’s panties stands out), a night where I was a happy to be able to turn off the computer and was thankful for the disposable e-mail address: A night where my hand seemed both adequate and safe.

The next day I check that e-mail – hope springs eternal – and there is a response from two guys who liked the posting. An e-mail in proper English, an adequate description, and a desire to first meet in a public place. Too bad I had gone to bed early. We e-mail and a few weeks later we meet – a beer and snack in a chain restaurant, the horrific service allowing plenty of time to talk and become comfortable. As we pay the check, Phil asks if I want to follow them home. As you can guess, I did not need to ponder and soon found myself in an older sub-division, upstairs, playing with not one, but two men – the possibilities I had only fantasized about.

After some fun, some sucking and fucking, kissing and groping, I came. As I got up to leave, Phil said “Lay here between us for a few minutes” and I did, no pressure, no sex, just warm bodies in the after glow. I mention this because as I look back, it is what stands out. While not yet a dime a dozen, blow jobs I had down. Laying there in the quiet was a trickier business. Just over two years later, the moment still brings a smile.

Of course there is something missing here – this is of course my story and Phil keeps popping up, but I did say threesome, and three it was. Stan, the owner of the home, had been Phil’s friend for the past seven years. They are in the best traditions of the Odd Couple: Phil a widower on a second life, a man accomplished in his profession, a pillar of the community type and Stan… Stan, while living in a closet of his own design (Phil’s closet construction may need an entire post), has always been gay, pure gay, nothing bi there. He is a kind and gentle man and not at all unintelligent. But he is not book learned: a vocational diploma and blue collar skills. Stan is my age and Phil has a decade on both of us.

Phil is the king of compartmentalizing and compartmentalize he did. He had his old life – work, long time friends, social engagements – which kept him busy in a world that was not Stan’s, and he had his new life with Stan, gay bars and friends, nude beaches, a good time had by all. “And never the twain shall meet.”

So you can start to see a picture developing. When it comes to sex, three can really be a lot of fun (my inner slut lives on), but in the real world triangles are tricky to balance, particularly if there is one point which is always the center. There is much more to this story, but as my therapist used to say, we are out of time.

Chicago

2009-05-04T20:57:00.002-04:00

During my journey Chicago has become a second home, if not physically, emotionally. It was, like many things, an accident. Every year I go there for a few days at the beginning of May. Going back to 2005 – pre-blog, pre-out, in my mind pre-gay – I find myself downtown at my hotel and as I go for a late night walk I pass the sex shops, the discrete signage and solid doors and the small print: Buddy booths. The quick look around and then a dart and then you are in and anyone who sees you there should be just as embarrassed. I sidle to the back and know what I want – a man, no, just a specific body part back then, but this night it was not to be. Then it is May 2006 and bi / gay is in the air. I blog in advance fishing for approval – should I go on Craig’s List, maybe just go to Boys Town and practice the walk.

Craig’s List it is and I make a few dates, blow off the annual dinner with my group and take what in hindsight was the plunge. The details have been covered in From 35,000 Feet and Accede To Reality, posts that even today three years later I hesitate to read: remembering the pain is enough. Suffice to say the entry into gayness was all I hoped and the re-entry from it was all I feared. I make a new friend and with the knowledge that it is a moment, a good moment but a moment none the less, I still want to go back. Chicago is my private playground, a land where I can climb the jungle gym away from prying eyes. So I decide to go back – a quick weekend to open up 2007, a quick weekend to close down nearly two decades. Before I pack my bags, the discussions of my return and then I am packing, but more than my bags: the basement era begins.

And then it’s May again and again my trip to Chicago. I will go to Boys Town, but will not blow off my conference. And after dinner that first night I am bought back in time leaping from 2007 to 2005 in an instant, brought back to a moment – a phrase I had forgotten uttering: "I Am Lost". As I re-read the post I cannot help but notice the connection between art and pain, a post that sears in a way that I can no longer muster. I still remember the night – unable to sleep, unable to be: wanting to be straight, wanting to be connected, my hotel room as cell. As I re-read the post this weekend I was thankful my little diary still existed, a reminder of where I was and where, if poor choices are made, I an end up yet again.

This year my journey was a little different. My boyfriend was in Chicago for business and waited a day for my arrival. The first night was the group dinner – spouses and guests are invited though only a few come. In advance I considered the potential consequences of bringing Phil – would they think him a friend or would they guess more. After more thought than it ever deserved it struck me that I am out of the closet at home, at work, places where it impacts, or doesn’t, every day. Yet here I am worried about what a group I see once a year will think. I consider it some more and realize that the truth goes back two years and then two years more. It goes back to flirting with one of the women; it goes back to again wanting to be the straight guy. The fact that after dinner I will go back to the room with Phil, that we can have a night of great sex if we want… but what if Lori wants me, wants to relive a past that never happens… It is hard writing this not because of shame or embarrassment. It is hard because it is so wildly out of touch with any reality. Here I have what I want and somehow still looking to complicate.

Phil joins me for dinner – maybe people thought he was just a friend, maybe some suspected more. I cannot say because neither did they. The next day I have my conference and Phil wanders the City, and then I am back in the room, the conference is over and I am in Chicago and I am gay and I am with my boyfriend. It does not make for exciting reading – no tears, no angst, none of the conflict central to drama. No, not much for reading, but not so bad for living.

Not Dead Yet

2009-03-02T17:49:00.001-05:00

So many thoughts. I marvel at how much I managed to blog a few years back while still being productive at work and functioning with my family. I suppose it was an adrenaline high – the high of exploration and new things and the high of the comments. Carrie would say I need, I thrive, on the adoration whether from those I know or just watching the site counter tick up.

So where do I stand after all of this. I fear not nearly as far along in any sense as I might have hoped. Carrie likes to say that I now have it all: a boyfriend during the week and still my weekends with her and my children. That is the strange part – I do have it all as she defines it, but yet still have thoughts racing in my mind, “issues” in modern parlance. These issues swirl around - my thoughts towards Carrie, towards my family. I have come to treasure my weekends – time spent quietly as seems so appropriate as the economic world spins seemingly out of control. Maybe the economy with a nation’s new found appreciation of true values fits into this.

The bottom line is now that I know my gayness, my bi-ness, so much more of who I am, there is no longer a need to prove it. And while a good gay fantasy still can do it for me, I confess to having had the most vivid of sexual dreams a few nights back and it was Carrie that was the object of my desire. And it is a real desire both in dreams and as I sit and talk with her, our quiet time together. Of course what haunts me, besides the damage inflicted, is what would happen should I have the opportunity to be with her – not immediately, not in days or weeks, but in months and years. Would self acceptance and love for her trump the “dark” side, not so dark now that is not a secret. Or would it come rushing back, secret trysts and lies yet again?

And overriding it all is the simple desire to do right by Carrie. Assuming that I could make a bargain – her acceptance of who I am and my willing to leave the actions behind – is that right for her or just another way of watching a slow bleed, of not putting on the bandage and moving along. She would say it can never be made right, just move along, but I am not sure how much I believe her, not when we spend our time on the weekends so comfortably, not when we speak on the phone every day.

I can hear her now asking: What about Phil, do you plan on mentioning him, so mention him I will. He is my boyfriend – a strange relationship in many ways, me being Mr. Out and him owning the most capacious of closets; me having an emotional affair of sorts with my wife and him still having a relationship of sorts with his last boyfriend; me being happiest in relationships and him never wanting to be so fully pinned down.

Carrie says that if I loved Phil in a total sense, I would not feel the pull towards her. While she has a good track record, I fear this she has wrong for it ultimately is not a commentary on Phil in anyway: it is a commentary on the strength of the bond that she and I have. There is comfort in my friendships and the honesty of the relationships. And there is a true comfort in the knowledge whether as lovers or friends, Carrie and I have crossed back into a land of honesty and friendship, albeit with emotional speed bumps a plenty ahead.

ET

2008-12-21T20:09:00.002-05:00

It is a Sunday night and I sit in my apartment. For most sitting at home is a normal thing – most nights save an occasional trip or vacation. For me it has become almost the exception, particularly when it is just me: a welcome respite at times.

During the week I may see Phil, sometimes here but other times at his place. Weekends are for my family. In theory it is for my kids but in reality it is also for Carrie and very much for me. I go to their home, spend an evening or two, see my children in their natural habitat. And it works for them. They feel they have a Dad but do not feel imposed upon.

Last night they went to a party: a two hour affair. I drop them off and go back to the house and have dinner and some quiet time with Carrie. We lie on the couches in the glow of the fireplace and talk softly across the coffee table. “Do I have any regrets?” she inquires. Do I have regrets? It was only ten hours earlier that I drove up to the house when an old Bruce song came on the iPod, Walk Like A Man. As I listened:
Well now the years have gone and I've grown
From that seed you've sown
But I didn't think there'd be so many steps
I'd have to learn on my own

A tear came to my eye. So many steps.

I did not talk of the song at that moment but the answer was easy: “Every day.” That is not to say that I have a bad life, that I deny where I am, or more importantly who I am, but yes, there are regrets, so many of them.

She asks if I think I am bi or gay. The answer there is pretty easy also. While gay as an answer is so much easier to deal with, so much more understandable to the masses, I am bi. I don’t see what other answer there can be. So many years with Carrie, so much incredible sex: I do not believe that is something anyone could fake.

She can understand my sexual desires, the gayness of it all. But she asks what else there is, what beyond that to justify the lengths to which I have gone, the damage that I have done. One would think this would be another easy one, a hanging curve ready to be drilled. But it is not. I wonder how much is the gayness and how much is the pent up “demand”, the result of so totally denying this portion of myself.

The answer is so intangible: variations on being comfortable in one’s own skin. And with that seems to be a greater comfort in all around me. Strangely though, part of that greater comfort is with Carrie and my family. Sitting by the fire, talking of these things with her: what could be more comfortable, and I suppose comforting, than that.

Of course there is a problem. We are separated, I am bi and quite gay in many ways, the world around us knows. It is not simple and we do not live in a vacuum. I spend my time there and then go back to this other life, a life with the famed boyfriend of sorts. Carrie asks about Phil – she is surprised that I want to spend New Year’s with the children and her, not with him. I explain he will be away – down South for a few weeks of family and friends.

But there is more and I explain it – the post that keeps being postponed. When I met Phil he had a boyfriend. A strange sort of relationship which would qualify as an alternate universe: he sees Stan in Stan’s world, which is now to a degree Phil’s world. But Phil maintains his own world without Stan’s existence. But yes, no matter how you cut it, Phil has two boyfriends of sorts.

Now this strangely works for me: I have my weekends without having to feel guilty. It’s a proverbial win-win. But I have come way too far to not realize the unusual aspects of it and sense the unhealthiness as a foundation for my life. But it works for me – not only having my weekend time but the fact that while he may have another boyfriend of sorts in Carrie I have another girlfriend of sorts.

As I drove back to my apartment today a thought got stuck in my mind. When Phil hurts, I feel bad for him. I do care. But when Carrie hurts, I hurt too: a connection that seems to transcend in many ways where we find our selves and just continues to confuse my sense of where and who I am.

Borders

2008-11-30T11:01:00.002-05:00

I have been playing with this post in my head for a while and it seems somehow fitting to be starting it now. It is a Sunday morning, the end of a long Thanksgiving weekend; I am in the country with Carrie and my kids, our home since Wednesday night. It has been a comfortable visit, time with the family, meals together, some time just with the twins and some time just with Carrie. She is out for a few hours, the kids had a friend sleep over so while I may be the titular head of the family for the moment, I am not in any immediate demand (other than the breakfast I just took a break to cook and serve).

Of course there is another player in all this, my erstwhile boyfriend Phil. Considering that I have not seen him since Tuesday, have only spoken on the phone with him for maybe five minutes each on Wednesday and Friday, and had only minimal e-mails, his presence in Carrie’s mind feels a little outsized. On the other hand, I will likely see him tonight when I return home and Carrie would point out, not incorrectly, that that proves her point.

So it seems that today is the microcosm. Having woken long before the kids, I laid on the foot of Carrie’s bed – the dogs and I – while we discussed our lives. Last night while the kids played with their friend, Carrie and I watched some TV together. Such simple acts, so comfortable, yet fraught with all of the underlying emotions, with the knowledge that these moments are the exceptions and not the rules.

Sometimes my blog is read by those close to me and sometimes not. If Phil is reading this, he has stopped at the “erstwhile boyfriend” phrase, just as a year ago he quickly noticed being my “boyfriend of sorts”. Neither phrase really shocks him in that we do live the same reality. But if Carrie and I have issues with boundaries, Phil reminds me more of borders complete with gate houses and guards. He actually would prefer the phrase “compartmentalization” though any twenty letter word should be suspect.

You see Phil has quite successfully created compartments in his life, a process eased by his being a widower. It was a number of years ago but he never had the moment of needing to explain anything to anyone. One life continued in a sense – family and friends – and another, the gay life, appeared: “Separate but equal” to steal the phrase. Of course that phrase was a failure, rejected by the Supreme Court fifty-four years back.

Now how Phil chooses to live is his decision and I try to limit my judgments and concern to the areas where it impacts upon me, not always easy distinctions. So, for example, I know his children – adults at this point, and get along quite well with one of them. To her, I am just a friend of her Dad’s: a widower and divorcee navigating the loneliness together. All of which is true while managing to avoid the truth totally.

Phil has a broad circle of gay friends and time with them flows naturally, not saddled by pretense. But then we see his gay relative – back to the family thing – where I get to now be in an alternative Disney world where I can hang out with my boyfriend and a gay couple while making believe I am straight…… No, I am not making this up.

Somehow, a few posts have melded here and it is getting a bit long. There is more to cover – whole uncharted compartments for Phil, my inability – lack of desire? – to “properly” separate from Carrie, my acceptance of the gayness and my regrets for how it all seems to have played out. But anyone still reading has surely had enough for today.

Children

2008-11-23T20:54:00.002-05:00

One of the things I had forgotten about blogging was the give and take, particularly since after such a hiatus I was not sure anyone was still looking. So imagine my surprise to see a comment from Brad – no, not just a comment, but an accurate remembering of what I had written two and a half years ago.

For those who did not follow the link in Brad’s comment (you really should) he took note of my current reference to seeing my kids - an easy hour and a half, and remembered how back in April 2006 I commented on the difficulty I still had discussing kids from my first marriage including a not so easy two hour drive to see them.

As I thought about it I realized the complexities of this whole arena. My sons, who were extremely young when I was first divorced, are twenty-three and twenty-one year old young men. While there is no replacement of lost years, there is a certain redemption in our current relationships. Things had improved over time but somehow it seems that coming out to them cemented the bond, allowed for some redemption for us all.

It is joked about among all the kids: the old dad and the new dad. The children did not realize that the start of the new Dad era was unfolding at the same time as I was beginning to question who I was including issues of my sexuality. Hell, I am not sure that I realized it at the time either. But it seems to be agreed that in spite of all of the hell surrounding my current existence that I am a much calmer, less wound parent than existed a few decades back.

I do not think it is just the gayness: I am older and more mature in life in general, a condition that attaches to most of us as we age, but it seems hard to ignore the gayness in total.

So where does this leave me today? It leaves me with the fact that I will never have the day to day existence with the tweens that I craved. But it also leaves me with the opportunity to remain a regular and vibrant part of their lives. It is just up to me when feeling lazy, to get in the car and enjoy the ride.

I have not been feeling 100% this weekend and decided not to drive up on Saturday afternoon. Somewhere late last night I noticed Brad’s comment and it caught me. This morning I woke up, had some coffee and got in the car – a very easy drive on a Sunday morning. I was still not 100% today, but I had all the percentages I needed to sit on the couch and be with my kids. And it was good.

Thanks Brad.

A Retrospective

2008-11-22T20:13:00.001-05:00

Frequently I think of doing a post, but then I wonder if it is significant, as if that is a requirement for writing and of course there is time – why write when one can “do”. So I muddle along, the good, the bad, and of course the ugly.

Carrie, the one person most hurt over the almost three years since the blog started, recently took me to task for not writing anymore, for having shared the journey and left it with an implied “sailing into the sunset” ending. While there are times where life has felt like that, there are many others where it has not. Do I believe that somehow magically things could have been changed – some Kum Baya moments, maybe a death bed conversion to being straight again? Not really, though hope does spring eternal.

So I will take the challenge and if anyone is still listening, try to share the road, twists and all. While I would love to pour it all out – the mother of all posts – even I realize the ridiculousness of such an effort. No, I think there only way to attack is to set the stage and then meander as it suits me.

I write in my apartment – I have just signed the lease renewal for year two, it is now for better or worse, my home. The apartment was not too inconvenient to my house and I saw much of Carrie and the kids. But last May it was time for them to move on, to take this opportunity to also start afresh. The house was sold (who would have thought that a simple house sale would seem so big in hindsight) and Carrie and the girls moved to the country, a house with some land and a much, much better school district. It is an easy hour and a half drive and I have been a frequent visitor.

But an easy hour and a half is still exactly that – an hour and a half. Fine for the weekend visits, but not really conducive for that mid week dinner. Somehow I envisioned those quick trips in and out, but I am not getting younger and after a days work three hours seems extreme. But there are the weekends.

While there is much to be said about the weekends, let’s get back to life down here. A new friend, Phil, was there for me last year when I moved into the apartment and our friendship continued to grow. I once described him in a post as a boyfriend “of sorts”, phrasing that greatly amused him. He is my boyfriend but there is still an element “of sorts”. We see each other frequently during the week, though weekends are a loose affair based on my family life.

For those who missed it along the way, I did come out at work last April, to no surprise among my friends, and at this point it is hard to say in many cases if people know or do not. I have an office with a picture of my wife and another of my “friend” but no rainbow flags: I have never been one for public displays of that sort.

It has been a rough few weeks – some nagging virus that is now finally starting to clear, but I have not had my trips to the children, not seen the boyfriend quite as much, and not worked solid weeks at work. Lying in bed is a wonderful time to think – not feverish hallucinogenic thoughts, but quiet rational ones. It has caused me to realize that I need to take stock and consider my own personal directions and both the impact on me and on those around me.

And so I will…

Significant Other

2008-09-22T12:25:00.002-04:00

It’s not that there are no words anymore: they fly through my head, post titles, opening lines. But then there is life, what at times is the fullest of times stuffed into a gypsy like existence. Last night my pillow in the country, my weekend home with Carrie and our children or maybe the night before, “my” pied a terre in the City, a night with Phil. I am sure I slept somewhere the night before that, maybe at Phil’s, maybe my place in the suburbs. I really should be packing again now – I think tomorrow is a city night.

Now I am not complaining, it is actually rather nice having a full life, no time to be bored, no time to harbor the lurking confusion and regrets, and still, as Carrie would be happy to point out with just a tad of bitterness, so much love. And of course among the things hard to carve out the moments for is the writing, the actual fingers on the keyboard style of writing.

A few weeks ago I could have been found in my weekend haunts, the house in the country – their house in the country. Carrie goes to her room, a phone call with a friend so I take the moment for a quick check-in with my friend, my boyfriend. When she emerges and sees me, the anger and hurt flash. The next morning we speak. She acknowledges the complexity and points out she is alone and I have someone, a friend, boyfriend, significant other. The problem of course is in the nuances. I do have a friend, no denying a boyfriend. But then the murky area: I do believe I have a significant other – Carrie. Now usually there is linkage – a boy or girl friend should be the significant other and I do not mean to denigrate what I have with Phil – a wonderful man, a dear friend, a good person. And he is clearly significant – I write now as I wait for him to arrive after his evening with his family.

But still so much is tied in with Carrie – twenty plus years of friendship, a seeming menagerie of children, the day to day issues, the “kitchen table” financial affairs, and yes, I still do in so many ways love her. Maybe it would be easier if she did have a new life – a date here or there, a moment on her own. Not so. Her life is with the children, being a mom and when I spend time with her it is strange, betwixt and between, but still an evening when she can talk as an adult, not always on the level of the kids.

She tells me how if I just handled it differently I could have had it all. I am never sure fully what that means. I know much of it is if I had remained in the closet to the world so she would not have had her humiliation – part real and much on her part imagined. Well, she may not agree with the last sentence – it is all real to her and then some. I wonder the same thing and do understand part of it.

The thing is that if I had understood my gayness, the process would have been: “Hi honey, I’m gay. Where do we go from here?” But that was never the case for me: it was for me to discover and learn and the problem with realization on the fly is that you cannot steer a straight course, a rush to the finish line, not when you do not know where the end is. I do realize that many may think that disingenuous: "Just go back and read all you wrote." The answer was there but denial is a mighty powerful force.

I also wonder where the magic compromise would have been. A life of lunchtime hookups, a veritable liberal Larry Craig. Or maybe it would have been that Daddy had business trips, late night meetings where I needed to stay in the City. And as absurd as it sounds, sometimes it sounds good. But I do not believe it, not really. It is easy now to imagine this arranged marriage, this middle road. So much to be said for it, but still a glaring fault line, that of honesty. It’s funny, Phil and Carrie (who have yet to meet) agree on one thing – well maybe many things in fact. But the relevant one is my need to be out there, to be honest, with those I work with, my family, my friends. Phil would say whose business is it, is it relevant. He is not wrong, but it is still not right.

So do I regret not living with my family, my children: of course. Anyone who can be separated from their children without regrets is lying –either to you or just to themselves. But do I regret that my world knows, that I do not have to measure my words, do not have to skirt the truth: No, I do not. There is much I wish for, much I wish to change but there is no denying who I am and that now that I have a modicum of honesty with myself, I do not regret sharing that honesty with others.

Greetings From Fire Island

2008-07-24T13:53:00.001-04:00

Somehow certain moments seem worthy of posting even though I am not sure how to go about it. I am at the end of my week vacation – a week in Fire Island or maybe I should say The Pines. To anyone in New York or well steeped in gayness it is like saying Mecca to a Muslim. I am here with Phil, my companion, friend, lover and also I suppose my safety net though I am thinking that maybe I am ready to have the net rolled up. (Phil stays: just in the other roles.)

I have been thinking about Sis this week. For the past two years she has kept a helmet in her garage with my name on it; when I would send her my “Maybe I’m not so gay, maybe I can re-constitute my marriage” e-mails she would strap on the helmet and bang her head against the wall. The helmet has progressively been getting less use of late but as far as I move along the path that is my new life, I still have those small moments of back sliding.

After this week, I think the helmet can be retired. It has been a gay week in gay Mecca. It shows itself in the ways that are quite G-rated and then there are the moments where this Blog may need to have an X or three in front of it. I think back to a day mid-week, sort of overcast. A few nights earlier we had met a nice man at the bar and we cruised over to where he was staying to kill some time. A pleasant hour and a half of conversation later, we meandered back home and to our beach. There we again crossed paths with a thirty year old from England who could have been an Abercrombie model minus the pecs. It seems these English lads like older men and having seen me nude on the beach, I passed the test.

I have to confess, we had met him the day before also on the beach and Phil and I spent the evening trying to decide what was wrong with the picture – was he getting ready to hustle us, should we be hiding the proverbial silver. This of course is quite the commentary on our own self-image. I suppose our questions were answered when he agreed to meet us back at our room and the three of us quickly found ourselves in all positions of kissing and sucking and more. I can get hard again on the memory of playing with my first uncut, figuring out what one can do with a tongue and foreskin.

That night again to the bar and now another lad from London: we spoke for an hour or more before going our separate ways, much talk of straight things and some of how I came to be here. And somewhere in the middle of all this is our landlord, a wonderful sweet man – a mature gentleman heading towards seventy. He does not normally play much but the chemistry was there and our threesomes are almost daily.

I write this not to brag (thought the ego is quite stroked by it all) but for the realization of how well it all fits – the new friends (if only for the week) who we just spoke with, bent an elbow at the bar and the new friends where much more was bent then just an elbow.

The only way to get here is by a Ferry and as the week has progressed I have come to the final acceptance – the ferry is docked and the helmet can be laid to rest.

Closet Systems

2008-07-17T22:23:00.002-04:00

One of the reasons I stopped blogging was a concern of dragging those around me, the essential players, into my quasi-public existence. And while that still weighs on me, there is no way to continue this tale without dragging them into this.

Carrie always said I would find someone because I was not one to be alone. She intended the comment critically and I do accept a level of truth: I am a social creature and do enjoy companionship. But I disagree with the implication that my need for company would force me into just any relationship. I did manage to start to build a social network, limited as it was, on my own.

But the fact is that I do have a boyfriend – maybe a gay lover is a better phrase for a couple whose average age is closing in on sixty. I do not feel I have settled or jumped in: it more sort of happened. Phil was also married once, though having come to this world as a widower seems much more honorable than anything I can claim. We became friends and that is still the basis of the relationship, though I will readily admit that the sex is great.

Phil is compassionate, intelligent and quick to smile but also reserved as any good Methodist should be. There is some punch line in that I could have also written that sentence about Carrie; I am consistent in my attractions other than this little thing of gender. But it is that reserved quality which can be a bit of culture shock for a New York City ethnic like me. I came from a background which was not much for secrets or dancing around the point – perfect for one coming out late in life.

And it is this reserve which is Phil’s Achilles heal for as one would expect from one trained in the design world, he has designed the most impressive closet system one could imagine. When we met there were two worlds – a straight one with family and friends, even those who were gay themselves and a gay world with new, separate friends, different geography: not much cross over to put it mildly.

Then I came along – a friend to romp naked on the beach with and have nights of wild sex but who also dresses up nicely, perfect for a suit and tie and an evening of Handel’s Messiah. So we have become regular companions in both worlds. But there is a difference – I am fully out so when Phil meets my friends, siblings, others, there is little doubt of our relationship.

The opposite is not true. Phil has come out to some of his gay friends as we have met them for dinner or drinks. But his family – his children and aging mother – do not know. I was going to say they have not a clue though I wonder if the children are not smarter than they let on. They have met me many times at this point and we get along quite well. But there is a part of me that is terrified that they will someday hate me, and him, when they realize for how long this little thing was not mentioned.

One might wonder why write about this – it is my Blog, my story, not his. And so it is. But at this point it is also our story. We nearly live together – five or more nights a week sharing a bed, sharing evenings, learning to share friends. And it all came to the fore this week when we had dinner with his gay cousin and his cousin’s partner. Imagine four gay men in a cute little restaurant, but two of us are there as straight friends. It does boggle the mind, though I could handle it. Hell, there is not much I cannot handle at this point.

But I found myself in the one position I swore I would avoid- watching my words, editing on the fly. They are leaving on vacation in a few days. So are we but if I say that they will ask: “Where?” The response would flow easily: “Fire Island, some time at the beach.” “Oh, we were there last year – which part of the Island?” The moment of truth: “The Pines.” Might as well tattoo a rainbow flag on my forehead. So I let the moment pass, a pause, and on to the next topic.

Somehow I believe this will evolve – it already has to some degree, but it has proven to me one thing: I made the right choice and will not be personally investing in a closet system ever again.

Maybe a Comeback

2008-07-16T21:51:00.001-04:00

There was a time when my fingers regularly danced across the keyboard, when I would drive and draft in my brain and when the words would find their way to my Blog. There was much thought about the content, but very little over the act. Over time that changed, the joy of the writing replaced by fears, fear of who was reading it (I remain married to the mother of my children, I have a boyfriend, I am not one for secrets); a fear of the name of the blog – Am I bi or gay, is “MWM” still true.

Of course there was also this issue of who I was writing for – me, others - both? Time is always a factor – the days fly by and I am no longer alone in the basement at night. I still stick with the choice of doing over writing and doing does keep me busy.

But I confess – I miss the writing. I miss being forced to form my thoughts coherently. I will miss not having a diary to go back and read – that picture of where I was a year or two earlier. And as shallow as it may sound, I miss the comments, both those that kept my honest and those that fed my ego.

Carrie pointed out recently that I should write if for no other reason to share with those who have followed this journey, particularly for those a step or two in my wake. And a journey it still is: one with costs and one with rewards.

The next question for fixation: which Blog – “Tales” or “Second”. The answer comes more easily than I would have thought. Nate’s Second was always a misnomer: it creates a before and after dividing line in a life which has had many befores. So while Tales of a BiMWM may in many aspects be inaccurate, it is where I came into this blog world and where I will stay. Anyway, there are still all the links and maybe someone is still reading.

So I will try my hand at this again – never with the frequency at my peak, I have neither the time nor the angst. And maybe it will quickly fade. Only time will tell. But one thing I have learned: as often or infrequently as I post, it will be the perfect interval.

Epilogue

2008-01-27T20:53:00.000-05:00

I have resisted giving up this blog, all the links, all the feeds. The ego is still there. But I realize now it is time to move on – a blog with a new name. One that I suspect Carrie could find, but not without effort. It is not that there will be anything here she does not know or at least correctly suspect. But I have learned – the hard way – that suspecting and feeling is much different from reading.

I have also come to a point where I can go back to writing for me. If people read and appreciate I will be gratified. But this started as my diary and it is time to return to that. The next blog will be less exciting I suspect. Pain, angst – hard to live but good to read: Peace, contentment – fun to live but boring I would guess.

This post will only be here for a little while and then will be gone. The blog will remain – deleting is not in my current lexicon.

So if you are feeling brave, Nate can be found at http://daybygay.blogspot.com The title for today is Tales of the Nate, though I think I can still do better there.

Thanks for having joined me on this journey, but it is time to move along.

From The New World

2007-11-30T22:18:00.000-05:00

It has been a while since I sat at the computer to write, to both look in to my own soul and to also share with the community that I still feel a connection with. When I last posted some six weeks ago I did not think it was my last post, but as I read the comments it became clear: I had said my piece and until there was something new to say, it was time for a break, for me and for you. Frankly, I had become tired of my own story, the “I’m gay, I’m not”, the delusion of being a permanent resident of the basement, the sheer cruelty of thinking that Carrie (yes, I almost typed her real name just now, a good thing for she is a real person, not a foil in my literary memoir) would just stand by accepting whatever I felt at the moment. I can sit here now and I can speak for I write from another country, an apartment, my new home.

For an intelligent person, I can be rather dumb. For two years we have walked this path, each step leading me a little further away from my home, from my roots, from my comfort zone. And it was a long path leading to a basement, to my own bed: a long walk composed of many little sections, the famed baby steps of self-help books. So what is one more step, the step from basement to apartment, the step from in-house separation to true separation. And the last phrase says it all, “true separation”. No baby step this time, no incremental stroll down the path, no. This is the step off the cliff, a cataclysmic change in being, for me but truly for Carrie.

I have, as expected, landed on my feet. My new home is a modest one bedroom apartment in a garden apartment complex, a very middle class rental. The apartment is bright and airy, a southern exposure, a far cry from a near windowless basement. I can sit here and write this while looking at Craig’s List with the knowledge that I can – can look and can act. I will not act tonight, it is late, and I am tired. But there is another reason. Tomorrow afternoon I will meet my friend and we will spend the evening, we will spend the night. Yes, I have a boyfriend of sorts. We are not exclusive – neither of us are looking for that at this time in our lives, but there is a bond, a bond of sex and a bond of friendship. He traveled with me the day I found the apartment, the day we bought the furniture and the day I moved in.

Of course Carrie knows of this – I have never been one for secrets and lies, my charm and my downfall all rolled into one. And of course it hurts Carrie more, she being the proto-typical woman, caring for the kids, maintaining the household and convinced she may never lay with another again. While I have more faith in her future than she does, it is hard to ignore the statistics: it is a rough road for a middle aged woman with children to boot. This tempers my own happiness for I do still care about her. But it has become clear that my vision that we would be best friends, all but lovers (and maybe even that on occasion) was silliness borne of raging ego, the “why would anyone not want me” ego. Now this is healthy in many ways, a level of psychological security many dream of. But when it leads to such delusions, maybe it is not so healthy after all.

The other day I found myself musing about all the time and energy spent on whether I was gay, trying to avoid that fact, the constant testing of myself, tests I always seemed to “pass” with flying colors. And I could not help but wonder: if I had spent less time on the issue of being gay and more time on what being gay meant, to me, to Carrie, to my family, would I have handled this journey better. I do not believe the ending could have changed – that was pre-ordained it seems. But maybe I could have managed less pain on those around me. It is strange that even now, at this way too late date, there are moments where I still want to deny who I am; still want it all to go away. But those moments are less frequent with time, less frequent with every night spent with my friend, with every time I get fucked and every time we hug on the street.

I will write on occasion, when there is something to say, but it has never been my style to write a diary of what I did today. My life is busy – seeing the kids now involves driving and a different commitment, there is that pesky day job (which I do enjoy) and yes, there is a boyfriend a few times a week. So I will check in on occasion but when given the choice of living my life or chronicling it, I will live. There have been some e-mails, ones looking for my insight, for my wisdom. To those I say I have no insight, no wisdom to share. I feel less wise now than I did a few months ago. I have left a swath of destruction in my wake but I am also fulfilled in being who I am. Carrie has, as always, given the best advice: I have inflicted a huge toll over the last two years; I have what I have dreamt of. To do anything but embrace it would be the cruelest joke of all. So embrace I will.

Of course a post needs a name, and as I was cutting and pasting it came to me – From The New World, the name of Dvorak’s symphony number 9, and I remembered something that has always fascinated me. The music evokes a European coming to America, to the New World, and the fourth movement is climactic, the old and new worlds colliding. The American conductors fly through it, rushing to the only place they understand. Yet the Europeans take an extra two or three minutes to do the same notes because while the Americans are rushing to this New World, the Europeans are torn, torn between the new and old. I have long preferred the European versions, the almost palpable tugging of the old while inexorably moving to the new. So tonight I also inexorably move forward, but always with the knowledge of what has been, what must be left behind.

Love to all of you and good luck with being and living.