Unexpected Song

            I’ve been in my temporary home in a permanent state of bliss for four months.  I can’t believe that four months ago I was schlepping my baggage—physical and emotional—up the New England coastline to Provincetown, the end of the world.  Since then, I’ve met Linda Eder, hung out with Lea DeLaria, had tea with Armistead Maupin, gawked at John Waters and Michael Cunningham, and served gallons upon gallons of cocktails, beer, and the occasional Johnny Walker Black.  I’ve been overtipped and undertipped.  And when it came the lesbians’ turn, sometimes not even tipped at all.  I’ve survived Bear Week, Family Week, Whale Watchers’ Week, Women’s Week, Circuit Boys’ Week, Baby Dyke Week, and even managed to make sixty dollars during Women of Color Week.  I’ve worked drag shows, concerts, and stand-up comic acts where only crickets could be heard.  I’ve schlepped drinks in cabaret spaces, concert halls, bars, and poolside in a very snug, very red, very small bathing suit with “PTOWN” emblazoned across the butt.  I felt awkward at first, but then two hot Aussies politely asked if they could take a picture of my bum, and suddenly all was the right with the world. 

            The stress of my old job melted in June, and I can’t even remember what stress feels like.  I’ve learned that life is too short.  Sometimes we have to throw our lives up in the air and just see where it lands.  Luckily, mind landed on the beach surrounded by half-naked men.  Sometimes, a change in course is just what is needed.  Hanging out in different places makes me appreciate the places I used to go.  Serving cocktails and food makes me appreciate the desk job.  I don’t want one, but I appreciate the people who do.  And being around entirely new people makes me appreciate and miss the ones I left behind.  They’re rarely out of mind and never out of my heart.  But it’s good, because I know they’re waiting for me when I get back.  And that makes me very lucky.

            I haven’t spilled a drink or dropped a tray yet.  And that’s saying a lot.  Because I’m clumsy.  I like my co-workers.  I even like my bosses.  And I haven’t liked a boss in eight years.  For the first time in my career, I find myself engrossed in conversations about shift pay, tipping out, schedules, and whether or not to add gratuity to a bunch of assholes that are obviously going to undertip.  I haven’t even really lost my temper with customers either.  An occasional asshole with an attitude or a dyke with an empty fanny pack is far outnumbered by very sweet lesbians in culottes or dirty-minded old men with deep pockets.  So even work is good.  Physically demanding but not mentally draining.  It’s…dare I say it…fun?

            Aside from a flighty investment banker who turned out to be an idiot at the beginning of the summer, I haven’t met any potential loves.  And that’s a good thing.  It gave me time to settle in and make a new, albeit temporary, life for myself.  I’ve had time to be alone with my thoughts.  And I never allow myself to be alone with my thoughts.  So I’ve come to a new place in life.  Cheesy but true.  At the beginning of the summer, I opened a new door.  I had no idea what the room would look like on the other side.  Turns out, the other side was just what I needed.  I’m more comfortable with myself.  Ready to open life up to someone else.  As I teeter on the edge of a new decade—I can’t be 39 forever—for the first time ever, I feel fully ready to leap headfirst into something new and exciting.  Like a relationship.

            And I misspoke before.  I said I haven’t met any potential loves.  Well I just did.  He’s kind.  Crazy handsome.  Nice eyes.  Very sweet.  Funny.  And sexy as hell.  A Southerner with an accent thicker than grits.  We sparked in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time.  It felt easy and comfortable.  But electric.  He was only to be here for a day.  He stayed five more.  I guess he liked the local flavor.  I was beyond sad when he left.  And every single time I get a text from him, I can’t help but smile.  He lives a plane ride away.  He wants me to visit him after my run in Provincetown is over.  And I’m going for it.  I’ve never even considered a long distance relationship before.  But I’m keeping an open mind.  And more importantly, I’m keeping an open heart.

Opening Doors

          The light is different here.  Early in the morning, there is an almost purple tint as the sun tries to burn through the clouds or fog.  Late in the afternoon, the sun casts a goldenrod color across the town, making the bay the most shocking color of blue I’ve seen.   I’m in Provincetown.  The end of the world.  The tip of the Cape.  Literally.  If I go any further, I’ll get wet.  I saw my utility bill for the first time yesterday.  They charge a delivery fee for electricity.  Like somebody planted the electricity, waited until electricity season, picked it when it was ripe, loaded it on a truck, and hauled it all the way out to Provincetown.  There are no chains, no malls.  No sweet tea from McDonald’s, no Big Macs and Whoppers.  No Starbucks.  No horns or sirens wailing.  No nine to five office job.  No homeless people bugging me for my last dollar.  No subways, no trains.  No Blue Door Video store where you can get a blow job anytime, day or night.  But there is the Dick Dock!

            The journey began on May 18^th.  Actually, I’m not sure when the journey really began.  I’m not sure when I became so disenchanted with my cushy $140 thousand dollar-a-year job as a glorified secretary that I quit without anything lined up.  Disenchanted with my routine.  With the sameness that had become my life.  Work and wine.  That’s what life had boiled down to.  And the occasional blow job by a stranger at Blue Door Video.  So I can’t pinpoint the exact time and date that this journey really began.  But I physically left New York City on May 18^th.  And I was sweating.

            I packed up half my life—all my tight little t-shirts and my skimpy bathing suits (or pretty panties as my friend Valerie calls them)—and left the other half—the boring sweaters and dress pants—in my apartment, which is being subletted by a friend.  I neglected to do a practice run with my suitcases, and I woke up profoundly hungover from the night before.  I almost gave myself both a hernia and a stroke trying to get all that shit through Penn Station at morning rush hour.  Who knew pretty panties could be so heavy?  I got on the train, threw my ton of suitcases in a corner and collapsed into my seat, a sweaty mess.  The lady next to me glanced over and quickly looked back down, certain she was seated next to a meth addict.  An hour later, I managed to heave myself into the bar car and downed a bottle of water and a bottle of orange juice.  Several hours later, after a train ride, a cab ride, and a ferry ride with a cute Pakistani, I arrived in Ptown.  My new temporary home.

            I’m still not quite sure what I’m doing here.  I do know that I’m working at a nice resort.  I work the front desk, and I serve cocktails at the nightly cabaret shows.  So basically I get to meet every single person who checks in the hotel and then spend the evenings around a bunch of comedians and drag queens.  And when the pool opens, I’ll be serving cocktails poolside in my pretty panties.  So I know I’m doing all of that, but on a grander scale I’ve not a clue.  Moments of panic grip the sensible side of me. 

            “What the fuck are you doing?  You gave up a great job, apartment to come live the life of a cocktail waiter and bohemian artist!  You’re an idiot!”

            Then, the romantic artist has his say.

            “Everything is fine.  Everything will work out.  You’ll be fine.  You’ll be okay.  Just keep writing.  Stay positive.  Have fun.  Fly.  And keep doing sit-ups.  Nobody wants to be served cocktails by a queen with a muffin top.”

            So maybe this is an existential crisis?  Maybe.  Mid-life crisis?  Possible.  But everyone here thinks I’m 32, so a mid-life crisis wouldn’t make sense.  They’ve no clue I’m approaching the age every gay guy on the planet winces when they hear.

            But even though I haven’t really figured out why I’m here, I’m happy as a clam.  I’ve escaped a stressful miserable job to take a summer and breathe.  To take stock and figure out my next step.  To write.  To read.  I’ve already read the memoirs of both Patti LuPone AND Susan Lucci, required reading for any fairy worth his salt.  And I’ve just started “Eat Pray Love.”  So maybe this will be my very own “Eat Pray Love.”  I’ve already eaten my weight in fried shrimp, lobster, pastas, and clam chowder.  I pray every night that the sit-ups will offset the breading and carbs.  And I’m quite taken with a certain investment banker who is also here for the summer.  Six-feet-four, manly, nicely built with just a little sheath of flab, enough to make him sexily flawed.  A hairy barrel chest, a crazy big smile, and equally crazy curly hair.  I mean, the kind of hair that your hands can get absolutely lost in.  For almost eight years, I searched New York City high and low, from the Hudson to the East River, in every bar, restaurant, and video store for a sexy investment banker.  It took me all of three weeks to find one in Ptown.

So that’s what I’ll continue to do.  Just live.  Be happy.  Dismiss the doubts and trust my decisions.  And enjoy my low-stress job on the beach.  I’ll continue to eat (and do sit-ups).  I’ll continue to pray.  And maybe even break a few hearts along the way.  In case no one has noticed, my shtick is to give each essay a “clever” name using something out of pop culture.  For example, last week’s essay entitled “Six Degrees of Cheyenne Jackson.”  But for the most part, I name them after songs that I love.  Mostly showtunes.  Last week, my dear friend Lindsy sent me a huge coffee table book.  An anthology on the life and career of Barbra Streisand.  Again, a must-read for any card-carrying fairy.  She attached a note that read “I’m so proud of you for always opening new doors in your life.”  That’s what I named this essay.  “Opening Doors.”  It’s a Sondheim song, one of my favorites.

Since Lindsy is probably the smartest person I know, if she says I open new doors then it must be true.  So that’s what I’ve done, opened a new door.  I’m not sure what the room will look like on the other side yet.

I guess I’ll find out when I get there.

           

Six Degrees of Cheyenne Jackson

Oh God, here he comes.

            It was the moment I had been waiting for since seeing “All Shook Up” at the Palace on Broadway.  This too-beautiful creature named Cheyenne Jackson was walking toward me.  Chey, as an acquaintance-of-an-acquaintance calls him, eluded me for years.  Ever since I saw him in that Elvis show, I hoped against hope I’d run into him somewhere so I could profess my love.  There were near misses at a couple of bars.  And my aforementioned acquaintance-of-an-acquaintance knows him.

            “Oh I love Chey,” he would proclaim.

            But now.  On West 47^th Street in Hells Kitchen, he was coming right toward me.  And I was looking good. 

            I’ve always been infatuated by stars.  Actors mostly.  Singers occasionally.  If I had the means and resources, I’d be the biggest star-fucker around.  But they’ve always eluded me.  And when I moved to New York, I heard stories all the time. 

            Oh, Ed used to sleep with Nate Berkus.

            John hangs out with Tommy Tune all the time.

            Dale had a three-way last weekend with…Never mind.

            But not me.  The closest I ever got was at my old job at a bank in Chelsea.  I helped Jackie Hoffman balance her checkbook.  This was pre-“Xanadu”, so she didn’t have the ‘in’ with my Chey at the time.  But she did slip me a free ticket to see her at Joe’s Pub.  And then there was the time my friend Greg and I somehow ended up with Carson Kressley’s cell phone number in Provincetown but that’s a whole other story.  Actually, I got pretty close to a little star wattage in another instance.  By sheer determination and blatant stalker ingenuity, I met a Broadway dancer.

            I was 24 years old, just out of college, living in my small hometown of Linden, Alabama and drinking quite a bit.  I was also in the closet.  So I used to daydream a lot.  About getting out, coming out, meeting a man.  I was watching a talk show one afternoon, and the company of a huge Broadway musical was performing.  One dancer stuck out among the rest for some reason.  Maybe it was his talent.  Maybe the fluidity of his movement.  Maybe the huge bulge in his tight pants.  Whatever the reason, I was in lust.  A month later, my gal pal Lindsy and I visited New York City for the first time.  Coincidentally, we had tickets to that same Broadway show.  There he was, live and in person.  From the first row of the mezzanine, I was in love.  And, through the glory of Playbill, I learned his real name.  Let the fun begin.

            Later in the week, Lindsy and I stumbled upon Rose’s Turn in Greenwich Village.  A small piano bar with hugely talented singers, Rose’s Turn was like every closeted gay boy’s Xanadu.  Even Lindsy loved it.  During one of the breaks, I excused myself and headed for the restroom.  The door swung open and out walked my handsome Broadway dancer.  He looked at me and smiled.

            “It’s all yours gorgeous.”

            I almost passed out.  No person in my entire life had ever called me handsome or gorgeous except for family members, and they were probably just trying to prevent another teen suicide.  I walked into the bathroom to catch my breath.  A handsome and talented man thought I was gorgeous.  I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.  When I walked back to the table, I was glowing.  And the dancer was seated at the table next to us.  I took my seat and a big swig of draft beer and turned to my new beau.

            “We saw your show tonight.  You were great,” I offered.

            He smiled a genuine smile.  Lindsy was aghast.

            “Thanks.  I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

            He proceeded to ask us where we were from and didn’t even make fun of Alabama.  I was smitten.  Lindsy was confused.  Having no idea I was in the closet, she just kept right on drinking.  Her head buried not in the sand, but a really strong vodka gimlet.  It was every fantasy in 3-D.  Sitting in a New York City bar in Greenwich Village talking up a Broadway dancer who I had seen on television.  All my friends back home were going to be jealous.  And of course, one day we would marry.  We chatted for a while about trivial things until it was time for him to say goodbye.  And he did.  No promise of future contact, no exchange of phone numbers.  Just “nice to meet you” and “have a great trip.”  Lindsy thought it was all pretty cool, but I talked about it the entire trip.  I was sure he wanted to talk to me again.  Oh, the delusions of a twenty-four year old closeted gay guy.

            A few weeks after I returned to Alabama, I started getting drunk regularly.  I was so miserable and repressed and bored.  I desperately wanted to move but was financially not ready.  So liquor allowed an escape.  And also produced grandiose thoughts and blurred the line between fact and fiction.  The fact was that this dancer only spoke to me for about an hour one night in a piano bar in Manhattan.  But in Liquorland, where misery and delusion collide, we were destined to be together.  One night after a bottle of cheap Zinfandel, I called directory assistance and got the dancer’s phone number.  Easy.  He would love me soon.

            I called him and launched into an inane recounting of how we met a month earlier while I was in New York.

            “We met at this really cool piano bar, and we talked all night.  I’m interested in moving to New York and being on Broadway so I figured we have a lot in common.”

            “And I gave you my phone number?” he asked, his voice full of doubt and uncertain of my sanity.

            Uh-oh. 

            I thought quickly and ran a mental list of all the hip places in New York that I knew about.

            “Yes, you gave it to me as you were leaving to go to the Times Square Brewery.”

            It was at this particular moment that my story truly crashed and burned.  No savvy New Yorker worth his salt would darken the doorstep of the Times Square Brewery.  And not many Alabamians loaded on White Zinfandel would know this.  Still, ever the gentleman, the dancer simply asked me to send my photograph to his theatre’s address.  I guess he needed to see who he was putting a restraining order on.

            “Send that to me at the theatre, and I’ll give you a call back.”

            I was elated.  And then I passed out.

            The following day, I got home for lunch, and I saw on caller I.D. that he had phoned me.  I immediately called him back.  He asked me some questions about my life, my job.  I asked him some questions about being on Broadway, living in New York, his love life.  I learned that he had someone in his life, and they lived together. 

            No matter.  Once he sees my pictures, he’ll ditch that clown and come running to me.

            He told me that he would give me a call sometime, and we hung up.  I was so excited that I didn’t eat lunch.  Instead, I went through an entire photo album of snapshots and deemed two pictures perfect enough to send to my new love.  Luckily, I forgot to mail them.

            That night, after a half a box of White Zin, I called him to ask about his day.  This time, the warmth in his voice was replaced with a chill and exasperation.  I tried to ask more questions but was met with snappy one-word answers.  At the end of the conversation, he told me that there is someone in his life that he loves and that this person does not appreciate my phone calls.  Still, he wished me luck, and we said goodbye.

            I got off the phone and finished the box of wine.  I looked around my lonely house and wandered when my life was going to begin.  And if I had a lamp to switch off and on, I would have been a dead ringer for Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction.”  I wanted to live in an apartment building in a big city where nobody locked their doors, and friends just glide in and out while cracking jokes and looking pretty.  If they did it on “Friends”, then I could too.  Then, a moment.  A moment of clarity that shattered the haze of boxed wine.  It was time to move.  To Birmingham, for now.  Where there were certain to be gay bars and gay men and snappy queens to hang out with.  So, two months later, Lindsy and I moved to Birmingham.

            And over a decade after that, I’m living in New York City.  I ran into the dancer once in a bar.  Of course, he didn’t recognize me.  Thank God.  And I barely recognized him.  He’s put on some heft.  However, I wanted to stop him and apologize for creeping him out or making him uncomfortable.  Tell him that I was in a bad place and managed to crawl out and become a productive and out-and-proud gay guy.  But I didn’t.  I just let him pass.

            But now.  Here comes Cheyenne Jackson.   I noticed him right away.  Taller than most.  More good looking than just about everybody.  He was listening to headphones and singing along with the music.  It was a beautiful spring evening, so I’m sure he was heading to the theatre.  He had “Xanadu” to do.  I was certain there would be eye contact.  A smile.  He would turn around for a double-take.  I would do the same.  The headphones would come off.  We would slowly walk toward each other with huge grins.  Introductions.  A one-liner to crack the ice.  Finally, numbers would be exchanged.  A date would be made.  The rest…well, history of course.

            He walked right by me.  With not so much as any eye contact.  None.  Ten years before, I would have been crushed.  Now, I just giggled to myself and savored the fact that Cheyenne Jackson just walked by.  But then again…what would be the harm in turning around and chasing him down the street and asking for his phone number. 

            He should be flattered by that.

            Or did Glenn Close think the very same thing right before she offed the rabbit?  

The Visit

         I couldn’t shake the sense of dread.  I had a feeling of impending doom, that all was not right with the world.  What had I done?  Was it a lapse in judgment or temporary insanity?  What exactly was I thinking when I booked a trip for my parents and younger brother to come to New York for a visit?  I had the best of intentions; it was their Christmas present.  I paid for half of their airline tickets and booked a room at the Hotel Pennsylvania.  Right next to Macy’s!  At times, even thirty four year-olds romanticize the perfect family life.  The four of us enjoying the city.  Conversation would be easy, communication open and healthy.  It never happened before, but who says it can’t happen now?  Right?

            Upon learning of my gift, Mom was in the constant throes of excitement.  She became an internet maven, addicted to finding the best things to do in Manhattan.  She also became a pain in my ass.  After reading online reviews of their hotel, she asked if I would find somewhere else for them to stay.  Citing roaches, cold water, and uncleanliness, she thought it best not to stay at the Hotel Pennsylvania.  Fine by me, I thought.  Then after the seventh email and fourth phone call making the same request, my temper got the best of me.  I emailed her back.

            “I’ve attached a link to a small hotel I found of interest.  I read online that the rooms are pretty small, but the towel service is impeccable.”

            With the email, I attached a link to the West Side Club for Men, a gay bathhouse in Chelsea.  She called me the next day.

            “Was that supposed to be funny?”

            “I don’t know.  My roommate and I got a big kick out of it,” I replied.

            This is a typical exchange between Mom and me.  I have always wanted to get a rise out of her.  Not to piss her off, just to make sure she is still listening…and breathing.  Mom doesn’t upset the cart.  Status quo is just fine.  She likes to remember the good times which is her way of glossing over anything remotely unpleasant.  Her mother was the greatest, but she was also passive and mute.  Mom is the same in many aspects.  She likes to paint a Rockwell scene in her mind when it comes to our family.  And then becomes cool as ice when the paint dries, revealing cracks in the canvas. 

            When I came out a few years back, her silence was deafening.  But that didn’t stop me—and still doesn’t—from forcing the issue.  At first, my tactics didn’t work.  She even bought a book written by some insane woman whose son had “gotten lost in the gay underworld of sex and drugs” but through extensive therapy managed to “go straight again.”  After perusing this literary equivalent of junk mail in the bookstore, I called my mother.

            “Does this book ever say where I can find this gay underworld?  Because it sure sounds like a hell of a lot of fun.”

            I went on to inform her that there is no possibility of me ever eating pussy, marrying a girl, or buying a minivan.  Her call-waiting beep sounded, and off she went.  Over the past few years, she slowly came around and actually started asking questions about my life and listening to the answers.  She still needs nudging every once in a while, but she’s only human.  It can’t be easy for a Southern Baptist lady who is also the mother of a queer. 

            If ever two opposite personalities attracted, it was Mom and Dad.  For every opinion that Mom did not form, Dad was there to make sure his was heard.  At least he was never indifferent.  Silence has never been his forte.  Like a male counterpart to Mama Rose in “Gypsy”, he pushed me to succeed and, more importantly, to be popular.  I wasn’t even ten years old, and I already knew what would make one popular and what was unbecoming of real boys.  According to Dad, real boys did not dance, sing into hairbrushes, wear women’s shoes, or fix their babysitter’s hair.  Since I enjoyed all of these things, reasoning told me that I wasn’t a real boy. 

            As I grew older, Dad and I clashed over everything.  His drinking, my drinking, college.  As a long-standing member of the National Guard, he was deployed to Saudi Arabia for nine months beginning in 1990 for Bush War I.  There were tears—mine.  There were more tears—his—but only when he said goodbye to my brother.  They had more in common, I suppose.  Either way, I’m still not sure whether I missed him or the idea of him. 

One of the most basic of human traits is to crave what we cannot have.  So all my life I have craved the idea of a father who is here—physically and emotionally.  Like Mom, he has made great strides since my coming out via the telephone.  At the ripe old age of 29, I heard him say “I love you”.  I long assumed that if I ever heard that from him, it wouldn’t mean anything since I’m older and he neglected to tell me when I was younger and really wanted to hear it.  I was wrong.  Turns out it doesn’t matter how old you are.  “I love you” is never a bad thing to hear.

            Back to the trip, Mom eventually passed on the idea of staying at a bathhouse, opting instead for a hotel in Midtown.  They flew up in May, and for their first night in the city, I met them on the street in front of Extra Virgin, one of my favorite restaurants.  Dad looked a little grayer, Mom looked a little wearier, Keith, my brother, looked a little heavier.  But I held my tongue and greeted them with a cheery “Welcome to New York!”  It would have been lovely if the gesture was reciprocated. 

            “I thought you said you’ve been working out,” Dad said.

            “I think I’ve got some extra eye cream in my suitcase if you want to try it out on your crows’ feet,” Mom offered.

            Keith looked at me and rolled his eyes, as if to say “I feel your pain.”

            My shrink would have told me to confront them and tell them exactly how their remarks impact me.  How their remarks really make me feel.  I pondered this for a second.

            “How about a cocktail?”

            Dinner was fine.  The waitress was amused by Dad’s Southern accent and Keith’s ability to down two shots of Jeigermeister for dessert.  She must not know how taxing it can be to travel with your parents, I thought.  After sending them back uptown, I walked home with a controlled excitement.  Excited because dinner had, in fact, not killed me.  Excited because it had actually been relatively nice.  Controlled because I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Then, surprisingly, I felt sad.  A strange kind of sad.  I wanted to share this walk with someone.  Or have someone beside my roommate waiting for me to walk in the door and tell him about dinner with my family.  I’ve been single for awhile and enjoy it.  But suddenly, I didn’t want to be single anymore.  Strange effects this family reunion was having.

            The week continued with a Broadway play.  Keith was miserable, Dad fidgeted, and Mom unzipped her purse during Angela Lansbury’s monologue.  A Yankees game, twelfth row behind home plate, courtesy of my brother, a golf pro with surprising connections.  Keith schmoozed while Dad and I drank beer, and I scanned the dugout for a potentially gay Yankee.  “A Chorus Line”, with just Mom.  She told me that I should really use moisturizer on my elbows.  A night out in the East Village with my brother.  I introduced him to my friends as we hung out in a gay bar.  Keith hyperventilated at first, but three shots of Jeigermeister warmed him up to the “gay underworld.”

            As the week drew to a close, I realized, despite vehement rejections from my common sense, that I was enjoying their visit.  I did not want them to leave.  On their last night in the city, I took them to The Garage in the West Village for dinner followed by drinks at Rose’s Turn, a small piano bar where a couple of friends were singing.  When it was time for goodbye, I got emotional.  A few cocktails probably loosened my tear ducts, but still.  It was a nice visit.  As I watched their cab drive away on Seventh Avenue, I decided to walk home.  It was a beautiful spring night.  I replayed the week’s events in my mind.  I missed my family.  For the first time, I really missed my family.  

What the hell was that? 

So maybe it was time to let go.  Let it go.  And by it, I mean all of it.  The disappointments, real and perceived.  The pain, the memories that can only come from childhood.  This is my family.  And they’re all I’ve got.  I can’t trade them in for a nicer model.  And someday, when they’re gone, all I’ll have are memories, so they might as well be good ones.

            As I walked through Chelsea, two guys came out of a storefront holding hands and giggling.  I looked up at the sign.
            “WEST SIDE CLUB FOR MEN”

            I giggled too.  No amount of Jeigermeister in the world would have helped the family get through a week in there.

My Tommy

           A few years ago, I ended my relationship with my personal trainer, which was harder than dumping any silly old boyfriend.  I learned quickly that relationships with trainers take on new heights of perversity and co-dependency.  A month before I started with Tommy, I read an article in GQ that humorously outlined the gray area often created between client and personal trainer.  There were tales of woe and disappointment, anger and confusion.

            What pathetic chumps!  I will never be one of those people.

            Well, hello world!  Meet the newest pathetic chump!

            I paid fifty dollars every month to work out at Bally’s Gym in Chelsea, but there were always better things to do.  Like eat and sit.  So I decided to hire a personal trainer to motivate me and keep me in the gym.  I figured that eighty dollars an hour is plenty of motivation to put down the fork and get off the couch.  Besides, I was going to Provincetown that summer for a week with a group of friends, and the thought of looking like a broomstick with hair didn’t appeal to me.  Or to anyone else.  So I found Tommy:  young, hot and straight.  Tommy was in graduate school studying to be a physical therapist, so he obviously knew his stuff.  He looked like Daniel Craig, only younger.  I say this because Tommy told me this at our first meeting.

            “Girls tell me I look like the new guy that plays James Bond,” he offered.

            “Oh really?” I asked, interested.  “I haven’t watched that series since Roger Moore quit.”

            “Who’s Roger Moore?” 

Jesus, I suddenly felt like Mrs. Robinson.                                                  

            He started me on a workout regimen that included a mixture of free weights, resistance exercises, cardio, and a high-protein diet.  The diet lasted three days until I had my fill of eggs and cottage cheese.  I continued to take the protein shakes that he prescribed but slipped in a Big Mac and kept that to myself.  I dutifully went to the gym, three times a week with him and once or twice a week on my own.  He pushed me to the limit, and for the first couple of weeks, I couldn’t lift my arms above my head.  Making out in a bar isn’t quite the same when you can’t lift your arms.  But I kept at it, the gym that is.  Gradually, I got stronger and noticed changes in my physique.  I actually had visible muscles in my back, and friends could no longer grab my love handles and squeal “Pinch an inch!” 

I hate that.

            However, my newfound positive body image came at a price.  Tommy increasingly used me as a substitute therapist, asking my opinions on everything from parental issues to friend problems.  Once he even asked my advice on how to break up with his girlfriend.

            “Tell her you’re gay,” I proposed. 

He looked at me, blankly.  I guess he didn’t know his audience.

            I slowly became too reliant on his motivation.  It was clear that I knew how to do all the exercises, and my form improved significantly.  But I still saw him three times a week. Suddenly, an epiphany:  I was basically paying for an escort service.  He was an appealing straight guy who carried on intelligent conversations and rubbed my shoulders.  It was actually fun to work out with him.  I enjoyed his attention and loved to make him laugh.  But anyone would laugh at my jokes if I were paying them eighty dollars an hour. So I decided to break it off, but not cold turkey.  Baby steps.  We scaled it back to twice a week and finally once a week.

He soon became suspicious, and I knew what I had to do.  I needed the money spent on him to save up for a security deposit on an apartment.  I wanted to travel, and not seeing him would untie some of my funds.  I decided it was time to be an adult, to take charge of the situation and not be intimidated into seeing him again and again. It was time to be my own man!  Hear me roar!  Take the bull by the balls!  And all that other hyper-masculine stuff.

            So I did what any other passive-aggressive, self-respecting gay man would have done in my situation.  I broke up with him.  On his voice mail.

Let Me Entertain You

         I was sitting at a table, sweating not only from the hot lights but the sheer terror of failing as well.  I was at my first acting class in New York City doing an improvisational exercise with my scene partner.  And we were failing.  Miserably.  Our teacher instructed us to improvise a conflict and assigned a sweet girl to be my partner.  Very sweet.  She was a titmouse, and it’s hard to fight with Pollyanna.  But we gave it a good shot.  We were to be a young married couple and were fighting over whether to stay home for the weekend and paint the house or go out with friends.  She, the responsible one, wanted to stay home and paint.  Me, being the loutish husband who liked going out with his buddies for beers, wanted to go out with my buddies for beers.  We were doomed from the start.  Considering this was my first acting class and first improvisational exercise, and considering that I’m eons away from a loutish husband who likes to spend time downing beers in a sports bar, I voiced my concern.

            “Shouldn’t we start with something a little less difficult?”

            “Don’t be silly,” my teacher yelped.  “You’re an actor.  So ACT!”

            It was only the first time I heard him say that, and already it was too much.

            Suzanne and I were the fifth couple to go on that night, so I expected our improv to last somewhere around five minutes, judging from others who went before us.  A few were good, a few were bad.  I knew I wanted to succeed at this, but would I be able to forget about the audience?  Yes and no.  I was nervous when we began but soon forgot about them until we started to falter.  I presented a valid argument for waiting on the paint job, and Suzanne couldn’t really find fault with it.  She just sat at the kitchen table peeling carrots for dinner.  I wanted fireworks and melodrama and screaming and throwing things.  Yet, we ran out of things to argue about.  It was painful.  After time was called, we were instructed to sit in the “hot seats.”  The chairs at center stage where we received our critique from the teacher.

            “Craig, have you ever been really mad?” he asked.

            “Um, yeah.  Many many times.”

            The conversation proceeded for the next twenty minutes where he probed and dissected my anger and how I show emotion.  Apparently, Suzanne was believable as a carrot-peeling WASP who just wanted some quality-time with her new husband.  However, my anger and conflicting emotions must have fallen flat somewhere between “Action!” and “Cut!”.  And he wasn’t letting up.  He kept on and on, delving deeper into my emotional angst until I felt like I was in a psychotherapy session that was being telecast for sixteen up-and-coming actors.  One of whom—the ex-football player from Nebraska—I had a huge crush on.

            “Do you know how hard this is for me?  I’m passive-aggressive!  I’d rather take a goddamned nap than argue about paint!”

            “Well, you’ve got to push through that!” my teacher exploded.  “Or you’ll NEVER be an actor!”

            I signed up for this class because of that very reason.  I wanted to be an actor.  Still do.  And I was doing quite well in the first couple of classes.  The teacher was dry and boring, but he had worked with Uta Hagen and some of the greats, so I assumed he knew of what he spoke.  I even got some of the loudest laughs in the room one night.  We were in small groups.  Someone started the exercise by “creating” an object out of thin air.  This “object” was passed onto the next person who took it and created something entirely different.  I thought it the lamest game I’d ever seen, but I played along.  I got belly laughs from my group when I took the guy’s “necklace” beside me and transformed it into a doobie I was taking a hit from.  However, the ethereal lesbian beside me upped the ante and took my marijuana cigarette and made an eight-ball of coke. 

            So I was shocked by my fall from grace.  I left class after the improv vowing never to return.  But acting has always been in my gut.  As a little kid growing up in Alabama, I loved a production.  I had zero access to any kind of real theatre, so I loved the movie musicals.  I would play along with the television in my bedroom, creating my own character and singing along with the actors.  And when my grandmother showed me “Gypsy” with Rosalind Russell and Natalie Wood?  Oh Lord.  I pranced around the house for a month stripping off anything I could get my hands on.  I would take one of Mom’s nightgowns and snap it in place around my waist.  Mom had the ugliest high-heeled shoes, so I usually just wore hose and stood on my toes.  On any given day, you could find me in our living room, “Let Me Entertain You” blasting at top volume, sashaying around the room and flinging off the nightgown to reveal my Superman underoos.  I thought Wonder Woman was more appropriate, but Dad had to draw the line somewhere. 

            I constantly entertained the walls of my bedroom.  Not only would I create characters and act alongside my television, but I also choreographed dance routines.  I rehearsed them until my legs were sore.  I grew tired of using my fist as a microphone, so I began to use a hair brush.  My dad was exasperated.  On numerous occasions, he caught me cheering or singing or doing toe-touches while wearing his oversize t-shirts with a belt cinched at the waist.  I would either get a spanking or worse.  The dreaded drive around the block.  We loaded into his S-10 pickup and drove around the block at a snail’s pace, and I actually had to sit and listen to him.  I always found it odd that the only times he wasn’t at the Country Club playing golf was when he was criticizing my performances and taking away my pom-poms.

            “Think about what would happen if the boys in your class found out you were dressing up in those clothes,” he offered.  “They would make fun of you and tease you all the time.”

            “Would they tease me if they knew I pretended to be Wonder Woman?”

            He almost wrecked.

            I was determined not to back down from this acting teacher.  Or from any of my classmates.  After a few days of pouting and doubting my self-worth, I picked myself up by the bootstraps determined to improve my improv.  I spoke with Suzanne on the phone and gently suggested that she get angrier.

            “What has really pissed you off before that you could use?” I asked.

            “Well, my last boyfriend announced after two years that he was gay.”

            BINGO!  We had us an improv! 

            The next week, I arrived at the studio on Bank Street a little early.  I watched from across the street as the other students walked in.  They walked in by twos, sometimes by threes.  How did they get to know each other so quickly?  And why wasn’t I in their little groups?  I started to become paranoid.   Did they hate me?  Laugh at me behind my back?  What if I suck again?  The doubts came in waves.  As I was about to walk away and go to the McDonald’s I just passed, a fierceness gripped me.  I wasn’t just doing this for me.  I was doing this to show all the people in my life that I could, indeed, be creative and artistic and could act outside the realms of my bedroom.  All the people who said ‘no’ and ‘stop’.  All the way back to my dad.  And I didn’t walk away.  I walked right up to the door, and I paused.  With my hand on the door, I paused.  But what if they did think I sucked?

            Ten minutes later, I was sitting at McDonald’s eating a Big Mac.  Still dreaming of becoming an actor.

What Are You Doing The Rest Of Your Life?

           “I quit.”

            With those two little words my life changed for the better.  I quit my job last week.  I quit my job last week with basically nothing lined up.  I have options and ideas sure.  But nothing tangible is lined up.  And I love it.  I hated my job.  Cliché, yes, but true.  It was finance, and I loathe finance.  Growing up in a small Southern town, boys were encouraged to be football coaches, doctors, or businessmen.  Since blood makes me squeamish and I throw like a girl, business won out.  I had no idea that you could major in drama or English, so I majored in accounting.  I never got above a “C” in any of my accounting courses, so that should have told me something right there.  So basically, my job bored me to tears.  There was nothing exciting about it.  Literally, the most exciting thing about my job was being able to purchase theatre tickets for my boss.  And I would absolutely cringe whenever I had to utter those tragic words, “I’m behind on my filing.”  

            My boss.  Truly a piece of work.  The tantrums were regular and legendary.  No phones were thrown, but words sure were.  People were sent home on a regular basis to “think about whether they want to stay or not.”  His line of fire was intense.  If you found yourself in that line of fire, it could be days, even weeks you would stay there.  We called them beatdowns.  He would constantly pick apart something that he considered wrong and harp on it for days.  In front of everyone.  We had group lunches every week.  And every week, he held court like a puppet master.  Choosing people to tell jokes over and over and over.  It didn’t matter if they were the same jokes…and the more offensive the better.  Nobody escaped unscathed.  Jews, Mexicans, African-Americans, the Polish, blondes, gays, women.  Some were funnyish, most were not. 

            Humiliation was his forte.  Of a junior member of the firm, he once announced to the entire office at group lunch, “He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he tries hard.”  He was an expert at finding a weakness and capitalizing on it.  Especially weight.  For overweight employees, group lunch was an exercise in remembering one’s self-worth.  He constantly rode them about exercising more, always “jokingly” of course.  If humiliation was his forte, empathy was not.  Just last month, he called me into his office.  Apparently the day before he saw one of the cleaners in the kitchen with her mouth full.  Our kitchen is always stocked with fruit, so he assumed she was eating the fruit. 

            “Craig, I think you should hide the fruit everyday before you leave.  I don’t want those people eating it.”

            I stood there, dumbfounded.  A man worth a ton of money couldn’t let a woman who probably made minimum wage have a fucking banana?  I was livid.  And everyday, I hid the fruit.  With great shame.  A series of smallish events led to my decision to leave.  After over five years, the toxic atmosphere had seeped into other parts of my life.  My creativity was zapped.  I was drinking at night to forget about the days.  So I handed in my notice, gave an extra three weeks until they found someone to replace me, and I left.  I handled the notice so well, he agreed to pay me for my two weeks of unused vacation.  Until he didn’t.  After I left, he accused me of unauthorized usage of his credit card.  And cut it down to one week.  Basically, I was accused of stealing.  And I haven’t stolen anything since I was twelve years old when I lifted a Playgirl magazine and a set of Lee Press-on-Nails from the local drug store.  So, that was the final nail in the coffin for me.  Any doubt I previously had about leaving flew out the window. 

So to answer the title’s question…I don’t know.  I don’t know what I am doing the rest of my life.  Maybe something in the theatre.  Maybe I’ll teach.  Maybe I’ll move to Provincetown for the summer, schlep drinks by a pool, and screw my way through tourist season.  Maybe I’ll wind up in the welfare line.  Or turning tricks like the trannies on the West Side Highway.  Oh wait, they’ve cleaned up the West Side Highway, so that option is null and void.  Maybe I’ll finally get paid for writing—more than the $50 I was paid for a published piece on broadwayspace.com.  But I just don’t know.  I do know that I’ll never walk into that office again.  And that fills my soul.

            And what did I get from all of this?  Over five years of browbeating, verbal abuse, uncomfortable situations, and having to watch my boss’ utter disregard for another person’s humanity?  Well, first of all I got a life experience worthy enough of an essay.  Secondly…and most importantly….I got a new group of friends.  A small but weary handful of friends who made the days go by a little faster, made the verbal beatdowns a little easier to swallow, and the long group lunches a little less uncomfortable because every time, I was silently laughing at their fake laughter.  So I got friends out of an enormously difficult life experience.  And that’s what counts the most. 

            Because friends would never make me hide the fruit.

Make Me A Match

            I do not condone torture.  However, if I were to meet the guy or gal that invented the online dating service, Guantanamo Bay would look like a time share on Fire Island.  After a few months of hitting the internet chat rooms and other virtual meeting halls for sex-deprived gay men, it was inevitable that I try the G-rated version.  Match.com. Obviously, mucho dollars are spent on advertising for these sites, and they take great pains to coax the lonely and needy into a world where everyone meets their Prince Charming or Sleeping Beauty.  So color me lonely and needy, because I bought into it and excitedly signed up. 

After I paid the hefty admission ticket to enter for three months, I was asked to create an online profile and answer a dazzling array of questions.  I hadn’t been that excited since filling out my senior book in high school.  Ten pages where I got to talk about ME!  My physical features, my favorite vacation spots, hobbies, future plans, favorite food and drink.  Like Christmas for the emotionally unfulfilled.  So I sat down and went to work.  I butched up parts of it in case a baseball fan wanted to take me to a Yankees game.  I toned down my love of show tunes for fear of stereotype.  I could be any person I wanted.  In hindsight, I should have settled for being me.

When it came time to search for my new husband, I was like the proverbial kid in a candy store.  I “winked” at or emailed practically every hunk on the site.  Each email was custom-made for each prospective beau.  When finished, I reviewed the emails and was quite proud of my witty repartee and intelligent anecdotes.  Funny how three glasses of Merlot can make the most mundane of sentences sparkle.  I went to bed that night tipsy and satisfied.  Satisfied, knowing that the next day my mailbox would be chock full of suitors.  It’s horrifying how wrong a human being can sometimes be.

The next morning I went about my day, going to my loathsome job at a downtown Manhattan bank, kowtowing to my uneducated boss, and hitting the gym with a semi-gusto.  I practically skipped home, overflowing with excitement and confidence that soon I would marry.  There were several responses in my mailbox, all unsolicited.  I was crushed.  No one that I reached out for reached back.  I couldn’t understand this.  I was so methodical in my choosing.  If the guy was hot, then he got an email.  Wait. Maybe I should have actually read their profiles.  Looked for similarities and differences.  Suddenly, clarity.  Despite all of their hard work trying to convince us otherwise, the internet dating world is just like the real world, only with emoticons.  Guys that aren’t interested in me in 3-D aren’t interested in my picture/profile combination either.  And the guys that follow me down Eighth Avenue in Chelsea unsolicited will also follow me down the virtual dating highway as well.

So I sifted through the junk.  I reluctantly set up a couple of dates, one of whom paid for dinner.  He turned out to be a nice guy.  A copywriter who accidentally almost form-tackled Katharine Hepburn on a busy Manhattan sidewalk years before. He offered to take me to a Yankees game—being I love baseball—but when I offered just my cheek for a goodnight kiss, that was the last I heard from him.  I retreated to lick my wounds which entailed several glasses of wine and a one-night stand to make me feel worthy.  After getting an unhealthy dose of faux self-worth, I hit it again.  This time I was more realistic about my wants and needs and tried to look for men who were more willing to reciprocate.  The new formula worked.  I started getting some responses from guys who I really wanted to follow me down Eighth Avenue.  At first. 

I accepted a date with John.  A cutie with wavy brown hair.  A buyer at Bergdorf-Goodman.  I met him at the mother ship of gay bars, G.  I was standing at the bar, nervously looking around for my date.  John tapped me on the shoulder, and I was pleasantly surprised.  He looked just like his picture.  I breathed a silent sigh of relief, and his facial expression told me that he did the same.  He bought two drinks, and we headed for a table.  I noticed his oversized man-purse.

“I like your bag,” I offered.

“Thanks,” he dramatically sighed.  “Fifteen hundred dollars.”

I almost swallowed my tongue.

“Really?  My entire outfit costs barely over a hundred.”

“Oh, how could that be?”

Easy.  I went on to explain how the jeans came from a really cool thrift store, my nice fitted shirt came from Century 21, and my new boots were on sale.  He looked at me in disbelief.

“That is so funny,” he went on.  “These jeans alone cost almost a thousand dollars.”

The night proceeded in just this fashion.  Everything had a price tag.  And not only did he tell me how much he paid for his clothes, his house, and every stick of furniture in it, but he also told me how much he made and the huge amount of his recent bonus.  And here I was.  Working for a shitty commercial bank using credit cards almost to their limit and shopping at thrift stores.  If the constant bragging wasn’t enough, each time he told me how much something cost, he dramatically rolled his eyes and looked so put upon as if to say “I stitched every last thread of these jeans” or “I laid every brick of my house.”  I was secretly plotting excuses to get out of going to dinner with him.  Turned out I didn’t need to.  Our income disparity and my obvious disgust were enough.  He didn’t ask.  Instead, he paid the check, and we headed home.  Separately. 

Still stinging from John and his gold-dusted jeans, I reluctantly kept a date with Stan, a date that I had agreed to go on the week before.  So three nights after my lesson in the economics of dating, I met Stan at Gym, a gay sports bar—which I’ve learned is not an oxymoron.  We were to have a couple of beers and then head to dinner at an Italian restaurant.  I walked in, saw him, and we both smiled.  Again, he looked like his picture.  Tall and handsome.  A blue-collar look.  Like he could pour cement or something.  We introduced ourselves, and he bought two beers and turned to me.

“So like I said I’m Stan originally from the Midwest but I would never claim that to anyone HA HA HA HA HA HA no kidding I love the Midwest it’s so provincial and pure and my parents are still there who I adore and my siblings and their kids who I just love do you love kids? I LOVE kids I want three do you want kids?  It would be so neat if you took my last name and then we could name our son Henry!  How much fun would that be?  I love my job I’m a contractor and am so busy all the time and can never find time for a relationship but you’re too cute to pass up and you seem so interesting and fun and cool so what do you say?”

My eyes crossed. 

“I beg your—“

“What do you say about going steady?”

I downed my beer, put five dollars on the bar, and walked out.

“Well, you seem too wound up to have kids anyway!” he called out behind me.

Two weeks later, having given up Match.com for good, I got a message in my inbox.  I didn’t even look at his profile and picture.  I wasn’t interested.  Until I read his email.  No talk of walking on the beach or income level or how many children we were going to have.  Just simple and direct.

“Fuck this match.com bullshit. Do you want to go out to dinner with me?”

I met him for dinner the next night.  He was already seated when I arrived.  He stood up as I approached the table.  Well over 6’4”, he had the kind of smile that made my stomach flip.  Firm in all the right places with a little bit of gut.  Classic features with just a hint of flaw.  I said a silent prayer and sat down.  His name was Doug.  He was a successful visual arts designer from California who had only been in New York for two years.  Conversation was easy.  We talked about our likes and dislikes, the perils of online dating, and our respective horror stories.  Dinner and drinks turned into a three hour date.  I felt like I had known him for a lot longer.  He had exquisite taste in wine and was well-versed in just about everything, including theatre which I love.  Even his flaws were cute. 

“Do you want to go see a play sometime?” I asked.

“Um, yeah.  But I get kind of anxious when I’m boxed in with a lot of people, so I may need to sit on the aisle.  I actually had to get up and leave ‘Mamma Mia’ last month.”

“Well, that probably didn’t have so much to do with your social anxiety as it did with ‘Mamma Mia’,” I offered. 

At the end of the night, he wanted to walk me home.  Walk me home!  I couldn’t believe it.  We got to my front door, and he kissed me.

“This has been the best date.  I really want to see you again.  I haven’t met anyone in a long time that really grabbed me like you did,” he said.

This was it.  My last blind date.  I just knew it.  We made plans for the next week.

“Next time when I walk you home, I’ll come up,” he grinned.

I watched him walk away.  I was happy.  Content.  Smitten. 

I got an email from him two days later.

“You’re a fantastic guy and a great catch.  But dating is just not where I am right now.  Take care, Doug.”

Just like his first email.  Simple.  And direct.