Hold, Part 2

Three Weeks

With Andre, I’d figured out my unintentional and unnoticed pattern. It was a three-week rut from falling for a guy to things not working out three weeks later in a manifold of ways—disillusionment or disinterest, instability or insensitivity, or simply by kismet.

It was time for life to take a different course, if only temporarily—time to focus more on my schoolwork and meditate on the last year of my life. Having made it through auditions, rehearsals and homework dominated my life. I wasn’t about to abandon boys entirely, however. On weekends, I generally found time for my friends—the occasional party with high school friends, an intensely fun study session or two, and almost every week I set aside some time for my gay friends. Friday nights became an outlet for me as I put things on hold to not feel alone in my sexuality.

Rehearsals took emotional their toll as I was surrounded by teens making homophobic jokes and men who had likely repressed their own sexuality in one way or another to “keep the commandments” or fit in in some other way. Almost ceremoniously I’d arrive at The Wood House and carpool to the club in Salt Lake with Ezra and Alberto. There, I wasn’t alone. There, I could get away from the acting—of the theatrical as well as the real-life varieties.

Though the club is for many a hedonistic experience, for many it is a communion with the self. Eighteen, nineteen and even twenty-four year olds find themselves able to share their most guarded secret with an entire community. For me, the elements of fear and enigma were temporarily pulled away as I stood in solidarity knowing that many of those guys were in the same place: out only to our friends and doing our best to follow the standards of the LDS church. For us, it wasn’t all about sex; it was about not feeling alone (as many as many of us did at church every Sunday).

It was revitalizing to get out like that. Life seemed to be full and balanced. My final semester of college was pushing me intellectually as I went through the arduous process of revising my thesis. Socially, I managed to share my time with friends of all kinds. Emotionally, though, I found myself healing—not through my continued, faithful church attendance, but by the music that filled every me. It was as if music were the mortar holding together the bricks of my life.

It managed to keep the excitement in and the anxiety out of my life for a few weeks. Studying with some Philip Glass in the background pushed me through the most difficult work. Contemplating and understanding the words coming through my mouth at rehearsals—even in the case of characters I didn’t particularly identify with such as Lloyd-Webber’s Close Every Door. The hymns at church were its saving grace. Rhyme and rhythm provided a framework for the meter and melody I puzzled over and relished even with minimal understanding of the confluence of chords.

Even the music of the club—the thump of Lady Gaga remixes, the pulse of techno beats, the phonetically kinky lyrics of Britney Spears—provided a comfort in their own way. For years, it wasn’t cool to like the things that might possibly insinuate homosexuality. That was no longer a concern once I allowed myself to indulge in what made me happy instead of conforming to prescribed desires alongside Ezra and Alberto and others at the club.

Three weeks into this ritual of clubbing the world slowed for a moment. One of the most vivid moments of that time in my life, I remember looking across the dance floor into the eyes of another man as the lyrics surfaced through the techno beat:

I feel the adrenaline moving through my veins
Spotlight on me and ready to break.
I’m like a performer, the dancefloor is my stage.
Better be ready. Hope that you feel the same.

We moved towards each other fixed on the other’s expression, our silhouettes suspended by strobe lights as we negotiated a path towards one another.

After what had seemed like ten minutes, we met in the middle of the dancefloor. Silenced by the blare of the music, we communicated only through dance and waited for silence to peel away the layers between us. It was extraordinary knowing the gap between his teeth, the way we fit in each others’ arms, and his heartbeat before sharing a word between us.

We only had time to utter our names before our friends pulled us apart:

“Mickey, Tim’s parents say he has to be home now,” one of his friends called as Alberto demanded, “We’re supposed to meet Kait for breakfast in five minutes.”

We hugged and passed frequent glances until we were out of each others sight when I suddenly realized it was too late. We didn’t exchange numbers.

 

 

End, Part 2.

Hold

Voice Lessons

It was an exhilaration for which I wasn’t entirely prepared, but when I’d convinced myself it was time, I put one foot forward, opened my mouth and let it all out:

Somebody, crowd me with love,
Somebody, force me to care,
Somebody, make me come through,
I'll always be there,
As frightened as you,
To help us survive
Being alive,
Being alive,
Being ali—

“Very good. Next?” a voice called before I could test how long I could hold that last note.

You did it, I told myself. Auditions and sharing my voice had terrified me for as long as I could remember. The seating deliberations for band hacked away at my nerves from middle school on as well as the fear of saying something so outlandish or obvious in class that I’d draw everyone’s attention and ridicule.

Recently, however, I was finding strength. My sexuality that I didn’t think existed was slowly demystifying itself. I was finding greater success than ever at work and in school as a result of vocal encouragement from professors and peers. My identity was taking shape and the idea of being someone “special” (cliché as it might sound) and talented seemed like something that was finally possible, though not necessarily a reality.

I needed to test these discoveries and try something completely new. I also needed a break from dating following the breakup with Andre. (A breakup so bad, I often half-joked with Cole, he had to move a few states away—half-joked because it was completely true. Utah just didn’t agree with him). For that reason, I went out on the proverbial limb and decided to audition for a Broadway review. Months earlier, my parents had given me the very original gift of voice lessons.

It was one of the best surprise gifts I could have received. In an instant, I took my parents up on their offer and started up lessons with a family friend, and over the course of a couple of months, this Mormon housewife inadvertently provided me with the form of therapy I needed.

“Let’s do that again,” she said one day in a lesson. “It doesn’t take much for you to sing the words and get them on pitch, but going to the next level is what sounds the simplest. Paying attention to the words is actually the hardest part. It’s the greatest act of empathy to put yourself in the shoes of another person, and the characters singing these songs really are thinking and feeling people.”

I stared, listening with an expression of awe.

“You know literature better than me, so you can get to the soul of these words better than me or a lot of my students, so the only thing we’ll have to work on is pushing those feelings you share with the characters out onto your canvas.”

“And I’m sure, Beverly, I’ll learn a lot about feeling along the way,” I added.

“I think you’re ready for some Sondheim. Wait a sec while I find my Company book” she said as I flashed a delighted grin. My thoughts trailed off to characters and the idea of feeling: Characters should be easy—I wish I understood what was going on in real-life guys’ minds. Are we all broken in different ways?

A couple of weeks later, we found ourselves in the same studio. She at the piano I standing next to her waiting for the room to cool into silence following a long, sustained high G#. Those seconds of silence and the feeling of empty, burning lungs ready for a gasp of air seemed to say, You did it.

“GMB, I’m so proud of you. You’ve been practicing,” she said as her auburn hair whipped around to reveal her trademark horn-rimmed glasses.

“I did slack a bit this week,” I admitted, not explaining that the breakup with Andre pulled me away for a few days.

“Either way, your understanding of the character really came through in every way imaginable. It was as if you were him for a few brief moments. You seem to understand the ambiguities here—a desire and a terror of being in love, the sadness of not wanting to feel and the joy of feeling even if it’s not what we want to feel.”

It was as if she understood what was going on with me without mentioning a word about my dating life or the overall process of coming out to myself. That said, she would often turn to the story of a gay friend of hers from her days at BYU and say how happy she was for him despite their lives going in two distinct directions. I tend to think that, even in those earliest lessons, she was trying to show me the type of unconditional love we’re all taught about at some point in our lives.

“I want you to keep working on this piece. I think it’ll be good for you, and you can use it for an audition piece for the show,” she coaxed.

I knew that there was an undercurrent in her words “it’ll be good for you.” She wanted me to ponder those words like she pondered scripture. I heeded her words, preparing myself for that fateful audition and some time pondering those words as I put my dating life on hold, taking a boy-fast of sorts.

End, Part 1.

The Life and Times of Boyfriend #2, Part 6

Static

We stand,
We stare
From either side
Of
The bridgeless gap.

Morning came after a restless, contemplative night.  My mind raced with thoughts ranging from self-pity to revenge.  I just wanted to fix the mistake I’d apparently made.  In my mind, I should never have rushed into a relationship, opened myself up to him, allowed myself to get so attached to anyone.

Before I could do anything I’d end up regretting, Cole and Lila had talked me down.  As soon as I made my way home from the party and realized my eyelids wouldn’t draw themselves closed as I stared at my ceiling, I texted the two people I could go to with this problem. 

Cole was supportive as usual, unsure of what could have provoked such a break down. 

Though he wouldn’t go so far as to say, “end it,” he alluded to that conclusion: “It’s possible this is something too difficult to get through” and reassured “You haven’t done anything to regret, so stop worrying.”

Lila was more direct: “Andre’s been an ass and you know it.  Do you really think this type of drama is worth it?”

Through my window, I saw the stars flicker out and dusk warming the air over the mountains as I spent a few moments sitting up in bed contemplating a few scattered notes I’d made in the margins of a handout for class.  My attempt to distract myself with schoolwork only resulted in an outline of possibilities I faced in the imminent conversation.  Rhetorically, I was prepared, but filled with dread in every other sense.

I felt robbed.  The time, the emotion, and the care that I’d spent not just with Andre, but with every guy before him dried up into insignificance and numbness.  Standing at the bus stop, I plunged into a state of static—enveloped by the noisy wind pushing past in steady, rhythemless flow and drawing a curtain of powdery white.  It was one of the coldest days I’d ever experienced, but I didn’t notice.

I don’t want to have to do this, I thought sitting alone in back row of the bus.  Can’t it just be over with.  I stared at my phone, the directory pulled to Andre—a tiny smiling picture reminding me of the past few weeks—only to close it a moment later.  In the next half hour—at the food court, in the library, etc.—I must have done this a half dozen times.  Finally, I pulled myself aside, sitting on the floor of an empty darkened classroom alone and took myself through step by step finally forcing myself to press “SEND.”

“Hello?”  I heard on the other end. “Hello?”

Finally, I choked out a response, “Good morning, Andre.”

“Hey,” he said. “I hope you’re okay after last night.”  His voice quivered with sincerity.  It was clear he wasn’t searching for a way to explain himself but rather wondering where the conversation would be driven.

“I’m glad you’re safe. I was worried.”

“Just so you know, I’m at work.  I’ll give you all the time you need, though,” he told me. “I’m really sorry you had to worry like that.”

“I thought you might die,” I said.

“I know, I know,” his voice cracked.  “I’m an idiot.  That’s why I don’t drink around you.  I just don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said as his voice cracked again. “You laughed and wouldn’t explain why.  It was like you’re laughing at me.  I know you weren’t but that’s what it was like.  I just remember worrying over and over again in my head, Does he really care?  Could he really love me?”

“I’m just not a very vocal person.  It takes a lot of thinking for the words to come out just the right way,” I explained.   

“I told you I had a rough time with my dad, right?  He really messed me up,” he said, sniffing through the tears I could not see.  “Every time I get close my mind goes back to hearing his voice from the neighbors backyard as he shouted at my mother or getting thrown against a door or him throwing my sketchbook in the trash and telling me I’d never amount to anything as an artist.”

Everything made so much more sense from his insecurities over my slightest expression to his status as a college dropout.

I responded in instinct: “You know I’m here if you need to talk.”  At once, a boundary was set and I said everything I needed to break through the static numbness coursing through my mind.  He knew I cared, but talking would be the limit; I knew that I was free from the burden of worry.

We paused for a few moments as I felt my composure return and his vanish.

“I think it’s best I never put you through this again,” he said coughing and sniffling intermittently.

“Yeah,” I said as I sighed in relief for not having to bring up the inevitable dissolution.

The conversation ended on a positive note and reassuring platitudes of friendship, but several doubts. 

I sat alone in the dark, silent room observing the light streaming through the blinds and forming the shape of stairs against the wall. That’s what a kid would see, I thought, and a smile came to my face as the world became a set of details again rather than an aggravating, amalgamous blur.

I made my way to class a few minutes late when my phone buzzed. I stopped in my tracks.

“Andre?” I answered.

“I take it back.  Please take me back.  I don’t want to break up.  You’re the best thing to come along since I came to Utah,” he blurted through his tears.

I took a deep breath and turned back to the conclusion he’d made earlier: “I need stability.  We both do and this won’t be good for us.  I think—”

“Fine. I’ve got to get back to work if you don’t want to work this out,” he barked.

With that, I patted myself on the back and turned off my phone for the rest of the day.  Slipping into class, I briefly made eye contact with Savannah passing a glimpse of my satisfaction and confidence. 

“Apparently, someone had a good weekend,” she whispered as I shuffled past the row and into my usual spot. 

“Well,  it’s over,” I whispered with a half grin.  With that I realized I’d made my way unscathed through the emotional minefield.  In the aftermath, Cole, Lila, and Savannah provided the kind words I appreciated if I didn’t need.  Months earlier, I might have blamed myself for the sudden turn, for Andre’s cold shoulder to my offers of help, and for his sudden relocation back to Nebraska weeks later, but now I knew that my rationality and distance were some of the greatest assets.

End of Series.

Laugh of the Day #19

I saw this and I just had to share because I, too, have an unhealthy, voyeuristic preoccupation with celebrities.  (Esp. the ones that are a total mess).

 

She kind of reminds me of Andre in retrospect.

The Life and Times of Boyfriend #2, Part 5

Is This Love?

Then give way.  Cord
Unbraided.  Limbs
Cracked. Gods
Felled.

“So you’re telling you finally had to put a pillow between you two?” Lila asked as I recounted the weekend with Andre.

“Yeah.  I don’t know what happened, but it was me who couldn’t control himself.  I would wake up and find myself… well,” I paused, “… rubbing against him.”

She burst out laughing.  “You can’t be serious.  You had it figured out.”

“Well, I thought I did, and I don’t suppose it’s a bad thing that I did think that.” It was apparent I was still processing the whole situation.  Sexuality was in some ways as scary as always, and in others practically benign. 

“You horny, horny boy” she continued to tease me throughout the night as we lay there on the couch, oddly making the idea of sex more appealing.  I was horrified, astonished, and fascinated by this new element of identity I had yet to grasp.  It was something as integral as any other part of me, yet somehow removed.  Still, it’s naturalness was as difficult to acknowledge as the possibility of being happy for myself had been.

My natural reaction was to be guarded and not yield to any change without seriously considering its effects upon the rest of my life.  As the confusion of another raucous party at The Wood House sauntered on around us, I processed what all of this might mean for attending and participating in church. 

Lila’s teasing and questions such as “How did it make you feel?” and “Do you think you would have enjoyed going farther than that?” only prodded me further in that direction.  Any miniscule preconception that there was a possibility that being gay was some sort of fabrication I’d constructed for myself (so as to focus on the professional aspect of my life and never grow up into marriage and family life with a woman) vanished in that moment.

The topic psychologically and emotionally exhausted in that moment, we allowed ourselves to enjoy the party a bit more.  We turned our observations towards the crowd at the party.  It was the usual crowd of gays and alternative-types seen in the house on a weekly basis. 

“Karl’s wearing his ‘pedo’ hat again.”
“Carli went to school with my little brother.”
“Amos and Scott broke up again this week.”

It was the usual barrage of witty observations no one would be offended by.  As the lone sober people at these parties, we’d formed an insular relationship in our own little corner. 

“Who’s he?” I confided to Lila, casually motioning to a boy in hotrod red skinny jeans in the corner.

“I’m not sure.  He’s new here,” she said. 

I continued observing him and thinking how unafraid and happy he was with his body to strut around in clothes that demanded so much attention.  Noticing the attention coming from us, he made his way to the couch and plopped down in between us. 

“Hey, have we met?” he asked Lila and I. 

“I don’t think so,” I said slightly out of breath.  My phone buzzed and I felt a tinge of guilt over ogling the “Twink of the Hour.” 

“Excuse me while I take this.  It’s Andre,” I explained to them as I grabbed my jacket and made my way to the deck for some privacy, 

“Andre!  How was work?”

“Work was fine.  I just called to check up on my boy,” he said. 

“Oh good.  I’m at a party with Lila.  We’re sitting on the couch talking the night away. Any plans for tonight?”

“I’m with some friends now, too,” he said as it became apparent he’d had a few to drink.

“You have fun with you’re friends and don’t let the night get too crazy.”

“Alright.  You, too.”

Without much thought, I returned to my spot at the couch with Lila, who had quickly made a new friend in skinny jeans-clad Jerrick.  “We missed you,” she said as we immediately returned to our observations.

Moments later, my phone buzzed again.  “Hey, Andre,” I answered. 

“I forgot to tell you I love you,” he said.

I was floored.  It was something I wasn’t used to hearing from family or friends, so I melted a bit. 

“Andre, that’s so sweet.  It makes me really happy to hear that,” I said struggling for words.  I didn’t feel like I could reciprocate in that moment in that way.  If and when I said the three little words and admitted to feeling that way towards another man, it wouldn’t be over the phone with boozy gays in the background.

Even before he could respond, I sensed something was wrong.  “Oh,” he said.  “You have fun with Lila and your friends then.  I’m going home for the night.”

“Okay.  Be safe,” I said unsure if he’d heard me before hanging up.

“There’s some drama going down,” Jerrick pointed out. 

“Yeah, I’d rather not think about it,” I said.  “He’ll be better in the morning.”

“Are you alright? I asked answering the phone five minutes later.  Before I could make my way to the freezing patio again, he asked me to pass the phone to Lila.  “Why?”

“Just trust me, I need to talk to her.”

I handed off the phone to her as we shared a puzzled look.  She listened, intermittently offering him a yeah and covering the mouthpiece to offer occasional observations from the standpoint of a psychology student:  “He wants to hear you love him.” “He’s drunk.” “You’ve got a codependent one here.”

After a ten-minute talk down session, she returned my phone and I left for the patio. 

“Have a good talk with Lila?” I asked.

“It was fine,” he guardedly responded.

“What are you up to now?”  I asked.

“Driving home.  I need to be alone,” he said grimly.

“Just wait around a bit longer.  Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

“I’m sure,” he said. 

I paused for a moment not sure of what I could do.  How far is he from home?  Should I call the police? I don’t even know where he’s driving.  My heart and mind raced as they flooded with questions.

“GMB, do you love me?” he asked.

I paused.  I didn’t want to be disingenuous.  I knew I didn’t feel anything eternal or abiding at that point, but I had no idea what to say to him. 

“Love is a really important word for me, Andre.  It has a lot of meanings—”  He isn’t looking for a lecture, I told myself. Tell him what he needs to hear to be safe, dammit! 

I sunk down in tears from the stress, sitting in the snow bank on the patio and said, “I care for you a lot.  I love you and just want you safe,” I said compromising myself only slightly.  The tears and the frustration let up slightly as a breeze pounded past.

“Are you almost home?” I asked showing the care and the type of love I’d spoken of. 

“Ten minutes,” he said.

I sat there hovelled up in a corner, barricading myself from the wind and offering words of comfort and recounting happy memories until I knew he was home safe. 

“You get some rest and we’ll talk in the morning,” I said.

“Okay.  I’m really sorry, GMB.  I should never have put you through that.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” I reiterated as I stood up to pull myself together and join the party. 

I was so upset I could go home and fall asleep on a tear-drenched pillow, so angry I half-wished he’d gotten in an accident and learned his lesson, and so numb I wanted to forget all of my feelings in that moment and give them all to Jerrick in that moment to get even with Andre for what he’d put me through.

End, Part 5.

The Life and Times of Boyfriend #2, Part 3

Precarious Admissions

Slats and
Strands
Come together,
Pulling each other taught with
Friction.

Cole had not seen me this way in a while—persistently talking about Andre, consistently positive, and undistracted by other guys—and took it as a sign that it was time to start “The Cole Test.”

“Do you think he’s ready?” I asked.

“I’ve been thinking you’re both ready for a few days now.”

“The Cole Test” was an interview/interrogation of sorts initiated by the two of us out of my commitment issues and Cole’s concern. He’d rather I not fall prey to the relationship pitfalls he’d faced in the form of a controlling fiancé or any repeat of the disappointments I’d faced in the form of immaturity (Mark), eagerness (Anderson), and lust (Derek).

A certain rush of feeling came over me. In all of my efforts to be deliberate and not rush into a relationship for fear of such disappointments, I understood in that moment that this was an exception. Andre was genuine.

In passing, I mentioned the test to Andre over the phone one night. He quipped, “It’s like I’m interviewing to be your husband and Cole’s.”

“Well, Andre, for better or worse, we’re kind of a package deal,” I half-teased.

“You know what I’m going to do then? I’m finding him right now on Facebook and we’re going to get this over with. You should know just how serious I am about all of this.”

I covered the phone and let out a sigh privately. I’d waited a long time to someone express affection beyond a casual flirtatious remark.

***

Later Cole shared with me excerpts of the conversation, boldly initiated by Andre:

Andre: Ask me what you want anytime I care about your best friend so much

Cole: Oh, I doubt that I'll ask you anything of importance for a while. I'm surprised GMB would've mentioned me so soon.

I was just teasing him about "interrogating" you because we worry about our friends and don’t want to lose them to complete dunces. I'm not kind to the less intellectually fortunate, nor am I sensitive toward those who can't keep up with me (kindness is not one of my strong points; however, honesty is). But, according to GMB, you're smart and a quick wit. I'm pleasantly awaiting the evening he introduces us to each other.

One question for tonight, though: Which would you most prefer: a classy dinner, wine and the opera? or a night of hotdogs and nachos, beer and lots of big men chasing balls?

Andre: Maybe option 2?

Cole: How very sporting of you to answer my question. Option Two is a totally valid selection! You don't have to back out of that one ("...btw"), especially if--as I'm suspecting—GMB told you I would select the operatic evenings. I wouldn't have offered a sporting event up as an enjoyable activity if it weren't a viable (and happily visual) pastime.

Opera or men and their balls--either way, GMB’s opinion is the one you're really trying to win over; mine really shouldn't mean all that much: I'm only a high class snob! Lucky for you, GMB enjoys a wide array of activities.

Also, as you've invited me to "ask [you] what [I] want anytime," I suppose I should return the favor. Anything you'd like to know about GMB's friend(s) before he carefully throws you into our little menagerie?

Andre: Lol I was not in anyway trying to back out of my answer I do love everything but it depends but I haven't been to a sporting event in a long time and never been to the opera but I do enjoy a glass of wine sometimes. I have one question at the moment. You do have excellent grammar are you in school currently and what are you going for? As for other things or friends I will be happy no matter what you guys are like as long as I make him half as happy as he makes me.

Cole: Thanks for your compliments. I grew up in a rural--supremely beautiful, but deplorably rural--little town where poor grammar roots itself deeply in each upcoming generation. Don't get me wrong, I honor my farm-boy heritage and the work-ethic of farming people, but the seeming lack of education poor grammar implies can put people off, you know? (I guess a wording too proper can also be offensive...) Anyhow, I've worked for years refining my use of language. So, many, many thanks!

(By the way, this "educated and elitest" persona really only shows up in my writing voice--I'm much less highbrow and long-winded in person.)

To answer your query in regard as to my course of study: I'm currently enrolled in the undergraduate music program at Weber State University in Ogden, UT, majoring in piano performance. Music can be a bitchy, jealous lover, but when it's good--man, is it good!

I haven't seen GMB so happy in many months, Andre, and I'm really, honestly pleased for both of you. I'm glad you find he makes you happy, as well. Be good to him.

***

Sharing highlights of the conversation, Cole concluded on the drive home from a symphony one night, “You know you’ve got a winner this time, don’t you?” as I eagerly contemplated my date with Andre the next day.

“I know. It’s refreshing. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. Being around him gives me glimpses into what I haven’t been sure I could have.”

“That didn’t make sense. What do you mean?” Cole asked.

After a few minutes of stuttering and talking around it, I finally said. I think I’m beginning to understand what it means to be satisfied with life.”

“Happy, you mean?”

“Yeah,” I said with that jarring epiphany, “but that sounds so cliché.

“Happiness is never a cliché, GMB” Cole pointed out. “The idea may be puffed up, but the journey—the important part—is different for everyone. That’s the significant part.”

And suddenly, it was okay to feel emotions, epic and iconic.

Once alone, I shot Andre a quick text: “I hope your day went well. Give me a call if you’re still up.” It was my typical understatement, but he knew I had something important to say.

In unimpassioned form, we told each other about our day, knowing that the discussion was about to warm into something more meaningful. Upon discussing our plans for the next day and the results of the Cole Test, I unveiled the unstated portion of our conversation:

“You know how I’ve told you I don’t like rushing into things. Well, that’s especially the case in the romantic sense. I remember going from door to door as a missionary dreading the door slams, the angry shouts, and more ambivalent rejections. The past year has been a lot of the same except with dating. I feel like… I feel like I’ve barely met you, really.”

“I understand,” he stated in the pause I offered.

“But I can’t ignore how different the past couple of weeks have been.”

I paused again, hearing only a warm silence on the other end. And responded with my own silence perforated by the sound of teeth and gums separating as I lit up with a smile of understanding.

“So, I take it you’re ready” he asked, “Ready to be official?”

End, Part 3.

The Life and Times of Boyfriend #2, Part 2

A Curious Pull

Pitching ropes
Across the crevasse
To
One another,
They create,
Bridging the divide,
Plank by plank.

I sat there looking out at the dark sky through my windshield. It was almost cinematic in its simplicity. It was the kind of winter day one is tempted to leave without a coat, the thermometer hovering between melting and freezing, but leaning toward the former. The winter warmth refreshed my sensibilities. Reclined and warm in the front seat of my car, I took in every soothing detail: the comforting, cool light of the street lamp, the sounds of cars meandering by, the feathery snow flake by flake beginning to blanket the sky above me. There was new hope on the horizon. Something different and new. An adventure. Possibilities abound. The smell of beginnings filled my lungs.

A set of headlights peered around the corner and Andre emerged a few minutes late and slightly breathless. I would soon learn that this was in his nature. His sense of anxiety manifested itself not only in our conversations, but in his entire demeanor. His unsure eyes, his cautious stride, the way his brow strained as he listened intently to every inflection in my voice.

“This is the place,” I said, my next thought turning to Brigham Young’s announcement as the Mormon pioneers were led into what became Salt Lake City. What a very Utah thing to say to Mr. Nebraska.

Not completely aware of the dialogue in my head, he remarked, “This is the place and you are the man. I’m glad we could do this.”

“I’m glad you made it up safe and sound.”

“Me, too. I’ve been looking forward to this since last night. Well, even before that. I’d say since I first saw you.”

I blushed, offered a smile for the compliment and chuckled a bit at his sweetness. “Are you ready to eat? You must be hungry after that drive. I was wondering if you thought I was racist when my first suggestion was Mexican.”

The conversation that ensued at dinner was somewhat quiet on both ends. Neither of us took a particularly dynamic role in the conversation. Both shy and curious as to what the other was thinking, the conversation focused mostly on family.

“Well,” I started us off as I dipped the first tortilla chip into the salsa. “There’s my mom and dad, my little brother who I’m pretty close to. My older brother is married and finally had a baby after a decade of marriage.”

“Seriously? Why did it take so long.”

“That’s not something that I’d ask,” I said laughing a little.

Andre turned red. He didn’t know what to say. After passing him a reassuring look, he started to shed some light on his life: “For me, there’s really just my mom and my sister. My father and step-father aren’t really part of the picture anymore.”

“That must’ve been hard. I’ll tell you all about it sometime. I’d rather not go into this having you think I’m crazy.”

I looked and him and smiled. “Don’t worry. We all are in some way.”

The conversation was filled with pauses as we tried to figure each other out. We’d come from very different environments yet we were both gay and shared a timidness I’d begun to outgrow in spurts. Neither of us knew how to navigate this conversation, but found a connection in our mutual caution. I focused intently on his eyes which indicated a sense of nervousness. At moments, he would turn them away out of bashfulness, although the desire to connect was ever-present.

The meal of tortillas and black beans was as refreshing as the winter warmth with which the night started. After two hours of punctuated conversation, we said our goodbyes.

“I really liked this. Do you think we could try again next week?” he asked intently.

“How about Monday?” I suggested.

“That works for me.”

The intrigue of difference and lethargic conversation left us wanting more. We were intently trying to figure each other out.

My heart pounding following a hug and an unexpected kiss goodbye, I immediately called my best friend. “Cole, I don’t know what to think at all about this date. It was slow and awkward, but somehow amazing. I kissed him after a very slow first date and I started it! What is wrong with me?!”

“I think you’re confused because you’re falling for him. Love is an amazing process of figuring out another person for the rest of your life. I’m not saying you’re in love, but you’re open to it after a long time. You’ve made a connection you’re not sure what to do with.”

And with that reassurance, I let myself enjoy my curiosity rather than forsake it.

End, Part 2.

The Life and Times of Boyfriend #2

"This is a story of boy meets boy.
But you should know up front this is not a love story."
At least not anymore.

Call of a Distant Admirer

Romantic and
Rational
Converge
In braided Reality.

***

I’ve seen you around and just can’t get you out of my head. I’m kind of shy and I’ve been debating saying anything. I mean, I’d just come off as some weird stalker, right? After a few days, I finally decided to say something. You’re really cute and when I found your profile online, I fell even harder. If you don’t want to get to know me, I totally understand. I just had to say something because it was eating at me.

Sincerely yours,

Andre

***

Typically my Mondays don’t generally start off on such a positive note. Going into midterms, the drudgy fog of returning to school and work from a busy weekend lifted for a moment with those words. The message shortly followed my admission to myself that a relationship with my dream guy was not really possible at the moment. Evan needed space and friendship and I begrudgingly offered both.

The appearance of Andre was mysterious and relieving. I wondered what the larger part of the story was. How he’d heard about me or seen me and what sparked his interest in a college student working out his issues with homosexuality, romance, and religion. Subconsciously, I formed a connection with Andre in our shared, neurotic angst. His message was at once courageous and self-deprecating.

My interest piqued, I responded inquisitively after looking a bit of online sleuthing on my social networking sites. He was cute with dark hair and thick eyebrows. His eyes were bashful, somehow unsure half-open in most of his shots reacting to the emotional pressure of his photo being taken and that image of him surviving for eternity. His demeanor put a smile on my face because I saw a lot of myself in him—the self that lacked confidence before I’d come out to myself.

Socially speaking, there weren’t many connections. Apparently, he’d recently moved to Utah without knowing why he’d made the decision: “I’ve been in Utah a few weeks. It wasn’t what I’d expected and I’m not sure if I like it yet. Time will tell.” I posed him a set of questions aimed at understanding the gaps in his story. Even before I realized my homosexuality, Honestly, what would possess someone to move to Utah?, became a rather regular thought. That sentiment was only amplified by the fact that Andre was a decidedly out gay man. Of course, that was the first question I tossed at him.

“Two reasons,” he responded. “I got a promotion and I have a few friends here from when I was in CA.”

His story unfolded over a series of emails, instant messages, and eventually via text messaging. He’d recently become the area manager for Radio Shack. “They asked me to move to Salt Lake, so I could oversee this hub of stores. When you look at it, though, it’s about the same as Nebraska, only different.”

That said, Nebraska was home for him. It’s where his mother lived. It’s where he graduated high school. It’s where he met his first boyfriend. Nebraska didn’t provide a lot of opportunities, though. He found the dating scene small and racist towards Latinos. There was no room for advancement at work there, so he took a risk and applied for a position elsewhere.

Despite some distance issues (a common issue for me even at that time), we decided it would be a good idea to meet up in my hometown. Despite being a few years older, he took a characteristically youthful and enthusiastic role in the relationship. Following a barrage of questions about what I liked to do, I assured him I’d be happiest with something simple.

“A conversation and not some sort of present will be more memorable and valuable. Just be yourself and we’ll have a great time,” I assured him.

End, Part 1.