Breaking Boy News

A New Guy

2011-03-16T10:13:00.000-05:00

I've fallen off the radar because a guy swept me off my feet. But now I'm getting up and brushing myself off and getting oriented and creating a new routine. There will be more to report here soon. Stay tuned.

Chasing the Franciscan to Francisco

2010-09-29T23:13:00.001-05:00

When you make it together for fourteen years in a relationship that our society says isn’t legitimate, it should end with a celebration. Instead, ours ended with simple signatures on legal documents. Closing this chapter of my life so that I could freely move on to the next one did bring a bit of relief, but it was far from a happy moment. We shared very good times together and the finality of our signatures underscored that it was truly over. Done.

We were both getting what we wanted, relatively. We met in the conference room at his office, and signed all the paperwork. Most of the major details had been worked out, but there were still a few loose ends that still need to be cleaned up. And given that we hadn’t really reached a stalemate during any part of this process over the past two years, there was no reason to believe any details would fall through.

He got the condo and I got the car, as well as my freedom. Without a legal mailing address, I had half my clothes at the condo – my winter wardrobe, and a few other items. The loose ends were minor, like leaving your jacket at a friend’s house one night while watching the Miss America Pageant and you just have to schedule a time where you can retrieve it.

He handed me the car key. He still had to sign the mortgage papers.

“That’s all you need from me, right?” I stuffed the copies of my paperwork into my bag.

“That’s it,” he said.

I stated to get up.

“Oh, the condo keys,” he said, “could you just leave them with the doorman?”

It felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. I knew I would have to give him the keys at some point. But keys were a big deal to us. In our life together, we gave keys to friends who we trusted to come sweeping in at a moment’s notice to do things like feed the cat in a crisis, or if we were stuck in traffic, they could get the vodka chilling on ice before we arrived. And now, even with half of my wardrobe still there, a dog we have cared over for fourteen years, and boxes of stuff that I needed a place, he was asking me for the keys. I had figured when I had those details worked out, I would volunteer the keys to him, suggesting he leave my name on the emergency contact form with the doorman.

If I were the crazy lunatic ex-boyfriend who left boiling rabbits on the stovetop, I might understand, but I’m not. Since moving to the lesbian pad, my arrival was always announced. And when I came to get something I needed, I always cleared it with him first. I felt that all we had left was respect, and if I didn’t at least honor that, we’d be throwing chafing dishes at each other.

“Okay. They’ll be with the doorman.”

It took everything I had to hold it together until I could get out of the building—the building for the job that my professional network helped him get. I practically ran to the street, where I lost it. Walking to the condo to get the car, the finality of our separation and the depth of its sadness hit me like a city bus squashing a bicyclist.

I walked to the condo to get the car, unable to hold back the ugly cry, making it one heck of an ugly walk.

I am alone now, I thought. I don’t even have a mailing address. All I have is a car.

I walked past the Paralegal’s building. Alone, I walked the route we took to discover gin martinis. I walked by myself down the sidewalk where the Lawyer and I plastered “You Are Beautiful” stickers on street signs and overpasses. The stickers were still there, staring me in the face. Permanent mementos to the bliss we once had.

* * *

The Franciscan and I had the opportunity to cross paths three times since our big masturbatory weekend. I had a few miles I was able to cash in to visit him during Memorial Day weekend, and it provided a great distraction, for a weekend where I would have been, otherwise, alone. On another occasion, we both found ourselves traveling for business to the same city at the same time. And most recently, when he was traveling for business, he delayed his Chicago layover long enough to attend a pool party hosted by another member of our big masturbatory weekend workshop.

I picked up the Franciscan at the airport, and then we drove off to Michigan City, where our friend and his partner have a second home. In the car, as we passed through the toll plaza, he popped the question.

“So because I’ve already had two bourbons, can I ask, what are our rules?”

It was classic man: the feelings come out after the second cocktail. I found it interesting that he wanted to know what our rules were, having not really even defined what our relationship is. He’s a man, who came into my life, and I felt close to, safe with, and the feeling was pretty mutual, only he lives in another city and has a boyfriend. Knowing at the end of the day, I will most likely be the one with a broken heart, I decided to tread lightly, meaning passive-aggressively.

“What do you think our rules are?”

“I’ve been reading this book about polyamorous relationships called, Ethical Slut, and it’s turning me on to an entirely new language for relationships. But, as the book points out, this language doesn’t even really encompass reality. For example, it talks about primary relationships and secondary relationships. And my relationship with my partner would be my primary relationship, and my relationship with you would be my secondary relationship. But as the book says, there really isn’t a language, so even though its secondary, it doesn’t really mean secondary…”

I interrupted. The Franciscan tends to intellectualize everything. Even a hand job, so of course he was going to intellectualize his feelings.

“I’m familiar with the book. And I’m familiar with the challenges and the concepts of polyamorous relationships.”

“So you’ve read the book?”

“No, but I’m familiar with it, and I’ve seen enough documentaries to know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, well, then you understand the concept, so you know about secondary relationships. I would consider you my secondary relationship and I want you to be happy. So when a man comes along who provides you everything you want and deserve, I’m fine with you having another primary relationship. I want that for you.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or not, but it was clear to me he saw us in some sort of relationship, and as such, could be defined with some form of negotiated structure and rules. But I still had no idea how he felt. How can you begin to negotiate structure and rules without first being confident of feelings?

“I totally understand the theory, but what I don’t understand, and what you haven’t said is how you actually feel.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Okay, well, in no particular order of importance. I really enjoy the sex we have. It’s hot. Very hot.”

He reached over the center console and squeezed my inside thigh. I was beginning to sense that this was primarily just about the sex. Maybe it went deeper, but it certainly was on top of mind for him.

“I agree. But that’s an activity, not how you feel.”

“I enjoy the time we’ve spent together, and I am looking forward to the time we’re going to spend together. I’m so glad to see you. I’m grateful for your friendship, for your presence in my life. For the conversations we’ve had. I really appreciate your playfulness, and how you challenge yourself to keep improving yourself. To learn and expand.”

“Well, thank you. The feelings are mutual. I enjoy your company, and I appreciate your ability to listen, and the way you validate my feelings.”

“I just don’t want to have a situation like what happened with the Veterinarian, which is why I want to know what the rules are.”

The situation he was referencing had unfolded between me and another member of our big masturbatory weekend. The Veterinarian and I had hit it off, and he lived around the corner. The problem was grounded in the fact that he has a boyfriend. But unlike the Franciscan, whose boyfriend knows about the masturbatory weekend, the Veterinarian has kept everything in the dark. In fact, I didn’t learn he had a boyfriend until the second time we got together after the big weekend and he offered to give me a foot massage. It was then, as he was rubbing my feet that I realized this man is a catch.

“So where is your boyfriend?” It’s a magic question that needs no words to be answered. An immediate response and the man is single. Any awkward pause, and he has a boyfriend he doesn’t want you to know about. The Veterinarian had an extremely awkward pause.

“It’s complicated.”

“As complicated as you make it.”

He explained to me that they have been dating for six years, but have never lived together. For the past two years, his boyfriend has been unemployed, and the Veterinarian doesn’t have the heart to break it off while he’s unemployed. So as a result, he slogs through life, making himself miserable because he caries too much guilt to be able to take care of his needs first.

Having a non-existent sex life with his boyfriend, the Veterinarian was really looking for a fuck buddy. And while I wasn’t opposed to serving that role, I knew I needed friendship more than anything. Particularly at this point. When I told him that was all I was really asking for, to be able to call him up on Saturday morning to see if he’d like to go to brunch and then to the beach or to a movie, he told me that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t figure out how to tell his boyfriend about me and how we met. To acknowledge me would be to acknowledge he was messing around on the side because they were no longer having sex.

It all seemed so complicated, and the truth, to me, seemed so much more simple.

After dinner one night, the Veterinarian asked me back to his place, which I knew would have us naked in bed. That was a lot of work for someone who had to keep me a secret. He still wasn’t willing to provide the level of friendship I wanted in return, so I told him to take me home.

I didn’t feel an obligation to keep his secrets and insisted he take responsibility for them. He could either tell his boyfriend the truth, or dump him, which he confessed he wanted to do. And when I held my ground, he blew up in frustration, and hasn’t been in touch since.

I shared his frustration and his disappointment. When he kicked me out of the car, he expressed that we could have really had something. It struck me that it was a really big secret at my expense. And I just couldn’t do that.

It was different with the Franciscan. He lived in another city, and it’s not like we could have a casual dinner after a rough day at the office to decompress. Our time together had to be mapped out. And, in spending that time together, he was in touch with his partner, or his primary relationship as he was now referring to him, and I was not hidden.

“So rules? What do you think is going to happen?” I asked. It was only a ninety-minute drive from the city to Michigan City.

“I don’t know. Honestly, if it could happen, I’d love to hang you over the edge of the hot tub and fuck you from behind.”

“Well two things. One, there is no hot tub. Just a pool.” I glanced at him.

“Okay, over the edge of the pool.” His grin extended ear to ear.

“Two. While they want a naked pool party, they don’t want an orgy.”

In planning the party, I had a lengthy conversation with our friend about what they were looking to have—a pool party where people were comfortable swimming naked. But they didn’t want it to evolve into an orgy. We talked about how just hosting a party with boys, mixing them with a pool and serving up alcohol, and eventually the swimsuits would come off. But if they were to invite people to a naked pool party, it would start at a different energy level that would be just plain creepy.

“Okay. So what does that mean?” The Franciscan seemed to be pretty confused. So I made it pretty clear.

“It means I’m not going to be the one who pushes it over the edge and makes it an orgy.”

“And I’m not going to be that person either. But if the opportunity presents itself to play with someone, either alone, or in a three-way with you, or even a four-way?”

“If the opportunity presents itself to do that privately, that’s one thing. But I’m not going to throw that energy out.”

“I think it would be kind of hot to play with them as a couple.”

His constant focus on heightening the sexual was a bit exhausting. It’s not like we were talking about a swingers club that was going to end in an explosive orgiastic finale, we were talking about a backyard barbecue.

“You are free to do what you have to do.”

He grabbed my hand.

“I just really appreciate you in my life, so I want to make sure I’m clear on expectations. I’ve told you how I feel. What are your answers to the same questions?”

Even without my emerging clairvoyance, I knew he was going to turn this around and eventually ask me the same questions. On the one hand, I felt a little relieved to know that he wasn’t looking for something from me I couldn’t provide, like the Veterinarian. On the other hand, I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for from him. I thought about my words for a moment, knowing they would resonate energy long beyond our time together that weekend.

“I see you as practice.”

“Practice?”

“Yes. You are practice until the real boy comes along. Beyond that, I’m not really sure what I need from you or even what I want from you. So until I figure all that out, you’re just practice.”

I realized that my words could be perceived as cutting, but he had already labeled me a solid second place. It only seemed fair to declare this a practice race that doesn’t matter other than preparation for the final competition. I continued with my thoughts.

“I really appreciate you listening to me, validating my feelings and concerns, and you provide an opportunity for me to not just figure out what I need but to also practice articulating those needs. And I really appreciate that.”

“Well then, I’m glad to be your practice. And when the real boy comes along, I’d be happy to continue our secondary relationship.” He squeezed my hand. “I really do love you, and I want you to be happy. I’m grateful for the love we have, and if we have that for ten minutes, or ten months, ten years, or a lifetime, I’m grateful to have it and share our connection with each other.”

I squeezed his hand. My heart broke a little, as I wondered what was so hard about what the Franciscan just said that the Paralegal or the Lawyer could not say that. They could not step into the common space that we share. The space that is filled with our love for each other. But then, I don’t know that I’ve been fully honest with either of them, declaring that my love is real and that I feel it is mutual, and that I want either of them to step up and participate in that love.

I reminded myself that I was coming in second place, but this was just practice and didn’t count. That soon, very soon, I’d be in shape to bring home the championship trophy husband. Or, at least that was what I was hoping for.

About a half-dozen couples came to the pool party. Shortly after dinner, the youngest one in the group, in his early thirties and in a six-year relationship, came over and sat down next to the Franciscan and me on the screened-in porch.

“So how long have you two been together?”

I smiled. It reassured me to know that others saw the energy between us, that it was real. I laughed silently to myself, waiting to see how the Franciscan would answer.

“Ahhh, well, we’re not together.”

The Franciscan’s words cut through me. I may be in second place, and completely satisfied with that finish with the Franciscan, but that is not how I would have described our relationship.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the guest said. “I thought you were together.”

“Well, it’s complicated. See, my partner is back home. And the two of us met in May at a workshop, which is where we met our host. I was traveling for business and it just happened to work out that I was able to arrange my travel to come for the pool party.”

The man’s head was practically spinning.

“Oh. I see.”

The Franciscan continued to dig a deeper hole with his psychobabble.

“It’s sort of complicated. See, my partner is my primary relationship and he’s my secondary relationship. So it’s sort of a polyamorous situation.”

I had to put a plug in it.

“What he meant to say is that we’ve been dating since May, but his partner is back home.”

“Oh. I see.” Our fellow guest nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to refresh my drink.”

The Franciscan looked at me confused. I just rolled my eyes, shaking my head.

Later that night, when all the guests had gone, our clothes scattered through the house creating a trail to the pool, the Franciscan and I bobbed around in the pool together, naked.

“I think we scared that one guy away.” I dove under the water, swimming through his legs, coming up behind him, wrapping my arms around his thick torso.

“Correction.” I whispered in his ear. “YOU scared him away. I didn’t do anything.”

I licked his ear.

“I don’t know what it was I said?”

“Your psychobabble about primary and secondary relationships.”

“I didn’t know what to say!” His tone was defensive.

“Why not just say, ‘We’ve been dating since May.’?”

He broke my embrace, turned around and kissed me.

“I love you so much. I’m so grateful for you in my life. I just love your energy. Your enthusiasm. How you just live life to the fullest. Your outlook on the world.”

“Thank you. I love you, too.” It has taken months to understand that love is all around and to get used to receiving it when it is given.

“So we are dating is not an accurate statement?” I asked.

“Well no, but it’s complicated.”

“It’s as complicated as you make it.”

“God, I love you.”

“That’s the alcohol talking now.”

He laughed and kissed me again. We got out of the pool, dried off, and climbed into bed, falling asleep tangled in each other’s arms.

The next morning, I drove him to the airport. While I didn’t know when I’d see him again, or the context, I somehow found comfort in our conversations over the weekend. While I didn’t know completely what I wanted from the Franciscan, I had articulated exactly what I did know, and I was proud of myself for being okay with all that was unknown.

* * *

In bringing together the details of the closing of the condo, I had completely forgot the life details of my exhibitionist compulsive sex therapist boyfriend. The Franciscan had told me he would be wrapped up in the Folsom Street Fair. I had never been to the world’s largest leather and fetish street fair and found myself a little envious of the adventure he was about to have, myself facing the prospect of a weekend alone in Chicago. So when he was sharing with me the details, I checked out last minute airfare to San Francisco, thinking a spontaneous boy adventure was the very thing that would prevent me from plummeting into the bottomless pit of a boy deficit.

To my surprise, airfare was ridiculously inexpensive; a weekend in Chicago out on the town would cost more, particularly with a chocolate martini night on the horizon.

So I texted the Franciscan asking him if he was open to me joining him.

“OMG! I’d love to share this experience with you.” He shot me a text back immediately. He had the enthusiasm of an alcoholic searching for the next person to toast. I put a ticket on hold and decided to sleep on it.

The next morning, I got up, completely unsure if I should join the Franciscan in Francisco, or just bail. On the upside, I’d have a great story. I’d see a freak show I have always wanted to see. I’d be in the company of a man who seems to adore me; a requirement for my companionship these days. And, I’d be completely surrounded by men.

On the downside, even though it was cheap airfare, it wasn’t going to help me achieve my financial goals. Based on the conversation with the Franciscan on the way to the pool party, I wasn’t really sure he would be totally available for me. Even with me second, he was still going to want to flirt with boys and mess around should the situation arise. And if all the willing boys on the planet were to dry up, from what I heard, Folsom would be the last place boys would have a drink.

My biggest fear in going was that the weekend would send me into a boy deficit tailspin, reminding me of my loneliness, unleashing my abandonment demons. In weighing the upside and the downside, it became clear to me that I was not going for the experience a romantically intimate weekend with the Franciscan. Rather, I was in search of an adventure with boys, and tagging along with a compulsive sex therapist as my guide.

I called the Franciscan to tell him I was purchasing the ticket. I figured that if there was ever a weekend to train wreck, it would be this weekend. If I were to spend the weekend in the basement bedroom of a lesbian couple where I was living, it was sure to be bad. But if I was open to an adventure on the other side of the country, I might just be okay.

“Well, you’re welcome to come, but here’s the thing.” The Franciscan had called me to confirm the details.

“Yeah?”

“We’re headed to a play party on Saturday night.”

By ‘play party,’ I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about a night of Connect Four.

“Okay.”

“So, if you’re okay with me playing with other people—watching, and/or participating—then you’re welcome to come.”

“Okay.”

“I just had this all set up in advance.”

For a moment, I wondered how productive he could be if he had an actual hobby. A hobby that didn’t involve lube.

“So when you say play party, what exactly do you mean?”

“BDSM. Demonstrations. Participation. I can get you an invitation if you want to come.”

“So what does one wear to a ‘play party?’”

“Boots and a jockstrap.”

“Well, I’ve got the jockstrap, but boots, that could be the make or break. Are boots mandatory? What about Chuck Taylor Converse High-tops? They’re black.”

“Let me check on that and I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay, I’ll wait to book my ticket until I hear from you.”

I researched the play party, and learned that the doors closed only an hour after I was to arrive. A few hours past before I received another call from the Franciscan.

“So I got you an invitation to the play party. You should receive it by e-mail and then you have to go on the Web and sign up.”

“Here’s the thing. The earliest flight I can hop on gets me there in the middle of the play party. I might be able to make it before the doors close, but there is a chance that I won’t make it if I’m delayed at all. So if that’s the case, what do I do?”

“Well then, you’re only coming for basically one day then, so it’s up to you if you want to spend the money to come for that one day.”

“I know. It’s not about the money, or the rules you’ve created in life. People fly across the country for one day to go to a two-hour meeting. Why not a street festival? What I’m asking is what are you doing after the party? Where would I meet you afterwards?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re going out, right? To the Eagle or something?”

“Well, see, here’s the thing. I’m not exactly in charge this weekend.”

There was an awkward pause. It finally hit me what he meant by ‘not in charge.’

“Right. Because you’re going to be on a leash all weekend.”

“Exactly.”

“So this raises a completely different question: you’ve made all sorts of arrangements in advance; am I raining on some daddy’s parade by coming at the last minute?”

There was an awkward pause.

“I’d love to have you come. I’d love to share this experience with you.”

“So am I inserting myself into the middle of something?”

“I wouldn’t say that; you just have to please my sir.”

“Right. Right. And what would I have to do to please Sir?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he hot?”

“Umm, I don’t think you would think he’s hot.”

“Really?”

“From what I know about you, I don’t think you would think that he’s hot.”

“Right. Right. Does he have a pulse?”

* * *

One of the things I love about living in a large vibrant city is that you can find sexy underwear and a pair of used boots on a Friday night long after Macy’s has closed. I fired off photos to the Franciscan’s cell phone of my new underwear, asking which pair I should wear. About twenty-four hours later, I found myself on Bart, headed to a play party that the Franciscan had secured an invitation for. I emerged from the subway in the Mission District, in my bad-ass boots and under my jeans the box-cut briefs with the lift and thrust technology that the Franciscan had picked out remotely. I had changed in the airplane lavatory.

My boots clopped on the sidewalks of San Francisco, past the homeless guy vomiting nothing but alcohol into the street gutter and past the locked-down residential treatment center. The grittiness of San Francisco is always jarring at first, and I thought of the numerous people in my life who would think I’m a complete fool for what I’m about to do, one of them being my former partner.

I had left a fourteen-year relationship for the ability to freely explore an adventure. The list of protests would have been long: we don’t have the money; last minute airfare is always expensive; you can’t stay with a stranger; you always fall asleep when you go out on the West Coast because of the jet lag; that’s a bad neighborhood; you don’t have boots; what are you going to wear? You can’t just go to a leather festival without leather and you don’t have the money to get a leather outfit. And besides, when would you wear that outfit again? You’ll get syphilis!

I thought about all those protests and how ridiculous they are. Even more ridiculous than the fact that I found myself walking down the street wearing a pair of lift-and-thrust hot pants under my jeans and big clopping boots. What’s the point in having a savings account if the money in it is never used? That’s like not opening a nice bottle of wine because it’s Tuesday.

Why not?

I arrived at Department 15, the location for the play party, and an older gentleman wearing leather chaps and a leather vest welcomed me at the door.

“Hi. I just got off an airplane from Chicago.”

“Oh, well, welcome.”
His eyes scanned my body up and down like a Homeland Security screener.

“I’ve never been here, so what’s the story?”

“Once you get checked in, you can head upstairs. There is a clothing check and bag check, and then you’re free to wander around.”

I moved upstairs to the clothing and bag check, where a man in nothing but a white jock strap and leather boots was manning the workstation. His belly hung over the strap of his jock. I explained to him that I had just arrived from Chicago.

“Well, when I arrive somewhere and I’m feeling maybe a little over-dressed, I like to start with taking my shirt off.”

“Oh, good idea.” I took my t-shirt shirt off and he hung it on a hanger.

“And you could take your pants off if you want.”

“Oh, well thank you. I do have a pair of new underwear on.” I flashed him a smile.

“Really? Maybe you’d like to show those off.”

I took off my pants and rolled them up, stuffing them in my backpack. He stood back and looked me over.

“Very wise decision. And your underwear is a very good choice for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, you cold take those off, if you’d like.”

“Maybe later. I think I’d like to maybe build the crowd’s anticipation first.” I had no idea where these words were coming from.

“Honey, anticipation has already been built.” He handed me my coat check tag, which I slipped into my sock.

“Thank you. We’ll just have to see what’s going to happen next, won’t we?”

I turned and walked into the crowd. It was mostly older gentlemen, and I was one of the youngest in the crowd. There was a group clustered around a table of deli and vegi trays from Costco. A bowl of nacho chips sat next to a vat of salsa. A tray of store-bought cookies made up the dessert tray. I had always wondered what type of snacks one might serve at a sex exhibition party.

I rounded the corner, stepping into a large, open warehouse space. Red and blue lights illuminated the space dimly. Men in various states of leather dress wandered around the room, which had several bondage stations set up. Men tied to crosses were being flogged and spanked, while other men stood around watching the action.

I scanned the room looking for the Franciscan. I spotted him, in the corner. His hands were handcuffed behind him. He had a collar on, and man standing next to him held a leash that was attached to it. The Franciscan was kneeling on his knees, sucking a man’s cock.

I watched him pleasure this man to a shuttering conclusion, when the man who had his leash bent over to unlock his handcuffs.

“You did a very good job,” he said.

The Franciscan stood up, turning around. I waited for him to see me, and when he looked at me, I smiled.

He smiled, running over to me, throwing his arms around me, his harnessed chest rubbing up against my shirtless body.

“Oh, baby. It is so good to see you. I am so glad you are here. So excited to share this with you.”

He put his hands on my face and kissed my lips and then held me.

“I’m so excited to move our relationship to a new level.”

I laughed.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I’m laughing at you.”

“I just love you. I love you so much, for being here. I love your spontaneity, and the way you just want to experience life.”

“Thank you. I love you, too.”

“How long have you been standing here?”

“Long enough.”

He laughed. I had no idea what was going to happen next. Not a day from then, not twelve hours, not even twenty-five seconds.

Landing With Airport Guy

2010-09-20T19:30:00.003-05:00

I had a date with Airport Guy. After months of going back and forth, we finally crossed paths again. I had met him sitting in the Admirals Club in St. Louis while on a layover on my way to Atlanta. This was nearly ten months ago. We hit it off instantly, and have managed to stay in touch. Not two weeks after our initial meeting, he was on a business trip to Chicago and we had arranged for our first date.

Joint massages at his hotel spa followed by a leisurely dinner.

“How long have you been dating?” The massage therapist grilled me with all the questions as she massaged my body.

“About fifteen minutes,” I said.

“Ooo, and he’s treating you to a massage? This guy is a keeper.”

“He is. A genuine guy, caring, compassionate, dedicated. Loyal.”

“So you’ve been chatting for a while?”

“Yes. He lives in St. Louis.”

“And you’re from here?”

“Yes.”

“So if you’ve all been dating for fifteen minutes, it’s probably too soon to be talking about who is going to be moving where? Or are you just going to do the long distance thing?”

“Well, he appears to be pretty perfect, but he has a boyfriend.”

“Oh, I see.” She kneaded my shoulders, working in silence for a few minutes. Her tone of voice had indicated that she was dying to know more, but didn’t want to appear too judgmental.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you feel about him having a boyfriend?”

“Oh, it’s fine, really. This is all just practice until the real one comes along, sweeping me off my feet.”

“That sounds like a pretty open-minded way to view that.”

She moved to my feet and started started working on a knot in the center of the arch.

“What part of the body is that connected to?”

“Oh, it’s connected to a muscle that goes up the back of the leg to your calf.”

“No, I mean reflexology, what is it connected to?”

“Oh, right. It’s connected to your intestines. The G.I. track. Sometimes people get knots here when they have a lot of stress in their life. Particularly if you have a lot of change. Men tend to hold that stress in their stomachs.”

On the upside of getting a massage on a first date is that all the stress of the day, week, and quite possibly the month gets worked out. But on the down-side, when you have the knot connected to your intestines rubbed out, it can only lead to one thing: flatulence.

So much for making a memorable impression on a first date.

Gassy and bloated, I sucked down water and wine to cover for my excessive trips to the restroom.

Despite what felt like a suffocating dying baby kicking its way out of my body, we had a pleasant conversation over dinner and our time together was enjoyable. Airport Guy approached life with an emerging sense of adventure, and I could tell he was on his way to single life, even if he didn’t know it. Together, we might possibly be each other’s rebound.

When I returned from the bathroom for the twentieth time in about an hour, I came back to the table to a text message from the other side of my table: “Would you like to stay with me at my hotel tonight?”

I quickly tapped out a reply: “I thought you’d never ask; I’d love to.”

* * *

We continued talking on the phone and chatting over text. E-mailing each other on a regular basis. About a month later, he found himself coming through Chicago again. I had the opportunity to go to the Boat Show with either the Paralegal or Airport Guy. By this time, however, it was apparent that Airport Guy was more interested in remaining stuck in his life, and not interested in moving his life forward. He was just looking for me to be his Chicago Boy Toy for when he came to town.

Internally, I struggled with that concept. Not really opposed to the idea, I couldn’t reconcile how I could develop something with the Paralegal while at the same time establishing something so shallow with Airport Guy.

While I knew I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, I knew I deserved more. I told Airport Guy to not stay through the weekend; that when his business was done, he should return home.

And then I called the Paralegal.

A few months later, I received a lengthy e-mail from Airport Guy. He had moved out, ending his long-term relationship, the promise of the unknown providing more safety and comfort than being stuck in the known. He said there were three men who had been pivotal to his decision and that I was one of them, and he was grateful for our friendship, our conversations, and the kick in the ass I had provided him.

Newly free, the possibilities warmed my heart. Things were not rock solid with the Paralegal.

A week later, he explained via text he had met the new love of his life while running a marathon in Memphis. They hit it off. It was the greatest love ever. And this guy would be moving to St. Louis.

For a moment I felt kicked in the stomach, like I had been looked over, or a knot was forming in the arch of my foot. Or both. Out of sight, out of mind, completely powerless to the ways of the universe.

A month ago, Airport Guy said he would be coming to Chicago for business again, and asked if we could get together. I wasn’t opposed, but I wondered what his story was. I asked him about his new Memphis Boy, but his reply stated he’d just given up on men altogether.

Curious, I brought a flatulent-free sense of mystery to the table to find out what happened, where he’s at today, and why, while in Chicago, he’s still making time to have dinner with me.

“What are you going to wear?” Yoga Girl asked, always the one for fashion, and knowing that I’ve obsessed over it all day long.

“I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe one of the David shirts.”

“Oh, those are all nice. Why not the William?” My wardrobe items have taken on the names of the men who either compliment the shirt or the purchase of the shirt represents the promise of a positive outcome.

“Not sexy enough.”

“The Stalker?” I have a Grindr Stalker who spotted me out and about in a Charlie Brown shirt, and then sent me a message through Grindr, mentioning the shirt.

“Fun, but not formal enough. By the way, I through the Richard in my charity pile the other night. Come to think of it, that was after clairvoyant class and we had to visualize a rose of someone who might be blocking our journey toward clairvoyance. I thought of him and what came up was a dead rose.”

“Oooo, interesting. You’re done with him like an out-of-style shirt.”

Six months ago, I would have never guessed that I’d be throwing on The Dennis in anticipation of seeing Airport Guy again. As I selected the evenings’ neckwear accessory, it occurred to me that I never know what’s going to happen in twenty-five seconds. The challenge is finding comfort in knowing whatever happens next, I can handle and I’ll be okay. And if I can view it as an adventure, all the better.

* * *

He had a glow about him, standing by the bar, that wasn’t present when I saw him in December. We spent the evening catching up. He told me about how he and Memphis Boy went to Hawaii together. That he had spent about three-thousand dollars on a dream vacation, only to have Memphis Boy explode upon him on the airplane home. Memphis Boy had taken complete advantage of his generosity.

“I learned a lot about being in a relationship, and myself.” Airport Guy had a confidence in his voice. I held his hand across the table as he told his story.

“Really? What did you learn?”

“I learned that I don’t need to be in a relationship to be me. That I don’t need anyone else. That I’ll be okay. And if a guy can’t treat me with the respect that I deserve, then I’m better off without him.”

He had come a long way from the first time I met him when he apologized for not being very attractive, to being ready to tell anyone who doesn’t find him attractive to take a hike. It was as if he had bought a package of self-esteem while shopping at Target. I wondered if he had a pocket full of gems and crystals. I squeezed his hand; he could have been my mirror.

* * *

The morning sun bouncing off Lake Michigan poked through the blinds of Airport Guy’s hotel room. Out limbs were tangled in each other. I kissed Airport Guy and then slid out from underneath the covers.

He grabbed my morning stiffness, pulling me back on the bed.

“Where you going?”

I laid on top of him.

“Home. I have to go shower and change for work. Have to catch the train in a little over an hour.”

“You want to go at it again?”

“Yes, I do. But the train…”

He kissed me again, rolling me over, him on top of me. We made out for a few minutes, our tongues exploring our lips. I pushed him off me, licking his nipple as a consolation.

I grabbed a pair of underwear on the floor and put them on.

“Oops. Those are yours.”

“They’re sexy on your.”

“Not form fitting, though.”

I threw on my shirt and he got up to button the buttons.

“I had a really good time last night.”

“So did I,” I said. “It was good to see you, and I’m happy that you’re in such a great spot.”

“Thank you. I’m happy for you, too. I don’t know when I’ll be in Chicago again.”

“Well, when you are, let me know and I’ll make a reservation for the latest hot spot restaurant.”

“That would be wonderful. And if you’re ever in St. Louis…”

“I know. I’ll look you up.”

He tugged on my belt.

“Stop that. I have a train to catch. Save it for next time.”

I walked to the door, turned to give him one more kiss.

“Good bye sweet stuff.”

“Safe travels.”

I slipped out the door. There was a bowl of granny smith apples on the table by the elevator. I took one and bit into it. The bittersweet flavor exploded in my mouth. I was completely grateful for the night I had just shared with Airport Guy. While I enjoyed our time together, it was what it was. For one night, we shared a love and an admiration for each other. We were open and honest and present with each other. I left his hotel room not knowing what was going to happen next. Not knowing if we’d see each other again, or if we would even speak. While the world seemed full of possibilities, there was a completeness to the night that felt comfortable.

And I was completely okay with it.

Finding Home

2010-09-19T17:24:00.000-05:00

I was catching up on Glee. I have to admit, I hadn’t watched it all summer. Not a single episode. For some reason, it was just too painfully lonely to get through an entire episode, so I didn’t even try.

In the middle of the episode, “Home,” Will Schuester and his high school squeeze April Rhodes launch into a melody of Burt Bacharach’s “One Less Bell to Answer.”

One less bell to answer

One less egg to fry

One less man to pick up after

I should be happy

But all I do is cry

I completely lost it, descending into the downward spiral of a snot-inducing ugly cry.

Cry, cry, no more laughter, I should be happy

Oh, why did he go, I only know that

Since he left my life’s so empty

Wallowing in a pit of a snot hole, I realized why this show is so challenging to watch alone: its humor, the sophisticated writing, it’s over-the-top campy flair are all qualities the Lawyer and I enjoy in a good show, and I’d like nothing more than to be sitting with him, watching and sharing. The music used, is, after all mostly from our childhood. It’s celebrated with teenage characters that sing with heart-felt passion the sentiments of a song that was a hit long before they were supposedly born, giving a new ironic twist to these numbers. I love it. We love it. It’s part of the show’s appeal.

But I’m not wrapped up with the Lawyer. He’s wrapped up with a Flight Attendant who comes from a different generation. A Flight Attendant who doesn’t even understand that Cindy Lauper used to be straight, George Michael wasn’t always a sex addict, and Madonna – well, she invented the formula Britney Spears is now using to propel her career forward.

That’s what makes me so sad when I watch the show. The Lawyer and I could be sharing pop culture on such deep and meaningful levels. Could be.

Though I try to forget it just can’t be done

Each time the doorbell rings I still run

I don’t know how in the world

To stop thinking of him

‘Cause I still love him so

I end each day the way I start out

Crying my heart out

Laying there in a puddle of tears, no egg to fry, I realized that’s what was so comforting about the Lawyer. He was my home. It’s why the Paralegal rose to such an elevated position in my world. And the few times I’ve been wrapped up in the arms of the Marine all night, spooning. Each of these men, in some way, they were my home.

They grounded me. They filled me up. They made me feel like we’re all going to be all right.

And I miss that.

Terribly.

I grabbed my iPhone, and despite having deleted the Paralegal from my phone, I managed to fire off a text message.

“I felt at home with you. I miss that.”

An hour and half later, my phone chimed. It was the first time I’d received a text from him since he texted telling me he was headed to rehab.

“I felt the same also. It sorta came from nowhere.”

My heart sank. If he feels the same, if the feelings are mutual, then why is he not here? Why?

(One less bell to answer) Why did he leave me

(Why, why, why did he leave)

(One less bell to answer) Now I’ve got one less egg to fry

One less egg to fry

(Why, why, why did he leave) And all I do is cry

(One less bell to answer) Because a man told me goodbye

(Why, why, why did he leave)

(One less bell to answer) Somebody tell me please

Where did he go, why did he go

(Why, why why did he leave) tell me how could he leave me

I threw the phone across the room. Recognizing my own ridiculous nature, I realized that while the Paralegal can help me to find my home, my center, my groundedness, I can’t depend on him solely. Or the Lawyer. Or the Marine. That place of home must come from me. From within me. Glee is just a silly show, and it will always be there. New shows will come, and with them, new men will enter my life. And at this moment in time, I’m watching Glee alone. But in that, I am home.

I am home.

As much as I wanted to know why, and as much as I wanted to know the answers, I knew in my heart that pummeling the Paralegal with questions would accomplish nothing. And why must I know? He just said he felt the same. He just admitted it came from nowhere. Why must I know, when it just is?

I typed a reply and hit send.

“I know.”

I had found my home.

Never Say No to a Party

2010-09-13T20:59:00.001-05:00

About a week after my appointment with the Psychic, I came home to the Lesbian Pad.

“You’re not going to believe this. Our friend who we haven’t seen in years just stopped by last night and he’s throwing his fiftieth birthday tonight. He’s a really successful gay guy. Don’t know if he’s your type, but there are sure to be other gay guys. You want to come?”

The words of the Psychic echoed in my mind.

Don’t say no to any birthday party invitations.

I went about my day with expressed enthusiasm. And when I got home before leaving, the Lesbians indicated they were exhausted from their day and not really feeling like a party.

“How about you ladies write out a card, extending birthday wishes. Then I’ll hand deliver the card on your behalf.”

I don’t know where this inspiration came from, but when the spirit knows, it moves into action.

The Lesbians signed a card, and I was off and running to a party for a man I did not know.

* * *

By the time the cab pulled up at the address, the party had been going for two hours. It was a Turkish bakery and restaurant, and as I entered it became evident that I was more than fashionably late not for a party, but a sit-down dinner.

There was a long table filled with food. At least a dozen people lined each side. Undulating torsos spun out of control in the middle of the restaurant as two female and one male belly dancer delighted a group of guests who clapped along as they themselves gyrated their torsos to the beat of Arabic music. I burst into the scene, my smile bringing the room to a halt, completely upstaging the dancing bellies.

I looked around to all the guests who were staring at me, with a greeting card in my hand, wondering who I was and was I in the wrong place. The Birthday Boy quickly shook off the belly-dancing crowd leaving the belly dancers like dust in the wind.

“Happy Birthday!” I explained I was hand-delivering birthday greetings on behalf of the Lesbians and that I am the guy who is living in their basement. His face lit up as he welcomed me into his crowd, introducing me to each of his guests. There was a spot at the end of the table and he invited me to sit down and eat. Platters of Turkish food covered the table, and they were all being passed my direction. I had just eaten dinner, but filled my plate nonetheless.

“Oh my God! This is delicious!” The words just came from my mouth.

“What is your name?”

The gentleman sitting next to me tapped my shoulder, his voice a heavy Eastern European accent. He filled a glass of wine and handed it to me. I took the glass from his hand as we locked eyes. His smile radiated joy and his muscled beauty took my breath away.

I looked at the lengthy table of amazing food, and looked back to the foreign man sitting next to me, he had a playful presence, his wire-rimmed glasses giving him a serious look. I wondered if this was the man the Psychic spoke of.

“Your accent. Where from?”

“Poland. Eat! Eat!”

I continued to eat, and the other guests asked me how I was connected to the Birthday Boy. I explained how I knew long-time dear friends of his, and they could not attend at the last minute, so I was there to deliver personal greetings on their behalf.

The Polish Guy watched intently as I spoke. He was quick to refill my wine. The servers came out with more food, even though there was plenty of food left on the table.

“That was just the appetizer course,” the Birthday Boy explained. “Now it’s time for the entrées!”

The Birthday Boy’s guests all protested that there was too much food. They helped to clear the appetizers that had gone un-touched to an empty table next to the party.

I had purposely eaten dinner so that I wouldn’t be gorging on food at a party where I could possibly be meeting my next romantic interest. And here I was, gorging on food so I would at least look like I wasn’t being rude. I was so full.

The Polish Guy got up from the table, excusing himself to go smoke. I had learned how everyone sitting next to me was connected to the Birthday Boy, but I hadn’t learned Polish Guy’s connection to the Birthday Boy.

“Now how is he connected?” I asked they gentleman sitting to my right, who identified himself as one of the Birthday Boy’s long-time friends.

“They are actually dating,” he whispered a hushed tone as if it was a shocking reality.

“Really?” I thought it was a joke, or at least it felt like the Universe was playing a joke on me. There I was, in the setting the Psychic had so vividly described to me, and the foreign guy who just appears is dating the guest of honor.

“Yes, they’ve been on a few dates. He wasn’t even sure he was going to be here tonight, but then he showed up.”

“Interesting. I didn’t sense from either of them any sort of connection.”

“I know. That’s what I thought, too. He seems like a nice guy, just kind of quiet. Maybe he’s shy.”

When the Polish Guy returned, he grabbed the wine bottle on the table, refilling my glass, flashing me a smile. He sat down next to me, running his hand down my back. We engaged in a conversation, but his English was not strong, so we struggled through it.

The male belly dancer appeared again, dancing around the dining room.

“He’s amazingly beautiful,” I said to the Polish Guy. “It’s unnerving.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, his beauty is Christ-like.”

His long, curly, dark hair flowed as he glided across the floor. Shirtless, every muscle defined. I was mesmerized by his undulating abs.

Polish Guy pushed me.

“Go dance.”

“Me? No, I can’t dance.”

“You should dance.” He pushed me again. “He wants you to.”

Reluctantly, I got up from the table. I took a drink of wine, thinking if I’m going to humiliate myself, I might as well go all the way. I approached the Christ-like Belly Dancer, and began to mirror his moves. I looked into his deep dark eyes, swaying my hips as he swayed his. His thin lips broke into a smile. The Birthday Boy’s friends circled around, clapping along, hooting and hollering.

“Who is this guy?” one of his friends asked.

The restaurant had stopped, and the Belly Dancer was no longer performing, but the two of us were involved in an intimate dance originating from our bellies.

When the music was over, I smiled at the Christ-like Belly Dancer, nodding. He returned the smile. I went to sit next to the Polish Guy, but he was gone. At my seat, the wine glass had been refilled.

The birthday dessert arrived: a three-foot tall tower of fruit, with sparklers shooting off it. It looked like Carmen Miranda’s headdress was exploding. Everyone gathered around the spectacle, grabbing their phones to take pictures. I scanned the guests for the Polish Guy, but he was nowhere to be found. I escaped for a moment outside, suggesting that I needed air after the belly dancing routine, hoping to find him standing on the street corner smoking.

No Polish Guy. Just a drunk sorority girl hanging on to the bus stop sign for dear life. I snapped a photo of her and posted it to Flickr, and then went back inside.

I stood by the table of food, grazing, even though I didn’t need any more to eat. I was kicking myself. I should have suggested we grab a drink some time. I should have asked him for his number. I wondered how I could ask the Birthday Boy for his number, maybe suggest we had a fascinating conversation about the Russian Massacre we were not able to finish, and could I get his number to continue the conversation? Why was I holding back? What was I worried about? I saw him, I liked him, and why didn’t I go for it?

The fact he was on a date with someone else, why would that stop me?

Lashing myself with regret, I shoved food in my face.

“What’s your name?”

The Belly Dancer stood next to me, a plate in his hand. He locked his eyes on mine. I introduced myself and he said his name. He had a heavy foreign accent.

“Your eyelashes. They are beautiful.”

“I have a lot of makeup on.” He smiled, and laughed. “It’s supposed to add drama.”

“Well, it certainly does. You have to try all the food. It’s excellent.”

I stepped back from the table.

I watched as he placed food on his plate. I could see his abs moving as he leaned his sinewy torso hovering over the table. His beauty was overbearing and I found it difficult to speak. He was a tall, sinewy foreign man standing next to a large table of food at a birthday party.

“Do you have a card?” he asked.

I realized it wasn’t the Polish Guy the Psychic was talking about, rather it was the Belly Dancer. I handed him my card.

“Do you have one?”

He pulled a card from his waistline, handing it to me. I looked at it. A massage therapist from Indianapolis, specializing in energy healing. My heart skipped a beat.

“So you’re not a full-time belly dancer?”

He laughed.

“No, I’m not. I wish I were though. I never thought I would be doing this at forty-nine. Can you believe that?”

“No, I thought you were maybe thirty-five, tops.”

He laughed.

“No, I meant belly dancing.”

“Oh, well, why not? Somebody has to do the belly dancing.”

He smiled.

“I’ll let you eat. It was nice talking with you.”

“Yes, thank you very much for dancing with me. I get so nervous dancing, but dancing with you, it was nice to have someone to dance with. You’re a very good dancer.”

“Thank you.”

I left the restaurant with a group of new friends, the Belly Dancer watching through the window as we walked away toward a bar down the street to toast the birthday boy.

As we gathered around in a tight circle to toast the Birthday Boy, a small argument erupted as to who was going to buy the first round. I realized I was surrounded by love, and that as long as I’m open to the possibilities that can happen next, they will come my way. Maybe not in the form of a Polish Guy, but rather an undulating Belly Dancer.

Life was good.

Thrash Him With a Dozen Roses

2010-09-02T09:38:00.000-05:00

I was torn between two lovers. Feeling like a fool. One lover, inside of me, wanted to lash out against the Paralegal. The other lover wanted to respond with love and compassion.

Neither felt appropriate.

The First Lover wondered what the sense was in keeping any semblance of secrecy to this blog. Part of the reason it was anonymous was because the Paralegal had gone to rehab. Now that the rehab storyline appeared to be completely fiction, it didn’t seem to matter. Why not come out of the closet? Why not send a link to the Paralegal with a note saying, “I know you like a good story; this one should be a pretty good read.”

But the First Lover was not completely satisfied with that concept. Why not send a dozen roses to the office, the card reading, “http://breakingboynews.blogspot.com”? The women in the office would turn rabid. They would have to know who sent them, ripping the card from his lying, texting fingers. They’d gather around a computer, unable to pull Internet Explorer up fast enough, only to discover the corporate firewall is preventing them access. They’d swarm from computer to computer, trying to find one allowing them access. The skirts would chase the pants suits, who would take the lead shoving unsuspecting men out of the way.

Someone would try pulling it up on their Blackberry. Another racing for the site on their iPhone.

“AT&T, don’t fail me now.”

Chaos would erupt as a pants suit would be to task breaking into the office of a partner who is gone for the day. The link would spread like wildfire, as people fired off e-mails to their personal accounts to dive later from home.

Finally, they would gain access, and the nosey, resourceful pants suit would begin to read it for all the ladies swarmed around. Their hearts would collectively break as they realize the coworker they adore is not the coworker they thought they knew.

It was delicious; First Lover savored the thought.

“It’s just going to cost you eighty dollars, and you wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing that because he would never share that with you,” the Office Ladies said.

They were right. And the Second Lover realized that he reached out to me. He accepted my friend request, and he had to know that I would discover the truth, yet he still reached out. He’s wanting to connect, and it’s quite possibly the most he can do. I should be grateful for that.

The two lovers inside of me were having a spat that escalated to a full-on argument with screeching back and forth. I made a bag of popcorn as I watched the scene unfold in my head, munching on a kernel at a time, wondering what might happen next.

But the next morning when I went to restalk the Paralegal, all the Wall posts that had any connection to me were gone. The message he was missing someone, that he was at the gym for four hours on my birthday, that he was getting a sunburn while he was supposed to be in rehab, they were all gone.

It was as if he was trying to erase his past mistakes.

Yoga Girl suggested that I send him a message, saying what I learned from reading his Facebook page. It sounded like a good plan. I could say what I wanted to say, I could convey the pain he caused. I could demonstrate to him how deeply he hurt me.

It sounded like First Lover was taking over.

I had come to discover that if I eat a big bowl of spaghetti with meatballs before I head to clairvoyant class, I’ve filled myself with the gluttonous comfort food that helps ward of the desire for four chocolate martinis after class. While sitting there, sucking down a noodle, I realized that I actually don’t have to do anything.

First Lover clearly was in a food coma, allowing Second Lover to take over.

Let him come to me. And then, if he does, I can say to him all the things I wanted to say to him.

I was feeling good about arriving at this point. I shared it with a friend in my clairvoyant class. She listened carefully.

“You want some feedback?”

“Sure,” I said, excited that maybe she held the key to the universe and was going to unlock some universal knowledge.

“I keep hearing, ‘you, you, you’ in what you want to say to him. What about you? What do you want? What do you need? Why not something like, ‘I’m in close intimate relationship with people who can be open and honest with me.’ “

Clearly, First Lover was not in a food coma, Second Lover was. Chocolate martinis and meatballs are a strategy of first lover.

As her words resonated through me, Second Lover began to shake off the food coma. I realized I don’t have to heal the Paralegal. I don’t have to right his wrong. I don’t have to reach out to him. That’s not my responsibility to clean up the mess he has created or to solve his problems. And if he’s going to be in my life in any way, he’s going to have to fix the mess.

For whatever reason he reached out to me. For whatever reason, he is trying to erase his past mistakes. And in that moment, is it right for me to thrash him with a dozen roses?

I can just keep on keeping on, living my own fabulous life. Posting my own fabulous Wall posts and photos. He will see the same messages motivating people to say, “I love reading you posts, your life is so interesting.”

And that’s the me that I want the Paralegal to fall in love with. If he can step into that space then, great. And if not, that’s his experience. If for whatever reason he can’t step into the love I have to give, that is his choice, his loss, and its not mine.

Second Lover was on to First Lover.

Facebook Friends

2010-08-30T22:25:00.000-05:00

The Paralegal accepted my friend request tonight on Facebook. A few weeks back in clairvoyant training, we had been playing with manifesting things, flexing our ability to make a request of the universe and then receive it. It’s a powerful tool, we were warned, and before we asked for something big, like a new job or a new relationship, it was recommended we play around with smaller things. Like flowers.

“Something frivolous. It doesn’t matter. Anything,” our instructor said.

“Love notes?” I blurted out.

“Love notes? You want more than one?”

“Why not?”

“Okay, love notes, then.”

So I made my request of the Universe, to receive within two weeks a love note from the Lawyer and from the Paralegal. And then I forgot about it.

Later that week, while dancing the night away on a bench at Big Chicks, one of the songs of last summer came on. One of the songs from when the Lawyer and I were spending our weekend nights tearing up the dance floor. I Shazamed the song, and fired off an e-mail with a message about the song.

“Dancing on a bench at Big Chicks. How much fun are you having?”

The next day, I got a reply from the Lawyer.

“I miss Big Chicks.”

Later that day, I was flipping through photos on Flickr, when I found an image that made me think of the Paralegal instantly. I fired off a message with a link, simply saying that I thought he would enjoy the picture.

He, too, replied that day.

“Beautiful picture. I’m well. I hope you are, too.”

I replied with a picture of his watch on my wrist.

* * *

A few days later, while running during lunch, it occurred to me that those were my love notes. They were the most love either of these men could ever express toward me. And that I was asking the Universe for something neither of these men could provide. The Lawyer, in his brevity, said as much with words as he did without. He’d never been to Big Chicks before, and I was the one to introduce him to its charm. By declaring this he missed Big Chicks, he was really saying that he missed us, and the time we spent together there. Our nights on the town, flirting. And the Paralegal, it was the most he could do to acknowledge the message.

But it didn’t end there.

About a week later, I got a random message from the Paralegal. It was an image of the skyline of Chicago. There was no text in the message, just a subject line.

“My walk.”

A few days later, I sent him a simple message recalling our relaxing adventures together.

“I miss Sundays.”

He replied the same evening.

“Ditto.”

It seems a simple dialogue with the Paralegal had begun again.

So when I exchanged some credit card points for movie vouchers, I fanned them across my desk, snapped a picture, and emailed them off to the Paralegal. A nod to our shared fondness of walking across town and going to the movies.

I was completely surprised when the Paralegal, after weeks, maybe even months, accepted my Facebook Friend request tonight, the same night I sent him a photo of movie coupons.

I looked over his page, and his wall post updates. His spirits seemed to be high, he still had the quirky view on the world that I have fallen in love with. He’d reported through Wall posts that he is running more and more. I was happy for him.

But then I noticed he was posting messages from parties. He was still going to dance the night away at Visions Nightclub. Curious for a boy who had just been in rehab. And then, Memorial Day weekend, when he was in rehab, he posted that he was headed to the beach, only later to have a sunburn.

My internal stalker kicked in, and I kept clicking “Older Posts.” For two hours, I sat there combing through his Wall posts, pulling out my journal and comparing dates and time stamps. The day he went to rehab, he went for a run. The night he was supposed to be at a fundraiser with me, he was at home in bed, watching a movie. My birthday, which he had agreed to take off to spend with me, he spent four hours at the gym.

I was heart broken. Wrecked. Furious. The tears I shed for him. The pain I felt for him believing he was going through rehab. The confusion of whether or not I should let him go or keep him close to my heart, sending him light and love.

When I was there, with him, I just felt his love was real.

But then, there, on his wall it was. On the Saturday I was at my friends’ lake house and I was receiving text after text from him of adoring love, he posted, “I’m missing someone.”

After our walk to the zoo, dinner on the town, and watching a movie, he posted, “The most BEAUTIFUL day.”

There were others, too. The nine pictures he uploaded all snapped in the Art Institute on our afternoon there.

All evidence that what was there was real. For the moment that we shared. For the moment our spirits tickled each other with laughter. For the moment we held each other’s hands. For the moment we looked into each other’s eyes and stopped breathing.

I am certain it was true love we had.

And I am certain it was true love that had been broken.

Rabid Hot Mess

2010-08-28T08:14:00.001-05:00

Vodka lemonade. Black Eyed Peas. Katy Perry. Lady GaGa. Michael Jackson. Midnight free shots. The summer night was hot and Yoga Girl and I were dancing on a bench at our favorite watering hole, Big Chicks. We were fully accessorized in the chakra crystal of the month, and dancing into the morning hours.

From the bench, we had a view of the entire dance floor, where we looked at boys, made eyes, flirted, and used our developing clairvoyant powers to move energy about the crowd.

A short straight chick climbed onto the bench next to me. Her spiked heal pierced through my sandal, stepping on my toe. She clung to my new designer shirt, like a pawing sorority girl, trying to steady her drunken self. She is the textbook definition of Hot Mess.

“You are so handsome.”

She thrusts her breasts into me.

“Thank you. Step away, please.” I continue dancing, not making eye contact.

“Oh, my gosh. So cute. I should take you home.”

“Step away. You are in my space.”

“Don’t you think this dress makes my breasts look good?” She shoved her breasts together, looking down at them, and then me, smiling.

“They’re lopsided. Not into that equipment. Back away, please.”

She threw her arms around me, grinding her hips into me, as if feeling her flabby rolls of womanhood rubbing against me would transform me into a new man.

Occasional a random Hot Straight Girl Mess gets lost on the Northside of Chicago and will wander into a gay bar, thinking her straight bar tricks are going to work in a gay setting. Why women think their space should be respected by a man when they say no, but that courtesy is not returned is beyond me.

“This is the last time I am going to tell you to stop touching me.”

Despite my final warning, she continued to run her hands up and down my chest, which forced me into a defensive dance pose, swinging my elbows wide and out with great force. My elbow jabbed her in the ribs.

“UHHH!” She belted over. Her two gay friends reached to grab here.

“Honey, get down from the bench. You’re going to fall over.” One coaxed her off the bench and on the ground.

Yoga Girl and I didn’t miss a disco beat.

Recovered from the rib jab, Hot Mess went rabid, throwing me the bird as she danced. I didn’t react but kept dancing in my own world. When Rabid Hot Mess didn’t get the reaction she hoped for, she recruited her two gay boyfriends to also throw me the bird along with her, as if the triple bird is some sort of Achilles’ heal to my gay superpowers.

“Take it back to Wrigleyville and try it in a straight bar, you Rabid Hot Mess!”

Yoga Girl tuned in to what was happening, and went ballistic.

“Oh, get a grip, Sister! Your heterosexist power doesn’t work here!”

Psychic Intervention

2010-08-24T22:22:00.001-05:00

“Hey. I’m back. I hope you are well.”

That was the message I got from the Paralegal about a month after he went into rehab. It unraveled me. Once a week while he was away, I sent him a message that I was thinking of him and he was not alone in his process. That I was there to support him however he needed to be supported. I didn’t expect a response from those messages, thinking he might be in complete isolation, but sending him love and compassion was just as much for him as it was for me.

For a month, I meditated on the knowledge that he could have disappeared into rehab without letting me know. But he didn’t. And through depths of missing him, it provided comfort to know that he cared about me as much as I cared about him, otherwise he would have just vanished. So I tried to relax into knowing that when he could, he would be in touch again. It was easier said than done.

And there he was, in touch. My intuition had been right, and for a moment there… As much as I wanted to know, I realized that for all the questions, I didn’t need the answers. That probably the worst thing I could do for him would be to badger for an explanation. But why did I need an explanation? If he wanted me to know, he would tell me. And if what was between us was real, the answers would come with time. I knew he was alive, he made it through, and that was most important. I tried calling, but he did not answer. I tried sending messages, but they were not returned. I thought about sending flowers, but for all I knew, he could have quit his job.

It hurt.

It hurt, and I was furious. I swam. I ran. I rode my bike. I meditated. In his absence, I tried to fill my time with taking care of me. How could he not know how much I cared? How could he not acknowledge the love that I was sending? How could be so self-absorbed to think that his problems were bigger and more important than my problems? We all have problems, and we deal with them.

Oh, addict. That’s what addicts do. Their problems are bigger than anyone else’s in the world.

There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could control. Except for my own feelings, and my own reaction, and letting him go.

The week after the return of the Paralegal, I was having a hard time breathing in the reality. I found myself wondering if I should ask myself for patience, giving him space and time, or if I should let it be. The voice in my head from the night we met still haunted me, and his inability to acknowledge the love and support I was offering practically killed me. Every time my phone would chime, I’d leap for it, only to discover it was some breaking headline news about the former governor’s criminal trial, causing me to sink into the depression of empty hope. A complete train wreck with the inability to focus, it was time for a romantic intervention; I needed divine guidance.

I called the Psychic.

* * *

The Psychic invited me into the small, closet-sized room. She is a round soft woman with curly dark hair. She sat down behind a small table-clothed desk and encouraged me to sit, too. A few crystals and scattering of angel figurines sat on the table. The only thing missing from the stereotypical setting was a crystal ball. Instead, a tape recorder was in the middle of the table.

“I’m gonna call upon the arch angel Gabriel and all my spirit guides to help me see the divine wisdom of the universe with an open heart and good intentions.”

She had a Kentucky Southern Accent with a heavy emphasis on the first syllables and while dropping the final consonants. The Psychic was perky and upbeat, her eyes were wide open with anticipation.

“What questions would ya like answered for today?”

I told her about my former partner, and that we had separated but still owned a condo together. I asked her about the sale of the condo.

“I feel like ya got the right agent. Yes. She’s the right agent, and she’s working very hard for you. I can see that you both want it to sell, and it will, but it’s just gonna take some time. It’s gonna happen, you just gotta be patient. ‘Cause the right people have to come along, who have the money. I feel like you’ll get what you want for it, but it just is gonna take some time.”

She looked up, as if she was reading her third eye.

“I don’t see you there right now. Are you livin’ somewhere else?”

“Yes, I’m house-sitting for some friends who are working overseas right now.”

“I think that’s good. I think that’s going to help the condo to sell faster. Your former partner, he’s really struggled with releasing you and letting go. Hasn’t he? While you were there, he was still holding on to you and your relationship. You had some good times though, didn’t you. But it just wasn’t working any more, and he’s had a hard time letting that go.”

She broke into a smile, and started to giggle.

“But you’re having fun now. Oh, my gosh are you having fun. You’re beginning to feel at home where you are and with who you are. So yes, just be patient, and the condo will sell. There’s just not a lot of money in the universe right now, so it’s just gonna take some time. What else do you want to know about?”

I told her about the Paralegal and asked her if I should have patience with him or let him go.

“I see he’s a lot younger than you are, isn’t he?”

“Well, he’s thirty.”

“Really? ‘Cause I see someone who is about twenty-four. He’s really immature right now. He needs to do some growing up. You’re both in different spaced right now. You’re just in different spots. It’s been a real short relationship, like only a few months. Hasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But y’all have had fun. A lot of fun when you’re together. But I only see you getting together once or twice a month. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, see, ‘cause I see you sitting by the phone a lot waiting for him to call, and that doesn’t make you very happy. It’s very frustrating to you. It’s as if he’s not respecting you. See, I’m getting the feeling he wants to play the field a little.”

Her words were not a real surprise to me, but nonetheless tears filled my eyes with disappointment. I had wondered if he was seeing other men, and while I wanted to have that conversation with him, I felt having it implied that I wanted to see him exclusively. I was okay with the idea, I just was not ready for exclusivity. I didn’t want to define anything yet. When we talked about taking it to the next level, I didn’t know what exactly I meant or wanted, but I did know I wanted to see him more regularly. And if he was fine with me dating other people, I was fine with him dating other people until we figured out what each of us were looking for.

Maybe I should have just said that.

“I’m sorry. That’s not what you wanted to hear, I know,” she continued. “He’s just not ready for a relationship, but neither are you. I feel like he really helped you to move forward, though. He’s facilitated a lot of healing and growth for you, and you can be grateful for that.”

I nodded. She was right about moving forward and the healing. Her words had finality to them that stung; it sucked.

“He just doesn’t know what he wants right now. He’s real confused and he’s not taking action. It’s like he’s waiting for someone else to come help him, and you can’t be that person. But you know that. You know that, don’t you? He can only help himself.”

She sat up straight, as if new inspiration had come.

“He’s very creative. He’s like an artist, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” My throat had closed up and it was all I could say.

“I feel like he’s not pursing his passion, though, like he could make a lot of money as an artist. He’s visual. Very visual. And very, very creative. You are creative, too, and you both connect on that level.”

She was right. He was the only man I’ve dated who could respond to my creativity with his own creativity. We fueled each other in sweetly romantic way.

“I feel like he’d have to go back to school, though, in order to be successful at it. He’s not in the right job right now, but I feel like he knows it, and he makes good money at it, but he could make more. But I don’t see him pushing through that challenge of going back to school. Yes, when life gives him a choice, he’s always gonna to take the path with least resistance. But you know that, don’t you?”

I nodded my head. I had sensed the Paralegal would choose the easier direction, even if it wasn’t the right direction.

The Psychic cocked her head to the side.

“Oh, I see another man. Y’all are sitting on grass, having lunch near the water. He’s a really good cook. A really good cook, and there is lots of food and you’re enjoying it. He’s got an accent. I think it’s British. British? The angels, they just keep showing me this really good friend of mine who is British. So he might be British, might not be, but he’s definitely foreign. Definitely foreign. Tall and thin, good-looking. Sinewy. Oh, gosh, is he good looking. And he’s very gentle. He’s thoughtful and considerate. I don’t know what he does for a living, but he has a lot of time. He’s got a lot of free time. He’s a nurturer, and he wants you. Oh, does he want you. He’s got a good eye for things, and he’s more focused on you than you are on him. He’s like 35 or 36, and he’s got long legs. Like six-foot, three or something.”

She leaned in and placed her hand on her forhead.

“I see you guys meeting at some social event. I don’t know what it is. There is this long table of food. Good food, and you’re standing there. And you just make some comment like, ‘Gosh this food is good.’ And there he is, right there. Maybe he’s the caterer. I don’t know. But it’s a casual meeting, and I feel like this could be a long-term romantic interest for you. If you want it. So, don’t turn down any birthday party invites, and if you hear a foreign accent, tune in! ‘Cause gosh is he good looking.”

She put both of her hands on the table, and took a breath.

“The Paralegal, he’s kind of flaky, isn’t he?”

“Can be.”

“Yes, you can’t depend on him. Wait. Is he somewhere? He’s not around right now. It’s like he’s in rehab.”

“He just got out.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t have to tell you, you know this, but that is not a good foundation for a romantic relationship! Skip it. I would not pursue this as a romantic relationship.”

She was filled with compassion, aware her words of truth were cutting deeply through my heart.

“This is not the last time he will be in rehab. He’s a real good guy. A good soul, and he’s surrounded by a lot of angels. A lot of angels. Like a dozen angels who are all rooting for him. He’s surrounded by a lot of love and light right now. But you will always be the adult and he will be the kid, and that’s just not a good foundation. You know that, though. He’s gonna be on a roller coaster most of his life. He’s burned a lot of bridges. Ooo, a lot of bridges. And when you see a person who has burned a lot of bridges, you have to ask yourself, what’s the common denominator? It’s him.”

She nodded. I wondered how much truth there was to the Paralegal’s stories of abuse, and recognized there are two sides to the story. What was his role in staying in a relationship filled with abuse? The psychic was filling in enough of the blanks for me to know.

“You know what I’m saying. You need an equal. Someone who really loves what they do. Who makes enough money. Like this guy I keep seeing. Oh, gosh, is he good-looking. I don’t know what he does, but he’s got a comfortable life. He doesn’t see his family much, but he’s got no family issues. I feel like he doesn’t see them much but that’s because they live far away, like overseas or something. Because he’s foreign. But he had a good childhood and he has no issues he has to work through.”

She shook her head.

“The Paralegal, he’s just not balanced and grounded. He’s got a lot of work he needs to do.”

The Psychic rest her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, her eyes bursting with insight.

“You like the chase! You really like the chase! You like the chase, don’t you? You need to be careful about that. In fact, you need to ask yourself why you like the chase. You need to ask how come you like to chase. What is that about? Because you deserve someone to chase you.”

She sighed.

“You need to be patient with yourself, ya know? Cut yourself a break. You need to sort out your feelings and what you want. I don’t see the Paralegal being present for you like you have been present for him, and you deserve that. You need a trip this summer. A vacation. A vacation all by yourself, where you don’t have to worry about anyone but yourself. The angels are telling me they are sending people your way. New people. They are trying to expand your social circle and bring new people into your life. ‘Cause you lost some friends. Some of your friends have sided with your former partner and that’s been very painful for you. So the angels, they are working very hard to bring new people your way.”

The Psychic’s face filled with optimism, which was comforting. She was correct in that several people who had been regulars in my life were no longer returning my calls or my messages, yet I knew they were in touch constantly with my former partner. It weighed heavy on my heart. My former partner and I had seen enough breakups to know that someone gets the friends, and we made a conscious decision to not battle over friends, but let it unfold as it might.

“You’re growing a lot. You are about to burst out of your shell. The Paralegal, he brought a lot of information to the forefront, didn’t he? A lot of information for you to deal with. He’s been very good for you in that way.”

All I could do was nod.

“ ‘Cause you struggle with being alone, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“You need to work on feeling good on your own. You’ve gotta find the power in being alone, that you’ll be okay, and then own it. You hang on to relationships way too long, don’t you? Every relationship. Not just with your former partner, but your friends, too. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta let people go.”

She had taken all of my demons, arranged them on a platter and served them right up.

“You gotta be comfortable on your own. Define yourself in terms of yourself. You change and shift in the relationship to accommodate the relationship. You’ve gotta be comfortable with being with yourself alone. And I only see you having a few months to figure this out because you’re a relational person. You feel lost without a relationship. How can you feel good about being by yourself, and not lost?”

I knew the questions she was asking. I’d grappled with them before, even asking them of myself. But I didn’t know the answers and she wasn’t providing any clues. Panchakarma hadn’t worked, energy healings hadn’t worked. And now the Psychic was completely useless to providing the answers.

Maybe the answers were somewhere within me.

“If you can figure that out, then you can figure out how to be independent in a relationship. If you don’t, then you will shift and change. You’re like a chameleon, you take on a new role in a relationship and you change. You change to be who they want you to be. You ask yourself who do they need, and you become that person. And then when you leave the relationship, you resent them but it is you who has changed. It is you that has changed. It is you that you should be resenting.”

I could barely breathe. She sat back.

“You need to spend time alone every week. Find a way to be alone every single week.”

The task seemed like an impossible journey, and I hoped she would change the subject off of me for a moment. I didn’t come here to find out about me; I came here to find out about the men in my life.

“The Paralegal, I see a lot of mother issues there. His mother has some bad karmic energy. She’s strong-willed, like a bully. And I keep seeing Momma, Momma, Momma. It’s almost like she’s coddling him like a toddler.”

“He calls his mom, Momma,” I said.

The Psychic shivered and clutched her chest.

“Oooo! Spooks me out when the angels are right. Gives me the chills. Well, if you are in touch with him, you need to encourage him to step back from his mother, to get some perspective so he can set up a different direction for his life. Ooo, this is just weird. It’s like he’s the little boy.”

She shook her head as if to erase the vision.

“Is your former partner dating someone?”

“I don’t know. Could be.”

“Well, if he is, that’s good. It is good for him and it’ll be good for you. It will help you and it will help the condo to sell faster. It will motivate him to get things moving along. But you’re getting to know yourself now. See, you’ve never known yourself outside of a relationship, and now you’re getting to know yourself. You’re strengthening yourself.”

She was back on me.

“You need to focus on your root chakra and your crown chakra. Your root chakra gives you the sense that you are okay; that you have everything you need. And your crown chakra gives you the feeling that you are connected. ‘Cause you’re never alone. Never. You have lots of angels around you.”

She said that with such a matter-a-fact aplombness, as if whenever feeling lonely, I should just be comforted that I’m sharing my life with a gaggle of angles floating around me. That sounded completely crazy.

She set both her hands on the table and leaned in, her eyes burned with intensity.

“Your fear of being alone is your greatest downfall. You have got to be asking yourself, Who am I? What do I want? What kind of partner do I want? Why am I afraid of being alone? Why? What am I passionate about? What do I want? What do I dream?”

She waved her hand through the air as if she was brushing the answers with her fingers.

“See, you learn through relationships. Ya know, I think you’re afraid of your power. You’ve gotta get over that and own your power. You can do great things. Amazing things, but you have to own your power.”

For a moment, I thought she might have been channeling a demon, but she was so filled with love, it felt like the truth.

“I see a lot of abandonment. A lot. You’ve got this fear, what if no one wants me? My gosh, this goes back many, many lifetimes. I literally see you being left in a basket on the doorstep of an orphanage. And in another lifetime, your mother died in childbirth. Your father has died when you were just a child in another. You know about past life regression, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“If I were you, I’d go see someone. Someone who’s been doing it for a while, and I’d clear all that stuff out because you’re just carrying it around in this lifetime and its not doing you any good. No good at all. But don’t go to some cheap schlock you would find off the street. Go to someone really good, who can clear it all out in one sitting.”

It does not escape me that I am living a life where my chiropractor recommends I get a second opinion from a psychic, who recommends a past life regression to emotional wounds my spirit has carried through lifetimes. It just keeps getting deeper.

“How does that help?” I asked, wondering if antidepressants would have been a cheaper route.

“By understanding. See once you understand something, you can let it go. It helps with forgiveness and letting go. When we’re aware of it, you can go deeper, and it frees you. Once the condo sells, everything is going to change for you. Your money situation is going to get better, new people are coming into your life. And look for that camaraderie with your friends because you’ll be less likely to find a relationship, and you really don’t need to be tied down right now. Your spirit is really wanting to grow and learn.”

United Healthcare would, in most situations, not question my need for an antidepressant, but they won’t come anywhere near covering crystals and energy healing.

“I feel like you have a lot of regrets and you need to be a little easier on yourself. Stop beating yourself up. You got any more questions for me?”

“What about the Lawyer?”

She grimaced.

“He’s a little toxic. He’s got a lot of his own issues and he’s a little messed up right now. Be strong with him and stand firm. Don’t beat yourself up over him, because he’s bad news right now. He’s got a lot of toxic energy.”

She had a coldness that was matter-of-fact, as if she extended any energy toward him, it would just be sucked into a black hole to never be returned. Her cosmic evaluation was eerie.

“He’s a beautiful man. Oh, is he beautiful. But he draws you in and then he bites you. He’s like a snake. He’s very upset and angry right now, and he’s taking his anger out on others. But he’s going to have to get in a really ugly situation before he gets unstuck. Like I feel he’s going to have a coming-to-God moment that is going to push things to the limit. So avoid him.”

I knew what she was talking about. When we were together, he would open up, as if it was safe to dream, to be true to his authentic self. Yet, he’d built a life completely compartmentalized, and when he returned to the other compartments, it was there that his logical mind would ignore his feelings and emotions, allowing him to make the very bad decisions that were leading him further and further into a life of unhappiness. Any attempt to follow would only lead to my own unhappiness.

“You need someone who is much more balanced. Who amplifies joy and success for you and him. Someone with lots of friends, who loves you, who wants you, but doesn’t need you. Like this man that I keep seeing. He’s happy in his life and he will help you be in a peaceful place. Relationships help balance you.”

She had told me what I already had come to learn: I’m relational, and relationships help to ground me and guide me in life, but if I can’t be my own person in that relationship, then I’ve got a one-way ticket to hot mess.

“I don’t want to mislead you. This man is not perfect. He’s a control freak in the kitchen; very short-tempered in the kitchen. And he snores. Boy, does he snore. And when he gets mad, he shuts down and you have to say, ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ ‘Cause he gets snippy or silent. But the good news is that it takes a lot to get him angry. He can’t remember birthdays or anniversaries. And he has a dog. A little dog that is not very well trained. But I see lots of picnics for you and being outdoors. And you enjoy each other’s company, and that’s what’s important.”

Her words were heavy on my heart.

“But you need to be comfortable with being by yourself. And when you’re uncomfortable, you need to think about why. And when it comes to new men, if you find yourself saying, ‘I can help this person,’ RUN! Run as fast as your can in the other direction.”

Abyss Boy

2010-08-22T08:18:00.002-05:00

Abyss Boy

“Abyss” was tattooed across the go-go boy’s belly. Dancing on a block, he squat down to receive my dollar.

“Hey there,” he whispered in my ear. My hands rest on his substantial, hairy thighs.

“I love your tattoos.”

“Why thank you.”

“So does Abyss mean you’re a bottom?”

“No, it means I’m missing something inside. But I’m finding it through the power of prayer.”

“Oh. I’m glad you’re filling it.” I slipped the dollar bill into his jockstrap fondling his balls.

“That’s not ball sweat, just oil.”

They'll Send Us to Rehab

2010-08-18T23:20:00.001-05:00

“Sisterfriend, I found this place that does free energy healings every Thursday. You want to go?” I called Yoga Girl as soon I found the Clairvoyant Center of Chicago.

“Oh, absolutely. Sounds like an adventure, Sisterfriend.”

“I was thinking dinner after work and then find our way to the Center for a healing.”

“Hey, maybe we could swing by the Chakra Shoppe to see Blanche. I’m thinking I need some more crystals.”

I absolutely love Yoga Girl’s unquestioning willingness to set off on an unexpected adventure, as well as her ability to up the thrill quotient with her own contribution.

We’d been going to the Chakra Shoppe for quite some time, and have found it is the Target for the New Age, with a wide selections of crystals, incense, books, herbal teas, chakra sprays and lotions, music CDs, and candles, all organized into departments by chakra, as if they are as ubiquitous as housewares and sporting goods. Like Target, we always manage to find stuff we didn’t know we needed, and it’s hard to get in and out of there for less than one-hundred dollars.

The place is run by a woman named Blanche Black who, with a name like that, was destined to specialize in chakra balancing and healing merchandising. Wearing flowing lavender gowns, she appears to be in her fifties, but Yoga Girl and I actually suspect she’s 253 years old, born amongst the Redwoods or something, preserved only by the chakra spray that she mists into her aura every day.

We looked at the merchandise, trying on hematite rings and tigers eye neck charms, picking up rose quartz figurines.

“Looks like that crystal wants you,” Blanche said with a shoulder shrug, a no-pressure sales technique the moment we drop something. “Looks like it picked you; it jumped.”

Sold. No questioning the karmic ways of the universe.

Having searched through all the chakra departments finding everything that is going to throw itself at us, we made our purchase.

“Would you like me to clean and charge your crystals for you?” Blanche packaged our assortments.

“How much does that cost?” I ask, knowing it’s like AppleCare for your iPhone; no matter the cost, I’ll pay for it.

“No charge. It’s just that a lot of people have touched your stones, and they’ve absorbed their karmic fingerprints.”

“Oh, yes, please. Could you clear all that energy that is not ours?”

“Not a problem.”

Yoga Girl and I watch, fascinated. She spritzed a neutral chakra spray onto the stones and then rubbed them with a polishing cloth. Blanche holds the crystal up to the light, then blows on them.

“Whooo-ooo!”

Yoga Girl and I jump up and down, excited, like kids in a candy store watching someone make magic fudge.

Fully aware we probably just dropped a night of dancing and drinks for a bag of fancy gravel on chains, we climb into the car completely convinced our new found energy channels will heal broken hearts and bring eternal love into our lives.

“She probably thinks we’re crazy, falling for her tricks,” I said to Yoga Girl.

“If anyone ever found out how much we drop in the crystal shop, they’d make us go to rehab with the Paralegal for our crystal addiction.”

* * *

Just off the beaten path of downtown Evanston is an old commercial space on the ground floor of an apartment building. It probably had a vibrant history when neighborhood retail was king, but now it’s the headquarters for the Clairvoyant Center of Chicago. Unlike the Chakra Shoppe, it’s a wide-open space, the only merchandise, energy. A rose theme embraces the room, with silk roses and pictures of roses scattered around. A few chairs are randomly placed in the center of the room.

Yoga Girl and I sit down. A young lady sitting in a chair in the middle of the room has tears streaming down her face and snot resting on her upper lip. She looks as if she’s had some sort of an emotional breakdown, but sits there motionless, her hands calmly in her lap. Another woman walks around the weeping lady waving her hands as if she’s lightly brushing her, only she’s standing a few feet away.

I shot a look at Yoga Girl.

She nodded, knowing exactly what I was thinking: It’s good we had three glasses of wine with dinner.

“Okay, how was that?” the standing woman asks.

“That was really, really great. Thank you.” The lady wiped the tears from her face and got up to get a tissue to blow her nose.

I turned to Yoga Girl, “It can’t be any worse than anything the Catholic Church would do to us.”

* * *

“Would you like an energy healing?” The woman who just waved at the weeping lady turned to me and asked.

“I’d love one,” I said. Yoga Girl laughed, watching to see what’s going to happen next.

“Alright then.” The Energy Healer holds her palms out, Christ-like and begins to walk around me.

“Do I need to do anything?”

“Nope. Just breathe.”

“Should I think of anything.”

“No. Nothing in particular. If anything comes to mind, just observe.”

She started waving her hands up and down.

“What’s happening? What are you doing?”

“I’m just combing through your aura with nice light gold energy. Light gold in neutral. You ground nicely.”

“I do?”

“Yes. Very easy.” She continues to circle around me waving through the air. I could feel a slight tickle on my skin wherever she waved her hands, but it could have been the wine.

She squat down and placed her hands around my feet.

“Okay, I’m just opening your feet chakras now. This will help you receive the energy of the Earth.”

“Will it help with the plantar warts on the bottom of my feet?”

The Energy Healer giggled.

“You’ve got a very playful energy.”

She moved her hands along my legs. I could feel a chugging tingling through my leg, that opened up to a full tingling.

“Okay, your leg channels are a little clogged, but they are clearing nicely.”

“Is that so the energy of the Earth can come up into my chakras?”

“Exactly.”

She moved to my back channels, and as she moved energy through my back, I sat up straighter, and the tension in my back began to clear.

“You’ve got a lot of emotions in your back. It’s like you’re wearing a backpack of emotions.”

“Could you just clear those out for me?”

“I’m doing that. These are all emotions that belong to other people. You have a lot of people who depend on your for support, and their emotions have taken over that space.”

“Well we don’t need that, do we?”

“Exactly.”

The Energy Healer squat next to me, holding one hand in front of me and the other to my back. She started at my tailbone and moved up. She got to my throat and I got a little weepy.

“Your throat chakra is really clogged. I’m just going to clear that out with a light gold energy.”

I couldn’t speak as sadness filled me.

The Energy Healer moved to my head, the sixth chakra and the third eye. My sinuses opened up and began to drain down my throat as the sadness began to clear.

“Your sixth chakra is also a little clogged, but it’s all clearing out very nicely.”

A sense of calm and ease came over me. It was as if I had waken up after a good night’s rest and the bags of exhaustion under my eyes had been lifted.

“Okay,” the Energy Healer said. “How was that?”

“It was good,” I said, a bit at a loss for words.

“Would you like an aura reading?”

“Of course,” I said without hesitation. “What do I need to do?”

“Just sit there.” The Energy Healer sat in the chair across from me, closing her eyes.

“Okay, I’m just saying hello to your aura, just getting to know it. Just saying hello.”

She fidgeted in her seat.

“Okay, your outer aura is a very nice color. It’s vibrating at a purple. A very nice purple.”

She continued to read all the layers of my aura, and the colors they were vibrating. I had no idea what it meant, but it was fascinating.

“Your energy. Your spirit, it’s very much wanting to expand and grow. It’s a very upward and outward momentum. I sense that you are on the cusp of transformation and expansion. You’re on the edge of a tremendous growth period.”

I looked to Yoga Girl. She looked a little like a Vinyasa stuck somewhere between Downward Facing Dog and Chaturanga. When we had both completed our healings, the Energy Healer suggested we be good to ourselves.

“Eat chocolate. Your body has done a lot of work. It’s released a lot of energy, so reward it with chocolate.”

We got in the car, our expansive energetic auras ready to do something.

“She didn’t say we couldn’t drink,” I said. “So how about a chocolate martini?”

“You’re reading my aura, Sisterfriend!”

Grateful for the Gratitude

2010-08-17T00:00:00.000-05:00

I was completely flattered today when I discovered a review of Breaking Boy News on Little Merry Sunshine. She speaks of my words and the impact they have on her as she thinks about her own relationships. She’s right in that I write from the heart, but what strikes me is how she is moved by the experiences I have, and the perspective I share with my readers. I was pleasantly surprised that she picks up on a tone of gratitude. I don’t know that I’ve consciously thought about gratitude, so for her to pick up on those tones warms my heart.

For her kind words and sending readers my way, I am most grateful.

Two Men, One Moment

2010-08-14T10:12:00.000-05:00

“You are easily one of the most attractive men I’ve ever set my eyes on,” I said to the man dancing next to me on a bench that overlooked the dance floor.

He stopped dancing and looked me in the eye.

“Thank you.”

He took a swig of his PBR.

“You’re not into boys, are you?”

“No.” He shook his head.

“Bummer, because I would really, really like to make out with you.”

He shook his head again.

“Not gonna happen. But if I were into boys, I’d want to kiss you.”

“You’ve never kissed a boy before, have you?”

“Nope.”

“So you’re going to deny yourself the experiencing of kissing another man, and then say you lived?”

He turned, scanning the dance floor before leaning into me.

“I think my girlfriend would get jealous, and it would make things complicated, but would you settle for a hug?”

He held his arms open, and we embraced, holding each other for a moment. Two men. One moment.

A Romantic Tragedy

2010-08-12T05:35:00.000-05:00

“I think you should come to Chicago for I.M.L.,” I said to the Franciscan on the phone. We had been in constant touch since the big masturbatory weekend, and I knew him well enough to know that the International Mr. Leather Weekend, with its parties filled of men donning fetish costumes drawing crowds from all over the country, this was right up his ally.

“Oh, man. I’d love to. But the boyfriend is taking his mom to Hawaii, so I’ve got dog duty,” he said.

“So is that an invitation for me to come visit?”

“Yeah. It could be. If you want to come visit. I’d love to see you and spend time with you.”

In learning to focus on my needs, I discovered that if I didn’t have a pro-active plan for the holiday weekend, I’d feel abandoned and alone. That was the energy I took with me when I found a ticket purchased for a few random miles on a credit card I no longer used; it was a plan, and it would fill my weekend.

I packed every condom I owned. I didn’t pack any lube, assuming he would have plenty; lube is hard to transport across the country – you always have to check your bags as the three-ounce limits for liquids and gels is never enough for one good night. And certainly not three nights with a former Franciscan Monk I met through a weekend of eroticism.

But even as I packed the supplies for potentially the biggest boy time of my life, I packed without expectation, having an open mind and an open heart. If I was in the guest room for three days, then I was in the guest room. And if we had non-stop sex, then we had non-stop sex. Whatever would unfold, my intention was to rest and relax in the company of man who I had a great connection with, and pass the weekend without the abandoned toddler demon taking over.

* * *

I hadn’t been in town for ninety minutes before I was naked and face down on the massage table.

“I’ve always wanted to get a massage table, so I thought this would be the perfect occasion,” the Franciscan said.

“You bought it just for this weekend?”

“Well, not just for this weekend, but seeing you was the impetus. I thought we could practice some of the techniques we learned.”

He ran his large man hands across my back, slowly massaging my body, working out the tension and the knots of the week. Only a few days earlier, I learned the lesbians I had been living with, the situation was going to change, and I had no idea whether I was going to be able to stay or have to move back in with my former partner. My abandoned toddler demon, Little Tommy, wanted to run wild and he clung to every muscle in my back. The Franciscan used tender care as he slowly worked the knots out, layer-by-layer, kneading, stretching, caressing.

He lifted my leg and sat on the massage table, placing my foot in his lap.

“I’ve got a special surprise for you.”

I could hear him open a bottle and squirt lotion.

“What’s that?” I rolled over to look, smelling peppermint.

“Don’t turn over. I’m not done.”

I felt a cool tingling as he massaged lotion into the bottom of my foot.

“It’s peppermint foot rub. I know how much you like to have your feet rubbed, so I went to go get some.”

His fingers slid through my toes, and he massaged the pads of my feet, taking great care not to tickle while he worked through the tightness in my feet.

For over a decade I had tried to convince my former partner to rub my feet.

“I’m not into feet,” he dismissed. I totally understood, not being into feet either, but my feet – on me, on my body – my feet like to be rubbed; it’s a direct line to my heart. I work to make sure they don’t smell and are clean, and for the last year, the toenails have always been painted.

His touch brought tears to my eyes as I started to cry, and I just tried to breathe in the moment, enjoying it for all its glory. For all the pleasure I was experiencing, it gave the Franciscan even more just making sure my needs and desires were met. I could feel his love through his touch, and it was overpowering.

For three hours, I lay on the massage table, as the Franciscan discovered every possible pressure and pleasure point on my body, using his hands, his fingers, his tongue, and the weight of his own body. And when my body could be touched no more, he stood there, giddy with joy and no expectation that anything would be returned, even though it was.

The dogs, needing attention and a walk, and us ourselves needing food were the only two things that brought closure to the afternoon of touch.

* * *

Fed and watered, we went at it again with the vivacious energy of two teenagers, only with the staying power of two forty-year-olds. The Franciscan pulled my legs in the air over his head, his tongue probing a tickle spot. I burst out laughing just as my feet grazed the rotating blades of the ceiling fan circling above his bed.

“Stop!” I yelled.

He paused, smiling. “Stop, stop? Or stop, may I please have some more?”

“Stop, stop getting my feet tangled in the ceiling fan, but please may I have some more?”

He laughed, then sucked on my toes, as he let me lay in a more traditional position on the bed not requiring the use of triceps to maintain one’s balance.

“Sorry.” He grinned at me.

“You better be. Yoga Girl would be upset if she knew you ruined a perfectly fine pedicure by getting my feet tangled in a ceiling fan.”

“I think she’d be proud.”

“Okay, she would. But still, it’s a perfectly fine pedicure that cost good money.

“I don’t know that I like this color, though.”

“You don’t?” I sat up on my elbows and looked at him.

“I think I prefer the bright reds.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Of course you would. You’re a twelve-year-old girl. And teenage girls like bright colors.”

“Do you not like them?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like bright colors. Just not on me. I like a color that is more complex. Sophisticated in tone.”

“Oh, well of course. And so what color is your favorite?” The Franciscan massaged my feet.

“Whatever color speaks to me. Usually the deeper shades of red, with either browns or purples in them. They compliment my skin tones nicely.”

“Do they now?”

“Yes. Of course. I mean, you didn’t think I just painted my nails for the sake of painting my nails, did you?”

“Never.” He laughed, and kissed the bottom of my foot. “So this color? What color do you have on now?”

“Romeo and Juliet.”

“Oh, Montague.” The Franciscan laughed as he climbed on top of me. I pushed him off of me, rolling over on top of him.

“Yes, Lady Capulet?”

We stared into each other’s eyes. He ran his hand along my face.

“You are so amazing. You don’t even know how amazing you are.”

I grabbed his hand along my face, and whispered, “Lady Capulet, this story might very well end in a tragedy.”

* * *

I woke up, the bed next to me empty. I was surrounded in that lazy haze of morning that lingers on when there is no agenda and no place to be. I stared at the ceiling, my mind wandering. For all the attention I was getting from the Franciscan, I couldn’t help but think about the Paralegal and the Lawyer. And how much I really wanted to spend the holiday weekend with one of them. The Paralegal, in rehab, just wouldn’t have been an option, and even if he weren’t I don’t know he would have shown. And the Lawyer, he was still running around with the flight attendant. Unhappy as ever, I’m sure, and still making the bad choices that led to his unhappiness. The Franciscan seemed to have the playfulness and listening skills of them both. He believed in me and was supportive in the way they both could. For some reason, the Franciscan made me miss both of them more.

“Hi there, Sunshine!” The Franciscan brought me a toasted bagel and climbed back into bed with me.

“Hey.” As he nuzzled up next to me, I rest my head on his shirtless chest.

“Everything okay?”

“Just waking up.”

It was nice to be in the vulnerable part of the morning, before one is fully aware, wrapped up in the protective energy of the Franciscan. Yet, I was filled with mixed emotions. It was weird to be lying in the arms of the Franciscan and having thoughts of the Lawyer and the Paralegal running through my head. Both had appeared in my dreams during the night, and I wasn’t sure what that was about. I could feel my throat tightening up. How could I tell the Franciscan as I lay there, I was thinking of two other men? How could I be with a man who appears to adore me, and yet be thinking of two other?

I didn’t know the answers, so I bit into my bagel, waiting for them to come.

* * *

It was the night before my return to Chicago, and the Franciscan put a couple fryers on the grill. It was a lovely evening, so we sat on the deck and emptied a couple bottles of wine as the sun went down.

“I’m not much of a wine drinker,” the Franciscan said.

“Why’s that?”

“It doesn’t sit well with me, sometimes.”

“Then you’re not drinking the right wine. Because good wine will sit well with you.”

“Are we drinking good wine?”

“I don’t know how good it is, but it’s the right wine for the weekend.”

“How’s that?”

“Just read the label.” I picked up the bottle. “ ‘Since the Gold Rush, Amador County winemakers have been mining the rich robust characteristics of Zinfandel, California’s heritage grape. At Montevina, our Zin happily embraces its wild-at-heart legacy…’ ”

“Ooo. Wild-at-heart.” He put his foot in my crotch.

“ ‘…It’s fruit-forward and sassy, with irresistible cassis…’ ”

“Like you, with your sassy nails. I have to say, the darker color is growing on me.”

“It’s about time. ‘…with irresistible cassis and pepper aromas, and lush blackberry, ripe plumb and spice flavors followed by a long, smooth finish.’ ”

“I’ve got a long, smooth finish for you.”

“ ‘If you’re looking for a rollicking good time on the palate, this Zinfandel is for you.’ ”

The Franciscan grabbed my hand and led me into the house and down to the basement. It was not yet finished, the ceilings had yet to be sheet-rocked and there was no covering on the concrete floor.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He led me to a room in the basement, and there, in the middle, from the ceiling, hung a sling.

I laughed.

“See, the bottle was right, Lady Capulet! We’re going to have a rollicking good time!”

The Franciscan pulled my clothes from my body and then told me to get in the sling. While other people were at home watching prime time television, or gathered around the kitchen table playing board games, we were taking turns at a different type of play where we made up the rules as we went.

When the height of pleasure had been exhausted, the Franciscan hung in the sling, in a blissful afterglow of sweat, lube and the fluid of our love.

“I’m so sorry the Paralegal and the Lawyer have hurt you. And my hope for you is that your soul mate will come to find you.”

His statement pierced through my heart. It was as if he knew what I had been thinking all weekend, and without judgment, acknowledged their meaning in my life.

“I’m so sorry that have taken advantage of your love. I want you to be happy, and I can see how ready you are for a man who can love you the way you can love him.”

I could not hold back the tears. It was as if he was saying, I’m your soul mate, but not your soul mate, and neither are they, so keep looking. We made our way to bed through the shower, and the tears continued to flow, washing down the drain. I realized that both the Lawyer and the Paralegal were right there with me, in my heart. That I had their love, and will always have their love, and that both of them have given me the most they possibly have to give. And while I might want more, I received what they had. But to continue to want more or hold on to hope that it can still be more with either one was just standing in my way.

“What is it that you want? What is it that you need?” The Franciscan echoed the questions from our big masturbatory weekend, holding my hand as we lay in bed, my leg over his.

I had no answer for him, but a voice in my head said, it’s time. It’s time to tell the Lawyer he can’t be in my life anymore. That if he can’t embrace the energy between us, then he just needs to go away. That’s it’s not fair to me to be there for him when he needs me, and for me to always be waiting for him to show up and be present. My waiting is preventing me from being fully present with a man who is right there with me. And the Paralegal, I just didn’t know what to think and feel. He was in rehab, and I was going to have to either put my feelings on hold, or let him go.

“I’m so afraid I’m going to be the next man to hurt you,” the Franciscan whispered. I knew he had a boyfriend, and my joining him for the weekend was more about me keeping my abandoned toddler at bay, more than it was holding onto a hope that he might be the one. If anything, the fact that I couldn’t get the Lawyer or the Paralegal out of my mind seemed to suggest that the Franciscan was far from the one. But the fact that I had trouble receiving the love of a man who was right there in front of me at the moment he had to give it because two men who weren’t even present, bothered me.

It was almost as if I was being held hostage. By them, or myself?

That night, the Lawyer showed up in my dreams again, the second night in a row. He sent me a text message.

“When is a time when we can have a serious conversation?”

I felt so confused. On the one hand thinking this was it, my opportunity to tell him he can’t be in my life on any level. But at the same time, thinking maybe he’s figured it out and this is the call to say that he wants to try to make something work. Or is this the call where he says its not working out with his flight attendant boyfriend and wants to blame me for scaring him away?

I woke up knowing exactly the work I was going to have to do: let go of the old so the new could come in.

If I didn’t, this would work out to be one messy tragedy.

Taking Matters Into My Own Hands

2010-08-11T06:46:00.000-05:00

Walking down the street, I came across a floral shop and
decided not to wait for a boy to buy me flowers.

Everything Happens for a Reason

2010-08-10T07:44:00.000-05:00

Laying in bed, I grabbed my laptop. The six chocolate martinis I had the night before had pummeled my head and I was in bad shape. I had to know more about the Clairvoyant. Unable to tune into the universe, I opened Google. I typed, “Clairvoyant Chicago,” thinking if he gets paid two-hundred dollars to tune in to people, he must have a shingle hanging out in the universe somewhere, and today the most likely place would be the Internet.

My search uncovered nothing about him, but the first link was for the Clairvoyant Center of Chicago.

I clicked on the link.

“Clairvoyant Training Begins This Month.”

Everything happens for a reason. Everything.

I fired off an email, waiting for the universe to respond.

I thought about what the Clairvoyant had said about manifesting the sale of the condo, so I closed my laptop and began thinking about the joy I would experience finally being in a place of my own. The people I would have over, for dinner, to watch movies, to have a cocktail before a night on the town. I thought about the type of space I would want, imagining large windows and a spectacular view of the city. It would be comfortable and inviting, appear to be lived in and filled with inspiring colors and natural light. It would be close to the grocery store, the gym, near a pool, and dry cleaner. It will be in the middle of an eclectic neighborhood with plenty of dining options, a diner for Sunday brunch, and a great bar with cool people who hang out.

It will be a place where people will want to come visit, linger and hang out. It will be easy for people to get to, with plenty of easy parking in the area. It will sustain me and rejuvenate me, inspiring me creatively. I opened my journal and wrote down all of those qualities.

Later that day, I went to the pool to swim. I had walked down the street passing a real estate office I’d passed hundreds of times. But this time, a sign caught my eye. Every condo unit highlighted in the window was not for sale, but for rent. It was the first time I’d seen anything quite like it, and I stood there for a minute, reading the details of the units. One was in a building I had admired, and was exactly what I had envisioned – and the rental rate was at the low end of my budget, and included more than I had imagined.

It gave me not just a sense of hope that all would work out, but I now had a place that I could visualize.

A place that I could totally feel at home in.

Everything happens for a reason. Everything.

The Conversation We Needed To Have

2010-08-09T06:35:00.004-05:00

I waited on the sidewalk outside the Violet Hour, a bar in Bucktown. A funky space with no windows and no standing room, one waits outside until a seat is available, at which point a gentleman dressed in a suit that was retro before Mad Men made the look of the ‘60s fresh again calls your cell phone. It’s an old-school bar, with true mixoligists who create drinks your grandparents would have enjoyed during prohibition. I’d read about the Violet Hour in Chicago Magazine and had hoped to check it out. So when the Clairvoyant called suggesting we meet for an impromptu cocktail, I figured this was a sign from the universe.

Either that, or he was reading my mind.

We had been chatting on Grindr, and there was a good exchange of energy. It quickly progressed to telephone chat, which I’ve come to learn is a good Grindr sign. The banter on the phone was playful and lively. I checked his vitals: Career, check. Life goals, check. No mother issues, check. Ability to converse, check. Super smart, check. Emotional intelligence, check. Star sign, Scorpio – highly compatible. Mercury had just come out of retrograde, and I made some reference to how it was a particularly challenging period.

“You pay attention to that?” he asked.

“Put it on my calendar.”

“Do you? Why’s that?”

“How else am I supposed to explain my customers getting all crazy at me on the phone. Helps me hold the phone away from my ear and say, ‘What happened to your experience?’”

“Really? I like that.”

“So tell me something about you.”

“Well, I’m clairvoyant.”

My interest was peaked.

“So tune in and tell me something.”

“I don’t normally do that.”

“If you’re clairvoyant, prove it.”

I could hear him focus his breathing.

“You’re really ungrounded in your first chakra right now. Your first and second chakra. Something is up with your housing. It’s totally in flux. And your second chakra, you’re acting out. You’re acting out sexually because of it.”

“Yeah, so my former partner and I own a loft downtown and it’s on the market, we’re trying to sell it. In the mean time, I’m living with a pack of lesbians.”

I didn’t tell him about the number of boys I’d been chasing and making out with.

“Do you always read men you’re interested in?”

“No, never. Most guys run the other direction the moment they find out I’m clairvoyant.”

Finally, a man who can understand me, I thought.

“So when are we going to meet?” I asked.

“How about a drink on Friday?”

“Sure. I’ll call you on Friday and we’ll set something up.”

Now I stood there waiting on the sidewalk, having already put our names in. He sent me a text message saying he was on his way. I had just got a pedicure with Yoga Girl and my toenails were still drying, so I wore a pair of flip-flops clad with silk daisies. I wore painted on jeans, and a sassy button down shirt. I was feeling urban and chic, and on top of the world.

I looked up just as he was about ten feet away, and locked on to his eyes right away. His presence was larger than life and he broke into a huge smile. His western-cut shirt accentuated his broad shoulders, and he was more handsome than his pictures had led me to believe. My heart skipped a beat as he scanned my body head to toe.

“Wow. You have red toe nails.”

“Actually, it’s a brown-red. The color is, ‘Don’t Toy with Me.’”

“Wow.”

“My friend Yoga Girl and I just got a pedicure and they’re still drying.”

“I see. Well isn’t that wild?” He stood there looking at my toenails.

“I put our name on the list. He said it would only be about ten minutes.”

* * *

We sat on bar stools. The space was broken up with large velvet drapes, creating a cozy, intimate area, conducive to the art of conversation. The cocktails are a part of the show, and you can order drinks that died after The War, with names like Juliet and Romeo, The Lady Gray, the Riviera, and As You Wish. We ordered drinks and Herb Tatter Tots with Lemon Mayonnaise.

He told me about his business that he owns, that he’s a certified scuba diver and sailor, and as a water sign, he enjoys vacationing on and near the water. He explained that in this lifetime he received good parking karma and he always gets rock star parking, with no effort at all.

He didn’t have a great relationship with his parents as he was growing up, but a few years back, he decided that he wanted a convertible. He sent that energy out to the universe to manifest itself and a few weeks later, his father called him to suggested they go to the auto show.

There they sat, on the floor of the auto show, as his father acknowledged he was not the best parent he could have been. He apologized and asked the Clairvoyant for forgiveness.

“We sat there, crying on the floor of the auto show, all these people milling about. And that’s when he said, ‘I want to make it up to you kids, and I’m going to buy you whatever car you want.’ And that’s how I got the car I wanted. So you just ask the universe for what you want, send it out with clear intention and then let it go, and the universe will deliver. You just have to be patient.”

He popped a tatter tot into his mouth. I was enamored.

“When we were on the phone,” I said, “you had mentioned a formula for me and my former partner to manifest the sale of our condo, but I didn’t catch all of it. Can you share that with me again?”

“It’s easy. You just have to visualize the new space you want, and how that space will make you feel. Imagine yourself in that space, and the feelings you will have once there, and then forget about it and it will happen.”

I touched his shoulder, my hand running down the length of his muscled arm.

“Thank you.”

He moved away from me.

“You’re getting all up in my space. I don’t know what that’s about. What is that about?”

I could feel my throat close up.

“You know what that’s about. What is that all about?”

I stopped breathing. I knew full well that if I didn’t answer him honestly, he’d see right through it. I stuttered, afraid that the truth would make him run away. “Well, umm, it’s about. Well. If I love you enough, then you’ll love me, and you won’t leave me and I won’t be abandoned.”

So much for creating mystery on a first date. I felt like an idiot, whose wounded toddler was running out of control. The Clairvoyant placed his fingers on his forehead and closed his eyes.

“You have been abandoned before. You’ve been abandoned many lifetimes before. Your mother died during childbirth in one lifetime. In another, you were left in a basket on the steps of an orphanage. You’ve got to let that go, or it will keep coming back to you.”

He rest his elbows on the bar, his hands on his brow.

“You’ve got a sister, though, and you two are close. Very, very close.”

“No, I don’t have a sister.”

“Well, it’s someone who is like a sister. Maybe it’s Yoga Girl. You two have been siblings for many, many lifetimes, and you take care of each other. You have been her sister while she’s been your brother, and you have both been twins. You are not alone. You two have been connected throughout lifetimes and you care for each other – you take care of each other – in each lifetime. It’s a very good relationship for you.”

I ate a tater tot as I sat on the edge of my seat, listening to every word.

“You’ve got a brother.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But I’m not even going to go there. He’s an asshole. Complete asshole. Very self-centered and self-serving. And your parents—your parents are wrapped up in his drama. They are very enabling. There is a distance between you and your parents, and your brother, too, and that’s okay because they will only distract you from the work you need to do. Don’t get wrapped up in it.”

He turned to me, looking me in the eyes. It was not his body that was speaking, but his spirit that was connected to another dimension. As he looked deep into my eyes, he pointed to the corner.

“Little Tommy is standing over there in the corner.”

He pointed again.

“Little Tommy is in the corner. He’s there, in the corner, all alone. You have to get Little Tommy and bring him over here. You’ve got to go get him and bring him here with you and take care of him. You have to take care of him. Because no one else will. No one else is going to take care of Little Tommy.”

My eyes filled with tears. I grabbed my drink and threw back a big swig.

“You can cry in front of me. It’s okay to cry in front of me. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t cry. If you need to cry, then cry.”

Breathe. My throat had closed up and I was on the verge of an emotional breakdown. I knew exactly what he was talking about: the toddler living inside of me who, after the death of my twin brother at two-years-old, lives in constant fear of being abandoned. After years of work trying to heal those wounds, to bring them in to the spotlight so they wouldn’t create emotional reactions, the universe, through the Clairvoyant, was telling me that it was time for my adult self to start caring for the toddler inside of me, and that only I could manifest that healing. No magic potion or secret herb was going to do it, but I had to do it myself.

It was a journey, as much as I hated the sound of it, I was going to have to go on my own.

“You know what I’m talking about,” He said. “You have the ability to be clairvoyant yourself, but you just haven’t tapped into that skill yet. You’re almost there, but you haven’t taken yourself seriously.”

I reached for a tatter tot wondering where I go with the conversation from here. Should I ask, “What kind of food do you like?” Or, “I like the feel of this bar. Nice colors.”

Instead, I asked, “Do you always go this deep on the first date?”

“No. Never,” he said, turning to me. “But it was the conversation we needed to have.”

I sat there for a moment in silence. Awkward silence.

“I never do this unless a person is paying me two-hundred dollars.”

He ate a tatter tot.

“I think I need to go get a salad,” he said, throwing cash onto the bar.

“Can I come with?” I asked.

“Only if you go home and put some real shoes on.”

“I can do that.”

We left the bar and walked down the street. He said he would be sitting at the bar in a restaurant we had walked by. I told him it would take me about ten minutes to run home and change my shoes. As I walked, I thought about conversations we could have that were maybe a little more shallow, and the questions that might prompt them.

So where’s your next vacation going to be?

Where did you go to school?

Where did you grow up?

How did you become clairvoyant?

When I got home and my shoes on, my phone chimed with a text message.

“I think I need to spend some time alone. How about a rain check on the salad?”

“Okay. Thank you for tonight. Have a good night, and be in touch,” I replied.

I walked down the street to my neighborhood watering hole and ordered a bowl of tortellini and a chocolate martini.

“That kind of day?” The bartender asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll keep the tab open for you. Do you want your second chocolate martini when you’re finished with this one, or when dinner arrives?”

“When I finish this one.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“I’m not sure I really understand what just happened, but I guess it was the conversation I needed to have.”

She nodded.

“I’ll go ahead and start mixing that second one.”

Clearing My Throat

2010-08-08T09:59:00.002-05:00

I had a muscle in my neck that cinched up like a girdle on a drag queen, so I went to my chiropractor, the Kook Doctor.

“My God, what did you do?” He asked. “This muscle in your neck is never like this.”

He was working on this muscle on the left side of my neck, and practically strangling me. I asked him what he was doing, which is what I usually do – I’m not always convinced he knows what he’s doing, but he’s so easy on the eyes, I have patience for him. Ease on the eyes, as you might imagine, is the first and foremost requirement in my healthcare professionals.

“What muscle?”

“The one that connects your chest to your neck. Keeps your head on, and is attached to the lymph nodes in your neck.”

Jesus, I thought. Heart – throat – head. As I had been working on advocating for myself, finding my voice, and declaring my needs, my throat had been ultra sensitive, getting strep throat several times over the past year. I couldn’t help but think it was related to the emotional work I was doing. For the past few weeks, they all had been interconnected in a variety of ways. The Kook Doctor massaged the muscle out, and for the rest of the night, snot seemed to drain from my sinuses down my throat.

He asked me about what was going on, and I told him the Paralegal was in rehab. He’s been tough on me around the Paralegal, thinks I should just be done with him. Thought that from the moment it started. I told him about Body Electric, and some of the stuff that bubbled up around shame, powerlessness, selfishness and fear. He told me that I should stop dwelling on moments with my father, and just let it go.

“How do you let something go if you’re not consciously aware of it?”

“If you’re not conscious of it, then it doesn’t matter.”

“But your body remembers, and you react emotionally.”

He’s enough of a Kook Doctor to know exactly what I was talking about.

“You’re not considering getting more panchakarma again, are you?”

“Considering it.”

“No! Don’t! I’ve never seen you so depressed and out of it as what you went through after panchakarma.”

“I had to process some stuff.”

“Listen, before you go for more panchakarma, you need to get a second opinion. Call the psychic.”

For a moment, I wondered what sort of alternate reality I live in that my chiropractor is recommending a second opinion from a psychic.

I could see in his face agitation and concern as he rattled on all the reasons he felt I should not get panchakarma.

“Listen,” I interrupted. “I think you need a hug.”

I threw my arms around him. He shut up and we just stood there for a moment, holding each other. The reality was I needed a hug, and not his judgment.

* * *

The wood table in the center of the room could easily have had a previous life in the water-boarding interrogation treatment of a terrorist. But about a year ago, it was where I lay naked while I receiving my first panchakarma treatment -- a hot oil massage designed to help expel toxins from my system.

Dr. S. appeared from around the corer, wearing a white lab coat underneath a vinyl apron. He had the stance and presence of a well-fed Indian butcher. We had a short conversation about the trauma that was leading me to panchakarma, where he explained that the process takes care of both the physical toxins and the emotional toxins as well.

“You have memories,” he explained, “and emotions are attached to those memories. Through the chakra work, we remove the emotions from the memories. So if you have sadness attached to a memory, then we remove the sadness. Then the memory is just information. See?”

The process consisted of five treatments, the first being the oil massage. The second was an oil application in the nose and the ears. The third was an enema, which he down-played. Oil dripped on the third eye, the forehead, helped to connect to the outside world. And finally, a pulse treatment would help to build an energy field like a coat of armor.

All this, he said, would balance the three elements within my body, the water, the fire, and the solids. He said I was weak on the water element, and being a Pisces that was problematic. It would help me see people in a different way, he said. I’d be able to see their true energy, rather than long for the energy I desire to see in them. The feeling that he, or she, is there, and is enough, would come through.

I climbed onto the table face-down. He sprayed hot oil across my back. I winced. It could have been hot wax for all I knew. For the next hour, he massaged my body with a lipid oil, which he explained seeps down into the cells of the body, nourishing the nervous system, which is also made of lipids.

“It’s providing nutrients to the nuero pathways,” he said.

Slathered in hot oil, he had me lay on my side. He informed me that he would be administering the oil enema, and pulled out a syringe, explaining normally he waits to the third treatment, but because of my deep-seeded first chakra trauma, he’d have to start the enema today.

It occurred to me, lying there naked, covered in oil on a wood table, as he spread my cheeks to implement the enema, that I could probably receive this exact same treatment at the International Mister Leather Convention from a butch muscle daddy wearing nothing but a jockstrap, assless chaps, and a harness.

* * *

When I woke the day after the first treatment, my blood pressure had gone from 140/98 the morning before to 130/80, and a sense of calm and balance was manifesting itself. I arrived for treatment two, and Dr. S. had asked about my experience, and what had happened since I left. I explained the calm and balance and how it had manifested itself throughout the day, that even the most difficult people didn’t get me flustered.

“The process works automatically,” he explained. “The process works to make your system detached. Attached but not detached. Because if we are ever totally detached, we are dead. But we want to be attached, but detached so that your core energy is not affected. You will be able to go anywhere and not be impacted.”

Dr. S explained that politicians have to be good at this, because they can go to a funeral and be in the moment feeling sad, shedding tears, but then an hour later they might have to be at a pep rally.

“Making you free from obstructions is the whole idea of the treatment.”

I asked if this state would be something I would have to maintain, and how I maintain it.

“This is a non-reversable process, but in the next step, the body will try to fight it.”

I went through the treatment again. He applied the hot oil with a massage, dropped oil in my ears and nose, and administered the enema. My mind was everywhere, but when he dripped the oil on my third eye (forehead), my mind went blank. There were no thoughts, just presence, as if I was an observer outside of my body, looking at the world.

Over the next day, while my blood pressure had gone to 118/80, I began to experience conflict in my mind. Complete uncertainty. When I arrived for the third treatment, he said that is my old self fighting with the new self, that I was grieving the loss of the old self and this was the “withdrawal” process.

“When a person is missing something, they project it on another person. And when they get something back, maybe even just five or ten percent, that is enough. That becomes energy wasted. Your body is learning to recognize this, but you are addicted to the old ways.”

The third treatment was filled with sadness, and I cried throughout. At the end of the treatment, I lay on the table, slathered in oil, crying. There was no apparent reason for my tears, but it was a sobbing wailing that I just could not seem to control. Dr. S. stood over me, and told me to just let it go before he left the room.

When he returned, he reassured me.

“This is good. Your body is releasing the emotional garbage. It is coming out. You were very restless. The old self wanted to run away, but the new self kept you here.”

He explained to me that this sadness may continue.

“If you want to analyze, analyze, but the body knows what it is doing.”

* * *

For the next several months, my body might have known what it is doing, but I really had no clue. It was a wild ride, at first, and the Kook Doctor picked up on it. It was not unlike Space Mountain at Disneyworld, where you strap in a car and then venture into complete darkness, unsure of what the next turn or dip will be. It was wild, amazing, stomach-turning, and in a twisted sort of way, fun.

The 24 hours after the third treatment were filled with great sadness. Great in both senses of the word: gargantuan in size, but also good. It wasn’t a painful sort of sadness, but floods of weepy sadness were seeping from my body, tipped off by almost anything: a picture of my cat who had passed the year before; a Hallmark commercial; a thought. I couldn’t go anywhere near Lifetime Television.

But by the morning after the third treatment, the weeping had begun to slow. And in between the fits of explosive weepiness—incredible joy. A joy I had never felt before. It was as if the sadness was leaving, and all that was left was joy, and a joy that had been overshadowed by such deep, cellular sadness, I’d never been able to experience it before.

When I showed up for my fourth treatment, Dr. S. asked how I had been feeling. I explained the sadness. He asked about anger. Had I experienced any anger? I hadn’t. Just sadness and joy. He nodded.

“If you feel yourself wanting to react emotionally,” he said, “try to just observe. Feel the sensation, and observe. Don’t react, just drink a glass of water.”

Following the treatment, he asked how things where. Nothing, really. Not necessarily relaxed. Not sad. Not agitated. In fact, I began to wonder if it even worked. With one treatment left, was I completely stuck?

He explained that when my emotional damage left my body, it created a space. And now, that space will be filled with something.

Panic.

“What will it fill with?” Could it fill with something worse than my emotional damage?

“I can’t say. It could be a person. It could be new people, or a person who you have not heard from in a while. You have changed, and the vibrations you are sending out to the universe have changed, and the universe will respond. You’ll begin attracting new people. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

His words were not completely comforting, but his statement, you’ll just have to wait and see, shifted something. It was as if fear of the unknown had melted into a curiosity of what might happen next. A sense of adventure.

When I got home, everything about my evening was irritating. My roommate. The dogs. The lack of food. The fact friends were not calling. Everything seemed to irritate the heck out of me. And that’s when I realized this was not irritation, but all these little things were setting off anger. This was the anger Dr. S. had been asking about.

I had a glass of water and went to bed.

I woke up on Friday and went about my day. The irritation continued. In fact, I found myself exploding at the office over silliness.

I ran to have a glass of water, and came back to apologize.

“I’m sorry, my panchakarma is making me irritable.”

On the fifth treatment, I explained the sensation of anger, Dr. S. nodded. We did the final treatment, and he explained that we have now completed a cycle. I felt as I had at end of the first treatment: complete relaxation and a sense of calm. He said that if I felt stuck, I could come back for another treatment, but he sensed the way I had responded, and the progress I had made during the week that I was well on my way and wouldn’t need a follow-up. I asked him if I should come back in a year, or how frequently I should do this.

He explained the total process is 21 days, and I asked what the difference was between five days and 21. He said it just speeds up the process, but I’ve completed one cycle and it works automatically from here.

He encouraged me not to make any major life decisions regarding relationships, finances, or career for the next six months. I now see how that is connected to the cycle, and that in moments of great sadness, or even irritation and anger, the urge is to act, but drinking a glass of water slows that down.

“In life,” he said, his final words to me, “those with compatible energy can stay. All others must go.”

* * *

What has happened in the year since my panchakarma treatment has been a continuation of the cycle: groundedness, sadness, anger, calm. The cycle seems to have shortened with time, where immediate weeks following the treatment, I’d experience those segments for sometimes days at a time, even feeling stuck in sadness and anger. But through exercise and meditation, I’ve been able to push through to a point of grounded emotional clarity, and now I can experience the cycle within an hour, or sometimes minutes.

Of course, the cycle suggests it’s not all up, and I have to say the low points have sometimes been very low. At one point, I found myself declaring enlightenment is for the birds! Medicate me! I was listening to Terry Gross on NPR and she was interviewing a Zen meditation master, and he said, “Now that I’m enlightened, I realize I’m just as unhappy as I was before.”

I Would Like Ice Cream, But...

2010-08-07T09:28:00.002-05:00

Cocktail Cruise Silhouette

Last night I was out on a gay cocktail cruise as the sun set over Chicago’s skyline. I spotted one of the most beautiful boys on the boat. When he was standing by the rail, the sun’s glow highlighted the curly tufts of his flowing hair; I snapped a photo.

“Oh, let me get out of the way,” he said.

“No, no. You’re part of the picture. You’ve made the skyline more interesting.”

I showed him the picture on my phone.

“Oh, that is a great photo. Will you send that to me? I want to put that on my Facebook profile.”

“Sure,” I said. He gave me his e-mail address. I sent him a quick message, “Nice photographing you.”

This morning, there was a message from him, saying thanks for the photo and that he had just uploaded it to Facebook.

“You are welcome,” I wrote back. “It was nice to meet you last night. Would you be interested in going for ice cream any time?”

A couple of hours later, I had a reply.

“Hey Tim! It was great to meet you, too. I would love to get ice cream… BUT… I am actually leaving Monday for a week of vacation before I move to Birmingham, Alabama. So I’m thinking ice cream probably won’t be in the near future, sadly. Thanks again for the picture and hopefully we will run into each other this weekend during Market Days.”

My favorite part of this message is that he actually indicates that Birmingham is in Alabama, as if I might be confusing it with Birmingham, England.

I LOVE Me Some Ice Cream

2010-08-06T10:57:00.000-05:00

Going for ice cream is one of my favorite dates.

Falling in Love for a Second

2010-08-05T05:12:00.003-05:00

“Gone for now.”

That was how the Paralegal left for rehab. I had no idea. Yoga Girl had no idea. We had been out drinking plenty of times to know that he didn’t drink like an alcoholic. Or at least he didn’t drink like the Lawyer. We could have a bottle of wine for dinner, and then be done. His work schedule and his fitness routine just didn’t lend themselves to a typical sort of substance abuse. Regardless, I had no idea, no information, and I was going to have to find a place of peace on my own, and trust that if the Paralegal wanted me to know the details he would tell me.

I felt in my heart that he loved me and his words were authentic, but what little comfort that provided did not make up for the pain in knowing that he would be gone, the uncertainty of the future, the sorrow for the incredible hurdles he would have to overcome, the anger that I was completely powerless to whatever life might toss the Paralegal’s way or mine, and that, ultimately, whatever his selfish addiction, I would be the one to lose out on his love. Do I have patience? Do I let him go? I didn’t know. But I knew if I just kept breathing through my fears, the answers would come.

That was the energy I took the next morning into a workshop I had signed up for. Sitting on the bus, I meditated on the idea that the answers would come with time. But then, why did I have to know the answers? The Paralegal was in rehab, he was getting help he needed, and I should be joyful for him. Why do I have to write the end of the story? Why can’t I just wait and see what happens next? And if I give the Paralegal the space he needs to do his work while focusing on the work I need to do, then just maybe when I know I’m ready for the next step, the Paralegal will be too. And if not, then maybe another, more fabulous man would come into my life.

And just maybe I would meet him at my workshop.

I had signed up for the workshop months before, not really sure what I was getting into. Since ending my relationship with my former partner, I just had a feeling that I needed to learn more about emotional intimacy, becoming more comfortable with it. I could talk to a therapist every week, but that just seemed expensive and slow. I was looking to fast-track my growth, so the idea of some sort of intensive workshop was appealing. I searched the Internet, and didn’t come up with a whole lot.

I found weekends in Berlin, but the details were lost in translation. The weeklong retreats in Costa Rica or Hawaii sounded exciting, but I wasn’t prepared to drop the cash needed. But one workshop, a weekend, looked like it was promising: Celebrating the Body Erotic, offered by the Body Electric School.

Only, the details were a bit vague, not getting much more specific than helping people to get more comfortable with their bodies, or looking to connect with people on a deeper level. So I emailed the coordinator asking for more information.

He suggest I look at the Web site, indicating the video described in great detail what the weekend dealt with.

Still, I had no idea, specifically, what the weekend was about.

So I emailed a follow-up question asking if the workshop delved into issues surrounding emotional intimacy. He indicated that it didn’t deal with intimacy directly, but by exploring some of the hurdles to erotic energy, it gets at issues of emotional intimacy.

Good enough. I signed up and mailed a check.

Over the months that would follow between registration and this moment on the bus, thinking through the energy I was carrying into the weekend, it became apparent to me that the real challenge was not emotional intimacy with others, rather a true and authentic emotional intimacy with myself.

It weighed on my already heavy heart as I thought about all the questions with unknown answers, and why I must know the answers. Why can’t I just throw myself into the flow of life and see what happens next, with full comfort that everything would be okay?

I hopped off the bus and walked to the warehouse where the workshop was being hosted.

I stood on the street corner, about fifteen minutes early, waiting for the door to open for the Saturday morning session. A cab pulled up. The door swung open, and out stepped a man.

The Principal.

* * *

About twenty-five men enrolled in the workshop, the youngest being around thirty, and the oldest nearing seventy. The age bell curve had me as one of the younger ones. Five assistants were on hand to help through the weekend, and one instructor led us through a series of exercises that would all come together at the end of the weekend, empowering us with new tools to help us live our lives in a manner that was in line with our true authentic selves.

Introductions were made, and we spent the morning participating in a variety of bonding rituals designed to underscore that while each of us are on our own separate journeys, we’ve come together for a reason and that is to be in a safe place to discover a deeper relationship with ourselves and each other. I kept quiet, only sharing when requested. I had decided in a conversation with Yoga Girl about the weekend, that I would try to take care of myself first rather than be the funny guy who smoothes over awkward social situations with humor, wit, and good looks, making everyone else feel better.

As the awkward situations came, we all sat there, in a circle. I bit my tongue, feeling the awkwardness.

Our instructor explained that, as men, we are socialized to not feel and as we grow up, we learn to separate our feelings from our sexual desires. By identifying the hurdles that prevent us from connecting heart energy with erotic energy, we open ourselves to a deeper ability to be intimate with ourselves and others.

Right. That’s what I was looking for on the Web, but could not find. I was in the right spot.

We sat on the floor, a wide-open warehouse space converted for the purpose of these type of workshops and meetings. I sat cross-legged and closed my eyes as we were led through a mediation that consisted primarily of deep, heavy breathing, super-oxygenating our blood. We were encouraged to chant as we exhaled, stirring up our spirit, opening our heart, finding our answers from within.

The sound of a beating drum.

Our instructor beat a drum as he led us through the breath work. I had studied the men’s psychology movement while in college. A movement that believes men have a genetic makeup to hunt, provide, and to be with other men, but since the rise of feminism, those genetic ideals have been threatened. Through ritual, though, men can embrace their primal side, and come to terms with their feminine side, allowing them to be more full, complete men in our modern society.

I had determined anyone who would participate is such a weekend was crazy with deep issues.

And now I was getting dizzy on oxygen, my head spinning, on the borderline of a splitting migraine headache, wishing I had followed instructions to not drink alcohol for three days prior.

On the verge of vomiting, a voice came out of nowhere from within me.

I am not alone. I am loved. The Paralegal entered rehab because of my presence and energy in his life. The Paralegal could have vanished completely without ever telling me what was going on. But he did tell me, and, in doing so, he provided me with the ultimate gift, the best he could do at that moment, the most he could do—an expression of love and compassion, and a clear message that his vanishing truly had nothing to do with me, but it is about him and his journey. He loves you. He loves me.

A tear ran down my cheek.

* * *

“This weekend is going to be an intense experience,” the instructor warned. You’re going to fall in love. But the great thing about love is that you can fall in love for a second, or a minute. You can fall in love for ten minutes. A day even. You can fall in love for a weekend or a week. A month. You can even fall in love for a lifetime. But it’s all love, and that’s okay. We can love each other at this moment in time with no obligation to each other.”

I thought of the Paralegal. The Lawyer. I had their love. I have their love; I’m absolutely convinced of that. And that’s okay. Nothing can be said or done that is going to change that.

“It’s a powerful concept if you thinking of it, really. Love without obligation. Imagine if the entire world embraced that idea.”

We counted off, and I was partnered with two other men. We stood facing each other and then were told to select someone to go first. I volunteered, not knowing what I was volunteering for, but holding back on smoothing over the social awkwardness was making me a little bit more adventurously bold.

“The person who is going first, are going to be a receiver, and the other two are going to be the givers.” Our instructor explained as the assistants passed out blindfolds. My two receivers helped me place the blindfold over my eyes.

“Now receiver, your only job is to receive. To breath in the experience. Givers, your job is to massage your receiver out of his clothes.”

Uplifting new age music played as four hands touched my body, exploring my chest, my back, my inside thigh. And then my belt came off.

By the time my clothes were in a pile on the floor, they had explored nearly every inch of my body with their hands, and my enthusiasm for their touch was readily apparent, simply fueling their desire to touch.

We took turns, until everyone’s clothes were scattered across the floor. Naked, we stood there, a group of men looking to unlock some hidden secret we had no idea was buried within us.

* * *

Naked, we came together in a circle. I had met almost everyone in the room through our bonding rituals, except for a few. There was still one hot man whose name I did not yet know. Legs like tree trunks, and an unshakable, staunch torso, he was an imposing presence of a man standing several inches taller than me. One of the most developed chests I had ever seen, his pours of his smooth skin seeped of masculinity. His arms were tattooed with a beautiful pattern, and piercings adorned his body, his navel and nipples, and several in each ear. He was the sort of bad boy your mother would cringe if she knew you were spending time with him.

I rushed to stand by to him.

“Turn to the man next to you.”

We faced each other. He broke into a smile as we grabbed each other’s hands, our eyes locked on each other. I gazed into his brilliant blue eyes as we exchanged names. I looked around the circle quickly, we were the only two holding hands, but it felt okay.

“This man who is standing in front of you, this man will be your buddy for the weekend. Study him for a moment. And get to know him and who he is right now, because you’ll be checking in with him throughout the weekend. To know that you are not alone this weekend.”

He smiled and squeezed my hands. In our nervousness, we both shifted our weight on our feet, swaying slightly from side-to-side, our semi-hardness brushing up against each other. Later, I would learn this solid man was a former Franciscan monk, from San Francisco, who left the brotherhood to become a therapist specializing in, of all things, sexual addiction.

“Now decide who shall share first. And the other shall just listen.”

I nodded, he smiled.

“And the man sharing first, tell the other gentleman who is going to listen to your every word, tell him what would be said if you were to be introduced by your penis.”

I laughed, as the Former Franciscan from Francisco, Now Sex Addition Therapist smiled at me and giggled. I raised my eyebrows and inhaled. I honestly had never thought about giving voice to my penis before. It had never occurred to me that of all the pleasure it might experience upon my behalf, it might, on some days, have an opinion different than mine. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. It was as if I had a tapeworm in my throat that thrived on an oral vocabulary.

I wondered, briefly, by never giving voice to my genitals, if this made me less of a man. Had I missed some right of passage? Had I played football, rather than swam growing up, would I have got this? Or did this sort of education come with the hunter’s safety course I had bailed on, with no intention of ever shooting a gun. And to think, other people waste their time on Saturday mornings by going to the grocery store, when they could be standing naked, beating drums with a group of strangers, giving voice to their genitals.

“Ahhhh. Wow. I’ve never really thought about this,” I said.

The Franciscan laughed. His smile was huge, his heart so open.

“I guess it would say that I’m approaching forty, and I’m single. And, umm, yeah.”

The next three minutes were a struggling stammer, as I rattled on trying to give my penis a voice. While the instructor was always quick to remind us there is no right or wrong answer, by any measure, I was failing the penis voice exercise.

I was relieved when we were told to switch and it was now my time to listen.

“If my penis were to introduce me, he would say that I am very active, and that I like a lot of action. I have a high sex drive.”

Right. Right. Right. If my penis had a voice, he might talk about the physical intimacy that I enjoy. I am a sexual being.

It had never occurred to me to point out to a completely naked stranger that I enjoy being a submissive bottom or a dominate top. That I like it slow and gentle as much as I like it rough and hard. That if you’re grossed out by feet and refuse to massage mine, then you’ll never find a way into my heart. That I’m good with my hands and I’ll massage you for fun, but I like a good massage in return. That I like men. Big muscley men. Skinny men. Hairy men. Smooth men. The more man he is, the more I like him. Let’s start with a pulse and go from there.

As I stood there, holding this amazingly attractive man’s hands, listening to him share with me all his hidden sexual desires, I realized that if I didn’t know how to say what I want, how is he supposed to know? But if a man loves me, he’d know, right? That thought process was probably not going to work any more.

The Franciscan filled the entire three minutes without getting stuck or starting over. He shared some of the most graphic details and fantasies I’d ever heard.

“For a self-proclaimed introvert,” I pointed out, “your penis sure had a lot to say.”

* * *

By the time we broke for lunch, I had fallen head-over-heals in love no less than five times, and that’s okay. Despite all the random rotations, I had successfully dodged the Principal and I took a moment to thank the universe.

There was something about eating naked with a room of men that just didn’t sit well. While we had worked through all sorts of bonding rituals and exercises, I still felt the room was filled with strangers, and hanging out eating lunch naked while making casual conversation felt more forced than natural. So I put on my clothes to eat my lunch, well, at least pants, and buried my head in my journal to jot down random thoughts: “For a naked gay men’s retreat, some of the tattered underwear choices are ridiculous.”

* * *

Following lunch, we gathered around the instructor, again a group of naked men. Having spent the morning meditating and getting in touch with each other, it was time to learn a different tool: touch. We were encouraged to follow along as the instructor demonstrated for us a variety of genital stimulation techniques all designed to raise our erotic energy.

“It’s all different, and our penises are different. Some of these might work for you, and some of these might not.” Our instructor demonstrated the Twist and Shout, using two hands, twisting around his penis and ending with a wrist-flick on the head.

“You can’t break your penis.” He slapped it back and forth, and then grabbed the head and wiggled it around like a jump-rope.

“And maybe you can start a fire.” He had his erect penis sandwiched between his hands, rubbing it back and forth like it was a stick and he was starting a fire.

“Make sure you use plenty of oil.” He demonstrated a move called “Hairy Palm,” as we all palmed the heads of our penises. Our instructor talked about the importance of self-pleasuring, pointing out that if we don’t know how to pleasure ourselves, then how do we know what to ask for? And if we don’t provide appropriate feedback to our partners, how do they learn what we like?

It was entry into declaring our wants and needs, rubbing our penises. The metaphor was not lost on me as I took the lesson beyond physical needs, but emotional as well. It occurred to me, as I was practicing the Milker, that as much as I had grown to love the Paralegal, I ultimately need someone who is dependable and not going to disappear on me. And despite my best efforts with the Lawyer, I never said, “I want to take this to the next level.” I never said, “I need you to acknowledge the energy between us, embrace it, and treat it as sacred.”

I didn’t learn any techniques that I hadn’t seen on the Internet already or discovered on my own, rather I went to masturbation school to figure out you have to know what you want, in order to ask for what you want. It was an epiphany.

* * *

Armed with new breathing and self-pleasuring techniques, it was time to integrate the lessons of the day. The point was to raise erotic energy and awareness and to eventually release the energy in a way other than ejaculation. I had already fallen in love and had several epiphanies, and we still had a couple hours to go.

We were paired up, rotated, and then paired up again. One would give, practicing the new techniques on our partner, and the other would receive, practicing his breathing, receiving, and proclaiming his desires and needs. I volunteered to receive first, and as it happened, the Franciscan was laying on the floor next to me. My partner, one of the gentleman who was just discovering his attraction to men in his late sixties was my partner, and he would be giving me the gift of pleasure.

I laid on the floor, blindfolded and naked, my legs wrapped around his torso so that he had easy access to my genitals. New age music began to fill the room as our instructor beat a drum, and called out strokes as if we were a rowing team.

“Whooo! Haaaa!” He led us through the breathing techniques.

“What must you let go of to experience the pleasure you want? What must you ask for to get what you need? What stands in the way?”

My giver had turned into an overzealous pleasure-seeking teenage boy with reckless abandon. I was not convinced the instructor was correct about being unable to break the penis because my giver was well on his way. Breathing through the tugging, I placed my hand on my forehead, which he interpreted as success, increasing the velocity from which he tugged.

My hand fell to my side, landing in the palm of the Franciscan. We had been told, as receivers to not touch, to just receive, and that by touching, we would disperse the erotic energy we were trying to build. Emphasis on erotic energy we were trying to build. There was no building at the hands of this man, and the first touch of erotic I experienced was my hand landing in the Franciscan’s.

To hell with the rules. This is my experience. I’m going with it.

Our fingers intertwined, and for the rest of the ride, whatever energy was built, I shared with the Franciscan.

When we were told to take our blindfolds off, my giver looked like a kid in a candy store and I did my best to muster up a smile and a thanks.

Thank God, the day is done.

We were told to go home and take it easy. To not hook up with each other. To not drink alcohol or do drugs. To do something different than we would normally do on a Saturday night.

So I had a dinner date with the Franciscan.

* * *

We sat at a table in the back of the sports bar while waiting for our pizza to arrive. Our knees brushed up against each other as we held hands beneath the table. Our conversation was part process, part integration, and part first date.

“That was so hot,” he said, giddy like fourteen-year-old boy who just discovered how his penis works.

“The hottest part was holding your hand.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think we were supposed to touch each other, with all the rules. But I didn’t care; it was the only thing that got me through it.”

“Got you through?”

“Yeah, my genitals are still sore.”

“Sore?”

“Well, I don’t think my ‘giver’ had ever ‘given’ pleasure to another guy before. I don’t know that he’s been with many men.”

“Did you tell him he was hurting? Or what you wanted? What felt good?”

Oh. Right. Right. Fail.

I think that’s what they call integration, when you take a lesson learned and begin applying it to various aspects of your life. But truth be told, it didn’t matter how my giver was touching me, I wasn’t completely sold on whether or not I wanted to be touched by him.

“I guess I didn’t do that part very well. Asking for what I wanted, or what I need.”

“It’s hard to change old patterns. But once you have the awareness, that’s the important part.”

I sat there for a moment, holding the Franciscan’s hand, reflecting on the day. I noticed not only was it comfortable talking with him, but it was just as comfortable to sit there, enjoy the silence, contemplating. We were half way through the workshop and I wasn’t satisfied with my participation. We were in a safe, albeit naked, space, and if I couldn’t ask for what I needed or wanted there, then where could I possibly learn it? I resolved that my intention for the final day would be, one way or another, to selfishly declare my needs.

Our pizza came. Masturbating all day had worked up a healthy appetite, and we scarfed down our pizza as we continued to talk virtually non-stop.

We swapped stories of why we were in the workshop. I told him I had been in a relationship for over a decade, and in the process of separating, realized I should learn more about intimacy. I explained that this workshop was the best I could find, but as I arrived, I realized it was intimacy with myself that I needed to work on and I felt like I was in the right place. I spoke of the Lawyer and the Paralegal, and, eyes flooded with tears, what had just happened the night before.

The Franciscan was easy to talk to, and he stroked my hand and looked into my eyes as I told him my story. He smiled compassion, hanging on to my ever word.

He explained how he got to the workshop, and that he wasn’t sure what he was working on, or hoping to accomplish, but he was open to seeing what would happen. He told me of his boyfriend, a flight attendant, who had been very supportive of him coming.

My heart broke open a little upon hearing he had a boyfriend, and salt was poured on the wound when I heard flight attendant.

He volunteered that he and his boyfriend have an open relationship, and they have not secrets. They share everything.

“I mean, he’s a flight attendant.”

I sighed.

Of course, this was his logic speaking, and not his genitals, which had spoken openly and eloquently about how active they are and how they love to be the center of pleasurable attention.

I didn’t yet know him well enough to call his bluff.

After dinner, I walked him down the street to where he was staying with friends. Our hands locked as we strolled. I mentioned that it was too bad he would be flying home to his boyfriend immediately following the workshop, and that I had enjoyed our conversation; the processing, the integration, and getting to know him beyond his genitals.

“I could change my flight. Fly out Monday morning,” he said.

“I think you should look into that.”

“Of course, I would need a place to stay.”

“That can be taken care of.”

On the porch of his friends’ townhome, we turned toward each other, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. Electricity coursed through our connection.

“My genitals would like me to make out with you,” I said.

“Oh, they’ve found their voice!”

I twisted his pierced nipple through his shirt.

“Wooo!” His smile was giddy.

I pulled him towards me; our lips locked. His hand grabbed my ass, pulling my hips into his.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, buddy,” he said.

“Yes. Tomorrow morning. You know how to get there?”

“I do.”

He went inside. I walked down the street, adjusting the Paralegal’s watch on my wrist.

* * *

Morning arrived much more quickly than I was prepared for, and I wasn’t quite sure I could handle another day. But I’d paid a lot of money for the weekend and figured no matter what happened, the day would do less damage than the Catholic Church, and if I was lucky, might even heal more effectively. When we arrived, there was a definite energy between me and the Franciscan. It felt like the entire workshop knew—just by looking at us—that we made out on the porch of a townhouse just the night before.

I felt fourteen-years-old. Or, at least how I might have felt at fourteen if I had the courage to make out with a boy.

We jumped right in to day two with more meditation and breath work, only this time we involved body movement. We were told to think about our intention for the day—to ask for what I want and need—and during the mediations we were to chop through the obstacles that stand in the way, push away the hurdles, block the stuff that prevents us from our intentions, and gather the things that help us realize our intention. For more than an hour, we jumped around repeating the same motions over and over, breathing in the good and exhaling out the bad.

The breathing was a little easier having followed directions about alcohol the night before, but the jumping around was no different than a Jane Fonda class, only it unleashed tears.

For whatever reason, my inner voice kept saying, fear, shame, selfishness, powerlessness.

That’s what stood in my way of my intention for the day. That’s what stood in front of asking for want I want; what I need. I realized those are silly reasons, and it is time to let them go, getting rid of those ideas from my life.

We were out of our clothes following the morning meditation, and after a quick review of the self-pleasuring techniques, it was explained that all the elements we had learned the day before—the breathing, the touch, the building of erotic energy—it would all come together today, and it would build up to what was called “The Big Draw.” The draw being orgasm-like, but not necessarily an orgasm, rather more like a release, but not in the sense of an explosive ejaculation, rather an emotional release, like a healing. Our instructor explained that it was a unique experience and would be different for everyone, the point being to clear the obstacles that prevent heart energy from connecting with erotic energy. He would lead us to experience The Big Draw twice.

In other words, fasten your seat belts, fellas.

We were advised to pee first, because it would be about a two-and-a-half hour process of touch, oil, breathing, and chanting.

I looked around to the other men and set down my water, regretting that I had been hydrating.

I volunteered to be in the first group, climbing up onto my assigned massage table, again naked and blindfolded. We started on our stomachs, the first portion of it being a massage of the back, building our erotic energy. Every so often, the givers would rotate, providing the opportunity to work on other men, reinforcing that all men are different and observing the feedback is just as important as asking for what you want or need.

When we had rolled over onto our backs, one of the younger, more zealous gentleman in the group—a veterinarian—was working on me. He had me slathered in oil and quickly began patting my scrotum with great enthusiasm. Each pat came with an increasing force, and I found myself wincing as shards of displeasure shot through my body.

This is it, I thought. Your intention for today was to ask for what you want, what you need.

But I didn’t know what I wanted, or let alone needed. At that moment, all I knew was, not that. I tried to speak, my mouth even opening to begin to say something, but no words came out.

The Veterinarian interpreted this as sheer joy and pleasure and patted with a greater force.

The mind works in funny ways. Or is it the universe? Or your spirit? Regardless, it is probably best not to question those ways at times, and this was quickly becoming one of those ways.

A memory burst from the depths of my mind. When I was in fourth grade, it had snowed in the small coastal town in Oregon where I was growing up. Snow on the Oregon coast is a once-a-decade phenomenon, only happening once before when I was a toddler, the evidence being family photo albums with pictures of me and my twin brother rolling around in slush as pre-toddlers. This, obviously, was in the days when babies were allowed to leave their protective child seats and do things like eat dirt, or grass, or even snow in an effort to explore the ways of the universe.

But this snow had happened while we were in school, before the days of liability and Future Forecast with Doppler Radar, so at the end of the school day, we were sent out in what little snow and ice was left to find our own way home. We were latchkey children across the board, and the secrets to afternoon survival were held by Lindsey Wagner and Linda Carter as the Bionic Woman and Wonder Woman, respectively. If the problem was not solved in an ABC After-School Special, it couldn’t be solved.

So on this day, walking home with slushy, heavy wet snow laying all over the ground, I was approached by the bullies from down the street. They threw the heavy, wet snow at me, pummeling me in the face, while yelling, “Faggot.”

Snow got under my collar, and ran down my back and chest, soaking me to the core.

“You’re a fag,” yelled the boy who lived down the street who had asked me to spend the night with him just two years earlier when he moved to town, simply because he didn’t know anyone else.

My younger brother stood there, watching.

The girls in my class who walked home with me stood as witness.

Snow continued to hit my face. My jacket. I was wet. I was cold.

“Faggot!”

“Fag!”

“Homo!”

All I did was walk home. Walk home with the first and only snow of my childhood.

Fear.

Shame.

Powerlessness.

Selfishness, if I protest.

I went home devastated, letting myself into our house with the key that was hidden in the garage.

There, I sat on the sofa, in my wet clothes, waiting for the two-and-half hours until my parents go home so they could see the devastation; my devastation.

I explained what happened when my parents got home. My clothes had dried. I’m sure it looked less dramatic than I was able to let on. I underscored that hey had pummeled me with wet snow. It went inside and down my shirt. It was wet and cold.

“What’s your problem?” my father asked. “Why didn’t you kick their ass?”

Not getting the support I was looking for, I escalated my emotions, erupting into a tantrum on the sofa.

My father came over, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me.

“What the Hell is wrong with you? Don’t let them push you around that way, kick their ass!”

Fear.

Shame.

Powerlessness.

Selfishness.

I don’t have the power to ask for what I want, or what I need. I’m selfish to ask for it, and I should be afraid and be ashamed of who I am.

It was 1981. Fags were about to die in masses from AIDS. My father didn’t need to know that in order to know that he wasn’t supposed to have a gay son.

He did the best that he could at the time.

I realized all that as the Veterinarian slapped my balls. I realized that these ideas of fear, shame, powerlessness and selfishness were ridiculous. Old rules and ideas engrained in what? Nothing but my own damage.

Certainly, Wonder Woman wouldn’t think like this.

The Big Draw came. The Veterinarian stepped away from the table. And for the first time in my life, I wept for that moment and all moments attached to being gay when I was afraid, shamed, powerless, and felt selfish for declaring my needs.

* * *

When it was my turn to give pleasure to the men who were sharing the experience with me, I don’t think it is any coincidence that I ended up with the biggest, loudest criers in the group. Including The Franciscan. The day concluded with me providing pleasure to The Franciscan. When he removed his blindfold, I was happy to be the man who embraced him.

Kissing was against the rules, but in that moment, it was the right thing to do.

We threw our clothes on, said our goodbyes, and then hit the streets, walking to the bus. He had checked with his boyfriend and had decided to spend the night, so we headed to dinner.

I grabbed his hand and lead him to a wine bar with half-off wine bottles. We ordered our dinner, I selected a nice Pinot Noir, and we raised our glasses.

“Can I say it?” His smile filled his face. “To my soul mate.”

Our glasses clinked. I touched the Paralegal’s watch. I thought of the Laywer. I swallowed hard.

Following dinner, we headed back to my place, hand-in-hand. There, we stripped each other out of our clothes, and showered together. For the next three hours, we explored every angle of the bed as we touched each other’s bodies and made love to each other.

“I love you,” he whispered into my ear.

I whispered it back, conscious of the fact that he has his own flight attendant that he would be returning to in the morning.

After three hours, we finally dozed off to sleep as best we could. It was hard for me; my mind was going. He was the best of the Lawyer and the Paralegal, only more open and willing to go with the flow. But he was taken and lived in another city. Unlike the Lawyer, he was willing to connect his heart energy with his erotic energy. I realized as the Franciscan lay on top of me that if the Lawyer were to connect his heart and erotic energy together, he’d have no choice to be with me. But to do that, he’d have to unlearn a lifetime.

And the Paralegal, he was in touch with his erotic energy, but his own personal demons stood in the way of openly exploring the possibilities around that.

The Franciscan lay on top of me, our lips intertwined only unlocking to explore our bodies.

“I’m so very present,” he whispered into my ear, “with the number of times and the depth with which you’ve had your heart broken.”

With only four hours before he had to catch his flight, he fell asleep on top of me, my arms around him, thinking he’s the next man to break my heart.

In the morning, we held hands as I walked him to the train.

“You can fall in love for a second, a minute, or a weekend.” He placed his hand on the back of my neck and kissed me. “See you later, buddy.”

Thanks for the Call-Out

2010-08-04T11:02:00.001-05:00

Thanks for the call out, Best Gay Blogs! Welcome new readers! More stories are coming soon.

New Post Coming Soon

2010-08-04T10:47:00.000-05:00

Just a quick not to let you know that a new post will be coming soon. And, soon, my posts will be getting shorter. Just as soon as I get enough back story so that you can understand some of the context by which boys are ebbing and flowing.

Until then, happy dating!

The Rise and Fall of the Paralegal

2010-07-28T06:36:00.005-05:00

A crowd of men, mostly straight men, jumped up and down in the white strobe-lit fog of Excalibur. They faced a stage, which had a D.J. who was spinning techno noise that was almost as white sounding as the fog that filled the air. It was as if 1,000 men were waiting for the arrival of the Mother Ship to beam them to another place. I’d not been to Excalibur in nearly 20 years since my college days, but the promise of finally meeting the Paralegal set me on a mission. After a month of good text and a few phone conversations, it was time to actualize the virtual.

The Paralegal was in the crowd, and when I spotted him from a distance, my eyes locked on him as I swam upstream through the flow of the crowd before standing right in front of him. We had been texting for a month after bumping into each other on Grindr.

He recognized me right away, and we both broke into huge smiles. His beauty was breathtaking, and as I looked into his grin and the depth of his eyes, a voice said to me, this man could never love me.

I ignored the voice in my head, his face containing the softness of compassion, like a giant ball of sunshine, and we locked into an embrace. A couple of inches taller than me, with long runner’s legs, his arms wrapped around me, we were engulfed in a sphere of white light.

* * *

Over the next several weeks, our interactions would increase. We would spend Sunday afternoons at the Boat Show, or going to a movie. Sometimes, just walking around the city, snapping photos. A recent transplant to Chicago, I’d share the history of the neighborhoods as we walked, sometimes walking as much as ten miles in a day.

One afternoon, we found ourselves at a bar in River North, and, for some reason, we were the only two people in the bar. We stat down and struck up a conversation with the bartender.

“What would you like?” she asked

I thought about it for a moment.

“I’ll have whatever is most trendy right now.”

“Well it’s all about the gin right now. Gin is making a comeback.”

“Is it? Why’s that?”

“I think the manufacturers are trying to make it the new vodka, infusing it with flavors and aromas.” She set up a line of glasses on the bar and started pulling gin bottles from her rack, pouring a taste from each bottle into a glass.

The Paralegal and I tasted the various gins she poured, noticing the distinct flavors and scents of lavender, floral, and spice.

“Gin is one of those classic old-school alcohols that your grandparents would have drank,” she explained. “But it’s coming back in fashion.”

“So make something classic, yet sophisticated.”

She strummed her fingers on the bar, pulling more bottles from the rack.

“I’m going to make you both a drink called the Aviator. It’s something your grandparents would have definitely drank, and what makes it the Aviator is an alcohol you mix it with that is no longer manufactured. But I can simulate the flavor of it by mixing a few other things together.”

The Paralegal ran his hand along the inside of my thigh, and leaned into me, whispering, “I love this.”

She poured the gin concoction into a martini glass and then added the zest of a lemon with a twist before sliding the martini glass our direction. The Paralegal sipped it.

“THAT is REALLY good.” His eyes were wide with excitement.

I took a sip.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely something you would drink on the deck of an ocean liner as you were on a trans-continental journey.”

The Paralegal laughed.

“It is!”

“You know, I should have you re-write our menu.”

“Well, mix me something else, and I’ll tell you what it is.”

For the rest of the afternoon, we sipped gin martinis and imagined where we might be when drinking them, but completely content with where we were and who we were with. The Paralegal provided the exact sort of companionship I had hoped for on a lazy weekend afternoon, and willingness to go on an adventure to see where it might go.

* * *

One Friday night in early February, the Paralegal was actually let out of work at a decent hour. We decided to cross paths for dinner and drinks. We had established he was a fan of all-Asian foods, and was convinced he was Chinese of Vietnamese in a former lifetime, so I suggested a restaurant between us that was clearly American in its menu selection, but the chef has prepared traditional American meals with a heavy Asian influence. The setting is visual, with whimsical chandeliers and thick velvet drapes lined with corded fringe. I figured it would appeal to both the Paralegal’s food tastes, as well as his artistic side that he had begun to share with me through the photos he would text of his day.

It’s a romantic setting and the host sat us down at a table by the window. The same table I had sat at with the Lawyer almost eight months earlier.

“Should we get a bottle of wine?” I asked.

“I love wine.”

“What kind of wine do you like?”

“I don’t really know. I just buy wine by the label, really. Whether or not I like the packaging.”

“That’s always an important factor for me, too. Do you like fruity or dry?”

“Fruity, but not too fruity.”

“Okay. How about heavy or lighter?”

“Lighter.”

“Flavorful or sweet?”

“Flavorful.”

“How about a pinot noir? A red that doesn’t quite behave like some of the traditional reds. Light, aromatic, sometimes with a little spice.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Our serve disappeared to go get the bottle.

“I really like how you describe things. It’s easy to picture. Imagine.” He said. Our hands were resting on top of the table, and we leaned forward, our fingers intertwined and stayed knotted on top of the table for the rest of dinner.

Conversation with the Paralegal was easy. He was an active listener, who contributed as much to the conversation as he took away. He opened up, and shared about his work, his family, and his previous relationship. He told me how learning to cook Indian food with his neighbor, who has since moved to India to be closer to her family and take care of the family elephant, is what empowered him to start running. And now he runs every day, for it was running that saved him, giving him the strength to leave his pervious boyfriend of six years, who happened to be an abusive alcoholic. This man controlled all the money in their relationship, and prevented him from having friends or going out to see the world. Even worse, this man beat the Paralegal so badly one night, he broke the paralegal’s leg; he had me feel the notch in his shin.

“It must be hard to let all that go,” I said, baffled at how someone could beat someone so beautiful on both the surface and deep down inside.

“I don’t hate him,” he said. “I never hated him, and in the two years since I moved out, I’ve come to be grateful for the experience I had because it’s what has made me strong today.”

My heart hurt for him, sorry that he had to experience so much pain, and yet I admired his spirit so much and his ability to look beyond all of it as a lesson that helped to create who he is. I squeezed his hand.

“So tell me something else, Sunshine,” I said.

“Well.” He leaned back for a moment, thinking to a topic we had never covered before. “I always got in trouble in high school and had to go to the principal’s office a lot.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“I went to a Catholic high school, and all the teachers were nuns. And some of the nuns had taken a vow of silence, so you were not supposed to talk to them. But I would always ask them why they couldn’t speak. And they wouldn’t answer. But others would speak up for them and say its because they have taken a vow, but I wanted to know why they took a vow, you know?”

The Paralegal sipped his wine.

“Did you ever learn why they took a vow?”

“No, I didn’t. Just got sent to the principal’s office. And then he would get mad at me and just tell me its because they took a vow and I was to stop asking. But all I wanted to know is why they took a vow.”

“I love that story.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you love that story?”

“I love that story because it says something about who you are. It’s more than just where you went to school or something that happened to you, but it’s about you and who you are?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are Sunshine. You have this curiosity about the world. You want to know why it works the way it does, and you’re not afraid to ask. I like that. I find it very appealing.”

“I think you have a curiosity about the world, and I like how you see it, too.”

“Well, thank you. But it strikes me that as you have gone through your life with this natural curiosity and this desire to run free and experience it. But in high school the Nuns of Silence prevented you from even asking, and your former boyfriend did everything to prevent that.”

The Paralegal became silent for a moment. He took a bite from his food while squeezing my hand.

“You know, I’ve never really thought about all that in that way before,” he said. “I’ve never connected the together. That’s interesting. Thank you.”

When we finished dinner, I asked if he would like to go for a drink at the Fulton Lounge.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a swanky little place that is just around the corner. It’s kind of casual, yet sophisticated, not too crowded and not too noisy, so you can carry on a conversation.”

“See, there you go again. Your descriptions of things. I love them.”

“So do you want to see what kind of casual, yet sophisticated looks like?”

“Yes. Yes, I want to see that.”

We got up from the table. The two blocks to the lounge, we held hands as we walked down the sidewalk.

We commandeered a sleek sofa at the Fulton Lounge. Surrounded by subtle colors and textures, it’s got the feel of a showroom while being cozy enough to relax in. We sat there, holding each other’s hands, only breaking our connection to sip the martinis we had ordered. We continued our conversation, sharing our love of movies, and how brunch with a circle of friends makes Sundays the best day of the week.

“That night we met, you came on like a force out of nowhere,” the Paralegal said. “You just showed up, so handsome. So powerful.”

My eyes welled up, the words stuck in my throat with fear.

“Sunshine, I’m going to go out on a limb here.”

We stared into each other’s eyes.

“I’m falling in love with you.”

The Paralegal studied my face, leaned forward, and kissed me on the lips. Noses touching, he said, “I am falling for you, too.”

It was all that need to be said at that moment to unleash a passion that made us “That couple.”

That couple that needs to get a room.

* * *

We had only been on a handful of dates when that awful date of dates came along: Valentine’s Day. It was too soon for something completely over-the-top, but we were far enough along that the day had to be recognized in some way.

I decided flowers at the office were in order, so I called my favorite florist and gave the direction: whimsically romantic with a sense of sparkle and wow; no red roses; too cliché. And they were to arrive on Thursday. This year, Valentine’s Day fell on a Saturday, meaning the flood of office flowers would come on a Friday. I wanted mine to be special. To stand out. To set the standard by which all other deliveries would be judged.

About four o’clock in the afternoon, the string of text messages from the Paralegal started.

“You might as well have marched right into the law firm naked and delivered them yourself,” he said. “You brought the entire firm to their knees as your brand of fabulous waltzed right in ad sat down in the middle of the room.”

“Really?”

“They called me to the front desk, so I assumed I had some angry client that just showed up. But when I got there, the receptionist, who is always in a bad mood just smiled and nodded to the most beautiful arrangement sitting on her desk that I have ever seen.”

The Paralegal held my hand in his. He has this soft but strong touch that is easy to get wrapped up in.

“So I had to walk through the firm with this beautiful arrangement, past all these lawyers’ offices, and as I walked deeper into the office, it grew quieter and quieter as conversations came to a stop. When I got to my desk, I just sat there. I didn’t know what to do; I’ve never had anyone send me anything at the office. And all the ladies in the office swarmed around my desk.”

The Paralegal’s eyes welled up as he spoke.

“Peggy, my office manager had to tell me to unwrap them. But I was shaking so much, and tears were streaming down my face. So she had to open them for me. And all the lawyer ladies, they were yelling to see who they were from. And I kept saying they were from My Guy, and they were saying, ‘How do you know? Look at the card!’ So I grabbed the card, and I saw it was a haiku, so I knew it was you, but before I could read it they snagged the card from my hands.”

He opened his wallet and pulled out a card with ink penned perfectly in three lines.

Feelings are blooming

A bouquet to spark about

Sunshine, man I love

“The lawyer ladies passed the card around, and like lawyer ladies, they examined it, turning it over. And one of them yells, ‘How do you know it’s from your Guy? There is no name!’ They got all worked up.”

The Paralegal’s eyes sparkled as he grabbed both my hands.

“I said, ‘They’re from My Guy. I know. He delivered his brand.’ You brought this stressed-out, busy law firm to a complete halt, and in your own way, you brightened everyone’s day.”

Mission accomplished.

* * *

It was after a night of disco dancing that we were in a cab on the way home. I was still living in the condo with my former partner, it not yet sold, and he had a studio apartment that he wasn’t completely comfortable with sharing. I understood hi anxiety; he’d left everything with his former boyfriend and had nothing but a mattress, a table, a TV, his personal belongings and two cats.

“Let’s get a room,” I suggested.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Let’s stay in a hotel tonight. We can sleep in and order room service in the morning.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You want to?”

“Sure.”

I leaned forward and told the driver to change course to the W Hotel, City Centre, knowing that it would appeal to the Paralegal’s tastes.

At 1:30 in the morning, we walked up to the front desk, and I booked us a room.

We were barely in the room before our shoes were off, a string of clothes leading from the door of the room to the sofa. We tangled on the sofa, our limbs intertwined, him on top of me, as our tongues explored our lips and our mouths.

“You are so handsome,” the Paralegal said. He gasped for breath, his asthma sometimes making it hard for him to breathe while we kissed.

“And you, sir, are beautiful as well. I love your body.”

I held him to me, licking his neck. He giggled.

“That tickles!”

“Does it?” I liked him with furry.

He laughed harder, pushing me down onto the sofa, and me off his neck. He looked at me and smiled before diving for my lips. We locked again. I inhaled. He smelled like a man, he was soft yet hard. As he kissed me, he ground his crotch into me, his masculinity poking against mine.

“We should open that wine, do you want to?” The Paralegal was referring to the bottle of wine that was in the room.

“Yes. We should. And then I think we should take a bath. Together.”

“Yes.”

We were up. The Paralegal grabbed the wine glasses and the bottle while I searched for the cork screw. Minibar, nothing. Desk, nothing. Drawers, nothing.

“There is nothing to open it with,” I said.

“So we can’t have wine?”

“Hold on.” I reached for the phone, pushing the “Whatever, Whenever” button.”

“What can we do for you, sir?”

“We’re trying to enjoy this bottle of wine that is here in the room.” I glanced at the Paralegal, who was laughing. “But we can’t seem to find anything to open with it.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Sometimes the corkscrews walk off. I’ll send someone up with one right away. Is there anything else, sir?”

“Yes, if you’re sending someone up, could you please have them bring a few condoms as well?”

The Paralegal burst out laughing, turning bright red.

“Absolutely, sir.”

I hung up the phone.

“Condoms? You asked for condoms?”

“Sure. The button on the phone says, ‘Whatever. Whenever.’”

The Paralegal laughed, turning almost purple.

“Well, I can’t wait.”

“We better put robes on,” I said. Went to the closet and barely had them on us when there was a knock at the door. Corkscrew and condoms. I ran to my wallet and grabbed a five-dollar bill, and when the door was closed, the Paralegal already had the bottle open and was pouring two glasses of wine. He handed me a glass.

I held mine up, looked into his eyes.

“To ‘Whatever. Whenever’ buttons,” I said.

The Paralegal laughed.

“Yes.”

Our wine glasses clinked.

“And to us,” I said.

The Paralegal smiled, his eyes welling up before he leaned forward to kiss me.

Quickly, we were in the tub, with me leaning into him, his arms and legs wrapped around me. We sipped our wine. We bathed each other’s bodies. There was no conversation, just touch, and we could not keep our hands of each other. Exploring the extent of our bodies with our hands, out tongues, our lips.

We showered, dried, and then found ourselves on the bed. Me on top of the Paralegal, our hips grinding, our lips locked, him struggling to breath with his asthma.

“Wait!” he said, stopping everything.

I rolled off him, leaning on my elbow.

“I’m not sure how your feel about me?”

I laughed, burying my head in his chest.

“Seriously?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t know how you feel about me?”

“Umm.”

“I send you flowers to the office. I write you haikus. And you don’t know how I feel about you?”

“Well, Umm.”

“Sunshine, I think you are the bomb. You are creative. You are funny, and witty. Super smart. Killer handsome. I love that you take care of yourself. I love that you run for two hours on Saturdays, and that running every day grounds you. I love that you like movies, but more importantly, you want to be the guy who shows the movies. I love your artistic side, and that you are visual. You are brave, and strong, and I love all of that. I love you. Do I need to continue?”

He laughed.

“No, you don’t.”

I licked his earlobe. He inhaled.

“I just don’t believe that stuff about myself.”

“Well you are all that and more, Sunshine, and I’m falling in love with you.”

“And I, you.”

Our lips got lost on each other’s bodies before we finally fell asleep in each other’s arms as the sun was beginning to rise.

* * *

For the next several months, the Paralegal and I played this game of cat and mouse. The good times were great. Deep and comfortable, he was a joy to be around, and I found myself wanting more. Despite those highs, the Paralegal was developing an unpredictable pattern of vanishing. We’d make plans to cross paths, being in touch all the way up to an hour or two before, only to disappear. He’d follow up the next day, saying he fell asleep, exhausted from work, or got called into an unexpected meeting.

One Sunday, after vanishing on me for the weekend. I had a sudden urge to check out the new Modern Wing at the Art Institute of Chicago. He chased me down in the Loop via text, and met up with me in a photography gallery not far from the Art Institute. His deep brown puppy dog eyes were filled with regret, his face with trepidation.

“Hey,” I said.

He broke into his beautiful smile, relaxing as he inhaled. I’m sure relieved that I was not going to explode at him, or beat him.

“Hi. How are you?”

“I’ve just been studying this photo here.” I nodded to a photo of two black men walking down Chicago’s lakefront, passing a white man and a young white boy, who had been riding their bikes and clearly taken a quick dip in the lake before laying on the breakwater.

“Yeah?”

“I think it captures the essence of Chicago perfectly. Two very different families, or peer groups, existing side-by-side in this beautifully composed shot that was all just circumstantial. The angles help create a sense of activity, and yet, there is total peace.”

“I see that.”

We stood there, examining the photo. Our pinkies brushed up against each other and hooked. He grabbed my hand, and our fingers interlocked in total forgiveness. We were our own snapshot, a moment of unconditional love, two men existing in the world, side-by-side, trying to let the past go so that we could be present in the moment.

“Have you ever been through Millennium Park?” I stood close enough to kiss him, staring into his eyes.

“I run by there all the time, but no, I haven’t.”

“Then I think we should walk through. I think you will like it.”

Hand-in-hand, we walked through Millennium Park, where we examined the sculptures that were on display. We stood under the Bean, and snapped photos of each other. As we walked, he caught me up on his family. His mother had called to say that his unmarried sister is pregnant. Knowing her devotion to the Christian faith, he said he laughed out loud and suggested that he won’t be the only child in the family going to Hell no. He said it was another situation where his untimely laughter had got him in trouble.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Sunshine. It’s not like she’s going to stop calling you, and besides, you’re right. As long as she continues to impose her radical Christian ways upon her children, she’s going to continue to see them running off to Hell.”

“I like that perspective. I think you’re right.”

For the afternoon, we wandered around the Art Institute. Our first stop was George Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte. The Paralegal stood in front of the painting for fifteen minutes, taking it in. He studied the dots, the patterns, and the colors. He inhaled the details like they were the breath of life. And as he stood there, I studied him, this work of art, solid yet soft, strong yet fragile, adventurous yet scared, perfect yet flawed.

“What do you look for in a work of art?” I asked him.

He turned around, looking at all the walls of the gallery.

“I like something that speaks to me. Something that tells a story. I like stories. I like your stories. They would make good artwork.”

I ran my hand down his back, and leaned into him as he leaned into me.

We wandered the Art Institute for hours, exploring a special exhibit in Matisse before thoroughly exploring the Modern Wing. We finally ended up in the elaborately paneled Stock Exchange Trading Room, where we found ourselves in this wide-open room alone. I pulled him into me and we kissed.

“I love you.”

We kissed again.

We stood on the front steps of the Art Institute and surveyed the city.

“Shall we go get a glass of wine?” I asked.

“I’d like that.”

The Holiday Inn Apparel Mart has one of the most spectacular views of the Loop and the Chicago River. Situated on the banks of the north and south branch of the river, it looks out from the 15^th Floor over the South Branch and the Loop, as well as toward the lake. We sat at the bar and ordered a martini.

I grabbed the watch on his wrist and pulled his arm to me.

“This is such a handsome watch on you,” I said, admiring its brushed silver finish, and the metallic green face that turns to radiant blue when the light hits it from a different angle.

“Thank you. But it doesn’t work. I just wear it for the look.”

“I think watches on men are so handsome. I used to collect watches when I was in high school. I was kind of known for my watches and matching them to my outfits. But then after graduating, I couldn’t afford to keep up with the battery replacement, so I eventually got rid of all of them.”

“I like that story.”

“Sunshine, I want more days like today.”

“I do too. I knew you were going to say that, and I know that I’ve disappointed you. And I’ve thought about it a lot. While I was running today. I’ve come to realize that I moved here to get my freedom back, but then I just got this job and all I do is work. And I came to realize that I’m not really free, I’m just as trapped in my job. But now I’ve met you, and you are so handsome, and kind, and caring, and I’m finding myself falling for you. And I like that. I want to spend more time with you.”

His words made my eyes fill with tears. I grabbed his hands and held them as he spoke.

“I need to make changes. I always say yes at the office, and it drains me. I need to say no, so that I can have time. Time that I now want to spend with you. But before you, that time was just me sitting in my apartment, staring out the window, afraid to go out. But you have helped me to learn that it’s okay.”

“That’s all nice. But when you disappear on me, it just unravels me. I understand that things come up and you work a lot. I understand that fear can incapacitate you; it sometimes does me. But right now, I have nothing to go on. I have nothing to believe that when you’re not here that your feelings are the same and true. And I know that’s my issue, but that’s how I feel.”

The Paralegal released the clasp on his watch and slid it off his wrist. He grabbed my hand, sliding the watch over it, clasping it to my wrist.

“I want you to have my watch. I think it looks more handsome on you than it does on me.”

* * *

The next day I took his watch to a jeweler and got the battery replaced. I took a picture of it, sending it to his phone. He replied immediately.

“You’re wearing it! That makes me so happy.”

A few minutes later I took another picture and sent it his way, with a message indicating that he will notice the time has changed and it reflects accurate time.

“You got it fixed?”

“Yes, I did. While I was out to lunch, ran by a jeweler and got it fixed.”

“You don’t know how much that means to me that you would do that. Take the time to do that.”

* * *

A few days later, when I got off the train, he had had a particularly bad day, and decided to take a break from work. When I got off the train, he met me in a plaza by the river. It was an unusually warm spring evening as we stood there, watching office lights of the loop sparkled off the ripples of the Chicago River. We stood there, noticing the beauty together, a moment when words don’t need to be exchanged.

“I want to take this to the next step,” I said.

“I do, too.” The Paralegal responded without hesitation and grabbed my hand. He was an active hand-holder, not just hanging on, but caressing as he intertwined our fingers.

“I’m not really sure what that means, though. I do know that I want to spend more time with you, and I’m finding I want to share more of my life with you.”

“I would like to share more of my life with you, too. I’m comfortable with you. You help keep my calm, grounded, and I’ve not met anyone as special like that before.”

“I just enjoy you. Our connection. And I don’t know what the next step is, but if you’re willing, you have my commitment to figure out what that means.”

“I’d like to figure out what that means. With you.”

“I’m glad. We can just take it one day at a time.”

“I want to spend more time with you. Do things with you. Plan things with you. I’m proud to stand by your side.”

I decided to give him another chance, and offered him to attend a fundraiser with me that I had committed to going to. Enthusiastically, he accepted, saying he would make it happen, that he would be there.

In the days that followed, he talked about how he was looking forward to our evening, asking what I would be wearing, what the fundraiser was about. The night before, in a good night text, he said he was looking forward to our plans.

On the day of, I sent the Paralegal a text message indicating what train I would be on, and that he could meet me at the train station, or I would meet him in the office of his building.

“Good morning, Handsome,” he replied. No reference to my question, but I didn’t put a lot of thought into it in that he sometimes fell quiet for plans and still showed up. But on that night, the plans came and went, no Paralegal. No message. No acknowledgement. Nothing.

The depth of my hurt was only masked by the rage that bubbled up.

* * *

A few days later, laying in bed on a Friday night thinking about a weekend workshop I had signed up for months earlier, I decided I could, despite my fury, wish the Paralegal well. I sent him a text, “Good night, Sweet Sunshine. You are on my mind and in my heart.”

An hour later, my phone chimed. It was the Paralegal.

“I’m broken, Handsome. I cannot provide for you the way you need. I’m very secluded. I’ve hurt you and I am ashamed of myself. I wish nothing but the best for such a bright spirit you are.”

“Broken or not,” I replied, “I love you. And you are a bright spirit.”

“I’ll take that with me. I’ll drop the curtain now… I’m entering rehab in the morning. Family will escort me. But I’ll think of you. Take care of yourself, Handsome. Gone for now…”

I fell asleep that night with a tear-stained face, The Paralegal’s watch around my wrist.

Bad Blind Date

2010-07-27T13:06:00.004-05:00

We were at a cabaret show, a tribute to Stevie Wonder, and it seemed fitting that my friend The Project Manager would bring a blind date.

But he was a Bad Blind Date. Such that The Project Manager pulled me aside mid-course, during intermission, to provide the disclaimer: “I don’t know what my friend sees in him that he thought I would actually find this asshole attractive.”

I nodded.

“I mean, he hasn’t said one word to me all night long, but he’s managed to talk to everyone else.”

I sipped my cocktail as The Project Manager excused himself to order another round for the group of friends we were with.

The Bad Blind Date approached me.

“Do you need a ride home? I can give you a ride home,” he said, his voice deep and gravely, the outcome of two daily packs for decades. His salt and pepper hair combined with his leathery face that reflected the age of a continuously good time. His presence was playful, the depth of his wrinkles containing the memories of yesterday’s parties. A designer shirt and designer jeans hung on his body oddly, as if he was more about brands than fit.

“I live two blocks from here; I don’t need a ride,” I said.

He cupped his hand around an electronic cigarette and took a draw; the LED-tip glowed.

“It’s water vapor. With nicotine. I don’t smoke anymore.”

“I see.”

“So let me give you a ride home.”

“I can walk, it’s just two blocks.”

“Please. You’re adorable, and this guy, I mean, please, save me. You’ve got to save me. Please don’t let me get to the point where I have to give him a ride home.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

* * *

And that is how we met, while he was my friend’s Bad Blind Date. He started calling me every couple days, suggesting we should meet for a drink. Pointing out he has a summer home in Indiana, that it’s being highlighted in Country Living magazine, and I should come to see how beautiful it is. I managed to dodge his invitations for two weeks, until he called with an offer I couldn’t refuse: he was invited to a cocktail party in a Ravenswood loft and he wanted me to come along.

“The psychic said to accept every party invitation,” my friend Yoga Girl reminded me. “You never know who you’re going to meet, and it’s his karma coming back to him. I think you can go safely with him and meet other people.”

Yoga Girl was right. The psychic had instilled me with the wisdom of not passing up an invite, and it seemed karmically relevant that I could use Bad Blind Date as a conduit to new social circles.

I said yes, and he suggested that after work I hop off the train on my way back into town, driving us both to the party.

“You won’t be offended,” Bad Blind Date asked on the phone, “if my car is a mess, will you?”

“A mess? What do you mean?”

“Well, like I have McDonald’s bags in my car.”

“McDonald’s bags?”

“Seriously? You’d be offended?”

“Are you trying to impress me?”

“I just haven’t had the chance to...”

“Listen,” I cut him off. “Every time you put gas in that car you are standing three feet away from a garbage can. There is absolutely no reason a McDonald’s bag should be living in your car.”

He was silent.

“You have four hours. You can get the car clean before you pick me up.”

* * *

I hopped off the train in Winnetka, a northern suburb in between where I work and the City. Bad Blind Date pulled up to the train station driving a black Mercedes convertible. I opened the door and hopped in.

No McDonald’s bags. But the back seat was filled with clothes, hangers, shoes, a random flip-flop, and a shopping bag of kitchen tile samples.

“I got the car cleaned for you.”

“Oh?” The car was quite possibly the messiest Mercedes I’ve seen—soda pop stains in the carpet, and on the dash. Grit covering the console. It was kind of gross, the way you might expect a sixteen-year-old boy to keep his 1998 Pontiac Grand Am he bought from his grandmother.

“Well, I didn’t clean it, clean it.”

“Obviously.”

We stopped at a traffic light. The afternoon was sweltering and sweat was still beading from my forehead. I grabbed a tissue from my backpack and wiped my brow, turning to look at him. We lock our gaze on each other. He smiled.

"I like to save the McDonald's cups in case I have to go pee."

"Seriously?" I ask. I put my sweaty tissue down.

"Yes."

"That's supposed to impress me?"

“Well, no. It’s a cup. It’s not like it’s a bottle.” Bad Blind Date smiled and laughed; the sixteen-year-old boy just made a pee joke.

“I throw them out after I pee. Really.”

* * *

It’s hard to follow someone’s pee proclamation, so I spent most of the ride listening. He’s one of nine children born to devout Catholic parents. He used to work as a trader, but now he does some trading at home. He’s been single for four years, but that was after a six-year relationship, which he tried to get out of for three years, but the guy would never leave. He felt the guy took complete advantage of him and was just a using social climber. He has the country home in Indiana, and recently bought a place in the city that he is renovating before moving from his place in Winnetka, which explained why he had the back seat filled with kitchen tile. No explanation on the flip-flop, though.

“I have lots of friends and I’m a really nice guy,” he said.

“How do you know the people who are hosting the party?”

“I know them through friends. I don’t know.”

“So you had an affair with one of the hosts years ago, but now you just go to their cocktail parties?”

Bad Blind Date laughed. His vague answers signaled a lack of attention to the details of his life, as if a soda-stained dashboard was not clue enough.

“I like you,” he said.

“You like me?”

“Yeah, I find you interesting.”

It seemed recklessly quick to arrive at that conclusion, but I relaxed into the unknown and decided, with a sense of adventure, to see where this journey might take me. We arrived at the address in the city and I found myself instructing him on how to pay the parking meter with a credit card.

* * *

After Bad Blind Date took us to the fifth floor, then the fourth floor, before finally arriving on the seventh floor completely confused as to which apartment we were headed, our host for the evening was waiting in the hallway for us, wondering where we had disappeared between being buzzed into the building and arriving at the door.

“So sorry,” I explained. “He had to pee in a garbage can.”

Our host laughed at the absurdity, while Bad Blind Date’s giggle of guilt. I handed him the bottle of Pinot Noir Bad Blind Date had brought along, and our host led us into an expansive loft, on the top floor facing to the north. The summer sky was a brilliant blue, and what humidity was in the air collected in puffy pillowy clouds dancing over the north side skyline as the mid-summer sun began to set upon the evening.

A terrace, littered with lawn furniture, spanned the entire width of the unit, but the sun was still blazing afternoon heat, so the few guests who had arrived were clustered in the kitchen around a full spread of alcohol.

Bad Blind Date mixed himself vodka lemonade while I opened his bottle of Pinot Noir. We grazed for a moment on a spread of cheese and crackers, with prosciutto and grapes.

“Hi, I’m Joe.” A tall man with broad shoulders extended his hand. He had the soft, freckled glowing skin of an Irish-Catholic, his auburn hair playing off his freckles, igniting his electric blue eyes.

I covered my mouth, finished chewing a grape.

“Lovely to meet you, Joe.”

Bad Blind Date introduced himself.

“Are you from Chicago?”

“No, I grew up in Oregon, then went to school here in Chicago. After graduating, I moved to Atlanta for ten years before moving back here in 2004.”

“Wow. So you’ve lived all over.”

“I have. And as a result, I don’t know how to pronounce anything.”

Joe chuckled while Bad Blind Date looked on.

“It doesn’t sound like you have an accent.”

“Only when I trip over my tongue, which happens quite often these days.”

Bad Blind Date stepped forward.

“See, I didn’t know any of this,” he said.

“You didn’t ask,” I explained, as he looked on with fascination.

"I've had my uvula removed."

Joe and I turned to look at Bad Blind Date. I cocked my head, I suppose out of surprise, but then, upon a moment a reflection not surprise at all.

"The thing that dangles in the back of your throat?" I asked.

Joe’s mouth had dropped open.

“Yeah. See, I have a really big tongue.” He stuck his tongue out, as if to demonstrate. But rather than see the gargantuan nature of his tongue – which could be open for debate – our gaze was stuck on the half-chewed bits of gourmet cheeses and crackers that clung to his tongue as if an allergic reaction to adult cocktail conversation.

“They took it out because they thought I was going to choke on my tongue. They thought it would give my throat more room.”

"Wow, so you have a really large tongue?" Joe said.

“Yeah.” He stuck his tongue out again, this time, while smiling, exposing the food stuck between his teeth and his receding gum line.

"So what you're saying," I said, "if I'm hearing you correctly, is that you could fellate a rhino?"

Joe laughed out loud. Bad Blind Date looked confused.

"No, I just have this large tongue."

For the third time that evening, we saw his tongue.

* * *

I moved to the terrace and sat down to enjoy the fading moments of daylight. Bad Blind Date sat down next to me.

“See, like, I didn’t know you where you grew up and stuff like that.”

“You didn’t ask,” I said.

“So, like, you grew up in Oregon?”

“Yes.”

“And your parents are still there?”

“Yes. They have a llama ranch in Oregon. Llama Rama Vista.”

“Llama Rama Vista? That’s the name of their ranch?”

“Yes. It’s just outside Portland in Estacada.”

The sky began to blaze with color as we made small chat, and for the first time, Bad Blind Date seemed genuinely interested in me.

We were joined by Jason, who lived in the unit next door. An attractive man with smooth, dark skin, he explained his father was German and his mother was Iranian. He had an easy softness to him that contrasted Bad Blind Date, and he was an attentive listener, as the three of us talked about jobs, where we grew up, and the eventual demise of Jason’s relationship.

“We had breakup sex on my balcony just last weekend. It was kind of hot,” Jason said. He brushed the rim of his beer bottle with a finger, slipping into the memory.

“Break up sex? Balcony?” A muscled boy in a tank top approached and stood right between the three us, filling the space with his presence.

“Hi, I’m Matt, and you must be my next ex-boyfriend.” He extended his hand for Jason to shake.

“I’m Jason.”

“Nice to meet you Jason. So, hot balcony sex? Tell me about it.”

I tapped Matt on the shoulder to get his attention. He turned, surprised. I flashed him a smile.

“Hi, I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

“Oh, right. Matt. Nice to meet you.”

“Jason was just telling us about his heartache. Maybe you missed that part of the story.”

“I heard hot balcony sex, and I thought to myself, I’ve got a balcony.” Matt rested his hand on the arm of Jason’s chair looking into his eyes. He laughed forcefully, unaware of Bad Blind Date and me. He took over, dominating our exchange at the expense of others in our conversation circle. He spewed from the mouth, an exhausting oral diarrhea of meaningless dribble.

I thought to myself that he seems to have forgotten he has his own space and as a result, is invading everyone else’s space, disguised as witty cocktail banter. But he was failing miserably. Rather than be annoyed by this, I fell back on my clairvoyant training, grounding and eliminating annoyance from my body. I imagined my own space, wrapping myself in protective bubble, bringing my aura in tightly. I breathed deeply and said hello to Matt’s energy.

Hello, Wild Energy all over the place. Hello.

I imagined a bubble around Matt, surrounding him with a light gold light.

Hello, Wild Energy. You have a space. Your own safe space.

The bubble of light was resisting, and it was taking a lot of effort to visualize this. I closed my eyes to concentrate for a moment.

When I opened my eyes, Matt had stopped talking and was staring at me.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“No.”

“What then?

“Just meditating.”

“Meditating me to go away?”

I shrugged my shoulders, smiling. I realized superficial connections were no longer entertaining in the slightest. More interesting is a deeper connection, beyond just the basic facts of the person next to me, but a true genuine interest in getting to know another, who they are, and why they are. That’s the interest I take in others, and it’s what I deserve from any boy worthy of my interest.

“Be a dear and will you please refill my wine?” I extended my arm, handing Bad Blind Date my empty wine glass.

"What?”

“Be a dear and will you please fill my wine?”

“No, see, I'm the one that gets served. My ex used to serve everyone all the time because he didn't want to talk. So he’d serve everyone because he couldn't. Because when he opened his mouth, he’d just look stupid."

"Huh? Do I look like your ex? Just, go fill my wine glass." I thrust my glass into his chest. He grabbed it, turned and walked to the kitchen.

Breaking Boy News

A New Guy

Chasing the Franciscan to Francisco

Landing With Airport Guy

Finding Home

Never Say No to a Party

Thrash Him With a Dozen Roses

Facebook Friends

Rabid Hot Mess

Psychic Intervention

Abyss Boy

They'll Send Us to Rehab

Grateful for the Gratitude

Two Men, One Moment

A Romantic Tragedy

Taking Matters Into My Own Hands

Everything Happens for a Reason

The Conversation We Needed To Have

Clearing My Throat

I Would Like Ice Cream, But...

I *LOVE* Me Some Ice Cream

Falling in Love for a Second

Thanks for the Call-Out

New Post Coming Soon

The Rise and Fall of the Paralegal

Bad Blind Date

I LOVE Me Some Ice Cream