Magic Mike

             I was wrapped up in bed with Mike, bundled under the covers last weekend, when I glanced over at my nightstand.  On it…a bottle of lube, three condoms, and a can of bean dip.  Those three items were getting me through the blizzard.  And Mike wasn’t hurting either.  No heat.  No electricity.  No hot water.  Thankfully, we were generating our own brand of heat.  Mike, a friend with benefits, was visiting from Manhattan.  We’ve known each other for a few years.  We never really hung out a lot, unless it was horizontal.  So this was the first time we ever spent any length of time together, much less dinner and a whole weekend.  And I was pleasantly surprised.  When I rolled over and saw those three items, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You have to write about that,” he said.  “Just change my name to Mike.”

             So his wish has been granted.  He got here on Thursday, and I assumed that it was just going to be a weekend of sex.  But when the temperature started dropping, my feelings started warming.  To my huge surprise.  We’ve been hooking up for a few years off and on, but this was different.  We were actually talking, actually having a conversation.  There was more passion, more intimacy, more laughs.  And when he left on Sunday, I was wistful and more than a little sad.  And then I began to get irrationally angry.  I began to question why no guy has ever stuck around long enough to know how I like my steak cooked.  And it’s not like I haven’t dated.  I’ve been to every type of restaurant with every type of cuisine.  I’ve been to movies and plays and ballets and museums and hikes and walks and coffees.  Hell, I’ve even been taken to Hooters.  But that was only because he had a coupon for their coconut shrimp.  So I’ve definitely tried.  It’s just that none seemed to take.

            My first boyfriend, Andy, was twenty-five.  I was only twenty-nine at the time, but we were decades apart.  Maturity wasn’t his strong suit.  I was physically attracted to him, and I thought his lack of social skills was charming.  But just that does not a relationship make.  We had a ball together though.  He was sexy and amusing and sweet.  He was also argumentative, manipulative, and somewhat of a slut.  But according to my therapist, I was needy and co-dependent.  So I dated him for about nine months.  However, the labor pains got too intense, so I broke up with him.  Then wanted him back.  Then broke up with him again.  Then wanted him back again.  Finally, he did me a favor and started dating some crack addict.  That was after he took me to Hooters.

I dated sporadically after that in Birmingham.  An older doctor who turned out to be married.  A winner of a guy who I dumped because I couldn’t handle the fact that he was black.  Ignorance tended to creep up on me in the South.

“You didn’t notice I was black when I asked you out?”

“It was dark in the bar,” was my attempt at humor.

It didn’t work.

            And back in New York, I’ve dated some doozies.  There was Michael the bartender who I met a few months after I moved there.  I was in Duane Reade on the afternoon of my first New Years’ Eve in the city.  I called and asked him to meet me later for a drink.  I didn’t know anyone else, and he knew it.

            “Don’t you have any other friends here?” he asked.

            That was the first and only time I’ve cried in the moisturizer aisle at Duane Reade.

            Then there was Adam who was in an open relationship.  I fell in love.  The entire time, he never told me he was leaving his boyfriend.  The entire time, I knew in my mind that he was going to leave his boyfriend.  Then he didn’t call me for two months.  So I naturally assumed the boyfriend won out.  I was right.

            And how can I forget the guy who dumped me via email, the guy who believed he was abducted by a UFO, and the guy who peed on my shoes?

            There was a keeper or two in the bunch though.  Christopher the attorney for Miramax.  He had a great apartment.  A great job.  The sex was amazing.  And he knew Meryl Streep!  Alas, I always follow my heart.  And my heart still wanted Adam.  I was in the throes of missing him and accepting the fact that our relationship was over.  At my last meeting with Christopher, I told him I wanted to take it slow.

            “But I don’t want to take it slow.  I really like you, and I want to be with you.”

            “I just need some time.”

            “You’re just not as into me as I am into you.”

            There they were.  The words I’ve thought to myself in every single relationship I have ever been in.  And rarely had the guts to say out loud.  It pierced to think that I was causing someone else the angst that those words can bring.  But I was.

            Funny how when I start getting sentimental about men, the episode with Christopher is what I sometimes come back to.  Maybe because, if not for the timing, I would be hosting fabulous dinner parties and regaling Meryl with stories from the deep South.  But most likely it’s just the universe reminding me that love is not a guarantee like never finding a taxi in the rain.  That some things are just not meant to be.  And that dating is a two-way street.  Both people share the triumphs, and both people share the blame.

           A little while after I watched Mike drive away, I began to calm down again and laugh at myself for getting so irritated.  And it hit me.  The warm and fuzzy feelings I had all weekend weren’t all totally directed toward Mike.  Sure, a lot of it was.  I’m not one that can turn my feelings off when I’m having sex with the same guy five times a day.  But most of the warm and fuzzies were because it made me remember romance.  I had gotten so cynical in New York and was too satisfied with one-night stands and chasing guys who weren’t interested.  It was refreshing to be in close quarters with someone all weekend who wanted to be there too.  So the weekend reminded me that I do want romance, a relationship.  Sure, a one-night stand or two will come my way again.  But ultimately, that’s not what I want.  I want good old-fashioned romance with a good old-fashioned guy.  Who knew a blizzard and a weekend of sex would make me realize that?  They say Provincetown is magical in the winter.  Last weekend, though, was something else.

            So Mike…thanks for the magic.

 

 

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.

 

You Could Drive A Person Crazy

My date was halfway through a story about the time he was abducted by a UFO when it suddenly hit me.  

Maybe I make bad choices with men.

 His name was George.  I met him at the Gym Bar in New York City and was immediately smitten.  He was a strapping handsome thing with a barrel chest and a head full of wavy salt and pepper hair.  Rugged features.  And a killer smile.  He also had a boyfriend.  A rotund Asian, a couple of decades younger than George.  My friends knew that I had a crush, so we basically barged into their conversation one Sunday at happy hour.  My friends Keith and Bill started it up with the usual pleasantries.  My friend Kip and I stayed back and summed up the boyfriend.  Turned out that George was some kind of former Army guy who routinely rescued families in Third World countries from various horrors like interment camps and killing fields.  Also turned out that the boyfriend and his family were rescued from an interment camp when he was a little boy.  Flash forward two decades when they start dating and realize that George was actually one of the soldiers who rescued him.  I thought the whole thing was bullshit bordering on Woody Allen-Soon Yi creepy, but my friends were captivated.  They talked for what seemed to be an eternity, but I didn’t get very much time with George.  After they left, I was still incredulous.

            “What an amazing story!  Don’t you think that’s an amazing story?” Kip asked.

            “Nope, it’s bullshit,” was my reply.

            “No, it’s not,” Bill defended.  “And I thought the boyfriend was nice.”

            “I wonder if he’s here illegally.”  I was nonplussed. 

            A month or so later, George came into Gym Bar by himself.  I was by myself, so I started up a conversation.  I learned that he was a former soldier in Special Forces, forty eight years old, and recently single.  I decided not to bring up the ex-boyfriend for fear of him launching into the Killing Fields story again.  We talked for another hour or so and planned to go on a date.  A movie followed by dinner.  Before he left, he gave me a very long, very wet kiss.  And that’s all it took.  I was in lust.

           I have a history of making stupid choices when it comes to men.  From being too available to making a fool of myself, it’s been a long list of doomed relationships.  The very first guy I had a one-night stand with was a bartender in Birmingham.  He spent the night, didn’t give me his number, and left the next morning.  I went into his bar the next night.

            “Um, I thought last night was really great.  And, um, I hope you did too.  Because…well…I was hoping we could go steady.”

            Lucky for me, no one else heard and even luckier, he was too sweet to laugh in my face.  The next guy did give me a phone number.  A disconnected one.  Then there was the super hot married attorney, the guy who would call in the middle of the night on cocaine fueled rants, the guy with the emotional intelligence of an ant, the raging alcoholic who pissed on my shoes, and the guy who collected dolls.  Not to mention Tommy the Crack Smoker who kissed me and blew crack smoke in my mouth.  I thought he was smoking marijuana.  Unfortunately, I was more naïve that I thought I was.  Fortunately, I didn’t inhale. 

            So I was excited about George.  He seemed to be…dare I say it…normal?  There were no external signs.  No clues that he was a weirdo or a psychopath or liked antique baby dolls.  And the next week, on a chilly wet evening, I met George at the movie theater on West 23^rd Street in Chelsea.  He already had bought the tickets. 

            “We’re going to see ‘Paranormal Activity’”, he announced.  “I hope that’s alright.”

            Fuck no, it’s not alright!

            “Sure!  I love scary movies!”

            I loathe scary movies.  I was at a slumber party when I was eight years old, and my friends put on “Friday the 13^th”.  I had to call my mother to come pick me up.  I was a senior in high school and went to see “The Silence of the Lambs.”  I slept on my brother’s floor for a week.  He was 14.  A friend of mine took me to see a little movie called “Scream” when I was 23.  It was brand new, and she heard it was funny.  I slept with my lights on for two weeks. 

            So I was not thrilled to be seeing this particular scary movie, partly because I already heard it was scary as hell and partly because I knew that my roommate wouldn’t let me sleep on his floor.  But the thought of cuddling up to George during the scary parts eased my mind a bit.  We got some popcorn and found seats.  I have decided that a lot of bone-dumb idiots go to scary movies.  So there was a lot of talking back to the screen around us.  And every time someone around us spoke out loud, George would tell them to shut-up.  And every time he did that, I cringed.  So by the end of the movie, George was wound up tighter than a drum, and my back was sore from cringing so hard.

            We decided to eat at Niso’s on 8^th Avenue at their bar.  I knew the bartender and needed a cocktail after all that screaming and carrying on from the movie. 

            “I really enjoyed the movie,” I lied. 

            The bartender brought us our cocktails and a menu.

            “Yeah, me too.  It so reminded me of my entire life.”

            “Huh?”  I was perplexed.

            “Well, I’ve had a fair amount of paranormal activity around me for my whole life.  My childhood home was haunted.”

            I reached for my wine glass.  I had a sinking feeling I was going to need a quick refill.

            “Haunted?”

            “Yep, haunted.  We think the ghost was the original owner and died unexpectedly in the house.  He would roam around at night and appear over my head holding a knife to my throat.”

            Yep, I’ll need a refill.

            “Then when I was in Special Forces and on the submarine, I had an affair with my bunkmate.  It was so hot until the ghost of one of my exes found out and started haunting me.  He would wake me up every night making noises.  Then I actually saw him one night, and he had a huge knife in his hand.  I woke up the next morning with a cut down my forearm.”

            What the fuck was an army guy doing on a submarine? 

            “I’m…um…wow…it’s just…”  All I could do was stammer.

            “Yeah, it’s so crazy.  By the time I was in my thirties, I would have the most violent dreams.”

            “Well, maybe those were all dreams?”

            “Oh no!  Those ghosts were very real.  I haven’t seen any ghosts in a really long time though.”

            Since your medication kicked in?

            “Oh well that’s a good thing at least,” I offered.

            “Yep but I still have violent dreams.  So violent that there were many nights when I would wake up in the middle of the night with my most recent ex, and I would be punching him in the face really hard.”

            I was horrified.

            “But it’s ok, it’s ok!  Because I was sleeping!”

            Nothing says I love you like a left hook while you’re asleep.

            “But the worst of all was the night I was abducted by a UFO.”

            I looked around for the Candid Camera.  Even the eavesdropping bartender was wide-eyed.

            “UFO?  You…were…abducted?  By a UFO?”

            “Yep, they took me up and did all kinds of tests on me.  But one thing that might interest you is that they don’t put the GPS chip in your shoulder like everybody thinks.  They have to put the GPS chip inside you so that they will always know where you are.  But no, they don’t put it in your shoulder.  They put it in your calf.  I’d show you my scar but I have jeans and boots on.”

            I looked at the bartender.  “Check!”

            “But we haven’t eaten, and you should probably eat.  You’ve had three glasses of wine in the past twenty minutes.”

            And since I’m passive-aggressive and because I get really horny when I’m tipsy, I stayed for dinner and a quick public makeout session.  While we kissed, I reached down and inspected his package.  Basically to see what I was going to be missing.  Apparently, the aliens not only performed testing, they also cut his dick in half. 

            We said our goodbyes, and I made my way across town to my apartment.  The evening had taken such a left turn into Crazytown I wasn’t even scared anymore about the movie.  And the evening was so bizarre I wasn’t even sad or upset about the apparent fact that I wouldn’t be dating him or marrying him like I planned.  So I learned a few things.  I learned that there aren’t always initial clues that a guy may be certifiable.  I learned that if I want to date in New York City…or life in general…that I will inevitably have to wade through a large share of toads on the road to my prince.  And most importantly, I learned that if I’m ever abducted by a UFO, I won’t have to wear shoulder pads to cover the scar.  But it also means I won’t be able to wear culottes.

            So it’s a win-win.

Another Winter in a Summer Town

          I got here on Friday.  I had my first panic attack on Friday.  The town was dead.  Hardly anything open.  The last time I walked down Commercial Street in September, I had to fight the throngs of people.  On Friday, I walked down Commercial Street and saw one person. 

            What the fuck have I done?!

            I have moved back to Provincetown until September.  The end of the world.  The tip of the cape.  And in the winter, I can attest that it is, indeed, the end of the world.  Locals have told me that the winters are actually milder than in Boston and New York.  And true, the weekend was nice.  But upon arrival on Friday, it was bitterly cold.  The only people out and about were walking their dogs.  Luckily, I have friends here who like to drink.  And Friday night, we did just that.  A cast of characters so colorful that they really are stranger than fiction.  My roommate from last summer who can drink till he drops.  Another friend who can do the same, but not before he yells at someone about politics.  And finally, a charming queen with a penchant for oversized glasses and who never wears long pants.  Even when it’s ten degrees outside.  His name is Mrs. A.  I have no idea what his real first name is.  Just Mrs. A.  Only in Provincetown. 

            They took me to a local talent show on Monday night.  It was snowing when we left my house.  The walk down Commercial Street took twenty minutes.  The only person we saw was some old drunk stumbling home from his watering hole and singing “Let It Snow” at the top of his lungs.  When he passed us, he apologized.  We ignored him.  So he let out a big loud “FUCK YOU!”  And just kept right on singing.  By the time we got to the restaurant, I wasn’t expecting much.  But it was actually quite charming.  Cozy restaurant packed with locals.  The show started to wild applause.  People here are thirsty for something to do, I suppose.  Some lumberjack dyke sang some Michael McDonald.  A stoner got up and announced that he is a pothead (duh) and then proceeded to screech some song he wrote.  An ethereal lesbian with wild crazy curly hair and a British accent sang an original song she wrote about her bicycle while playing a piece of tin siding.  And finally, a tall barrel-chested man—a practical giant—walked up to the microphone.  I was expecting a booming thunderous voice.  Out came a sweet quiet rendition of Mancini’s “Moon River” which always makes me cry.  And it did.  But only a little.  Even if the show wasn’t Broadway caliber, or even Duplex caliber, it was still entertaining, fun, and quite nice.  Four glasses of wine didn’t hurt.

            So I’m making do.  The days are long, the nights are longer.  Even though I have friends here, I have a lot of time to think, dream, plan, write.  My reasons for coming weren’t clear to some and crystal clear to others.  For one, New York City—my home that I love—didn’t really welcome me home with open arms.  I found it to be rude, grating, difficult to maneuver, and impatient.  Maybe we should have stayed separated a bit longer. I went on countless job interviews.  Interviews for jobs just like the terrible one I left last March.  And after each meeting, I walked out completely dejected and depressed about the thought of working there.  The only job I remotely entertained taking was as the personal assistant to a very gifted actress.  However, the pay was literally next to nothing, and well, I’ve got to eat.  Being here last summer taught me that there is more out there.  I want to be a writer.  This will once and for all allow me to prove to myself that I have the discipline and patience to see it through.  Because if I can’t find the time to write here, then it’s over. It will also buy me more time to figure out what I want to do if I can’t make a living as a writer.  I have eight months to figure it all out.  And finally, Provincetown…the community….the vibe…the people…they all got into my gut.  I wanted one more shot at it.  One more summer of abandon where I work my ass off but feel fucking great about it at the end of the day.  A friend asked if this was my mid-life crisis.  After all, I just turned 35 again for the fifth time in November.  I said no.  That was so last year.  Besides, I was knocking on 40’s door last summer in a very tiny, very snug, very red bathing suit in front of a pool full of strangers and not once did someone tell me to cover up. And queens aren’t shy about telling someone to cover up.  So turning forty didn’t bother me in the least.  This is just about constantly challenging myself, going in new directions albeit temporarily, and new adventures.

            I firmly believe that we are sent messages constantly from God or the Universe or Whatever.  Some come at us through friends.  My good friend Valerie just sent an article to me yesterday about a man who quit his six-figure job in New York City to become an actor.  He hasn’t made it yet, but he’s giving it a go.  My good friend and writing teacher—even though I haven’t been in her class in a few years, she will always be my writing teacher—sent her blog my way yesterday.  She talked of greatness and what it takes to be truly great.  And that is practice.  Everyday.  Honing a craft, perfecting the art.  Whatever art or craft that may be.  Practice it….all the time.  So Valerie made me realize I’m not that alone, and Nancy through her terrific blog told me to keep practicing, practicing, practicing.  Finally, my horoscope literally the day before I left New York City.  I saw it at my good friend Kip’s restaurant on my second glass of wine.

            “Make the most of the Sun’s last few days in Capricorn to travel.  It does not matter if your journey is short or long, it matters only that you are on the move.  What you discover will brighten up your life.”

            God...Universe...Whatever?  You have my ear.

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?