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.