No One Is Alone

Having already finished “Guns” class and “Ass Blast”, I was halfway finished with the final leg of the torture trifecta that had become my exercise regime, “Six Pack Attack.”  Because a winning personality is not what stops gay men in their tracks in an overcrowded bar, I figured the triple combination of sculpted arms, a washboard stomach, and a firm butt would do it.  And just when I was about to throw the towel in—and my dumbbells at the instructor—I saw him.  I would later learn his name was Rick.  But at that moment, I just knew him as God.  Except I’m pretty sure that the God I was taught about in Sunday School didn’t wear muscle shirts.  I kept staring at him, totally forgetting where I was and what I was doing.  He was a giant, well over 6’4”.  At least two-hundred twenty pounds.  But built solid.  And one of the most handsome faces.  He caught me looking and smiled.  I immediately turned away but after a few seconds, I couldn’t help myself so I looked back.  He was still staring at me.  And smiling.  I smiled and caught a glance of myself in the mirror.  Shit! I was doing the wrong exercise. 

            Later after the foreplay known as gym, I was walking out of the locker room downstairs, which looked like a hotel spa.  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

            “Hi,” a masculine voice behind me said.

            I turned around.  It was him.

            “I’m Rick.  You are?”

            “Uh.  Craig.  Yeah, Craig.  And I usually can always keep up in class.  And I rarely ever notice anyone else around me because I try to be so focused on what I’m doing, because I try to take the gym very seriously, and…”  I stopped and thought better of my diatribe.

            His eyes sparkled.

            “Come here often?” I asked.

            And then I winced.

            “How about dinner?  My treat,” he replied.

            His treat?  That was all I needed to hear.

            The date was nice.  He took me to Pesce Trattoria, a rustic Italian restaurant in the Village.  Conversation was easy.  For him.  For me, it was a different story.  I just don’t do well with guys that look like models in Men’s Health magazine.  Color me insecure, but it’s hard to scarf down spaghetti and meatballs while talking about cardio.  But he was very pleasant and patient and quite sweet.  Even when I spilled my wine.  Thoughts were racing through my mind.  I felt like I was in high school all over again.  Except then it was dates with girls, and they were asking me for fashion tips.

            “What do you do for a living?” I got a grip and asked.

            “I’m an actor.  I’ve done some independent films.  Low-budget kind of stuff.  Next time at dinner, I’ll bring you a couple of DVD’s.”

            Well that was promising.  He already was planning a second date.  I must not have been such a dreadful bore after all.  And there was a bonus.  I’ve always wanted to be a star-fucker.  Here was my chance!

            At that moment, I think the wine kicked in because I became the star of the party.  I was finally able to keep my inhibitions at bay and talk like an adult.  I learned he is originally from Greece and wants to be the next Brad Pitt, without all the kids.  He learned that I’m originally from Alabama and that I want to be the next David Sedaris, only cuter.

            Before I knew it, two hours passed.  We said goodnight, and he gave me a nice long kiss.  A good kisser too.  The plusses were adding up fast.  By the time I got home, I received a text asking me out for dinner the following week.  I said a quick “thank you” to the inventors of “Ass Blast” and jumped in the shower.

            That was four years ago.  Last week, he killed himself.  I’m not sure how or why.  Our “relationship” only lasted a couple of weeks.  We had drinks one more time after that initial meeting.  And of course, two rounds of rough sex.  Great rough sex that sent me to the chiropractor.  And then we just sort of lost touch.  I’m not sure how or why of that either.  I’d see him around the city every once in a while.  We would smile and say hello, but that’s about it.  He was just so vibrant and alive, so this was a shock to say the least.  I still have his phone number programmed into my cell phone and an email from him in my inbox.  I think I’ll keep them.  It will make it a little harder to remember he’s not still working out in that gym in New York City.  I don’t know…and I’m glad I don’t know…how it feels to want to end your life.  To feel so dejected that you just give up hope.  Because sometimes, hope is all we’ve got. 

            So for the man who gave me four mind-numbing orgasms and a gigantic ego boost just by saying “Hi” at the gym…this one’s for him.  I’m sorry he didn’t find what he was looking for.  I’m sorry he didn’t reach out to anyone.  I’m sorry that he couldn’t see any light around him.  And I hope that wherever his soul is now…I hope he finds what he couldn’t find here on Earth.

 Peace.