Wednesday, September 19, 2007
a lyrically bloated blahg.
A familiar knocking came from inside this morning. As I tread the cobblestone walkways littered with browning leaves and end of season grass clippings on my way to work. The boy of my adolescence began rapping on my bones. Pushing against the very skin that has betrayed him and to which he has become a total stranger. Urges to ride recklessly from a fading white-washed barn with the sweating speckled white steed beneath me, fleeing stables in need of a good mucking for the overgrown pastures encircled by rusty wire fencing, trailing the docile White-tail deer lapping up the last of the cool dew clinging to the remaining foliage through which we trot. Finding a shady spot near a small grove of trees and letting loose the reigns, releasing my glistening mare to graze as I gorge myself on the wild berries deep in thorny bushes; small spots of blood from my ravenous fury into the tangle of vines mixed with sweet juice of the bloated blackberries. Blazing flashes of white and rare rainbow reverberations of wild ring neck-pheasant and bobwhites dashing through the undergrowth giving a momentary start to my horse as she whinnies a small side-step in my direction. It is in this moment I feel the world could stop spinning and the light wind taking the burn from the sun is with me this ten year years later as I traverse the day-to-day that has changed immensely but little in the end. I still seek escape and solace from the muck in my life and find it in such glorious bright shining things around me as I wind from here to there.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Me, myself and Ty
The Smurfs almost got my ass kicked, seriously. As a result of the first day inspection at summer camp and a Smurf sleeping bag splayed on the grass for everyone to see I was instantly labeled as a fairy. It wouldn’t have been so bad were it not for the fact that is was Smurfette in all her golden haired glory emblazoned on the front. This did not bode well for the little towheaded blue-eyed boy who was a bit too emotional. In my defense it was not my sleeping bag. It belonged to my sister’s best friend Keisha. A girl whose family was strikingly similar to the Huxtables until they changed religions, started going by names that involved several clicking sounds and stopped talking to us.
They lent me the bag because I did not have one of my own. I never needed one before because I had never been camping. Had I known what lay ahead I would never have let Miss Plott down at the Boys Club talk me into it in the first place. She suggested to my mother that I might benefit from the social interaction with the other boys.
How fun it would be to go swimming every day, shoot bow and arrows, roast marshmallows, go on scavenger hunts and sit around bonfires. The one thing she forgot to mention was that the soul-less bastards who designed the campground forgot to make individual showers and toilets. Mind you I grew up in a house full of women and learned at an early age to cover my nakedness. One of my favorite childhood pictures is of me in the sink being bathed. Surrounded by sudsy water with my two little hands cupped over my penis I was a study in coyness and shame by the time I was three. I had no problem with the nakedness of women and saw it often but at some point I learned to be afraid of my own body and that of other men.
Ty was a short, fat black boy with a small afro and a big mouth. From the moment Smurfette made her opening day debut he was out to get me. Thankfully we were in two different troops and resided in two different cabins but every time I saw him he got in at least one or two good jabs. Not physical jabs but he had a very extensive vocabulary for a boy of five. I was a pussy, cunt, faggot, fudge-packer, ass-licker, bastard and the list went on and on. I didn’t know what half of these things were; after all we were only five. I did know what a bastard was and had been called one before. It was true though so what did I care?
Camp only lasted four days. It was four days from hell though. Most of my time was spent dodging my antagonist and avoiding the bathroom. On the second day we were required to shower. How in the hell was I supposed to shower with twenty other people in one big room? I will tell you how, in my underwear. That’s right, I walked in with my underwear on and quickly rinsed off while enduring the taunts of the other boys proud of their nakedness. The shower heads that lined the walls blasted out lukewarm water that quickly made my white Hanes transparent embarrassing me even more and causing me to run back to the cabin dripping wet with muddy feet.
I still hadn’t gone to the bathroom after two day and a half days. I was eating plenty and the cramps were starting to affect me in a serious way. The second night proved to be painful but there was no way I was going to crap in an open room with everybody watching. If anything I was waiting for a moment alone to scurry to the woods and steal some privacy. Never did that happen though because we were known mostly as problem kids from the ghetto and were not let out of sight for a moment. They don’t tend to let poor people have free reign anywhere, even in the middle of the mountains where the only things up for grabs are pinecones and deer droppings.
Day three should have been exciting but turned out to be excruciating. We got to take the canoes out on the pond and go on a scavenger hunt. It didn’t take long for the pond excursion to turn bad thanks to my canoe mate who thought it was funny to rock the boat and sent me over board into water. It seemed to go on forever but was probably six feet deep in reality and I was convinced there was something down there waiting to eat me so I flailed for my life. The pain in my stomach, made worse by my life jacket straps, hindered my doggie paddle and I was saved by a counselor with an oar. I was left searching for my inhaler and humiliated too early in the day.
Our troop was set to leave for about two hours with a small bagged lunch. We set off down a trail into the woods. I had never been on a scavenger hunt and would not make it far on this one. The goal was to perform trust-building exercises with the other kids in order to uncover a clue for the next item on the list. It was at a small obstacle course just after a rope climb that my stomach launched its un-ignorable revolt. Hundreds of punches to my abdomen is what it felt like. Tears began to stream down my face as I squeezed my cheeks and hobbled to the counselor and told him I had to go to the bathroom. I ran and ran amazed by my ability to find my way back through the half mile of woods while trying to contain myself. On sight of the campground I kicked into high gear racing to the lavatory building. There was a blindness to my mad dash as I ripped off my pants and plopped onto one of the many porcelain toilets lined against the wall. In what may have been one of the most glorious moments of my childhood, I let go. Wheezing and panting and smiling it was the singular moment of relief I had looked forward to.
That is when I heard laughing. Not just a giggle or a chuckle but a guttural belly laugh, the kind that involves uncontrollable bouncing jowls and makes your eyes water. My bubble had burst and my surroundings materialized once again. I looked over and perched like a gluttonous king on his own thrown was Ty, his robust chocolate thighs spread over the side of the seat. Where did he come from? How did I not see him? I don’t know and I don’t know. But there he was cracking up with his pants around his ankles. Empowered by my monumental release I spoke, looking past him at the tile wall sure of my impending doom,
-I couldn’t go with everyone else in here.
I had been caught literally with my pants down. Then a loud distinctive splash echoed across the room from his end of toilet row. On somewhat of a delay as though waiting for approval we both began to laugh uncontrollably at this. Moments later when our smiles had faded we began talking. Neither one of us had gotten up which kept us on the same playing field. Total exposure and total humiliation meant total understanding. After some time we found that we weren’t so different. Our families were exceedingly poor and we were both paid an allowance of food stamps. We were even both scared to poop in public. He was so embarrassed by his weight which led him to lash out at me. So it turns out while we both reacted to our problems differently we would discover that together we would find more fun in our commonalities.
We left the lavatory best friends. We had bonded over a turd and there was no going back. With him and his willingness to expose his oversize body beside me I found the strength to shower without my underwear the next day. Nobody made fun of me and while it would have been easy for the other campers to exploit the odd ebony and ivory couple in miniature that we had formed no one did.
So I guess that earlier when I said it was four days of hell I was telling a lie. There was one day and he was one person who looked and acted nothing like me but he understood me completely and we accepted each other for the dysfunctional five year olds we were.
They lent me the bag because I did not have one of my own. I never needed one before because I had never been camping. Had I known what lay ahead I would never have let Miss Plott down at the Boys Club talk me into it in the first place. She suggested to my mother that I might benefit from the social interaction with the other boys.
How fun it would be to go swimming every day, shoot bow and arrows, roast marshmallows, go on scavenger hunts and sit around bonfires. The one thing she forgot to mention was that the soul-less bastards who designed the campground forgot to make individual showers and toilets. Mind you I grew up in a house full of women and learned at an early age to cover my nakedness. One of my favorite childhood pictures is of me in the sink being bathed. Surrounded by sudsy water with my two little hands cupped over my penis I was a study in coyness and shame by the time I was three. I had no problem with the nakedness of women and saw it often but at some point I learned to be afraid of my own body and that of other men.
Ty was a short, fat black boy with a small afro and a big mouth. From the moment Smurfette made her opening day debut he was out to get me. Thankfully we were in two different troops and resided in two different cabins but every time I saw him he got in at least one or two good jabs. Not physical jabs but he had a very extensive vocabulary for a boy of five. I was a pussy, cunt, faggot, fudge-packer, ass-licker, bastard and the list went on and on. I didn’t know what half of these things were; after all we were only five. I did know what a bastard was and had been called one before. It was true though so what did I care?
Camp only lasted four days. It was four days from hell though. Most of my time was spent dodging my antagonist and avoiding the bathroom. On the second day we were required to shower. How in the hell was I supposed to shower with twenty other people in one big room? I will tell you how, in my underwear. That’s right, I walked in with my underwear on and quickly rinsed off while enduring the taunts of the other boys proud of their nakedness. The shower heads that lined the walls blasted out lukewarm water that quickly made my white Hanes transparent embarrassing me even more and causing me to run back to the cabin dripping wet with muddy feet.
I still hadn’t gone to the bathroom after two day and a half days. I was eating plenty and the cramps were starting to affect me in a serious way. The second night proved to be painful but there was no way I was going to crap in an open room with everybody watching. If anything I was waiting for a moment alone to scurry to the woods and steal some privacy. Never did that happen though because we were known mostly as problem kids from the ghetto and were not let out of sight for a moment. They don’t tend to let poor people have free reign anywhere, even in the middle of the mountains where the only things up for grabs are pinecones and deer droppings.
Day three should have been exciting but turned out to be excruciating. We got to take the canoes out on the pond and go on a scavenger hunt. It didn’t take long for the pond excursion to turn bad thanks to my canoe mate who thought it was funny to rock the boat and sent me over board into water. It seemed to go on forever but was probably six feet deep in reality and I was convinced there was something down there waiting to eat me so I flailed for my life. The pain in my stomach, made worse by my life jacket straps, hindered my doggie paddle and I was saved by a counselor with an oar. I was left searching for my inhaler and humiliated too early in the day.
Our troop was set to leave for about two hours with a small bagged lunch. We set off down a trail into the woods. I had never been on a scavenger hunt and would not make it far on this one. The goal was to perform trust-building exercises with the other kids in order to uncover a clue for the next item on the list. It was at a small obstacle course just after a rope climb that my stomach launched its un-ignorable revolt. Hundreds of punches to my abdomen is what it felt like. Tears began to stream down my face as I squeezed my cheeks and hobbled to the counselor and told him I had to go to the bathroom. I ran and ran amazed by my ability to find my way back through the half mile of woods while trying to contain myself. On sight of the campground I kicked into high gear racing to the lavatory building. There was a blindness to my mad dash as I ripped off my pants and plopped onto one of the many porcelain toilets lined against the wall. In what may have been one of the most glorious moments of my childhood, I let go. Wheezing and panting and smiling it was the singular moment of relief I had looked forward to.
That is when I heard laughing. Not just a giggle or a chuckle but a guttural belly laugh, the kind that involves uncontrollable bouncing jowls and makes your eyes water. My bubble had burst and my surroundings materialized once again. I looked over and perched like a gluttonous king on his own thrown was Ty, his robust chocolate thighs spread over the side of the seat. Where did he come from? How did I not see him? I don’t know and I don’t know. But there he was cracking up with his pants around his ankles. Empowered by my monumental release I spoke, looking past him at the tile wall sure of my impending doom,
-I couldn’t go with everyone else in here.
I had been caught literally with my pants down. Then a loud distinctive splash echoed across the room from his end of toilet row. On somewhat of a delay as though waiting for approval we both began to laugh uncontrollably at this. Moments later when our smiles had faded we began talking. Neither one of us had gotten up which kept us on the same playing field. Total exposure and total humiliation meant total understanding. After some time we found that we weren’t so different. Our families were exceedingly poor and we were both paid an allowance of food stamps. We were even both scared to poop in public. He was so embarrassed by his weight which led him to lash out at me. So it turns out while we both reacted to our problems differently we would discover that together we would find more fun in our commonalities.
We left the lavatory best friends. We had bonded over a turd and there was no going back. With him and his willingness to expose his oversize body beside me I found the strength to shower without my underwear the next day. Nobody made fun of me and while it would have been easy for the other campers to exploit the odd ebony and ivory couple in miniature that we had formed no one did.
So I guess that earlier when I said it was four days of hell I was telling a lie. There was one day and he was one person who looked and acted nothing like me but he understood me completely and we accepted each other for the dysfunctional five year olds we were.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Oops I did it again.
Oh Britney! I adore her. I adore her antics and shenanigans. I adore the fact that we are all so obsessed with her and her antics and shenanigans. The gasps of shock and dismay every time she takes a shit or drops her baby or flashes the paparazzi serve to prove the fact that it is us, the audience, who are the monsters in the cage and not the other way around. Given the way some of us were raised and the things we do it is no wonder we are infatuated. The easiest way to divert attentions from our own stupidity is to shine a light on someone else’s.
I am going to do Britney a favor and shine a light on myself. Expose something revolting, disastrous and ultimately entertaining.
My revolting disaster’s name was Tommy. I had just moved out of my mother’s home to live with my middle sister an hour away, leaving behind the tiny town of Amish baskets and collapsing businesses. My sister is something of a fan when it comes to gay men. She discovered a couple of gay magazines in my room and the rest is history.
Enter Tommy, her “If he were only straight!” best friend. Really who was I to question her? She knew more gay people than I even thought existed.
He was thirty-one. I was not yet eighteen when he came to pick me up for our first date. I was a virgin and had never kissed anyone in a romantic context.
I heard a lot about his car. It was an expensive model with leather seats and power windows. A far cry from the farm truck I was accustomed to.
The doorbell rang and before me stood my first big mistake in life. Pleated pants and a pressed polo with matching belt and shoes, parted hair and arched eyebrows that looked as though they were trying to escape were perched on taught dewy skin.
As I settled into the passenger seat I realized I was trembling. What would I talk to him about? Only weeks before I was slopping hogs and gathering eggs, now here I was in a fancy car with a man wearing makeup and wait are those really footprints on the windshield? No! Yes.
Strange I thought, thankful for the distraction. Conversation did not come easily and my talk of books was cut short at my mention of “The Ultimate Guide to Animal Husbandry for the Small Goat Farmer.”
The footprints he said were left by a “friend” he had given a ride home (plan to revisit) and left it at that.
No expense spared we found ourselves at Pizza Hut after a stop at an ATM which was exotic to me. I had never used one before and was amazed that it was spitting out money. We quietly enjoyed a thin crust pizza and orange sodas.
I was taken back to his place, still full of pizza and nervous enough to vomit. It was on his overstuffed black leather sofa I first kissed a man. My nerves kept us from anything more. I needed to go home and process the evening.
At that point my attraction was based on the fact that he had a penis and that he wanted to play with mine and it was overwhelming.
Date two, Evita and a roommate named James.
James came in halfway through our viewing of Evita. I was lost. Trying to get a seventeen-year-old gay boy on only his second date with a man to get past Madonna and understand the life story of a dynamic political icon must be much like training an alligator to separate the yolk from the white with his jaws.
James was my first lesson in gender ambiguity. The conversation between him and Tommy went something like this:
James: Hey girl, I just left the bookstore.
Tommy: Who was there?
James: Just some tired old queens. Adam was there and she was blasted trolling the booths.
Tommy: That girl needs some help.
James: Who is this?
Tommy: This is Nick, Allie’s little brother.
James: Nice to meet you. Don’t let Riva take advantage of you! She’s a dirty old man. -cackle-
Tommy: Bitch.
Exit James.
Problem one with the interaction was that there were no women or girls in the room. Problem two I wondered why this “bookstore” that evidently catered to royalty had booths. Problem three; Who the hell is Riva?
As the credits rolled and Evita continued to confound me, Tommy told me he had gotten me a gift. He led me through the kitchen to his sunken bedroom and sat me down on the bed. On the night stand sat a small brown bag. Cookies? I thought.
As I unrolled the crumpled paper bag he looked on with a knowing grin. Inside was an assortment of condoms and lube packets. No cookies. I had never touched a condom or lube. As I examined the contents of the bag he pushed me back into his plush pile of beaded pillows and we had sex. Rather he had sex and I fought back tears. Who knew this was involved? This was not in any of my magazines. My stomach hurt, my ass hurt and my legs were cramping. I didn’t know what was happening until it was over and I was in the bathroom.
When I returned to the bedroom he was smiling, sprawled on his bed like Nefertiti. I crawled over him and faced the wall trying to disappear. I felt him climb out of the bed and I was immediately dragged back to reality by Diana Ross. The music was just low enough for me to hear the rustle of fabric and shoes on the rug. My curiosity forced me over to what I can only describe as an unexpected spectacle, Riva, in a white dress, opaque stockings and ivory pumps transforming her self in the floor length mirror next to the bed. I was horrified. The man had just taken my virginity and was now lip syncing to “Stop in the Name of Love.”
As he sashayed and strutted, flung his arms about and cooed almost silently, I rolled back over. A small chip in the paint on the wall became my focus until my mind gave up and surrendered to my tired body.
If I had known that he had once lived as a woman and adopted the name Riva, or that he performed in a weekly drag show, I still wouldn’t have known better. We did not have sex again; in fact I never thought I would have sex with anyone again. I thought he had broken something.
A few weeks later he dumped me. On my birthday. I was now eighteen. He was going to return to his ex-boyfriend. As it turns out his were the footprints on the windshield, left after vehicular sex only a few days before our first date.
Tommy now works as a waiter in a gay bar in Indiana. He is 42 and those eyebrows have finally given up. They will never escape just the way he has never escaped. His skin is no longer dewy and he is wearing the same pleated pants and polo.
When he told me our tryst was over he asked me,
-So if it doesn’t work out with my ex, can we still continue to see each other?
I answered,
-Not on your life Tommy. Not on your life.
As I said, this story is for Britney. Really the day pictures of her in post-coital confusion, swaddled in a satin duvet as a forced audience at a private drag show ever surface I will be the first to sympathize and the second in line to by the magazine.
I am going to do Britney a favor and shine a light on myself. Expose something revolting, disastrous and ultimately entertaining.
My revolting disaster’s name was Tommy. I had just moved out of my mother’s home to live with my middle sister an hour away, leaving behind the tiny town of Amish baskets and collapsing businesses. My sister is something of a fan when it comes to gay men. She discovered a couple of gay magazines in my room and the rest is history.
Enter Tommy, her “If he were only straight!” best friend. Really who was I to question her? She knew more gay people than I even thought existed.
He was thirty-one. I was not yet eighteen when he came to pick me up for our first date. I was a virgin and had never kissed anyone in a romantic context.
I heard a lot about his car. It was an expensive model with leather seats and power windows. A far cry from the farm truck I was accustomed to.
The doorbell rang and before me stood my first big mistake in life. Pleated pants and a pressed polo with matching belt and shoes, parted hair and arched eyebrows that looked as though they were trying to escape were perched on taught dewy skin.
As I settled into the passenger seat I realized I was trembling. What would I talk to him about? Only weeks before I was slopping hogs and gathering eggs, now here I was in a fancy car with a man wearing makeup and wait are those really footprints on the windshield? No! Yes.
Strange I thought, thankful for the distraction. Conversation did not come easily and my talk of books was cut short at my mention of “The Ultimate Guide to Animal Husbandry for the Small Goat Farmer.”
The footprints he said were left by a “friend” he had given a ride home (plan to revisit) and left it at that.
No expense spared we found ourselves at Pizza Hut after a stop at an ATM which was exotic to me. I had never used one before and was amazed that it was spitting out money. We quietly enjoyed a thin crust pizza and orange sodas.
I was taken back to his place, still full of pizza and nervous enough to vomit. It was on his overstuffed black leather sofa I first kissed a man. My nerves kept us from anything more. I needed to go home and process the evening.
At that point my attraction was based on the fact that he had a penis and that he wanted to play with mine and it was overwhelming.
Date two, Evita and a roommate named James.
James came in halfway through our viewing of Evita. I was lost. Trying to get a seventeen-year-old gay boy on only his second date with a man to get past Madonna and understand the life story of a dynamic political icon must be much like training an alligator to separate the yolk from the white with his jaws.
James was my first lesson in gender ambiguity. The conversation between him and Tommy went something like this:
James: Hey girl, I just left the bookstore.
Tommy: Who was there?
James: Just some tired old queens. Adam was there and she was blasted trolling the booths.
Tommy: That girl needs some help.
James: Who is this?
Tommy: This is Nick, Allie’s little brother.
James: Nice to meet you. Don’t let Riva take advantage of you! She’s a dirty old man. -cackle-
Tommy: Bitch.
Exit James.
Problem one with the interaction was that there were no women or girls in the room. Problem two I wondered why this “bookstore” that evidently catered to royalty had booths. Problem three; Who the hell is Riva?
As the credits rolled and Evita continued to confound me, Tommy told me he had gotten me a gift. He led me through the kitchen to his sunken bedroom and sat me down on the bed. On the night stand sat a small brown bag. Cookies? I thought.
As I unrolled the crumpled paper bag he looked on with a knowing grin. Inside was an assortment of condoms and lube packets. No cookies. I had never touched a condom or lube. As I examined the contents of the bag he pushed me back into his plush pile of beaded pillows and we had sex. Rather he had sex and I fought back tears. Who knew this was involved? This was not in any of my magazines. My stomach hurt, my ass hurt and my legs were cramping. I didn’t know what was happening until it was over and I was in the bathroom.
When I returned to the bedroom he was smiling, sprawled on his bed like Nefertiti. I crawled over him and faced the wall trying to disappear. I felt him climb out of the bed and I was immediately dragged back to reality by Diana Ross. The music was just low enough for me to hear the rustle of fabric and shoes on the rug. My curiosity forced me over to what I can only describe as an unexpected spectacle, Riva, in a white dress, opaque stockings and ivory pumps transforming her self in the floor length mirror next to the bed. I was horrified. The man had just taken my virginity and was now lip syncing to “Stop in the Name of Love.”
As he sashayed and strutted, flung his arms about and cooed almost silently, I rolled back over. A small chip in the paint on the wall became my focus until my mind gave up and surrendered to my tired body.
If I had known that he had once lived as a woman and adopted the name Riva, or that he performed in a weekly drag show, I still wouldn’t have known better. We did not have sex again; in fact I never thought I would have sex with anyone again. I thought he had broken something.
A few weeks later he dumped me. On my birthday. I was now eighteen. He was going to return to his ex-boyfriend. As it turns out his were the footprints on the windshield, left after vehicular sex only a few days before our first date.
Tommy now works as a waiter in a gay bar in Indiana. He is 42 and those eyebrows have finally given up. They will never escape just the way he has never escaped. His skin is no longer dewy and he is wearing the same pleated pants and polo.
When he told me our tryst was over he asked me,
-So if it doesn’t work out with my ex, can we still continue to see each other?
I answered,
-Not on your life Tommy. Not on your life.
As I said, this story is for Britney. Really the day pictures of her in post-coital confusion, swaddled in a satin duvet as a forced audience at a private drag show ever surface I will be the first to sympathize and the second in line to by the magazine.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Polyamnot
Polyamory : the state or practice of having more than one open romantic relationship at a time.
Meet Cleveland. Cleveland is a "polyamorite." Yes I made that term up. You may see the term "polyamory" listed above as Webster defines it. Here is my definition for a "polyamorite." You may notice one or two differences.
Polyamorite: delusional individual who believes (stupidly) that he/she can be "in love" with more than one person at a time.
Cleveland is the worst kind of polyamorite, he is irresistible, he has a boyfriend and he is honest. Yes I said honest. How can that be bad? Well let me tell you how it makes a person feel when they realize that after all is said and done and their heart is broken that it is their own fault.
It feels like shit.
My condensed story of Cleveland involves a wildly blissful weekend of work in a Midwestern metropolis where he was my on-site help and ultimate distraction. Cleveland is from Ohio and was flown in last minute based on a coworker's glowing referral. There was full disclosure and acknowledgment of his situation. I knew he had a boyfriend and found out very quickly after several drinks and a shared queen bed that they were "open" and that the magnetic attraction I felt was more than mutual from the moment our eyes met by the baggage claim carousel. I suppose if I believed in love at first sight I would qualify our first official meeting as such.
I was walking in very unfamiliar territory. Normally when I hear this type of scenario I run in the other direction. I have even told friends in similar situations "Don't be a moron! He has a boyfriend!" Despite my own warnings there was something about this man that lured me in and consumed me as though I were in quick sand. Maybe it was the blatant physical draw or the way he touched me but the rawness of it all was too much to deny. A more intense connection I have seldom felt. Reciprocated and complete we were both in somewhat of a daze, blinded by what we had stumbled upon in each other.
That first weekend laid the groundwork for his upcoming visit to Philly and no more than two weeks later he was with me again, staying in my house and working in my office as an annual temp for a week. Treating me as though we could never be apart and I was at complete mercy of my emotions. Despite my earnest efforts I could not stop my fiery descent into heartbreak hell. Particularly when he told me he was falling for me. How was that possible, hadn't he fallen for his boyfriend long ago? Wasn't he still in love with him and if not then why go back? Turns out I didn't really want to consider the responses to these questions. Surely the feelings we were nurturing were more potent and therefore more valid.
They weren't.
He left, returning to his boyfriend and I shut down. Oh it wasn't for too long but I was a melancholy and self-pitying schmuck for a while, too afraid to disclose every detail to any friend for fear of retaliation and declaration of my obvious mental retardation.
I did it alone and it took getting angry at him to get over it. Angry at the words he used "I love you both" or "I am so confused right now" then there is my favorite "I would love for you to meet him some day, I think you would really hit it off." What the fuck was going through his head? Better yet, what the fuck was going through MY head?
I grew up with the understanding that you can't have your cake and eat it too. Isn't that what polyamory boils down to though? What if we could all have deep emotional, sexual and mental bonds with several people at the same time? In theory the world would be much happier, or would it? My impression is not that these "polyamorites" have too much love and must dispense it to avoid bursting at the seams; but that they need to dilute the love they have and invest in many people trying to get the highest possible yield from each person to fill some void. In essence they try to trade up and get more love from people than they can or are willing to give in order to validate themselves on a very basic level.
I don't know if anyone ever is truly satisfied with one person. Or if one person can completely fill every single need in someone else. Does that give anyone the right though to be greedy? I don't think so. But I also don't think you can blame someone when they are honest. After all we are adults and educated decisions are ours to make.
I no longer feel like shit and as long as I know on what I am willing to compromise I intend on holding out for that one person who also happens to be looking for one, singular, unequivocal love in their life.
Meet Cleveland. Cleveland is a "polyamorite." Yes I made that term up. You may see the term "polyamory" listed above as Webster defines it. Here is my definition for a "polyamorite." You may notice one or two differences.
Polyamorite: delusional individual who believes (stupidly) that he/she can be "in love" with more than one person at a time.
Cleveland is the worst kind of polyamorite, he is irresistible, he has a boyfriend and he is honest. Yes I said honest. How can that be bad? Well let me tell you how it makes a person feel when they realize that after all is said and done and their heart is broken that it is their own fault.
It feels like shit.
My condensed story of Cleveland involves a wildly blissful weekend of work in a Midwestern metropolis where he was my on-site help and ultimate distraction. Cleveland is from Ohio and was flown in last minute based on a coworker's glowing referral. There was full disclosure and acknowledgment of his situation. I knew he had a boyfriend and found out very quickly after several drinks and a shared queen bed that they were "open" and that the magnetic attraction I felt was more than mutual from the moment our eyes met by the baggage claim carousel. I suppose if I believed in love at first sight I would qualify our first official meeting as such.
I was walking in very unfamiliar territory. Normally when I hear this type of scenario I run in the other direction. I have even told friends in similar situations "Don't be a moron! He has a boyfriend!" Despite my own warnings there was something about this man that lured me in and consumed me as though I were in quick sand. Maybe it was the blatant physical draw or the way he touched me but the rawness of it all was too much to deny. A more intense connection I have seldom felt. Reciprocated and complete we were both in somewhat of a daze, blinded by what we had stumbled upon in each other.
That first weekend laid the groundwork for his upcoming visit to Philly and no more than two weeks later he was with me again, staying in my house and working in my office as an annual temp for a week. Treating me as though we could never be apart and I was at complete mercy of my emotions. Despite my earnest efforts I could not stop my fiery descent into heartbreak hell. Particularly when he told me he was falling for me. How was that possible, hadn't he fallen for his boyfriend long ago? Wasn't he still in love with him and if not then why go back? Turns out I didn't really want to consider the responses to these questions. Surely the feelings we were nurturing were more potent and therefore more valid.
They weren't.
He left, returning to his boyfriend and I shut down. Oh it wasn't for too long but I was a melancholy and self-pitying schmuck for a while, too afraid to disclose every detail to any friend for fear of retaliation and declaration of my obvious mental retardation.
I did it alone and it took getting angry at him to get over it. Angry at the words he used "I love you both" or "I am so confused right now" then there is my favorite "I would love for you to meet him some day, I think you would really hit it off." What the fuck was going through his head? Better yet, what the fuck was going through MY head?
I grew up with the understanding that you can't have your cake and eat it too. Isn't that what polyamory boils down to though? What if we could all have deep emotional, sexual and mental bonds with several people at the same time? In theory the world would be much happier, or would it? My impression is not that these "polyamorites" have too much love and must dispense it to avoid bursting at the seams; but that they need to dilute the love they have and invest in many people trying to get the highest possible yield from each person to fill some void. In essence they try to trade up and get more love from people than they can or are willing to give in order to validate themselves on a very basic level.
I don't know if anyone ever is truly satisfied with one person. Or if one person can completely fill every single need in someone else. Does that give anyone the right though to be greedy? I don't think so. But I also don't think you can blame someone when they are honest. After all we are adults and educated decisions are ours to make.
I no longer feel like shit and as long as I know on what I am willing to compromise I intend on holding out for that one person who also happens to be looking for one, singular, unequivocal love in their life.
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