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.

The Life and Times of Boyfriend #2, Part 4

“Do You Think You’re Happy?”

The sounds
Of fiber against fiber
Of purpose and
Of pieces pulled
Together
In Divine construct
Stand solid

“So how was your weekend, GMB?” my friend Savannah chimed as I took my usual seat next to her in US-Latin American Relations. 

“Great,” I responded with glowing face and uncontrolled smile. 

“You had a good date, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.  Finally got around to seeing Slumdog Millionaire.  It was amazing.”

“That is my favorite movie of all time!  A gameshow, a fairytale, and Bollywood—the perfect combination!” she declared. 

With that enthusiasm, I saw an opportunity to fill up the rest of the few minutes before class with a discussion of the movie rather than my sexuality.  Savannah wasn’t one of my closest friends.  We’d had several classes together and even exchanged numbers so that we knew when to take more intensive notes on those days which the other wasn’t going to show up.  Her husband was also a friend of mine, and because I knew both of them relatively well, I had no fear of getting close to her with possible repercussions of jealousy.  Genuinely friendly, Mormon and in love with each other. 

“So who did you take to the movie?” she asked, breaking through my first closeted defense just as the professor called for the classes attention.  “If you’ll take a seat, I’ll pass back your last quiz.”

To close the matter, I quickly blurted, “Well, I’m dating a manager of Radio Shack in Salt Lake…”

It was a weak, unprepared response.  Not quite good enough.  I had to cover with something more without lying. 

“…Andre,” I said following an imperceptible pause and just enough of an uncertain intonation to sound like “Andrea” were someone expecting that answer.

I was safe.  The matter seemed closed  along with the closet door, when suddenly a buzz came from the phone I’d forgotten to turn off.  Although I normally didn’t check my phone in such instances, I glanced and noticed the message was from Savannah. 

“I just thought you should know that I am your friend no matter what.”

I looked over to the most casual and sincere of smiles.  And as a single salty tear trickled down my cheek, I replied, “You are a true friend.”

Over the course of that week, we became a lot closer.  After class, I confided in her and she assured me, “Some people in the Church don’t judge you for being you,” and our conversations turned to how she had people in her life who’d undergone similar experiences to my own and how I’d felt comfortable enough to make out with Andre during the movie in a small Utah theater.   

“Are you excited for tomorrow,” she asked.  “Introducing the boyfriend to the best friend is a pretty important step.  I could tell you stories.”

“Well, they have been talking for a little while now.  I’m not too worried.   It’ll be Cole’s first time in the club and I’m just as interested in that aspect of the night.”

*** 

The weekend became an extensive experiment of sorts.  Not only would Andre meet Cole.  He’d also meet Lila (my best fruit fly) and Ianto (the one who got away” but remained friends nonetheless).   I also decided I felt comfortable staying the weekend at his place. 

It all began at the Babylon, one of many SLC gay club nights to come and go.  Although I wouldn’t consider myself a veteran of the club scene, I’d become an active participant on the dance floor and stopped being an observer, except in the case of Cole who was visibly out of place in our dancing circle.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” Ianto said, gyrating to the beat then placing his right arm around Lila’s waist moments later. 

Cole was exasperated, but quickly learning the finer points of club dancing.  The art of not caring, and looking confident would only come with time, though.  As Lila and I smirked over this exasperation, I felt a warmth embrace me from behind. 

“How have you been, babe?” Andre asked before pecking me on the cheek. 

“Fabulously.  I don’t have a  worry in the world tonight.”

I turned around, gave him a hug, and introduced him to everyone.  Although he was more accustomed to the clubbing scene and the Salt Lake crowd, he seemed oddly out of place. 

“Nice to meet you,” he said softly (in terms of club volume).  His demeanor was cautious.  He wasn’t sure what to make of meeting my friends.  Conversation pretty much stifled at that point for Andre, although I tried to engage with everyone. 

After a few minutes of awkwardness, I decided it would be best to relieve some of Andre’s stress by putting some distance between us and my other friends.  “I need to go to the bathroom.  Why don’t you go ahead and grab something to drink and we’ll dance some more when I get out.”

Visibly calmer, I commented, “Feeling better, eh?  Did you get something to settle your nerves?” 

“No, I just don’t think I’d be comfortable drinking around you,”  he said.  It was flattering that he was so worried about the impression he would make that night, but it still concerned me that he was under so much stress.

I looked him in the face and smiled. 

“What?” he asked nervously. 

“Nothing.  I’m just happy.”

The rest of the night was spent intermittently dancing together and chatting on a couch somewhat removed from the noise of the dance floor.  Hours later, we found ourselves completely removed from the rest of the world, cuddling and chatting on his bed.

“So, any regrets about tonight?” Andre asked in a more serious tone than I’d anticipated from him.

I’d thought long and hard about the boundaries I’d set for myself.  Nothing I could regret could or would happen that night, so I sighed and responded with a grin, “Absolutely no regrets here.”

An expression of doubt filled his face as I grinned.  “Do you think you’re happy?” he asked.

I signed and grinned again, “Of course.  I’ve been over this with Cole several times.  "I’m just not the best about being totally vocal with my emotions, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t worry about it.  I’m doing better lately.  You’re helping me become a better person,” I assured him as I looked him sternly and sincerely in the eyes.  We kissed and turned out the lights.

This is perfect, I thought to myself as I held his back to my chest and took in the static smell of his black hair.

End, Part 4.

Sonriso, Part 9

The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief. 
~William Shakespeare, Othello

It was over—over in the most ambivalent of ways.  I still smiled at the thought of him but knew he’d be nothing more than an ideal in my life—just the right combination of intellectual, emotional, and sexual rise was (and perhaps still is) inspired by the mere flashes of his picture on Facebook or the occasional flashback to a memory together. 

In conversation, he’d often come up as an ideal guy.  He’d managed to resolve his issues with Mormonism and being gay as I was attempting to do the same in my life.  However, that remained a secondary or tertiary variable in my attraction.  Not long after my decision to give up pursuing a relationship with him, a chat window popped up on Connexion.  The picture had a Cheshire quality—a large smile and a rounded face:

“It seems we went to the same school.  You write pretty well.  Do I detect an influence of Nellie in your words?”

“Nellie Carter?” I responded.

“Yep.”

“How did you guess?  I took a column writing class from her.”

“I just have an eye for words.  Anyways, I’m Rick.”

“A pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

“I see we’re both friends with Evan Davis.”

“He’s perhaps the cutest of my friends on here.”

“He’s definitely a sight to behold.”

“That’s a good way to put it.  His type doesn’t come around often.  I’m having a hard time getting over my crush on him.”

“Interesting.  It looks like I’ll be meeting him at the club tonight.”

“Yeah? I’m meeting up with him for some coffee beforehand with a few friends.”

“So I guess that means we’ll be meeting up, too….”

After a tennis game of flirty retorts, we said our goodbyes and I noted the fortunate coincidence that I’d be meeting another cute and intelligent boy that night.

I made my way to Salt Lake with my clubbing buddies Ezra (who’d just moved into the Wood House) and Alberto.  We met Evan on his doorstep—the one I’d hesitated on that night of the first date.  The place and that moment took me back even though it was not the two of us.  I didn’t want to leave and the unhealthy desire to somehow claim him clouded my head.  He was distant because he was healing and I had no reason to impose my feelings as I had been in a similar enough position to understand, albeit in glimpses.

On the way to the coffeehouse, he conveniently mentioned that Rick would be joining us.  A smile came to my face as a result  of the coincidental conversation which had occurred earlier that day. 

Waiting for Ezra and Alberto to do each others’ hair, Evan and I sat across the table from one another.  Almost defensively, I turned the conversation to the connection we shared which would not send me into some sort of emotional hailstorm:

“How’s your brother doing? Erik and I talk once in a while after the mission but him finding out about my dating life and… preferences… would make that somewhat more difficult.”

“That’s the truth. Try being his brother for eighteen years and having that discussion.”

“He seems to be doing well.  I mean, he's the definition of Peter Priesthood.  Isn’t he in like eight different church choirs?

“Ha!  Yeah.  he practically lives in the church building,” he said rolling his eyes.”

“I think that’s actually part of the reason we became good friends so quickly.”

He smirked knowingly. “Yeah.  That’s part of it.”

We paused, expecting an explanation or question to fill the air.

“That’s all I can say,” he said with the same smirk as he sipped at his chai. 

“Hey guys,” Alberto said, interrupting.  “How does my hair look.” He’d just come from the bathroom with a Macy’s bag filled to the brim with hair products.

“With Alberto, hair is never perfect. He just abandons it when we all get tired of him asking about it,” Ezra said.  “I’ve been listening to him bitch about a single cowlick for the last twenty minutes.”

With that, the direct conversation with Evan ended as the discussion turned to common friends and how long it had been since we’d all been dancing.  My mind vacillated between topics—my inescapable attraction to Evan, his cryptic mention of my missionary friend and his brother, and the distraction that Rick would hopefully provide that night.

Rick’s arrival came with some knowing smiles on my part and his.  “This is Rick,” Evan announced to the guys sitting around the table.

“Hey everyone,” he said—a bastion of confidence.  All aglow, he plunged into conversation with a half-dozen people as the waitress—a friend of his—brought over his regular quad-shot mocha.  After some meandering around the table for a few minutes, he finally took a seat across the table next to Evan.

The conversation continued as I found an unexpected anxiety creep up on me and press against my chest.  Rick took his arm and placed it around Evan, caressing his back on occasion.  It was hard to swallow, but the reality was that the cute intellectual wasn’t after me after all.  Painfully, my sense of alienation doubled over itself with every signal of affection that I could not bestow upon Evan—an arm around him, a chivalrous opening of the door, hours spent together on the dance floor.

The sinking feeling of jealousy left me powerless.  Rick taking Evan’s hand at the end of the night to hold it left me with a deep sent of resentment for my over-sensitivity.  It has always been me weakness, I thought to myself.

Rick knew my feelings for Evan and I wonder at times whether, as he smiled and glanced in my direction, his pleasure was somehow augmented by my overpowering anxiety.  My frustration of not being able to read a simple assemblage of teeth and muscles also left me questioning for weeks whether my romantic quest would ever amount to anything more than a series of heartbreaks.  If I could not rely on my sensitivity or instincts, what could I rely on?

In the end, I was reassured by a simple, genuine smile.

“That guy does not know how to take a hint,” Evan recounted at a party.  “I’d pull my hand away, but he didn’t pay any attention.  I took FOUR trips to the bathroom that night for some alone time.  He was kind of upset after I turned him down for a date a couple days later.”

The reassurance that my respect was more than hyper-sensitivity put the confident smile on my face that I needed as the desire to enter a relationship would finally be satisfied.

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