phillynjs's Blog

A familiar knocking from inside this morning as I tread the cobblestone walkways littered with browning leaves and end of season grass clippings on my way to work. The boy of my adolescence began rapping on my bones. Pushing against the very skin that has betrayed him and to which he has become a total stranger. Urges to ride recklessly from a fading white-washed barn with the sweating speckled white steed beneath me, fleeing stables in need of a good mucking for the overgrown pastures encircled by rusty wire fencing, trailing the docile White-tail deer lapping up the last of the cool dew clinging to the remaining foliage through which we trot. Finding a shady spot near a small grove of trees and letting loose the reigns, releasing my glistening mare to graze as I gorge myself on the wild berries deep in thorny bushes; small spots of blood from my ravenous fury into the tangle of vines mixed with sweet juice of the bloated blackberries. Blazing flashes of white and rare rainbow reverberations of wild ring neck-pheasant and bobwhites dashing through the undergrowth giving a momentary start to my horse as she whinnies a small side-step in my direction. It is in this moment I feel the world could stop spinning and the light wind taking the burn from the sun is with me this ten year years later as I traverse the day-to-day that has changed immensely but little in the end. I still seek escape and solace from the muck in my life and find it in such glorious bright shining things around me as I wind from here to there.

Lately I have worried about going out too much. Too many days waking up and thinking that the night before was a little too crazy. My pockets a little too empty and my face a little over-exposed to those in my dating pool. Nobody wants to date a lush and believe me I have had my runs of night after night of delight in libations and debauchery. I suppose unlike my actual sexuality, my partying habits have some traceable roots to my childhood.

You may be surprised to learn that before I became a bonafide farm hand in Indiana, I lived across the street from a gay bar in Denver. What you might find even more surprising is that I have been going into gay bars since the tender age of five. Charlie's, a country western bar, was located directly across the street from our apartment building. Not only did they cater to gay cowboys but they had a lovely selection of fried bar fare perfect for individuals such as my mother and our neighbor Marlene. I was the delivery boy charged with retrieval and distribution of the chicken wings and cheese sticks fried to crispy gold perfection.

The air was that of a bar during the day time, stale and sickly with an overwhelming stench of nicotine and cologne perched just above vodka soaked carpet. Sunshine, startlingly bright, slammed through the giant wood shutters catching particles of lazy dust stirred by the whirling ceiling fans. Two men lost in the corner, clinking belt buckles to the tune of Patsy Cline's "Crazy" as the early evening regulars looked on enviously. I was the spry little boy from across the street tearing through the door in a tizzy. With money in hand I raced to the bar evoking smiles from the row of stool fillers and a rag wielding bartender who would disappear through a set of metal swinging doors to the kitchen for my mother's order.

My mother was smart; she knew that by sending a cute little boy to get her food, she would never be charged. And she wasn't. I always came back with a fist full of money. I usually got a cherry or two from the bartender. That was if I had time. The cruel little tricks grown-ups play. I was always timed to see how fast I could accomplish my task. This way if I didn't want to do something they could just say "I bet if I time you, you will be able to do it faster than last time!" and I would be compelled to top my last performance. Why I was doing all sorts of things with the hopes of defeating some invisible competitor in a pointless race. Never did it occur to me that there were no stopwatches, just made up numbers upon my return. When they were feeling particularly evil, mother and Marlene, would both chime in about taking longer than the last time and how I must be starting to run like a girl or better yet a fag. She likened me, with disdain, to the very fags giving her delicious heart attacks in Styrofoam carryout boxes, the same fags that treated us all with nothing but kindness.

Let me explain our neighbor Marlene. Marlene weighed approximately five hundred pounds with bleach blonde hair always pinned back revealing several inches of black roots and wrapped in a sheet rather than putting on actual clothes. She and her daughter lived directly next door to us in a house with little natural light and a huge television screen. She could not actually fit in her bathroom and fashioned a makeshift toilet from a bucket and toilet seat which sat in her bedroom and lent a constant stench to the air. A fan of soap operas and color by numbers she would spend her days watching television while coloring with magic markers on a collapsible card table, giant felt pictures of parrots and other jungle creatures. These would eventually hang amidst the many fake tropical plants that filled her living room.

My mother, though she was not quite as large, was quite a bit of woman. She would make the twenty paces to the neighboring porch when Marlene had the energy to walk herself out with the aid of her canes to the bench supported by cinder blocks. They would rest like bloated robins on a drooping bench with binoculars in hand. Adjacent to the gay bar was an old motel. It had a glass elevator and mazes of dilapidated balconies facing our building. Nestled in its shadow on a sunny day was a church that provided community services to the local prostitutes and poverty stricken families such as ourselves who would rummage, with paper bags in hand, through the free offerings of cheese, granola and fresh fruit.

Spying on the balconies of the motel through binoculars the two big breasted birds would track sex and drug transactions. I think 911 must have been on speed dial. Within moments of a hand-to-hand or hand-to-mouth transaction on a balcony across the parking lot he would respond, their favorite officer, Cop Snap.

As noble as it seems there was also an unwitting list of victims as a result of their tawdry crush on Cop Snap. The men who frequented Charlie's were in direct firing range of four laser beam eyes. Little did they know as they waved to the ladies on the porch bidding a good evening that the cops were en route. For as nice as they were to the ladies Grimm if they so much as kissed or fondled or hugged before departing in their cars the police were summoned.

While he would always come, Cop Snap never once pursued anything relevant to the men exiting Charlie's. In fact he often became agitated with my mother for her relentless pursuit of heterosexual justice and the "protection of her children." One particular night as he responded to yet another call at Colfax and Emerson streets he asked very simply,

-What is your problem with these men?

-It's disgusting and my kids should not be forced to see it!

-No disrespect to either one of you but I think that what those men are doing is the least of your problems and you should mind your own business from now on.

He shook his head in disgust, turned back toward his car and stopped when he saw me leaning on the fender. He patted my head and said,

-You're gonna be ok kid.

With that he flashed his lights, flashed me a smile and never responded to another call from them again. Word about my mother and Marlene had crossed the street, they eventually retired the binoculars and the motel closed its doors for good. I never went back to Charlie's for their midday nosh again because they would no longer take orders from my mother.

Two decades or more have passed and there will be a new bartender. The regular patrons have probably all passed away or retired from the bar scene but at some point I want to walk back through those doors and drop a quarter in the juke box. I want to play some Patsy Cline and clink belt buckles with my own grown up cowboy and send up a big old %#&@$! You to the fat birds lazing in their concrete nest.

Polyamory : the state or practice of having more than one open romantic relationship at a time.

Meet Cleveland. Cleveland is a "polyamorite." Yes I made that term up. You may see the term "polyamory" listed above as Webster defines it. Here is my definition for a "polyamorite." You may notice one or two differences.

Polyamorite: delusional individual who believes (stupidly) that he/she can be "in love" with more than one person at a time.

Cleveland is the worst kind of polyamorite, he is irresistible, he has a boyfriend and he is honest. Yes I said honest. How can that be bad? Well let me tell you how it makes a person feel when they realize that after all is said and done and their heart is broken that it is their own fault.

It feels like shit.

My condensed story of Cleveland involves a wildly blissful weekend of work in a Midwestern metropolis where he was my on-site help and ultimate distraction. Cleveland is from Ohio and was flown in last minute based on a coworker's glowing referral.

There was full disclosure and acknowledgment of his situation. I knew he had a boyfriend and found out very quickly after several drinks and a shared queen bed that they were "open" and that the magnetic attraction I felt was more than mutual from the moment our eyes met by the baggage claim carousel. I suppose if I believed in love at first sight I would qualify our first official meeting as such.

I was walking in very unfamiliar territory. Normally when I hear this type of scenario I run in the other direction. I have even told friends in similar situations "Don't be a moron! He has a boyfriend!" Despite my own warnings there was something about this man that lured me in and consumed me as though I were in quick sand. Maybe it was the blatant physical draw or the way he touched me but the rawness of it all was too much to deny. A more intense connection I have seldom felt. Reciprocated and complete we were both in somewhat of a daze, blinded by what we had stumbled upon in each other.

That first weekend laid the groundwork for his upcoming visit to Philly and no more than two weeks later he was with me again, staying in my house and working in my office as an annual temp for a week. Treating me as though we could never be apart and I was at complete mercy of my emotions. Despite my earnest efforts I could not stop my fiery descent into heartbreak hell. Particularly when he told me he was falling for me. How was that possible, hadn't he fallen for his boyfriend long ago? Wasn't he still in love with him and if not then why go back? Turns out I didn't really want to consider the responses to these questions. Surely the feelings we were nurturing were more potent and therefore more valid.

They weren't.

He left, returning to his boyfriend and I shut down. Oh it wasn't for too long but I was a melancholy and self-pitying schmuck for a while, too afraid to disclose every detail to any friend for fear of retaliation and declaration of my obvious mental retardation. I did it alone and it took getting angry at him to get over it. Angry at the words he used "I love you both" or "I am so confused right now" then there is my favorite "I would love for you to meet him some day, I think you would really hit it off." What the fuck was going through his head? Better yet, what the fuck was going through MY head?

I grew up with the understanding that you can't have your cake and eat it too. Isn't that what polyamory boils down to though? What if we could all have deep emotional, sexual and mental bonds with several people at the same time? In theory the world would be much happier, or would it? My impression is not that these "polyamorites" have too much love and must dispense it to avoid bursting at the seams; but that they need to dilute the love they have and invest in many people trying to get the highest possible yield from each person to fill some void. In essence they try to trade up and get more love from people than they can or are willing to give in order to validate themselves on a very basic level.

I don't know if anyone ever is truly satisfied with one person. Or if one person can completely fill every single need in someone else. Does that give anyone the right though to be greedy? I don't think so. But I also don't think you can blame someone when they are honest. After all we are adults and educated decisions are ours to make.

I no longer feel like shit and as long as I know on what I am willing to compromise I intend on holding out for that one person who also happens to be looking for one, singular, unequivocal love in their life.

I don't want this to sound like I am disrespecting the wonderful people who may be online on a regular basis. I personally don't understand the phenomenon despite my own limited involvement. But ...

When did we lose the nerve to meet people face-to-face? At some point there was a least one person who must have thought it was unnecessary to go out into the real world and strike up an actual conversation with a living breathing human being. What has come of us when we feel the need to build a foundation with words and "trading pics" that can be completely undermined by the first in-person meeting with someone we have been "involved" with on the deep level people claim to reach via the keyboard?

I recently met someone as a result of what I like to call the "Indiana Syndrome." It is easily contracted upon multiple trips to the land of Hoosiers. Symptoms of the syndrome include extreme boredom, feelings of absolute isolation and overwhelming sexual frustration. Despite what many people may think, Indiana is not crawling with rugged Midwestern boys just waiting for a good, or even mediocre, roll in the hay and most often the resulting prescription involves GAY.com. While it isn't logistically practical to actually meet someone it is a great way to be entertained.

It was on a recent trip home to Indiana that I found myself jumping in and out of the various chat rooms around 11 PM. Not only was I amidst the sparse population of the Indiana room but I was also swimming deep among the throws of Philly's online gay boys. The result of my feverish chatting was a proposed meeting with someone upon my return to the East coast. Everything seemed brilliant online but how much of that did I actually believe? Did I actually believe he never really did this before or that he was everything I could possibly be looking for in a potential partner? That didn't seem too likely. He seemed to have a slew of pictures and a meticulously updated profile.

He did try to me get off of GAY.com as quickly as possible by asking if I had AIM? I am still not sure what the difference is between the two but I think the main objective is to divert the attention of the unsuspecting being lured into the spider web by using a less vulgar means of data transmission. It seems to be a tactic used by many chatters.

Upon my return home I arranged our date. It did involve a train ride to the suburbs. There will be no divulgence of details here. They aren't necessary but it was a date like most straight people might experience. At least that is the impression I was left with. While it wasn't un-enjoyable and might have even been fun, it was a bit like the twilight zone. It felt like I was walking backwards on a treadmill. He was a very attractive man and had a great personality, an endearing career and a very nice ass.

We obviously come from two different worlds though. And the one thought that kept me at bay was, can these two worlds ever merge? Will he ever move out of his parents' house? In the end wouldn't I just be regressing to a place that I left long ago and have tried to keep at arm's length since?

My answer was no, there would be no regression so to speak. Not on my part. If he wants to see me again it will be on my terms. All politeness aside this isn't a do-or-die for me. There are plenty of bears after my honey pot and while most of them only get a taste it is becoming progressively more apparent that finding someone to give the whole pot to will take a lot more patience and a lot less chatting on GAY.com.