I’m Not That Boy, Part 9

A conclusion is finally here.

Warning: This post contains some adult content.

Calando

“I really wanted that one to work out!” Cole said, turning to me as he drove us home from an evening at the symphony.

It was months after the whole thing had played out with Ianto and Derek, and I was finally getting his take on the story. Although we share a lot, Cole made an effort to distance himself emotionally from the possibilities there. After things had played out, though, he felt more comfortable sharing his feelings about what had happened.

“I suppose it was nothing more than wanting to see two good friends happy and it seemed like a good fit to me,” he continued.

“I know what you mean. I really wanted it to work out.”

***

If there was one lesson I needed to learn at that moment, it’s very possible that lesson might have been letting someone off gently. In a sort of cosmic way, Ianto did for me that night what I couldn’t do for Anderson the month prior. Rather than avoiding the situation somehow hoping it would disappear, he was completely honest with me on that final date.

Following our last, awkward kiss, he cleared his throat and it was apparent something was up.

“Um… we’ve got to talk.”

Every part of me knew what was coming, though I put on a brave face hoping to at least come off a little surprised.

“Guys like you don’t come along very often, but as you know, I’ve been seeing this other guy, and well…, I just feel like I need to see where things go with him right now.”

It was as if I’d cut my finger with a knife. I’d opened myself up for hurt, but when I thought about it, when I examined the supposed wound, I found no blood, no mark, no scar. “Just this once, everybody lives!” Nobody gets hurt! I thought.

Sure, I was disappointed, but I coped (in the lightest sense of the word) with the disappointment as I always had: by focusing on the positive. I didn’t really have to make a decision between Derek and Ianto because Ianto had done that for me.

***

In speaking about Ianto with Cole, the inevitable comparison returned to mind. They were so different from one another. Ianto was stable and intelligent while Derek was more adventurous and dramatic.

After a bit of silence, he finally brought it up after several months of wondering. “Derek?! Really, GMB? Why were you ever interested in Derek?”

“He was just fun. He was something different,” I rationalized with a bitter-sweetness in my voice.

Knowing exactly what was going through my head, Cole asserted, “He is something different alright….”

***

Following that last date with Ianto, all of those dreams for the future were simply displaced. Like water swelling up from the ground, they naturally had to flow somewhere.

I didn’t have a care in the world. Anxiety and fear were the last things on my mind as I met Derek for dinner that night. I didn’t really have any choices to make. Nothing to hide or be uncomfortable about.

We simply went out to dinner and then I showed him around campus. With everyone on break, the place was practically empty. We started in my office.

“Yes, this is where I work.”

“And that’s your desk,” he said, walking towards the desk I’d gestured towards.

“Right. This one’s mine,” I said as I cut him off on his way.

“So…” he paused. “What if I were to do this?” He pushed a stack of papers on the floor. “Or this?” he asked, pushing me up against the desk and sitting me atop it.

My heart raced as he entertained my forbidden workplace fantasies. Minutes had slipped by and I realized it was really happening.

“No. I’d get fired. If my boss [a brilliantly liberal, open-minded woman] came in right now, she might cheer, but I’d also get canned.”

“Okay,” he said removing his hands from the back of my jeans and turning away to button the top half of his shirt

***

“You know exactly what was so appealing about Derek, Cole.”

He looked over and smirked in that I-could-have-told-you-so kind of way.

“He was nothing like anybody I’d ever dated before.”

“That’s right, GMB. We were always in the same page on that sense….And poor Anderson.”

“Everybody has to date a rebel of sorts. He was my James Dean, my Danny Zuko.”

“I don’t need to call you on how gay that reference was. Do I?”

“Alright, I do regret what happened, but I still learned something. There’s no sense in being bitter about the past when we can’t change it.”

As much as that was true, we knew that what had happened was significant because he didn’t find out from me.

***

That night with Derek quickly evolved into a series of subversively adventurous make out sessions. In the course of a few hours that warm January night, we moved from my office to the bushes outside.

The thrill that somebody might catch us heightened every sense. Each sound we made was carefully muffled as we paid attention to the world around us and each sound we heard was followed by a breathless pause.

We migrated our way between buildings, ducking into darkened bathrooms or classrooms whenever we heard the sound of footsteps.

“In here,” he said, holding the door of a tiny room open for me. “I hear someone.”

The faint smell of foreign chemicals thickened the air. He placed his forehead against mine then we paused for a moment to listen for the sound of footsteps, but there was silence. Our eyes adjusting to the darkness once again, I realized we were in a darkroom surrounded by hanging photos developing around us.

He pushed me against the counter next to the sink. My heart raced as quickly as it ever had as he moved his 6’3” frame against me. He lifted me up with his firm hands without breaking the seal of our kiss and sat me upon the counter. His left arm moved farther around my waist as he pulled me towards him. Slowly, he pulled his right arm around in perfect symmetry, until suddenly the motion broke and his hand migrated down and rubbed. Then, in a singular motion, he unbuckled my belt and released the top button of my pants.

I exhaled.

For the first time, the impulse to say “Wait” or “No” or “Stop” did not win out. The rhythm was entrancing and gratifying—more so as he peeled through each layer until I felt the sensation of skin against skin. Guiding my hand, he invited me to do the same.

I was speechless and lost in the moment.

My left arm extended and on his shoulder, I sensed him motioning to stoop down when I finally said, “Okay. We need to stop.”

***

After Cole dropped me off at my car, I considered the situation a bit more. Derek was never right for me. He was shallow and wanted in my pants. After that victory, he quickly shared the story of his conquest with everyone he knew (including Cole and a very deceived Anderson) and found an excuse to move on.

Cole knew exactly why I would keep something like this from him. In my eight months of dating, I’d found the perfect balance. I could be gay and Mormon. I could date and be happy so long as it never went beyond kissing. So long as that moment in the darkroom never happened with Derek, that tenuous balance still existed, or, at the very least, I had time to re-conceive that balance in my existential crisis.

Did I really want the celibate life I’d consigned myself to? Or was there something to those feelings I’d finally let myself experience? Was I never meant to experience the range of emotions and sensations I’d been bestowed with simply because those feelings could never be inspired in me by a woman?

I couldn’t bring myself to tell Cole mostly because, as my fears later confirmed, he was right. Despite my excellent planning skills, my ambition, and my emotional composure, I could not have everything I wanted from life. I began to understand why he was so angry following his broken engagement two years earlier—although the trauma of his situation was enhanced by the fact that in his situation he could not please himself or his fiancé in the manner he’d been taught his entire life.

Now that he’d found out about that one night, we connected on a much deeper level even though it we’ve never discussed that night or the spiritual repercussions in the detail presented here. As I considered these consequences and lessons Derek had taught me, I had an ally on my side who not only understood my feelings, but would support whatever decisions lay ahead for me.

End of Series.

I’m Not That Boy, Part 6

Accelerando

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked. 

I must have looked as if I were shattered into a thousand pieces.  I was caught in a lie—the kind of lie where you withhold some of the details rather than sharing the whole truth. 

“Anderson just texted me.  He’s on his way.” 

“This is hilarious,” he said.  “Don’t sweat it.  You were never exclusive or anything.  Why would he be here in the first place if he wasn’t looking for some action himself.”

“But I was—”

“You had a family thing after your date with him and he didn’t know you just didn’t mention you had a date afterward as well.  Don’t worry.  Anderson’s the forgiving type.  He may be shocked at first, but he’ll still be friends with both of us no matter what.”

Although I knew deep down that this was true, it wasn’t all that comforting.  I hadn’t been who I wanted to be and that’s what mattered in this situation. 

I didn’t know what to text back, so I didn’t. 

“I’m at the door, but I need two bucks to get back in,” he texted moments later. 

My anxiety was anything but relieved.   “I’m sorry” was all I could think to respond. 

The next half hour was spent intermittently receiving frantic text messages from Anderson and shrugging off Derek’s advances, until the final word came “Gave up on finding an ATM.  I’m going home.” 

After a simple “Good night,” I let loose. 

I danced and even made out with Derek who reminded me, “You’re here to have fun on your 24th, remember?”

The evening was entrancing.  The rumblings of music against the walls and the dancing lights were somehow welcoming.  Everything that became unquestionably forbidden only because it was gay suddenly took on that air of the exotic.  I could like things that were stereotypically gay or associated with pop culture for the sensation of liking them—fashion, art, hairstyles—and it didn’t really matter. 

In that moment, kissing Derek seemed to fit into that category.  He was definitely the most experienced guy I’d kissed, and as I paid attention to the way his lips moved.  I pondered the rhythm and the pressure of each movement and his arms around me helping me complement his every movement.  In one sense it was very gratifying and in another I wondered if that was going too far. 

As the drag show began and we debated staying or leaving to avoid the crowds and the people, I spotted Drake Hatch, who upon noticing my presence gave a friendly nod and smile.  This coincidence led me to wonder once again if that was the future me—at home in the club and enjoying anonymous, suggestive dancing.  Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing?

After a small taste of the drag show (there were a lot of big queens to handle in one night), we drove back to my car.  The discussion centered a lot around where I was in the senses of coming out, especially in regards to the church. 

“Why do you even go?”

“Sometimes I wonder, but I just feel like I need to make it work.”

“Like you owe it to someone?  You don’t owe anybody anything.  Especially if you are uncomfortable.  I know you’re not 100% comfortable.”

“I make it work.  I just have rules.”

“Like what?  I know you’re dying to try coffee.” 

“I keep to the swimsuit rule.  I don’t touch anywhere a swimsuit would cover a guy and vice versa.”

“Wow.  I remember that one from Primary.  You’re really cute that way.”

“Well thanks.”

“I’ll do my best to respect that but no promises.”  He chuckled.

As we said our goodnights, he joined me on my side of his car for one last kiss… which turned into a very long kiss… which turned into something more physical.  He was on top of my.  His large frame was heavy but in a comforting way.  My hands starting in the small of his back ended up in his thick, dark hair—where they’d wanted to travel all night—as his travelled downwards caressing my face and neck, unbuttoning the top button of my shirt, and then coming to a rest above my waist. 

I could barely breath from the exhilaration.

“Come up for air before you pass out,” he teased.

After a brief pause, we continued where we’d left off and he unbuttoned the top button of my jeans. 

“Oops.”

“No.  Not tonight,” I said not nearly as firmly than I’d anticipated. 

He stopped after a playful grind and we sat smiling at each other.  I took a deep breath, said goodnight, and went on my way. 

End, Part 6.

I’m Not That Boy, Part 5

Now back to the series in progress.

Counterpoint

Stuck.

Stuck in this situation with Anderson.

Stuck in a series of go nowhere romances.

Stuck in this parking lot.

“Why won’t you start?!” I shouted at my car. Lights would go on and make a sputtering sound. The stereo would play. But no matter what I did the engine wouldn’t turn over.

There was no getting around it. I had a reception and another date lined up for the night. “Anderson!” I shouted, leaping out of the car and calling for help as he walked away, completely unaware that this would be the uncomfortable end of our final date.

“I can’t get it to start either,” he said.

“Go figure. Gay boys not being able to figure out a car….”

He laughed. I tried to be as light about the situation and moved on to Plan B.

Spotting a mall security guard patrolling the lot, I walked over to her SUV. “What are you doing in this cold?” she asked.

“I’m stuck and I don’t suppose you could give me a jump.”

“That’s actually not a possibility,” she said. “I can only do that if you buy jumper cables at the hardware store in the mall.”

“Seriously?” I asked as Anderson approached.

“Seriously.”

“My mom’s on her way with jumper cables,” Anderson cut in before I could get angry.

He took my arm and we walked back to his car. Before long, his mother was there, asked no questions, and helped me out. I said thank you and went on my way, giving Anderson one final hug and saying my goodbye.

At the reception, I cooled off and de-stressed a bit. It was the first marriage in years and someone younger than me. The natural procession of thought at weddings goes to who’s next. It’s even built into the rights of bouquet-throwing and garter-tossing. A half-dozen times family members asked me about my status, receiving only a discreet “nobody special” or “the right one hasn’t come along” and truthfully he hadn’t.

At one point, the bride’s sister cornered me and asked if I’d be interested in three particular girls who had all asked about my status.

“They’re from here, right?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, long distance has never worked for me, so I don’t think so.”

Finally, as the night winded down, I went on to another date. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Two dates. Two guys. One night. One slight twang of guilt.

“Where are you?” Derek texted as I was leaving.

“I’m on my way. Hopefully, I’ll find it.”

We met just outside his security job.

“Come upstairs when you get here and bring your change of clothes.”

He was in every way Anderson’s opposite although they shared their enduring interest in theatre. Derek was strong, intelligent, experienced, and organized. He always had a plan and direction.

“This is going to be the best birthday ever,” he said from the other side of the door as I changed. “It’s not every day you can turn 24 in the club.”

I wasn’t sure what to think. I liked the adventure and the story. It had been six months since my last club experience and I thought it was time to give it a chance again, especially as he was different from any other guy I’d been out with who had all disappointed me in some way or another (with the exception of Ianto).

After a quick visit to a Mormon friend who seemed to approve of me and my innocence, we went directly to the club. Discussion consisted mostly of how I felt about the night and what I didn’t want to happen.

“I don’t drink or smoke and sex is out of the question.”

“And kissing? Is kissing out of the question? It is a first date, after all.”

I blushed a little. “ That’s not out of the question.”

Upon arrival in the subzero temperatures, we rushed to the door and made our way in. The bar itself the size of the entire club I’d been to in Canada. I wasn’t sure if I was prepared for what was on the other side.

“This. Is. Club. Sound!” Derek proclaimed. “Can I get you anything to drink? Just kidding.”

As he grabbed a drink, I looked around. I saw guys dressed in nothing but their underwear parading around for compliments (and perhaps more). At the pool tables, there were guys playing the part of chic in their deliberate approach to dressing themselves with the latest styles. And finally there were guys who came off 100% normal—those guys you’d see at school or at a church activity in jeans and a T-shirt and never suspect of being gay. This was a place to leave all of that behind for a moment—the solitude of quietly fitting in—to fit in somewhere else and somehow acknowledge the wholeness of one’s identity.

On the balcony, Derek sipped on his drink as my eyes examined my surroundings and we superficially discussed the experience. The flashing lights and pounding music were not as intimidating as the last time and the guys seemed to share so much more with me. I was not the only Gay Mormon Boy there and could not have been the only one facing the issues that I was facing.

“Are you liking it?”

“It’s different and interesting.”

“Pretty soon you’ll be here every week like me.”

“We’ll see about that. I hope I don’t get a panic attack on the dance floor.”

“I’ll watch out for you. Everyone here will be watching out for you. They like the hot ones.”

Moments later we were on the dance floor. It had been years since I’d danced. Nearly five years to the day with Chastity, my date to the Junior Prom. I had no idea what to do. How to move or what to move to the rhythm.

“Loosen up,” Derek teased. “It’s much easier than you think. Just move to the rhythm.” And with that, he wrapped the arms of his 6’3” frame around me and forced me into the rhythm. I calmed down.

I stopped thinking and started feeling. Nothing was going to hurt me. Nothing could go wrong. I was beginning to enjoy the remixes of Britney and Beyonce as well as the lights and even the humid atmosphere of the crowd.

Derek went in for a kiss and I contently accepted as my heart pounded along to the music.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. My heart sank as I read a text from Anderson (unaware that I was on a date with Derek): “Save a dance for me. You didn’t mention you’d be clubbing tonight. I’ll be back in a bit. I had to drop some friends off.”

End, Part 5

I’m Not That Boy, Part 4

FYI—Missionary Monday looks like it will soon become a reality. Due to high demand for the current series (and the fact that I haven’t contributed to it in a couple of days), however, I see that happening next week.

Unresolved Cadence

I went home very unsure of what I should do. I enjoyed Anderson’s company a lot, but I couldn’t get past some of the details that limited the relationship. I tended to focus on the fact that he was always so busy pursuing his acting dreams because that was easier than focusing on the other limitations to a relationship with him. I puzzled over this for a while. Was it okay to just have fun when I felt like he wanted to go somewhere more serious or had the time come to stop whatever was going on between us?

I am not proud of what followed.

Two days later on Connexion (the gay Facebook), I received a message:

We met the other night at Gracie’s. I just thought I’d say hi and tell you you’re hot.

~Derek

I considered the possibilities. There’s nothing wrong with a polite response. Said polite response (something along the lines of: “Thanks. It was a fun night.”) quickly escalated into flirting and then some thought-provoking chats. He forced me to think even more about why I wasn’t satisfied with Anderson and vocalize what I wasn’t necessarily prepared to vocalize otherwise.

My birthday was approaching and I wasn’t happy. Everyone was demanding some time to celebrate and I was just not used to that much attention especially in a romantic sense. Friends and family wanted to throw parties. My co-workers surprised me with a card and a party. Anderson wanted to take me to a nice dinner. Ianto wanted a night in watching a movie of my choice. And Derek, too, had something planned—“You’ll never forget your 24^th,” he said.

The eve of my birthday, Anderson and I went on what would be our final date. He had planned something simple because I told him it would be a hectic night. It would be, but it was also because I didn’t want it to complicate things as the end seemed near. Following this date, I had a reception and another date.

We went to dinner at a little Italian place, La Ferrovia. It was the kind of place out of a romantic movie. Local and under the guidance of a matriarch who served us that night. However, the whole experience seemed like an ordeal. It was a conflict of being out of place as I put on my best face. We were surrounded by happy couples and families, but that’s not where I projected us in a few weeks or a few decades. He belonged there. He deserved that ideal. I couldn’t give that to him, though. The conversation blurred together that night—mostly small and superficial talk unrelated to what was going on in my head—and the only sensation that remains completely engraved in my memory is one of sinking. I was becoming too heavy for the situation welling up around me.

After dinner, we stopped by the mall for a moment. He introduced me to his sister and we continued our now-forgotten conversation. Finally, we ended up back at my car. He pulled a surprise out of his messenger bag.

“I got you something, too,” I said, “for Christmas.”

I knew exactly what it was. I’d seen it in his eyes on our last date. They were the shoes I refused to buy for myself. Cheap red leather, pointy-toed, shiny, perfect angles… it was the type of shoe unique enough to fit into my collection and be used regularly. My gift of two measly CDs (Ingrid Michaelson and Kristin Chenoweth) just didn’t seem to cut it and I felt worse. We sat in the car listening to his new CDs for a while, then I turned off the radio and took a deep breath.

Then and there I knew I wouldn’t have the courage to say it would probably be our last date. I just thanked him and gave him a quick, unimpassioned kiss, and said goodbye as he left for his own car.

I took another deep breath, deeply unsatisfied with what had happened and turned the key in my car. Nothing happened. I tried again, but to no avail.

The battery was dead.

End, Part 4.

I’m Not That Boy, Part 3

Fateful Dissonance

Anderson and I picked up right where we’d left off after he finished up another show. At this point, I was making efforts to branch out and be more social, although (for the most part) outside of my hometown. I was also in the midst of my first great date rush—as many as seven dates a week for the three weeks of Winter Break.

Anderson was a really sweet guy who completely trusted and respected me. He was incredibly attractive in a physical sense. We also had a lot of fun together. All of this worried me because looming on the horizon were two barriers to things working out between us. First, the give and take of shows upon his schedule diffused any progress we seemed to make in getting close to one another. And second, although we connected on an emotional and physical level, I just wasn’t sure it would go any deeper than that even were he to have unlimited time for me.

My heart said to enjoy myself while my head told me it was time to let go, especially as Ianto had recently come into the picture.

Our penultimate date was spent in Salt Lake away from the cares of home and school. I’d bought tickets to The Light in the Piazza at the Pioneer Theater a month earlier, working out all of the possible kinks in our schedules. As the day approached, I was excited and dreading it all at the same time. Am I leading him on or are we just having fun?

We turned the day into something care free. An adventure in a town I knew relatively little about. I completely relied upon Cole to drive or guide me through Salt Lake because there was no reason for me to be in the big city. That day, Anderson showed me some of my first slices of Salt Lake’s gay culture. He pointed out Babylon and Gossip (two of the bigger names in gay clubs at the time) and the homes of a few of his friends. He saved what he thought of as the best for last.

“Okay. Turn left here,” he told me on State Street. Then a few seconds later, “Left again.”

“The D.I.?” I asked. “You know how much I like my thrift stores, but that doesn’t make for much of a surprise.”

“Just wait,” he said over the top of the car as we got out. “Follow me.”

He put his arm around me for a second and flashed his bright blue eyes before leading the way. PDAs weren’t his thing, but he was always tempted.

“There,” he said, pointing to a large black and red sign. “Spark.”

As we went in, I realized that we were in a specialty store of sorts. It was a clothing store, but with a different vibe. Everything seemed to call out a bit more than usual, especially the wall of shoes.

“This is what I wanted to show you,” he said, picking up a pair of checked faux snakeskin shoes. “These are just what you need. They go perfectly with your purple shirt.”

“Only forty dollars!?” I exclaimed. “I can’t. I can’t”

“You know you want to….”

I procrastinated another twenty minutes, weighing out options. “I can’t. I can’t I can’t,” I told him, picking up some burgundy shoes. “They’re so nice and even reasonably priced!”

His puppy-dog eyes pushed me over the edge. “I’m doing it.” I set down the red shoes and picked up the snakeskin ones on the way to the register.

“Wait,” he said, “I have to show you the back of the store.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the sexually-charged tone in his voice, but it took my breath away. As we entered the back of the store (“Cockers” as it’s known to some), I felt a certain spark, a blatantly-sexual connection. It wasn’t so much the sex paraphernalia (toys, lotions, and literature I will leave to the imagination), but rather the underwear. Some of it was modest and some of it downright skanky, but it all seemed to glorify and emphasize the contours of the male body—something that seemed forbidden on so many levels, but also beautiful.

“Wow.”

That was all I could think or say at that point, and the experience stayed with me.

After buying the shoes, the night turned into a collage of memorable moments: a chatty dinner at a local pizza parlor; stealing a kiss in the parking lot; hiding our back-row hand-holding under my suit jacket; stealing another kiss behind the coat rack during intermission.

I couldn’t really escape the feeling that he might be falling for me more than I could ever fall for him. As we left the theater making our way through the chaotic surge of people, I spotted Drake Hatch pushed towards me by the current of the crowd. Just weeks after his disappearance, he pretended not to notice until conversation was unavoidable. We passed our pleasantries of “Hi, how are you?” and went on our ways. I felt good for putting on a strong face and having a handsome man at my side, but wondered if it was an omen of what I would become dating so much and lacking a necessary connection with Anderson.

“Well, that was a great night,” I said.

“I have a surprise for you, GMB. If you’re not too tired, the night doesn’t have to be over.”

Not one to turn down a surprise, I said, “Sure. What is it?”

He then took me to a friend’s house. My theatre friends are having a party and I say we stop by for a few minutes. It’ll be nice for them to put a name with your face. I felt a bit guilty as he introduced me to Grace, a budding director; Alec, a very flamboyant tenor; RJ, the lone straight seducer in the department; Tara, the brilliant character actress/alto; and Derek, a tall curly-haired bass who remained quiet the rest of the night as he sipped his drink.

With his friends (clearly all aware of his sexuality), Anderson was more of a showman and distant. Was he presenting me as a friend or a love interest or maybe even an object? We enjoyed the night of improve games and desserts as I made some new friends. That said, I wasn’t sure what to make of my feelings for Anderson. Or the way he acted around his friends. Or Derek staring and smiling at me from across the room the rest of the night through his black thick-rimmed glasses.

End, Part 3.

Adventures in Internet Dating

This series examines my plunge into the world of internet dating. I had my share of pitfalls as well as my share of triumphs and discoveries about myself.

Part 1: The Let Down

As I ventured into the gay dating world, I was filled with apprehension. I didn’t want to get mixed up with anybody who didn’t respect my boundaries. Although things with Cowboy Mark ended for related reasons, my optimism for a relationship with Anderson dwindled as he began rehearsals for another show and there was no time for me.

I felt a little bit selfish not being more patient—not waiting around—but after 3 weeks of not seeing him, I was lonely. I needed a change.

That’s when Hunter came into the picture. Hunter had come into my office months earlier. I had just gotten back from Canada and he’d stopped by to take care of some business for school. He had his suspicions of me and tested the waters.

“Canada, eh? I served my mission in Alberta. And last summer I lived in Toronto on Church Street?”

“Really? Isn’t it great?” I exclaimed as he sat across from me in my desk.

His bright blue eyes twinkled a bit with curiosity as he probed. He described in detail his experiences living amongst the drag queens, clubbing, and the annual gay PRIDE parade.

I was cautious. I knew exactly what was going on, but I played coy. I wasn’t ready to be that open at work. I wasn’t that ready to flirt with another guy in public. I smiled. I blushed. I did not—however—let on that his advances—his bashful grin, his directed gazes at my reaction to his more pointed descriptions—were making me very happy deep down.

It was all lost on me, I suppose. We both left it at curiosity for a couple of months. I met Anderson and Cowboy Mark and learned my lessons there while he went on his own journey in a new school with new people.

Then, running into him one day, I came out to him. I explained that I was closeted-ly coy that day and that we should hang out sometime. As we found out months after that exchange in my office, it was an interesting transition for both of us.

“I don’t know why I even suggested we go to Olive Garden. It doesn’t make sense to go on a date somewhere I eat and work on a daily basis even if the food is pretty good. You’d think I’d be sick of things like everything else,” he chuckled.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been a difficult transition here. That’s all.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Friends have been hard to come by and everyone’s just interested in sex. They’ve lost touch with a part of themselves.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. I don’t believe in the Church anymore—I’ve even asked that my records be removed—but that doesn’t mean I have to shed all of my morals and sleep with every guy I see. You can’t abandon the spiritual because everything happens for a reason.”

By this point, I had forged an identity as an active, gay, dating Mormon and this really struck me. He might not be LDS anymore, but he was in a place that I respected. Spiritual and confident. It was really endearing to find someone that valued that balance in life and was actively pursuing a relationship. That moment really moved me. There really were other good guys out there who had been through this without “losing touch” or becoming bitter in some way. I pulled up all of the shields and defenses I had down. I’d already found blonde, blue-eyed Hunter cute, but at that moment, my heart got a little caught up in the possibility of a serious relationship with him. In that moment, he became one of the few people in that inner circle who could ask me anything and receive a completely honest answer.

“I haven’t really figured out this gay thing yet, you know?” I said as we finished our dinner. I want to have everything, but know that I can’t. It’s not often you run into somebody like you.”

“That’s very true. Especially here. That’s part of the reason I’m leaving.”

My jaw dropped (figuratively speaking).

“Leaving?”

“I’ve prayed and meditated and this isn’t where I’m supposed to be. I only have a few friends here and I don’t think my major’s working out like I thought it would….”

I slipped into a mild funk of disappointment—frustrated in part that I could get worked up over him so easily and then be let down just as easily.

I think he sensed that as the waitress asked about the check: “Together or separate?”

“Separate,” he said without any of the ritual, gay-date hesitation.

We were just friends.

In consolation, though, Hunter offered a bit of advice as he walked me to my car: “I’m sorry we didn’t get to hang out more. You’re even cooler and cuter than I’d thought. I’m only saying this because it’s helped me, but I think it would be a good idea for you to try using the internet to find guys. Not one of those skanky, hookup sites. Something honest and open and rated PG-13.”

I was a little dumbfounded. It was as if I had failed at dating. That’s what desperate, horny guys use. Was I that desperate and out-of-control? Coming from anybody but him—someone with values and integrity—I would have been offended, but he meant everything he said and cared for everyone he knew, so I took the plunge.

End, Part 1.

AfterMARK, Part 8

Playing with Fireworks

Weeks after our first date, Anderson and I finally found time to go on another.

Just as with Cowboy Mark, dinner and a movie seemed like a safe bet. Relatively little planning, opportunities to converse and cuddle, etc. made the date an ideal situation for two busy GMBs.

I took a courageous step and took him to a local restaurant. There was a mystique of being out in the open and on a date in public yet almost completely closeted. Was I being stupid? Impulsive? Bold? Rebellious?

No one I knew was there, but surely someone who knew me or my parents was. In a way, a novel sense of normalcy encompassed the act of going to a local restaurant in the company of couples who had frequented it for well over five decades.

In a way, we are the same, I thought. Their married, seventy-something, heterosexual dinner dates seemed just as valid as our own, and as we ordered I imagined the couple across the room doing the same thing half a century ago. His peppered mustache and hair turned jet black and her purple-tinged grey reverted to its former state—a mousy, reddish brown.

In fifty years, no one will look back on this date and turn his nose at it, I wondered as they left. Where are they were off to? Maybe home to watch the same movie or perhaps to spend the night in each other’s arms like that night I shared on the stage with Anderson?

That night, we meandered through a number of topics at dinner(although limited mostly to theatre and television), and I realized that there was an undeniable physical attraction. The sensation of his stubbled face against mine and the ever-present tone of kindness in his voice made me smile at an instant. The differences in age and intellect didn’t seem to matter as much as I thought it would.

An hour later, we found ourselves in a park watching the moon rise over the waters and the movie Penelope on my laptop. As it got cold, we retreated to my car to finish the movie.

As we watched arguably one of the most timeless kisses in cinema history (with James McEvoy—arguably one of the most handsome men of cinema history), our hearts began to pound and any conversation we had at that moment is now well-forgotten.

All I remember is his hand pressing against my cheek gently drawing me closer to his stubbled face. We both smiled briefly as we closed our eyes and I joined him in the now-reclined passenger seat.

We threw our jackets in the backseat. My arms found their way around him. He put his arms around me on the small of my back.

Starting on our sides, we turned and I found myself on top of him. I felt the warmth of his strong, slightly-calloused hands. We paused holding each other and holding ourselves back.

“We need a breather,” I said. And with that, we stopped, catching our breath and recording the moment. It was like we’d both run the hundred yard dash and collapsed on each other.

We resumed and traded places.

My hand grazed his face as we closed our eyes again and I drew his face towards mine with a slight giggle. In a few moments, we were right back to where we’d started when suddenly there was an explosion.

“GMB, you need to move.”

“What?”

“Get out from under me.”

In an instant, I moved to the right side of the seat without a second thought.

He stood there for a moment holding himself up above the seat momentarily. He sighed in the most subdued way he could.

“Could you hand me my jacket?”

I did and asked (in the most understanding way possible), “Did what I thought just happened really happen?”

Blushing a bright red as he tied his jacket around his waste, he nodded.

“But we weren’t even…”

“I kno—”

At that very moment we saw a bright light—not in the sky or above the lake, but in my rear view mirror. I quickly returned to my place in the driver’s seat and he took a few deep breaths.

Red and blue lights flashed for a moment as our hearts began to race again, then we heard a tap on my now fogged-up window.

“Sir, could I ask both of you two to step out of the vehicle. You realize you are trespassing here after dark.”

My heart was pounding just as fast as moments earlier, but for different reasons. The officer walked around the car and could read the guilt all over Anderson and the jacket tied around his waist.

I wondered what he would do. Would this become my first noted instance of discrimination for being gay?

“I’ll need to see your IDs.”

I immediately pulled out mine and saw my temple recommend peering out from behind a business card.

“Please wait in the car.”

We did (for what seemed like an eternity) in complete silence.

“Have a good night and drive safely,” he said returning our licenses, then driving off. For whatever reason, he'd let us off with a warning.

Minutes later, the night ended with a quick uneasy goodbye hug.

End, Part 8

AfterMARK. Part 6

Some Enchanted Evening

After a few weeks, Anderson and I managed to plan a first date. Naturally, I was busy with my schoolwork, research projects, and social life in general while his life was occupied by the theatre. From the beginning, he showed an incredible amount of dedication. Afterall (as Sondheim teaches us), “Art isn’t easy.”

The weeks preceding this date were filled with a number of conversations via Facebook and text messaging. We learned each other’s tastes, interests, histories, and goals. His relationship with another actor had ended recently and expectedly as he joined a touring cast.

We’d found common interests. Of course, we both loved the theatre. We enjoyed nice shoes and food. We shared the Gay Mormon Boy background. And finally, our taste in music, movies, and television was uncanny.

After sharing with him my theory of how Pushing Daisies is a metaphor for the celibate Gay Mormon Relationship (as discussed in Walking the Fence), we decided that we’d take a night and watch it together. After much discussion about our schedules, working around his rehearsals and my homework, we figured out a time and place to meet.

I grabbed my backpack, threw in my Pushing Daisies DVDs and set off to meet Anderson after his rehearsal. He came out and met me at my car. The night began with a big hug. The strength in his chest and arms became evident he held me for that brief second.

It was late—just after 10—as he asked me putting his arm around my back, “Do you know where we’re going now?”

“Not a clue.”

“I’m going to give you a little tour.”

He showed me everything a theatre geek had to get excited about—the costume shop, the blackbox theater, the dressing rooms, the control booth, etc. It was clear, as he told me story upon story, that this was his life and that in order for something else to fit in his life, it had to be compatible with his passion. The thought was slightly intimidating.

Finally, as he came to the end of the tour, he showed me a large, black metal door. “What’s behind here?”

“It’s the stage, obviously.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

He opened it and entered first. Taking my hand he pulled me into the darkness.

“Stay here for a second.”

I listened as his careful steps made a tapping noise across the wood floor. His steps grew fainter as he disappeared into the hollow air and an echo began to follow his footsteps. Suddenly, there was a loud click and light peering out behind the curtain. Blue! Another click. Red! Another. Green!

As I made my way towards the light the relics of old productions drew my attention. Trees of various shapes and sizes. Giant playing cards. A pirate ship. Slowly, I stepped towards the slit between the curtains. There on the ground lay a quilt and a bowl of popcorn. It was our picnic on the stage.

It was that romantic touch that made all the difference-- like a night under the stars. There was no doubt that Anderson was thoughtful and romantic, especially as we lay there in each other’s arms wrapped up in a blanket watching the show on my laptop.

My mind could not help but go back to Mark as I thought to myself, this feels good and right. If every moment of my life could be like those muscled arms around me, if I could feel special and cared for as I did when he pressed his lips to mine, then I would feel complete.

End, Part 6.

You have until the end of the nine-part series to guess the significance of AfterMARK. The final clue is that AfterMARK references something that followed a book, movie, and television show. Said book was published in 1968.

AfterMARK, Part 4

Open Curtain.

In the aftermath of that make-out session Jack and I stopped talking quite abruptly. It was a nice lesson in moving on. We were both ready and there were few holdups. We didn’t dwell on it. And we both realized that things ending didn’t have to be so painful.

The following Thursday, I found myself going to dinner and a show with Cole and Bobbie Jean, our music history mom. It was a special occasion for Bobbie Jean’s Cuban mother was in town.

“My mother has to meet my gay boys I keep telling her about,” she told us weeks before the visit. Sure enough, dinner plans were made and kept.

Returning to that Thursday: we found ourselves at a Vietnamese restaurant. Cole and I on one side Bobbie Jean and her mother Carmen on the other. Interestingly, Carmen and I connected on an unexpected level. While Bobbie Jean and Cole joked about Purell being the Holy Ghost of the hand sanitizer trinity, Carmen and I discussed Latin America and life as an academic as she is a retired college professor.

“You watch out for this one. He’s going to go far,” Carmen told her daughter. She was quirky, witty, and always smiling even when the jokes went a little too far for her taste.

At the show, the four of us sat in the back row. (It’s probably the only place, they’d allow us to sit in the theater so as to not distract from the actual production). The show began and my eye began to drift towards one of the actors. He was taller with dark hair and features. Although his character was not particularly macho, it was clear that he worked out. His arms were enormous and his costume hugged his thighs and chest quite nicely.

As I imagined what lay concealed beneath that dressing, everyone enjoyed the show. There truly is nothing like good company to fortify laughter. As the show was reaching its climax, we were all giggling over the cheesy jokes in the show and the dirty ones we read into it.

Suddenly, a line of actors dressed in police uniforms emerged from either end of the stage (among them the muscled hunk), and in perhaps the most shrill, excited tone I’ve ever heard, Carmen rose to her feet and shouted, “Oh my God! It’s tap dancers!”

Still in our seats, I, Cole, and Bobbie Jean all heard something else.

“Did she just say, ‘God damn those tap dancers?’!” Cole asked. If anyone thought our laughter was annoying at that point, they were in for an earsore. I have no doubt that there has never been nor never will be a laughter quite that loud erupting in that theater again. The four of us were all in tears. Everyone was staring at us including the actors—many of whom muted their laughter so as to avoid breaking character or worse.

As their number ended Carmen rose to her feet for a standing ovation, shouting “Encore, encore!”

Following the show, we got a few compliments on how fun it was to watch the show with us. Who knew that the audience could steal the show from the actors?

We made our way around making small talk with the actors, musicians, and directors.

“Anderson,” he said, introducing himself and shaking the hand I’d just offered. The grip was firm. I was a little flustered at his strength.

“That was a fun little tap number you guys did,” I said, patting his arm for a feel.

“It took a lot of work. I’ve been at it for weeks and my feet are killing me.”

“We loved it,” I gushed. “ We were the ones disrupting the show.”

“That’s what we’re here for. I love musical theatre because it makes people feel.”

What he said at that moment rang true of the entire time we dated. He was sweet, genuine, sincere, simple and sensitive (and perhaps a bit of a stereotype). He didn’t really catch on at the moment that I was flirting, but the next day we’d worked things out and planned a date over Facebook. Hours later and quite unexpectedly, being the newbie that I was, I met someone else—a cowboy—under remarkable circumstances.

End, Part 4.