Erasing David
by Jeremy Gloff
PART ONE: THE FANTASY
I have always sucked at
saying “no”. It’s a pretty simple word. It’s only two letters. I find it
absolutely ridiculous a word that only takes two seconds to type has taken
thirty one years to embrace. No.
When I’m down and out, and looking for
comfort, I have never turned to a bottle, or aneedle, or pills. I turn to Big
Macs. Once in awhile I entertain the idea of eating healthier. Forget answering
to the call of the wild, I’m much more prone to answer to the call of
thedrive-thru. Driving down that ole lonesome highway, asking myself should I or
should I not. And of course, I do. I eat the fucking Big Mac. There are four
more letters in the words “Big Mac” than there are in the word “no”. When my
metabolism slows, I’ll soon be eating my words too.
David was a lot like
Big Macs. Looked good. Pretty tasty. Instant gratification. I remember the first
time I saw him. One of those grayscale nights of longing. You can find millions
of people trying to quench their thirst for human contact at any given bar/club
in any given city/town USA. Being more of an introvert/skeptical/elitist/asshole
type, I would often take a spin through online personals. I always approached
the whole process assuming there would be a zero percent success rate. But I
looked anyhow. For hours. I looked for hours for someone who could understand my
ideas. Well, fuck understanding my ideas. I would settle and be thrilled to find
someone who’d at least take an ear to my ideas. And Christ, maybe even have some
of his own. Human interaction can get pretty mundane sometimes. But I watched a
lot of love stories when I was young. I still have hope of finding my diamond in
the rough someday.
On this particular night, I was on the website
“Planet Out”. The year was 2001, I was twenty six years old and listening to a
shit load of Emmylou Harris. There are times I forget entire chunks of my life.
There are times I forget people places things. But on the other hand, there’s
moments I never forget. I store them in dusty sealed corners of my mind. I
remember the very first moment I saw David’s picture. He had an innocence about
him. In a strange way, he reminded me of one of those fresh-faced happy-go-lucky
boys that you’d only find in 1950s sitcoms. They say first impressions are the
greatest. This first impression was golden. I wonder...I do wonder...perhaps we
create an idea of what someone is like before we meet them, based on their
looks. Maybe my machinery got jammed, because all too often, even after meeting
someone and being proven otherwise, I hold onto those initial assumptions. And
my assumptions about David were those of innocence, kindness, uniqueness, and
mild intelligence.
We began to talk online. I don’t remember exactly how
it started, but somehow the transition was made from online personal fantasy to
Internet chat buddy. And somehow, early on, the conversations became sexual.
Maybe day three or four. Looking back, I’m not surprised by this. I spent the
good part of the early 2000s masking my pain and alienation in orgasms and
sexuality. And David was no exception.
Somewhere within the first month,
we graduated from chatting online to chatting on the phone. I do recall some
interesting conversations. David was certainly a dork in the most endearing
fashion. He had an affinity for Star Trek. Years later when I finally shared
this story, most of my friends gave me that knowing nod. I could see it in their
faces--”Jeremy Gloff, how could you get so upset over a guy who likes STAR
TREK.” But Jeremy Gloff really did like the guy who loved Star Trek. It was
endearing to me. Being an entertainer, I’d spent a lot of time in the midst of
people oriented toward fashion, appearances, facades, small talk, pop culture,
drugs, and any vice of your choice. Bless his heart, finding some cute dorky kid
who would rather hang out with the Enterprise than with a bunch of
scene-oriented bores was a breath of fresh air.
Now much like every good
dinner comes with dessert, every good phone conversation with David ended with a
dose of...shall
we say...something sweet. Phone sex. I will not lie and say I
was a stranger to the phonegasm. But I will say that talking with David, it felt
different. Everything about him thrilled me. His nasal voice...the way he’d
breathe right into the phone... He was bold too. I remember one time we talked
down and dirty when he was sitting in the common area of his dorm. I mean,
that’s hot stuff. Miss Donna Summer would be proud. Looking back, I suppose a
lot of people spend their 20s roaming the streets intoxicated and fucked out of
their minds. I spent mine having phone sex with a Trekie.
PART TWO: THE FLESH
(It is Wednesday March 22nd 2006, 11:54 P.M. I am angry. Stupid me. I
went to David’s website tonight, only to bear witness to all the people who left
him a happy birthday message. There was the sleazy druggie I messed around with
in 2001. “Happy birthday cutie.” There was the guy who I told last week I’d pay
$300 to watch him take a shower. In truth, I wouldn’t pay one penny to watch him
take a shower, or anyone. When I get bored, I like to see how much people I
abhor would sell themselves for. “Happy birthday boi, thanks for the add.” A
fabulous collection. A collection of vacant pretty faces. David seems to have an
ongoing collection of pretty vacant faces, who always come and go. One thing I’m
not is pretty. And one thing I’m not is vacant. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t
stick around... And “Happy birthday David” I wrote too, because...for some
stupid reason I thought he might actually get in touch with me, and thank me for
remembering him. He didn’t.)
The past returns to us in three
different ways. Some nights replay in our heads exactly as they happened. One
can remember bits and pieces of those nights. You may remember the highlights,
or the lowlights, or the dim lights, or the no lights. Other nights instant
replay in slow motion. At the time it was only five minutes, but the night made
such an impact on you, and you remember it in such minute detail that it plays
back like five years. The simple caress of an arm from shoulder to hand takes
only a mere few seconds, but one may remember the caress as if it took hours.
Sometimes the brush of a cheek, we wish it had lasted forever. So in our
memories we make it last forever. We stretch it, and bend it, and prolong it.
And then there is the third way we remember things. Warp speed. Time travel. It
all happened so fast, and it all happened too fast. That’s how I remember the
first night I met David in person.
It was February 2002. It was early
evening, and we were having one of our typical online chats. The conversation
turned sexual. Yes, when chatting with David on those chats, I was persuasive.
Yes, when chatting with David on those early online chats I was perverted at
times. Yes, when chatting with David during those early online chats I wanted to
touch him in person so badly I could almost taste it. I do not deny that there
were nights I became a sexually charged monster. And on this night, in February
2002, we fucked.
I remember this particular night, the chat with David
went a bit differently than usual. I had been trying to talk him into having
sex
for weeks now, and for the first time he gave hints that it might happen that
night. My mind saw a crack in the foundation,
and I became persistent. In my
head, I wanted nothing more than to find the weak limb on the tree so I could
break off my own little branch. In my mind, I wanted nothing more than to find
the weak concrete in the dam, so I could kick out that concrete and let the
water pour through. I was on a mission.
Later that night, when David
finally agreed to come over, I started shaking. It’s something that happened to
me ever since my first sexual experience in 1992. I would shake so badly and so
uncontrollably I had to get under three or four blankets to make it stop. The
more sex I had with destructive people through the years, the less I would
shake. Eventually, by the night I met David in 2002, I rarely shook anymore.
Through the years I’d fucked myself to the point of being numb. But this night
in 2002, the shaking came back. My teeth literally clamored and hurt. My hands
legs and arms went into intense spasms. And I sat in front of my computer
screen, after David said he’d come over, trembling like death.
I gave
him directions to my apartment. I still shook. I was so scared I’d still be
shaking when he came over. How do you explain that to a person? I suppose I
could say I was just nervous. But when someone is nervous they may jerk their
leg a little bit, or their eyes might get a little bit shifty. But that night my
nervous system went into some nuclear overdrive triggered by something so deep
and scary I’m still not in touch with it today.
David didn’t show up. I
remember waiting by the door. My face was pressed against the peephole. Finally
I was going to see the beautiful boy from the picture in person. Finally I would
have flesh to match the voice on the phone. There was an undeniable animal
magnetism between us. In a time of my life where I basically sexualized
everything, David stood out as the one who scared me more, turned me on more,
intrigued me more, and eventually...
About an hour later I saw David
online again. I was so angry. My face was pressed against that fucking peephole
for what felt like hours. My endorphins were pumping, and my heart skipped every
time I thought about this boy turning the corner of my stairs and approaching my
door. But the boy never approached the door and I was furious and even more so,
disappointed.
My body was a dangerous chemical cocktail of hormones
anticipation lust fear anger and longing. If I didn’t meet David this
night, I
think I would have turned inside out. He said he got lost. About 90% of me
believed him. My heart muscle was in overdrive this whole evening. By this
point, I swear I felt my heart fucking beating in my throat. My mouth was too
dry to find enough spit to swallow and get my heart out of my throat and back
into my chest. I told David I had to see him. Even if it meant I had to drive to
his dorm, pick him up, and bring him back to my apartment.
So I drove to
his dorm, picked him up, and drove him back to my apartment. I remember the very
first moment I saw him as a living breathing being. He was sitting in a chair in
the dorm lobby, wearing these awful adidas-like vinyl pants. He was so dorky and
adorable and innocent looking. I remember feeling comfortable around him on the
walk to my car. I remember wondering why someone like him would want to walk in
public with someone as horrible as me. In my head, I felt like the fucking bad
guy. Dirty old me. I was 26. He was almost 19. He didn’t like to have sex
outside of a relationship. I was too dysfunctional to have sex with anyone more
than once. And it was me, the big bad wolf, who talked him off the computer, out
of the dorm, and into the dark dark scary night that night. It was me, the
serial seducer who led him down that concrete college sidewalk and into my car.
It was me, the older and wiser gay guy who made him walk up my stairs and into
my bedroom. It was my fault. My words were so persuasive that I made him get
into my bed. I made him undress. I made him lay underneath me. My fault my fault
my fault my fault.
I remember the lighting in my room that night. It was
a soft light. I promised David we’d only hang out my house for twenty minutes,
THAT’S IT! I asked David to kiss me. He refused to kiss me. He said that kissing
was too personal. And I remember my heart sinking a little bit. Despite the fact
that I was a completely fucked up pile of mess, my heart sunk out of my throat
and straight down into my ribcage. Empty. Rattling.
We had sex. It was
intense sex. I don’t like writing about sex in detail. We’ve all had sex, and if
anything, sex is given way too much press these days...only two people will ever
know this part of the story. It’s ours.
After it was over I remember
just wanting to be held. I remember looking at this boy’s naked body and
wondering again why the fuck he was with someone like me, this horrible person.
I wanted to hold him. I wanted to caress him. Usually after sex during that time
in my life I wanted the guy out of the house faster than I can say scram. But
not this time.
David didn’t want to be held. He wanted to get dressed
and get back to his dorm room. So I didn’t hold him. I remember playing him some
of my songs on the way to drop him off. It was awkward, and I remember feeling
scared inside. Perhaps this evening meant nothing to him, but for me it was a
different experience than I was used to.
I don’t remember dropping him
off at all. I do not remember if I hugged him or not. I do not remember watching
him walk away from my car. And I don’t remember driving home alone. Fluorescent
afterglow.
PART THREE: THE DAY AFTER
numb adj 1: lacking sensation; "my foot is asleep"; "numb with
cold" 2: not showing human feeling or sensitivity; unresponsive;
3: so
frightened as to be unable to move; stunned or paralyzed with
terror
(Four years. There are 1,460 days in four years. It is four years
later now. 2006. There’s so much hurt, confusion, anger, rage, fucking rage,
motherfucking rage inside of me. It’s buried deep deep deep in the part of me
where I let the my lions sleep. I can’t feel any of my lions inside of me
tonight but I vaguely hear snoring. The snoring scares me. As long as I feel the
snoring that means lions are still alive. Alive and able to jump back to life
and torture me and scare me and shred my flesh and heart at any given unexpected
moment.
I am completely aware that despite all the work I have done on
myself in the last couple of years some lions are still hibernating. David’s
lion is a particularly scary one. He’s bit fat and nasty. And I realize that
tonight, for better or worse, it is my job to wake this lion, look him in his
fucking ugly eyes, understand him, dance with him, then slay him through the
fucking neck. After tonight there must no longer be a lion. And after tonight,
there must no longer be a David...)
Two days after we fucked
David IMed me first. I didn’t want to use the F word-I’m at a loss of what else
to call it.
“Hi”.
Part of me received David’s IM with relief. In
the early part of this decade I swam in the murky filthy swamps of men with
diseased minds and phantom hearts. I’d have sex with these men. Bodies were pit
stops. A place to pull off the grueling road of life and take a load off.
Temporary bodies. Looking back I realize I had it all wrong. I didn’t realize
when you drove down this kind of road it was a one way street where the traffic
never stopped and there were no U-turns. You were supposed to just keep truckin’
from body to body to bed to bed to mouth to mouth to apartment to apartment to
life to death to death to death. But sometimes my car didn’t want to keep
driving. Sometimes I wanted to stop and stay. Sometimes I wanted to do a U-turn
and visit a body I’d already been with.
And I’d stand in front of that
body I’d and scream.
I’d Scream. “Hey up here! It’s Jeremy! Remember me?
Remember me from two nights ago? From a week ago? From a second ago? From a
lifetime ago?”
But those bodies looked right through me. The same bodies
I was once inside. The same bodies whose blood I felt pulsate and pump and
breathe and scream. These men looked right through me. My skin vaporized into
the air-I was phantom-like in the cool cool night. And somewhere along the way
my self-worth rolled off the highway into some random ditch full of last night’s
vomit and trash. Eventually I became nonexistent. A walking vessel of bones and
flesh who still smiled and made people laugh and wrote songs and played the
part.
I did not breathe a sigh of relief when David said hi to me the
day after we fucked. At this point I was already too guarded to let anyone bear
witness to my exhale. But a heart can’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe
someone will eventually be the exception. That pattern breaker. Yes a guy saying
hi to me first the day after sex was certainly the exception. Usually it was me
who went running back to them, my heart and eyes wide open like a fucking 3 year
old with his diaper full of shit, grin on my face running running running bam.
Brick wall again.
Maybe David wouldn’t be a brick wall. “Hi”.
(I can feel David’s lion a tiny tiny tiny tiny bit now. He’s tickling
me with his fur. He’s testing me. He’s saying “you wouldn’t dare
acknowledge me
Jeremy. You’ve grown used to me inside of you. You like to hide me with all of
your shrapnel and bury me deep in your
fucking intestines with the bile and shit
and piss of your body, right where I belong.” David’s lion wants to keep
sleeping because in my gut it
is safe and warm and settled. He’s made a home in
me. Regardless of the success and smiles of the last three years, any semblance
of joy was
forced at gunpoint to co-exist with the hurts and disappointments
I’ve kept glued in place. I can feel David’s lion a tiny bit
now.)
Shortly after David said “hi” online I was given
ultimatums. Rules. A choice. I wasn’t supposed to bring up sex to David. I was
supposed to pretend that no such encounter ever happened. David felt ashamed.
David felt guilty. David didn’t want to talk about it. David said David thought
David felt David David David David.
And me? Well crap I did the usual and started shrinking. I always
started out larger than life, full of ego and boast and smiles and
toast. Ah but then I shrunk a little. Only behind the scenes did I let
people cut me down to size and then some. And then I shrunk a little
more. I didn’t have time to feel used. I didn’t have time
to feel rejected. I was too busy feeling guilt myself. It was my fault
David had sex with me. If I wasn’t so persuasive he
wouldn’t have done it. Damn me. I’m a swine. I beat myself
up for it. I bloodied my own teeth for it. David wasn’t the
first or last guy for whom I carried the blame. I let myself dangle on
their motherfucking crosses. These men. These men who have free will.
These men who have the ability to say I DON’T WANT TO. These men
who have the ability NOT to get in my car and NOT to walk up my stairs
and NOT to get into my bed and NOT to take off their underwear and
NOT to bend over. David got into my car, he walked up my stairs, he got
into my bed, he took off his underwear, and he bent over. And I blamed
myself for four long long years.
In the end what’s really
worse? Someone looking through you, or someone telling you to watch your mouth
and not to talk and not to feel and to exist on different terms and to rewrite
history. I did ask him--“Well, can we go out to dinner sometime”. “Maybe”. I
will give a million dollars to anyone who can prove that “maybe” isn’t a nice
way to say “probably not.” Going going going going gone.
PART FOUR: DOOR OPEN DOOR CLOSED
(The lion is dormant again. Fast asleep. Out of my reach. The lion
has receded so deep into the blood and tissue of my body I might be tricked into
thinking he’s gone. But he’s there. Oh he’s there. He’s just waiting. Waiting
for the right song to come on. The wrong song to come on. The air to smell a
certain way. We all carry a lion inside of us sometimes, and when he chooses to
attack--the devastation is unimaginable. And sometimes the trickiest and most
brutal of all devastation’s is when your skin’s been chewed through so many
times, you are no longer able to feel the teeth. By the time this night is
through I want to feel the sting of teeth and then
some...)
It started not too long after we had sex
and it went on for three years. Door open. Door closed. Door wide open. Door
glued shut. Open closed open shut open closed closed closed shut. And like a
good little Gloffie I always ran back to that alluring door-just one more
time-to see if it would open.
Door closed: David determined shortly
after we had sex that he didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I was too sexual. We
were unable to forge a legitimate mental connection. And I became desperate. I
emphatically wanted to hold onto something I knew I was losing--far far removed
from facing the truth that it was never mine, never could and never would.
Door open: One day David decided to talk to me. What a gracious person,
he was kind enough to “give me another chance.” But naturally I said something
sexual. After a decade of bad wiring and the shorting out of my warm
electricity, it was the only way I really knew how to relate to men. Especially
gay men. After not talking to me for months, this time David said something
sexual back. In fact I asked him to leave a message on my voice mail telling me
the top three dirty things he’d want me to do to him.
And he called, and
he listed them. Dirty boy. It was my fault. I made him dial the phone.
Door closed: The next day when I tried to talk to him...no response. I
remember wanting so badly to keep my cool and not let the crazies take control.
But in all fairness we react to situations and behaviors based on what we’ve
witnessed in previous experience. And the summation of all those experiences
equals who we are, what we are, what we believe, and how we react. From the age
of four all I have known were unavailable distant men. I remember sitting by the
window waiting for my daddy to show up when I was four years old. I can still
feel a warm window sill beneath my arm. Daddy had visitation once a week and I
waited by the sunshiny window. My four year old nose pressed against the glass
waiting for dad. Dad never came. And then when I was eighteen Ryan never came.
And when I was nineteen Scott never came. And when I was twenty-two Will never
came either. And here I was in my late 20s, theoretically still waiting for dad
to show up.
Door open: One time I asked David to uh, this is kinda
embarrassing, but I asked him to call my voice mail and uh like uh finish his
deal and let me listen to it.
And he called, and he let me listen to it.
David came on my voice mail.
But he left a day later. Door closed.
And I felt myself erode. Perhaps when I came to Florida in 1998 I had
already been sanded down to a flat surface. Sure-the distant men I loved in New
York had been spiders sometimes-but at the very least they were friends to me,
if only for a moment. The men in Florida were termites. It was a breeze to gnaw
holes through my already weak and brittle foundation. And there were so many
men. And so many termites. And a lot of them were interchangeable. But David was
a king termite. He really got to me. As much as we grow as people, as much as we
learn, as much as we know, it is impossible for a heart to truly understand
someone who keeps opening and closing.
In your life one day and out the
next is simple math. Two minus one equals what feels like zero for a minute. But
with David I
felt like I was dealing with decimals and negative digits. One plus
two minus three thousand plus don’t talk to me anymore plus three plus listen to
me cum minus you are a horrible person plus we had great sex plus sleeping you
are on ignore. If that sentence was hard to follow, it was twice as hard to
live.
There was a really easy choice to make in this situation, but it
was a choice that honestly never occurred to me. It never occurred
to me that I
could just walk away and not look back.
When he ignored me saying hello
online, instead of simply walking away I would type these long rambling
paragraphs pathetically begging for attention. I just wanted to scream “Dude,
the way you are treating me is really starting to get to me. Talk to me. I’m
feeling invisible...and I hate it.” “Dude come over, I’ll leave the door open.
You don’t even have to talk to me. You don’t even have to look at me. Just come
over.” Invisibility.
When he blocked my screenname, instead of simply
walking away I would just make another name, message him for the purpose of
finding out why he had blocked me. Instead of giving an explanation, I was
blocked again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And I ran back and
the door was open and I ran back and the door was closed. There is no greater
crime than robbing someone of their visibility. There were some nights I felt
like fog.
************
Throughout this era (2003) I was
desperately trying to gain control. I was the first to admit I was problematic.
I was involved in things that dripped black ink into the soul. But I tried. I
tried meditation. I tried twelve step programs. I tried making my friends
monitor my Internet activity. I tried to set limits on myself. And I failed. I
failed I failed I failed. But I’d always try again. And it fucking rules when
anyone tries again.
I would message David from time to time. Eventually
he always unblocked me, and eventually he always responded. I always marketed
myself the same way. “Hey David, it’s ‘safe’ to talk to me, I’m all better! I’m
a totally different person. I’ve changed!” Looking back, I find it funny I said
that. I truly don’t buy the concept of change- I only believe in growth, self
awareness, and self control. In 2003 I still had a lot to understand about
myself before I could understand control.
I felt a lot of self-hated
because despite my efforts, the temptation to speak sexually to David always
won. Always. And 20% of the time he was receptive. Sure that wasn’t a lot, but
it was enough to keep me running back to a door that often got slammed in my
face. I must be honest-my nose was starting to hurt! And when I pestered David
enough for an explanation-it was the same ole story. I was being too sexual for
his friendship. I was the bad guy. He had control and I was the bad guy. One
minute you’re in, the next you’re...trying to get back in, fucking desperately.
It never occurred that perhaps he was treating me worse than I was
treating him. It never occurred to me that I was a victim too. It never occurred
to me that it wasn’t all my fault. Most importantly it didn’t occur to me that
almost none of it was my fault.
Door open: Urban outfitters-Clearance
Rack-Webcam-$9.99-Sold. Jeremy Gloff with a webcam in 2003 is comparable to
Richard Simmons with a crimping iron any time. Nope. Not a good idea. Never a
good idea. And it went from bad to worse. In one day I went from purchasing the
absolute worst item possible to seeking out the absolute worst person possible
to use said item with.
There I was baring it all to David. This cycle is
getting so boring I’m falling asleep writing about it. He had a boyfriend, but
this was okay because --well seeing someone naked isn’t cheating.-- I turned and
twisted my body in ways it hadn’t been before or since. And he talked dirty
back. He let it happen. He participated. He enjoyed it.
He didn’t cheat
on his boyfriend. He cheated me. He cheated me of the respect and consistency
that any good person deserves. I fucking deserve to be treated the same way two
days in a row. I deserve to be treated the same way three days in a row. And
four. Fuck, even five! At worst, I was too sexual. At worst I was persistent.
But I was consistently too sexual. I was consistently too persistent. I’d take a
big shark that’s easy to spot and avoid over a chameleon, any day.
David
closed the door on me one last time. It was late 2003. The day after he saw
every inch of my body, he ignored my IMs. I went crazy... “Please talk to me”
“How can you ignore me after I got completely naked on cam for you?” “Why are
you doing this to me?” “I deserve more than this.” “This isn’t fair.” “You
aren’t a good person.” “Please just say hi and I won’t bug you again.” “Please”
“Please” “Please don’t make me feel invisible.” “Please acknowledge me.”
Finally, he did acknowledge me. He blocked me.
PART FIVE: IN THE YEAR
2004...
-I stepped foot on the west coast for the very first time. -I
played my music in Oakland, Portland, and Seattle.
-I stuck my hand in the
Pacific Ocean.
-I started seeing a therapist, Linda Peterman.
-I took a
series of psychology courses
taught by the wonderful Norma
Caltagirone.
-I made my home internet free, completely deleting my
presence
on all websites with the exception of my own domain.
-I wrote an
entire acoustic album in one week, and released it one month later.
-I began
running an open mic at a Coffeeshop near my house, taking time off just to get
my head back together.
-I didn’t communicate with any of the men who seemed
to trigger my unhealthiest behaviors. Including
David.
PART SIX: ON
TRIAL
David kindly gave me “another
chance” in the year 2005. I didn’t think he’d speak to me again after the
“despicable” things I’d done. He hadn’t spoken to me since the day he willingly
watched my body twist turn and please two years prior. And still I had this
magnetic uncontrollable instinct to run back to him. I approached David taking
100% of the blame for the failure of our friendship. Goddamnit if only I could
have controlled myself---David would have realized that despite my flaws I
carried a decent heart. It was my fault. And now I had my chance. My final
chance. Redemption day.
(The lion is starting to breathe a bit heavier. He knows tonight
is the night I’m going to challenge him. And I’m tired. I’m freaking tired and I
want sleep. I want to lay in my bed and watch TV and not think. I want to turn
my head off. That’s what the lion wants. He wants me to go on autopilot and let
him slumber. He wants me to let him continue to gnaw at the meat that lines my
body. Meat cured and marinated in self doubt, shame, guilt, insecurity,
self-hatred, and self-destruction. If I let him keep chewing at my flesh,
eventually I will self-implode. I realize with fear that if I ever want to truly
live, the lion must cease to exist.)
David and I
conversed infrequently during the first half of ‘05. Small talk. Perhaps the
conversation occasionally turned PG-13,
but overall boundaries were established
and respected. I continued to blossom. The glue was drying as I mended the
fragile relationship with my mom. I reconnected with my first love from high
school and bandaged up some ancient wounds. I found a boy I loved from Buffalo,
moved him in with me, and he broke my heart. But it was all in the name of
learning. That valuable and painful education that only life can provide. There
were times in 2005 I was certain my heart had been robbed of the precious little
blood that remained. The beat went on.
The best perk of self-awareness
is that it comes with a tool set. When life sends us grim reapers to slice us in
half and leave us for dead, with age and experience comes the knowledge of how
stitch ourselves back together and heal. Self-awareness also provides us with
walk and don’t walk signs. Too often in the past I’d run blindly into traffic
only to get steamrolled and flattened. With experience comes that ability to
recognize warning signs. That ability to say no. The ability to walk away.
As autumn neared I found myself treading the very same water as day
after David and I had sex. “Do you want to hang out?” “Maybe.” “I have proven to
you that I’m a better person now...can I take you out for coffee?” “Maybe.”
“David what does it take to prove to you that I’m a decent person?” “I don’t
know.” Then it hit me. I was on trial. I had been convicted of a crime and
despite anything I said or did I was always going to be the big bad horrible
wolf. I was marked and sentenced. Did David convict me or had I convicted
myself? Murderers have the luxury of facing a jury of his or her peers. What
about when you put yourself on trial? Beneath the scintillating light of your
own conscience what happens when you face the jury inside yourself? On trial in
the cases of logic vs. impulse? Heart vs. mind? Restraint vs. desperation? Win
vs. lose? Serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer was sentenced to fifteen consecutive life
terms- a total of 957 years in jail. Cult figure Charles Manson has spent over
three decades in prison. Sociopath Ted Bundy was executed in the electric chair
for his crimes. But what about my crimes? I started to get the sneaky
inclination that David had me out on parole-and only on the condition of good
behavior. I started to realize I was expected to behave in accordance with a
standard that wasn’t humanly possible. The pressure was suffocating.
I
wasn’t gonna do it anymore. I refused. I remember as I sat before my computer a
tiny bud opening. A new feeling. Empowerment. In one moment I realized that
David wasn’t just another interchangeable person I had sex with. He wasn’t just
a warm body that filled my mouth and twenty minutes of my time. I sat
overwhelmed with the cosmic knowledge that it was this night David needed to
understand that...oh my fucking god...I cared about him. All those years. I
cared about him. And after all the vultures and vampires and bloodsuckers of my
past--well caring is a pretty fucking scary thing.
And I typed to him
“David, I’m going to write a song about you right now.”
And I sat at this
very computer
guitar in one hand
notebook in the other
and I wrote him
his song:
I Will Be Your Friend
We were so young that winter night
You looked gorgeous in the dim light
You touched my body but never felt
the warmth beneath my skin
And I will be your friend...
I’ll still be your
friend
To see you smile confused as me
Tried to justify and bleach our
spirits clean
You touched my body yes
But there was steel around our
hearts
And I will be your friend...
I’ll still be your friend
I
know you’re different
I can feel it
I know you’re more
Than a quick
flight in the dark
And If a hurricane should come
I’d hold back
clouds. until you’re safe
I will be your friend.
The
ink was still wet on the page as I typed in the lyrics and sent them . He called
them beautiful. That night the cards were shifted. I excused myself for the
crimes. Pardoned. Forgiven. That was the night that David became Dave.
PART SEVEN: DREAMS AND
NOVELTIES
I had a big smile on my face for awhile. It was so big it went
from
here<-------------------all the way
to----------------------->here.
I was playing
keyboard the first time he text messaged me. I was driving in my car the first
time he called me. I had to pee so bad I didn’t answer the phone. When I called
him back he didn’t answer his phone, but no worries. I was emancipated. Cleared
of all wrong doing. The night sparkled and I anticipated the daytime. Ding dong
the big bad wolf he’s dead. Now I could finally just be Jeremy.
Sifting
through the steaming shitpile of our past we slowly and carefully built our new
friendship. He shared his issues with me (old news) and I shared with him how
badly it stung every time he pulled the disappearing act. I asked him to promise
he’d stick around. He promised he’d stick around. I told him it would be
impossible for me to move forward in this without the security of knowing he
wouldn’t slam a door in my face again. He said he wouldn’t slam a door in my
face again. Up to this point I’d spent the majority of my experience with Dave
with his back turned to me-whether it be in the bedroom or one of the numerous
times he’d walked away. And now more than anything I wanted to look him square
in the face.
(My body is tense and anticipatory. I want this story to be over.
I want this part of my life to be over. The lion has me pinned up against the
floor, his paws on my ribcage. Ever since I’ve allowed this lion residence my
heart’s capable of beating only half as fast. Until I type “the end”
at the
close of this story, I’ll not be able to live as if the story’s over. And it’s
done. It’s more than done...)
The raw material used
in rebuilding and mending damaged foundations is trust. And it was imperative
that Dave trusted me. So the man with a surplus of trust issues himself sets out
to prove confirm affirm that yes indeed, he can be trusted. And somewhere along
the way the heart starts to wander and the mind starts to wander too. My
conversations with Dave take the unexpected fork onto the road of unfulfilled
dreams, expressed wishes, good healthy spiritual longing, and desire. I told him
I wanted to take him to L.A. I told him how badly I wanted to drive through Iowa
on a starry night and sit in a corn field and see a zillion stars. I told him
how I wanted to visit Chicago, and he told me he had a friend in Illinois. And
ding ding the light went on. We have a winner. Maybe we could take a trip to
Illinois together! And he could visit his friend and I can visit my friend.
Together. Together Together. I dream too much.
Together. It’s an eight
letter word that’s caused me grief my entire life. All my fucking life. Deep
desire--deep in the marrow of my bones--to find someone to do things together
with. If I fall in love I will absolutely want to know if my boyfriend likes
crunchy peanut butter. I will want to know what kind of toothpaste he likes. And
I will want to drive through Iowa with him and look at a zillion stars too.
Together.
It’s tricky business. And even more so it’s dangerous
business. When you start sharing the dreams, unleashing the heart, opening the
cage, and taking down the flood gates you are putting yourself in the line of
fire. I told Dave my dreams preliminarily. All before taking the time to confirm
if he truly was a fellow dreamer or just a willing indifferent listener who let
me project my ideas onto him for a moment. He did listen. And he didn’t slam the
door in my face.
The more we talked online, the more I shared with this
boy, the more I wanted to know if the magic translated into breathing life.
Every experience with Dave so far had been intense. The sex was intense. The
rejection thereafter was intense. And rebuilding the friendship and realizing I
still dreamt was intense too. By this time in my life I knew how easy it was to
fall in love with a stranger. There’s no risk. Where there’s blanks and spaces
you just fill in the gaps however you please. It’s even easier to fall in love
with an idea. And I had the idea that this boy Dave might be one of the most
unique and special people to ever cross my path. As means of protection and self
preservation I needed to sit across from him, look him in the eye, and gauge how
fast
the blood pumped through my heart.
So I said “Dave can we hang
out.” and he said “Maybe.”
Later he said he was lonely and that no one cared
about him.
And I said “well I think I care about you.”
And he responded
with “I don’t think I could ever like you that way Jeremy.”
And whabambam
it is right here. Right here in this fucking story. This exact paragraph. I
should have turned off the computer, ran a hot bubble bath, and been done with
it. My heart was flapping like an open shutter in the wind. My heart went from
idle to idealistic. And all for naught. He made it plain. “I don’t think I could
ever like you that way Jeremy.” But that night I took no bubble bath. I didn’t
turn off the computer. And I was far from done with it. “Dave,” I asked “how can
you know how you’d feel about me? You haven’t seen me in years.”
I knew
in my core that soon I was going to come face to face with Dave for the first
time in three years.
PART EIGHT: A FLOWER
Looked in
the mirror. Had on my new shirt. Did a noxema face mask. Shaved my head. Took a
relaxing bath. Moisturized my skin. Picked out good songs to listen to in the
car. Dabbed on patchouli. Looked in the mirror again. Tonight’s the night.
Tonight’s the night Dave’s at the club. Couldn’t wait to show him how I
learned to walk with my head in the air. Couldn’t wait to show him that I didn’t
suck anymore. Couldn’t wait to show him that I was good enough. Thrilled to
reintroduce myself new and improved. New and motherfucking improved bitch! At my
best and if that’s not good enough nothing will be! Up for the challenge with my
most expensive jeans on. Me just me looking good. Feeling good. Feeling fabulous
honey!
Walked down the stairs with a smile on my face. Drove in my car
with a happy song. Walked into the gas station to buy his flower and my candy
bar. Walked toward the club with his flower hid in my pants. Approached the club
and FUCK Dave just got kicked out for giving his underage friend a drink!
Sonofabitch.
Now isn’t this awkward? After waiting to talk to this boy
as a human being for three years I planned exactly how it was going to happen. I
was going to walk into the club alone. I was going to be coy and seen from
across the room. I was going dance with friends. I was going to walk across the
dance floor with my flower and hand it to him. I wanted the whole club to see me
because as far as I was concerned Dave fucking ruled. Dave ruled because he
loves Star Trek and isn’t embarrassed to admit it. Dave ruled because he’s
oblivious to trends. Dave ruled because he’s dorky and cute and smart and I’d
take his Star Trek over Prada and Diesel any day.
(Hey Dave! It’s Jeremy! The only reason I came to this fucking
club was to show you that I’m not ugly! But you just got kicked out! Damn.
And
now I have to make it look like I actually came here to hang out with friends! I
have a flower hid in my pants and it’s stem is fucking
slicing my leg! Not to
mention the awkward protrusion. Don’t I look good? See I’m not ugly! Now I have
to wait in line and waste three
fucking dollars even though I’ll leave as soon
as the coast is clear! Did you think I was ugly? I have no idea if any of my
friends are here!!!
Damn this is awkward. Watch me go into the club. I don’t
want to be here at all. I’m going inside! I’m not ugly. My ID is getting
checked!
Do you see any good in me? I’m paying three dollars! I’m
gone.)
I did run into friends once inside the club. I
used the word anticlimactic a lot. I told them, probably three times each, I’d
only come out to speak with a boy I liked. And he’d gotten kicked out. And the
whole fucking evening was anticlimactic.
I left. I left the club and I
set Dave’s flower atop the high voltage box. His flower, placed next to an empty
Gatorade bottle and a wadded piece of trash. I sent him a text message and told
him that a) he had a surprise and b) where to find it. And then I ran to my car
to my highway to my home to my nice warm bed. On the face of that high voltage
box was a sign. It said “warning”. Or maybe it said “danger.” I am absolutely
sure that I should have paid closer attention.
PART NINE: FLASHBACK TO ANOTHER TIME
ZONE
My entire life I have collected things. CDs by my
favorite artists. Glass bottles. Snoopy figurines. Ceramic owls. Books. Bad
relationships. The very first thing I collected was Princess Di/Prince Charles
postage stamps. In bed I pretended I was Diana and the pillow was Charles. A
five year old with an undeveloped need for lust and connection. On the barren
winter nights of my youth the pillow was a lifeline. I made love to the pillow.
I pretended I was swept off my feet and protected by the pillow. I talked to the
pillow and wished it was a real person. (Someone who could talk and breathe and
exude heat).
All these years later...did I ever really stop pretending?
PART TEN: AWAY UP AND AWAY
DOWN
You can sense how someone feels about you by
the words they choose when they’re typing. Those years Dave didn’t want to talk
to me- if I got any response it was a jagged “hi”. These days I was greeted with
a “hallo”. And when I asked how he was doing he said “good good”. It felt good
to sign on to my instant messenger and see Dave’s screenname minus the guilt. It
felt good to have him IM me first. I still didn’t trust him. Trusting takes
time. Especially considering our delicate past. To forge a genuine friendship
consistency is essential. “Hallo”. “Good good”.
So maybe I was paranoid.
Too skeptical. Too cynical. But only two days after giving Dave the flower I
unraveled before him. I instant messaged him. No response.
(That’s cool,
he must not be at his keyboard...) An hour later I IMed him again. Still
no response.
(He must have left his computer on...) And another
hour. And then his away message went up. (Be right back) And then his away
message came down.
(No response). Up. Down. Up Down. No
response.
(What the fuck Dave? Are you fucking with me?)
I
grew up in a home where parents didn’t listen to their kids. I spent my teenage
years screaming bloody hell into an all absorbent echo chamber. No one heard. I
spent my twenties chasing after men who didn’t respond. Corpses. Troubled
distant beautiful corpses. Now when I speak I have this primal
NEED to be
responded to . Rejection is easy. It’s black and white. Cut and dry abandonment
is easy too. Out of sight, out of life. It’s the gray area that fucks me up.
Watching Dave’s away message blink on an off for an hour - it dizzied up my
equilibrium.
I typed to an unresponsive text box for two hours. Alone.
In a room without music. “How can you do this to me?” “Please please just don’t
ignore me.” “I thought things were different this time Dave!” “Just say hi-
please Dave just type one letter so I know that you don’t hate me.” “Did I say
something wrong”.
(Away message up, away message down) “What the
fuck?” “What did I do, please please please tell me?”
(Up and down--still
no response).
I wanted to stay centered. Maybe Dave’s computer
housed a ghost who toyed with his away message?
(Hmmm...I don’t believe in
ghosts...) Maybe his roommate was using his computer?
(I never
leave on my screen name if someone else is at my desk). Perhaps his
program automatically activates an away message if the chatter is idle?
(But to the best of my knowledge-away messages are manually operated...)
My body fragmented. 20% irate. 20% blue. 60% of my heart getting shit
out of my ass. 0% left for integrity.
I had a hunch Dave was on
gay.com. Nasty ol’ gay.com--the human trash, the disenfranchised, the cynics,
the fresh hotties, the killer blow jobs at any given moment. As I sat before my
computer eroding and spilling and unfolding--I had a feeling Dave was doing just
fine. Driven by scalding hot intuition I created the new gay.com account. (
Away message up, away message down). With lava
in my blood stream I confirmed the new gay.com email address.
(Away message up, away message down). The
venom in my spit ate at my tongue as I waited for the gay.com chat box to load.
(Away message up, away message down).
Razorblade fingertips logged into the Tampa room.
(Away message up, away message down). I
scanned the list of chatters. Seventh from the top. Dave, chatting actively.
PART ELEVEN: WHAT A CHILD
BELIEVES...
It was one of the most uncomfortable
afternoons of my life. My dad was taking my mom to court to contest the child
support arrangement. I begged my mom not to make me go to the hearing. She was
relentless. She wanted to make my father look at me while he disputed paying me
fifteen dollars a month. My stomach felt like mashed potatoes.
I never
think about dad much. Dad is just some unexposed nerve tucked safely behind my
lungs. Maybe if I cough hard enough I’ll realize there’s that raw nerve buried
deep. I’m mostly numb when it comes to dad.
What does it do to your soul
when you are fourteen and your own flesh asks the state to rule that you are
indeed not worth
$3.75 a week? A doormat is created. And a spittoon. And a
dartboard. And a toilet.
PART TWELVE: DINNER TIME
We were
seated on the patio. It was early evening, one of those Florida autumn days when
the skin isn’t burning off of you and the air is your friend. Dave and I met at
an upscale Chinese restaurant to eat dinner. A lot was at stake. Years of
tension. Unresolved feelings. A new beginning. Too much hope. Here we sat, two
feet from eachother. Truly sharing space for the first time in four years.
The gay.com incident was resolved two days after it happened. Dave
explained that he simply hadn’t noticed that I was messaging him all night, and
asked that I not be so emotional all the time. I felt stupid. I get upset so
easily. Dave was right. Why can’t I just be like “normal” people, and not let
stuff get to me? I hated myself for it.
We ordered two entrees and
shared them. It felt so easy to talk to Dave. On the way to the dinner I called
my friend Erin for a pep talk. “Erin I don’t want to fuck this up...I’m so
scared...” And I was. Walking to meet David in front of the restaurant...my
stomach felt like it was being run through a paper shredder. But I kept my
composure. Erin told me to just act myself. And probably for the first time in
years, in front of another gay guy, I did. I just acted like Jeremy, for the
most part.
When you share a tumultuous
relationship/friendship/experience with anyone, if you meet again on different
terms years later there’s always the initial audition period. Dave and I didn’t
tackle the major issues, but with ease I explained to him the process of my
self-reclamation over the past three years. I told him what I’d been through. I
told him a little bit about where I was. I told him a hell of a lot more than I
told most people who spent time with me daily. With Dave, everything always felt
intense. We were relaxed. We were genuine.
We probably spent about an
hour eating dinner. It was a success. All of the intensity of our online
conversations, all of my theories about us sharing a special cosmic connection,
they all translated into real life interaction. When I sat next to Dave I felt
like I really got him. And I felt like he got me. It felt safe to scrape the
excrement from the deepest scariest parts of my psyche and to share it. I was
wide open.
Sure, there was that little part of the dinner conversation
where Dave started listing off the various guys he wanted to date from gay.com.
But as I sat next to him my head and my heart were big inflated helium balloons.
Floating. Weightless. It would take more than a couple needles to burst me. When
I’d previously mentioned to Dave online that it was painful to talk men with him
he put our whole relationship into question. “Jeremy, how do you expect to be my
true friend if I can’t talk to you about EVERYTHING? You’re supposed to be my
confidant...” And once again Dave was right. My jealousy, my hope, my
expectations, my discomfort--they were all weaknesses that needed immediate
repair. So when Dave referenced the other guys, I laughed, I smiled, I offered
advice
(while my blood cooled, thickened and
pumped through my heart only half as fast...) It was all sacrifice and
self control. I had to be the better person this time, for once.
I paid for our dinner and we walked to our cars as the sky turned
sherbet orange. Thus began a new chapter in the saga of Jeremy and Dave. We
loved the same board games. Neither of us drank much. Neither of us had much use
for the club scene. And when we hugged, I felt like our bodies fit together
perfectly. Usually when I hug someone I feel obtuse, awkward, distant, or
misshapen. Hugging Dave I felt like his piece in life’s crazy jigsaw puzzle fit
with mine. Driving home alone, the hues of the ice-cream sky melted upon me. Bon
apetite!
PART THIRTEEN: CYBER SEX
(2 days after dinner)
It happened twice and late at night.
I asked him if it was
alright.
He said sure it was okay.
Four years since we’ve talked this
way
Touch the keyboards words aflame
Safety locked behind
screenname
Lights were dim and bodies bared
Electric of a fetish
shared
Filthy words precise details
Far removed from live
exhales
Body shaking dangerous drum
Please don’t sign off once I
come
Out of breath and blood recedes
Further glued by dirty
deeds
Still I sign off catatonic
Tomorrow once again
platonic
Illiterate to signals mixed
And so erodes the friendship
fixed...
PART FOURTEEN: OOPS...HE DID IT
AGAIN
(Re-read part ten. But the ending was different this time. Dave
finally did come back online. And he talked to me. He poured his heart out to
me. He started talking about his family. He started talking about the pain of
his youth. He started to tell me that he was on the verge of crying. He started
to tell me that I scared him. We agreed that it was an electrically charged
super intense emotional moment for both of us. Release. Fear. I asked Dave if
he’d ever met anyone like me. He said no. I asked Dave if the connection between
us was only in my head. He said no. I asked Dave if he felt super close at that
very moment. He said yes. I asked Dave if he felt it too...when we hugged each
other...that our bodies really fit together. He said he felt it
too.)
PART FIFTEEN: THE KEY CHAIN
I laid in an expensive bed in an expensive house.
The chandelier cost thousands and my plane ticket was free. I had to pinch
myself. Sometimes I’m so lucky. The northern air cooled my body and warmed my
heart. I’d been flown to a quiet suburb of Philly to perform my songs. For
lawyers. For people with more money than I’ve earned my entire life. For people
who believed in me.
The usual squabbles nudged at my nervous system. A
part of me felt frumpy and dirty and not good enough. Another part of me felt
confident and composed. And all of me felt withdrawn. I always withdraw before
performance. These days even I am having trouble accessing the deep and private
vaults of heart and mind. Only when I sing. Only when I breakdown. Only when a
sad song comes thru the radio.
I performed with zest and passion. Before
me lawyers danced and suburbanized mothers tapped their toes. Above me mouths
smiled and chandeliers rocked. Behind me quiet Pennsylvania tucked its kids into
bed while stars twinkled in its cool night. And inside of me goddamnit how I
wished Dave was there. Hours later I fell asleep melting into the soft cotton of
a guest bed. I longed for Dave’s warmth amongst its sheets.
The weekend
culminated with my maiden voyage into New York City. Times square. Empire state.
Broadway. MTV. A train ride through Jersey and its oxidized industrial
landscapes. Thirty years old, awestruck.
But even the wild movement of
Manhattan couldn’t still my thoughts about that little Trekie in Tampa. So I
left the Big Apple
with a candy bar in one pocket and a key chain for Dave in
the other. Penn Station October 15th 2005.
PART SIXTEEN: A QUICK PHONE CALL
(I called Dave and Dave was talkin’ about how he was
stressed ‘cause the guy he dated last week was coming to his apartment to drop
off shoes while the guy he’s dating this week was there too. Dave had told me
prior that the guy he dated last week was really sad that things didn’t work
out. Dave also said during this conversation how much he hated drama. I’ve
always found that people who actually say they hate drama create it the most. He
had provoked a situation where two boys were in the same space longing for his
one heart and his two arms. Dave should have waited until a different day to get
his shoes back. Red flag
waves...)
PART SEVENTEEN: JEN SHAMRO GOES
AWAY
Sometimes we lead secret lives. The years of
gutterslut humiliation. Paying for boys who pay for drugs who eventually pay for
it by dying. Me in their bedrooms with grainy sheets and sloppy intoxications.
Or them in my bedroom with hat on and lights low so they couldn’t see how ugly I
am. A bag over my head. Or their heads under pillows. Walk in and fuck without
ever seeing what they look like. Or what I look like. Comatose. I led that life.
Yes I did. And my friends didn’t know anything about it.
Sometimes we
lead secret lives. The family who loves us. Laughter so intense that our breath
is stolen. Parties where seventy people come just for you. A dinner with the two
friends who know you inside out upside down backwards forwards left right center
and then some. Christmas lights with mom and egg nog. A trillion hugs and songs
and treasures. I led that life. Yes I did. And Dave didn’t know anything about
it.
He got into my car around eight. It was the night I’d finally be
able to show him everything he didn’t know I was. A loved friend. A respected
musician. An emerging man whose life reached far beyond the desperation and
longing I purged into text boxes. He wore the exact same shirt he wore the first
time we went out for dinner. I loved that about Dave. I’ve struggled my entire
life to be emancipated from the imprisonment of image and presentation. Dave
just didn’t care. I admired that. I envied that.
Over pasta and salad we
shared our lives and times. He spoke only sporadically of his fly by night of
the week, and for the better. An orchestral piece of ancient origin hummed
warmly in the background and I looked at Dave’s face. So much history. So many
years. And we laughed at the irony. From the computer to the phone to my bedroom
then the guilt to the silence to the false starts to the second third and fourth
chances and the resurrection to the reunion and to tonight. A lot of livin’.
Next we shopped, checkin’ out the aisles of an international emporium.
The incense and beads and tapestries of my life coupled with the religious
artifacts and imagery of his. Leaving the shoppe with sandalwood in my hands and
Buddha in his. Across the trolley tracks...
To Starbucks. To a table
with some of the best fucking friends I’ve ever had. I let Dave meet them. I let
them meet Dave. And if only for a moment the heaviness I always seem to carry
lifted. Glorious nighttime sky and its cotton-soft cumulus dancing with the
milky way. My friends rated Dave A+. My friends know my history. They know my
penchant for collecting men who shred slice dice and run. Not the dorky Trekie.
Keep him around.
Our conversation was fun and playful. I didn’t make
that up. My friends told me so. Our body language was comfortable and
flirtatious. I didn’t make that up. My friends told me so. And on a streetcorner
of a mid-sized city tucked deep on the edge of America, I shined. Every few
minutes someone called out my name. From a car window or from the bouncer of a
club or from the fashionista drunk across the street. That night the mountain
belonged to me and ain’t nobody was gonna knock me off.
(“...no living in co-dependent hell tonight
she’s gonna
wait for someone who’s gonna treat her
right...”)
An hour later I sang my songs to wild enthusiastic
ears. Contained in spotlight before my past my present and my future. And not
before and not since have I known the glee I felt looking out--and seeing the
boy--who wore the same shirt two dinner dates in a row.
(“...from a fairy tale you’re my fallen angel
if you’re
not mine I’ll rewrite the
pages...”)
And after the music beside my car we hugged. For a
long time. I wrapped my arms around his skinny body and left myself victim to
his current. Don’t let go. Please don’t let go. These kinds of magics are so
rare in this lifetime...
(“...if now’s the right time to feel good well then I think
that I should...”)
He was sleepy driving home. I rubbed his hair and
asked him if it was okay. Sure it was okay. And so ends one of the best fucking
nights of my life.
(“...we’re all broken down and numbing up and we only wanted
love
Baby we’re all broken down and numbing up
And we only wanted
love...”)
PART EIGHTEEN: SHAKE SHAKE
SHAKIN’
(Flashback to one of my earliest sexual experiences. --At
least the earliest I’m able to remember--. Small town western New York. Early
1990s. Teen-aged angst and hate rife in the life. A boy by the name was Mike. I
knew him from theater and school and the hallways and chorus. We stood alone in
Christine’s kitchen and Mike whipped it out -- his erect penis. My body began to
convulse. Confused teenager on the verge of vomit and inertia. I wanted to touch
it. Every liquid and solid motherfucking ounce of my being wanted to touch that
penis. And Mike wanted me to touch it too. But the fright. The fright. As our
unsuspecting friends laughed from the dim pits of the basement I’d unwillingly
tumbled onto a crossroads. Memories haze and next I know I’m in that basement
amongst the safety of friends. But the legs uncontrollably clattered and the
teeth knocked loud enough for noise. Violent seizure concealed below a blanket.
Please don’t notice my legs. Please don’t notice these legs. Please don’t notice
these legs and ask me what’s wrong Christine.
And three more times I
found myself confronted by Mike’s erect penis. Lights down. Pants down. Curtains
shut. And once we leave this room mouths better stay shut too. His pants were
always the first to come down and the first to come up. He always stopped. Every
time. He stopped half way through and told me to get the fuck off of him. My
teeth were scraping him. Or my skin was too dry. Or he wasn’t into it anymore.
Or he wasn’t into me anymore. Fragmented acts all absent of completion. And it
was on those shameful nights I learned how to do sex and men. So began a
pattern.)
PART NINETEEN: EMOTIONAL
CATAPULTING
Got game? Absolutely not. Sure wish I did. My
sense of timing is deplorable. My judgment is impaired and my patience
nonexistent. I’ve always flunked out at delaying the phone calls and playing it
hard to get. Those unspoken rules...I’m gonna call ‘em a load of bullshit
anyway. Comes the chance I find someone who doesn’t disgust and/or bore me
within the first two seconds, I’m not waiting a single second to make my move!
Life’s short buddy.
My body the pressure cooker was ready to bust. I
held Dave the night before. Friendly holding but warm enough to make the heart
blush. Now it was the night after. Isolated in my room. The cacophony of a
hundred catchphrases pulling me toward madness. “Don’t call him the next day”.
“Make him chase you”. “Don’t seem too desperate”. “Play hard to get”. “Wait for
him to call you”. .
Noise. So much noise in my silence. I didn’t call
him. I didn’t IM him. I just sat. Still. In a quiet room with a deafening mind.
Tick tock and hours pass. 8 PM. The fear and fallout of an over-active
imagination. The restlessness of a beaming heart confined to a cage. The hope of
the waiting. 9 PM. Removing his screenname so I didn’t give in and IM him first.
Playing the game. Following etiquette. 10:00 PM. Considering that his hugs
weren’t as warm and close as remembered. Considering that our conversation
wasn’t as comfortable as I thought. And at 11 PM I wrote a song:
I’m a Friday Night
Oh the world can be so hateful
sometimes
One night stands and quick lines
They’ll only hurt you
Can
you see me?
I trust my intuition
Chemical ignition
Whenever I touch
you
You fit in my heart you fit in my head
You fit with my morals you
fit with my friends
And before this song is through
I hope you’ve fallen
too...
Chorus:
I’m a Friday in the summertime tonight
(take a
chance on the feeling)
I’m 17 unscathed by life tonight
(when you give me
this feeling)
I’m a downtown street in summer heat tonight
(I got a really
good feeling)
I’m a Friday in the summertime tonight
(and you gave me this
feeling)
All these other guys
Ain’t got nothin’ on me
I’ll say it
confidently
I think I understand you
And together
We’ll get our
education
Biological elation
Whenever I see you
My place in this
world
I knew all along
To sit here before you
And sing you this
song
Before this verse is through
Hope you feel me too
Repeat
Chorus
It’s bigger than this country
And it’s bigger than the
world
It’s bigger than outerspace
Damn let me kiss that face
You with
your big feet love
You with your big smile love
I’m wearin’ my favorite
jeans tonight
Just to see you...
----------------
Five minutes pass. And Dave IMs me.
(I think of the best moments of my life. Seven years old
rolling through the countryside in Big Donny’s Scout with the 8-track blaring
Bob Seger and the air cleaner than I’d ever feel past twenty. Or the Christmas
eve when we left Grandma Supkoski’s and the snow fell like
quarters from the
sky. Or the joy of hot cocoa and a nice warm pair of moon boots. Or waking to
the sound of snow plows and school busses
and the smell of poached eggs. Or the
muskiness of dim lit gymnasiums while teenaged bodies awkwardly danced. Yet
despite these joys we
collect and store in precious banks of memory...so easily
do we crumble. So easily do we give up our air.
)
PART TWENTY: NOT WORD FOR WORD, BUT
CLOSE
dave: “hi”
jeremy: “hi”
dave: “what’s
up”
jeremy: “not much u”
dave: “i think me and dan are
coming to where you work tomorrow”
jeremy: “ok”
(pause)
jeremy: “well uh, this
probably goes against every rule and etiquette known to man, but i think it
would be really hard for
me to serve you and dan. you know i have feelings for
you.”
dave: “oh?”
jeremy: “you know i do, i’ve already told
you that”
dave: “our friendship is platonic”
jeremy: “i just
don’t freakin get it. tell me dave. tell me. explain to me. what do all those
other guys have that i don’t have.
i know i understand you more. i know i’m
better looking. i know i have a brighter future.”
dave: “all of that
is true.”
jeremy: “i’m going places. i want you to go with
me.”
dave: “i’m afraid i can’t do that.”
jeremy: “i know you
are attracted to me”
dave: “that happened a long time
ago”
jeremy: “we just had cyber sex two weeks ago?!?! do you just jerk
off online with anyone?”
dave: “no”
jeremy: “then what?!?
you know when you were with me at that show the other night there were guys
jealous i was with you”
dave: “uh is that supposed to change my
mind?”
jeremy: “what about all those conversations?!?! didn’t you
think we felt something unique?!?!?”
dave: “eh a little. you
exaggerate.”
jeremy: “i don’t think i can be friends with you like
this.”
dave: “k”
jeremy: “ok?!?! you’re just going to let me
go like that”
dave: “ummm that’s what you want”
jeremy: “you
KNOW what i want”
dave: “sorry”
jeremy: “this is
it?”
dave: “guess so”
jeremy: “later”
dave: “see
ya.”
----sign off----
(Bathroom floor. Saltwater
eyes. My hope was murdered and she bled all night. Calling his voicemail. I need
to explain. Talk to me. Talk to me. Please answer. Six times. No answer.
Followed by no answer followed by no answer followed by no answer. So here’s
your song. Gotta sing him his song. Singing his song to his voicemail. Crying.
The embarrassments of psychosis. Does he sleep on the other end of the phone?
Does he laugh on the other end of the phone? Does he feel the power on the other
end of the phone? Please don’t forget me. I wiggle about at the mercy of a
silent puppet master. Is he scared of me on the other end of the phone?
Nevermind him what about me? I ripped the lyrics of my new song
out of the
notebook and threw them in the trash. My body falls into bed dry desolate empty
barren dead. How to keep a heart alive on a night like
this.)
PART TWENTY ONE: TABLE
SEVENTY-ONE
“I just threw up in my mouth.” Bless my friend
Kristina. In the midst of my emotional apocalypse there was little left to do
but laugh. I called Dave first thing in the morning. Even though I’d gone to bed
feeling like a ghost town. Even though I woke up weathered and eroded. Once
again my fear of abandonment was navigating me into murky and desperate
waters. (“Well it’s okay Jeremy I knew you’d
call.”) And here it’s proven again that existence comes with its
disheartening givens--the dogs return to their cages, the slaves return to their
masters, the moths return to their flames, and the Jeremys return to their
Daves. Wanting desperately to be the “bigger person” I gave in to myself. I told
him he could come into my restaurant. Yes. I told him he could bring Dan. Yes.
As my sluggish body oozed through work awaiting Dave and Dan’s arrival
my internal jet stream abruptly shifted. And after roughly one thousand four
hundred sixty days of clumsily failing at nobility--a moment of clarity. I
couldn’t believe I actually told Dave to come into my job with Dan. Here I was
standing on train tracks. Here I was bound gagged and helpless. I’d assisted in
the knotting of my own ropes. I allowed the insertion of the gag into my mouth.
I’d placed myself in the direct line of impact. I was a pathetic sitting duck
inviting the bullets of cruel psychological warfare. By the time I realized I
wanted out it was too late. “Jeremy, you’ve got a table.”
Through the
windows sat Dave and Dan. On their date. In my section. Awaiting my approach.
Ready to give their drink order. Ready to order their food. And I followed the
guidelines of my job. I approached my guests with a courteous smile. I gave them
bread plates. I gave them bread. I took their drink order. I brought them their
drinks. I took their food order. I brought Dave his cup of clam chowder. I
brought Dave’s chicken sandwich and Dan’s fish and chips dinner. I cleared their
plates. I gave them their check. Dan paid. Dan left me a decent tip. They left.
In the past I never had enough self esteem to admit acts of cruelty. Or
to realize a breach of ethics. But I think back to serving that table. I think
back to the hollowness of my body. The way my hands trembled. The taste of
sickness crawling up my throat. Two nights before I’d held the boy and told him
how much he meant to me. One night before his chilling indifference left me
fighting emotional hypothermia on the bathroom floor. And in deciding matters of
wrong or right, our only given is the gray area. We have gut instinct. We know
the way we treat people ourselves. And we know how we expect to be treated. I
remember a friend of mine who once shared that he was in love with me. I know
the way I responded to him didn’t leave him crying on his bathroom floor. I gave
him a hug. I gently told him I didn’t feel the same way. I told him I was
honored that of all the people in the world he found me that special. I expect
the same respect.
Dave didn’t give me that respect. I was made into a
pinata. Boom bam pow smash. Serving Dan and Dave on their date was one of the
emptiest, most harrowing, revelatory moments of my life. I found myself thirty
years old and serving a fucking chicken sandwich to a boy the day after he
rejected me. With his date. As he looked into his dates eyes. Are you serious?!
Never again. Never fucking again. Sure, I told him they could come in. I sure
did. But the unspoken codes of tact, respect, and human decency should have come
into play. My friends in the kitchen joked that I should spit in their food. I
didn’t. I’d already given Dave enough. I’d given him my body. I’d given him my
heart. I’d given him moments of vulnerability and weakness. He was not
getting
my saliva too.
It was the humor and support of those friends that kept
my glued and cool. They’d heard about Dave for a couple months. How excited I
was about our hanging out. How excited I was about our dinner. How excited I was
to have him at my show. And now they had the opportunity to see Dave in person.
From the corners and edges of hallways these friends lurked. Getting a peek.
Holding me up. “Jeremy, the 60s called and they want Dave’s shirt back.” One by
one they inconspicuously sauntered by the table and caught a glimpse. Keeping me
afloat.
I write this with the complete acceptance that we can’t help who
we’re attracted to and who we’re not. But when I saw Dan sitting there-sloppily
dressed, overweight, unkempt-I couldn’t help but take out the boxing gloves on
myself. Why don’t I have? Why am I not good enough? What’s wrong with me? I got
a lot of hugs from my friends that day. Shaken and upset but loved. I will never
forget when Kristina helped me serve their food. She took one look at Dave and
Dan and said out loud “I just threw up in my mouth.” Then she turned her back
and walked away. Moments later I did too.
(It’s time now. The lion’s claws are firmly clinging to the
greasy pits of my bowel. I cannot imagine living without him. This lion who has
handicapped my every relationship. Like my absent father. Like the masochistic
doe-eyed boys who stole the air from my lungs and took whipping sticks to my
spine. I was left to dangle. I was held emotionally hostage while they took big
juicy shits in my mouth. I’m ready for the final dance. Don’t think I’m willin’
to be an incubator no more. And so I feel the lion unwillingly leave. I feel him
snake though the halls of my intestines. I feel him splash around my stomach. I
feel his slow crawl through the spongy mass of my lungs. I feel his attempt to
clog my airpipe and rob its air. I sense the dry putrid leftovers of a carnivore
in my mouth. I open my lips. Exhaling. One claw at a time he leaves. Exhaling.
One tuft of fur at a time he leaves. Exhaling. One man at a time he leaves.
Exhaling. And as the lion sits before me I raise my head to confront his face.
And then I realize. I have known this lion’s face for years. In the reflection
of my computer monitor. His deadened eyes. In my bathroom mirrors. His pasty
skin. In store windows. His scared mouth.
I look to the monitor again
but the lion’s face is gone. And I can’t find him in the bathroom mirror. And I
can’t find him in storefront windows.
All I see is me. Me. Just me. Goodbye
lion. Goodbye dad. Goodbye David. And goodbye to a Jeremy who didn’t love
himself. )
PART TWENTY TWO: THE
POSTSCRIPTS
November (the phone call):
Chicago wasn’t rebuilt in one
day and neither was I. A lot sure can happen in seven days. Thursday I sang to
Dave. Friday I cried for him. Saturday I served him. And Monday we were supposed
to go out for tea. That Monday I didn’t answer his call. Instead I felt the
sweet emancipation of watching the call go to voicemail. And what may have been
one of the hardest missed calls of my life may also have been the most
important. It meant my removal from the game. It meant it was finally time to
try on some armor. Dave and I didn’t talk for one month.
December (New Year’s Eve):
I’ve always been a big sucker for closure.
Fragments, loose ends, unanswered questions, and unresolved matters just never
sit well with me. And as 2006 creeped up so did the questions. What if? What if?
What if?
The bruised burned hand reached out again. (“Dave it really bothers me that we stopped
talking...please message me if you get a chance and maybe we can
talk...”) And he responded. (“I’m tired
I but I do want to talk soon...”) I messaged him twice in the next two
days. He did not respond with words. He responded by putting up his away message
on me both times. We didn’t talk for two months.
March (the email):
Writing one more email meant giving one more
chance. (“Dave I really want to talk about what
happened. In person. We obviously don’t
do well online. If you are going to
respond to this I really prefer it’s with phone call. I would like to meet for
coffee and explain some things...”)
And he responded, online. (“Well I heard you were upset with me so I stopped
talking.”)
And that was it. No call. No coffee date. No closure.
I walked away despite the unanswered questions. Despite the unresolved matters.
Despite the fragments and all the loose ends. I walked away. Because when my
friends have an inkling I’m upset with them--they don’t stop talking--they find
out why.
PART TWENTY THREE: THE
FINALE
The night Dave and I jerked off online I shared
this for the first time. I have never felt good after an orgasm. My heart, my
body, and my mind freeze. I become airtight. I feel deadened. And then I roll
over fast. I put my clothes on fast. I told Dave that I hoped he stayed online
after we came. He did. (“Don’t retreat
Jeremy...stay with me...”) It’s moments like that I’ll chose to remember.
What does one get out of the rollercoaster? The dizzying nausea of being
tossed though loops, multiple times? The thrill of being turned upside down, if
only for a moment? The temporary bravado of thinking we’ve defied gravity?
Despite the rush, don’t we always end up at a stand still?
I don’t
regret my rollercoaster ride with David. I have learned how to better operate my
seat belt. I have learned that if the line is too long, maybe it’s time to find
a different ride. And I have learned that if you’re sick after the second time,
you don’t go back for a third.
Yes. It was all worth it. I fell from the
sky. I chased the wind. I felt the exhilaration of flying one hundred miles an
hour and then some. And I’d do it again. I will absolutely do it again.
In the past I was at the mercy of the men who operated the coasters.
They told me when to step on and I listened. They told me when to get off and I
listened. It was them who decided how fast and how long. Well come the day I
climb onto that giant beast again, mark my words I will not be riding it alone!
There is someone out there who will step into the seat beside me. And he will
climb up those hills with me. And he will face those scary drops with me. And he
will be holding my hand the entire motherfucking time.
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