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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