From the (Literal) Closet of GMB #2

I shared with you recently my love of thrift stores (particularly Deseret Industries), and mentioned that they are an excellent place to buy suits.

It is a real challenge for those of us 42" and smaller who enjoy the "slim" look.  That said, the thrill of the hunt and the sweet taste of victory make it all worth it.

Some notes:

1. My favorite suit is, alas, no longer intact (charcoal with red and white pinstripes).  Find out the embarrassing story of the pants' demise here.  Cole nicknamed said pants my "ass pants."  You can probably guess why.
2. For a graduation gift, my parents insisted on buying me a non-thrift store suit.  We got a two-for-one deal and they are the only suits I did not buy used.
3. You'll notice that there are in total a dozen suits here.  The black pinstriped one and the red-tinged brown are from Men's Warehouse.   Other patterns include grey and blue checks and navy with blue and pink pinstripes.
4. All but three have a vest.  Three-piece is a must.  
5. As I always say-- the vest is the man's corset.  Hides the fat, fixes the posture.  There are another three vests when I have a particular tie in mind.
6. The newest addition to the set was a $10 green sherbet checked three-piece.  Still need to hem the pants, but it has a lot of retro potential.  I'd like something with a pronounced red-- maybe I'll play Mr. Applegate someday in Damn Yankees
7. This post reminds me of a song from one of my favorite off-Broadway shows.  The song is: "The Man in the Starched White Shirt."  Now name the show.

Hold, Part 6

impasse

Without a hitch, the performances went on as planned.  A couple of months of singing and dancing rehearsals with the  conventional stresses finally paid off as they should.  Variant threads of talent came together for three consecutive nights of an unfamiliar excitement.  Quite unexpectedly, things went much better than I’d expected.  The dances and the musical numbers, though far from perfect, became that adrenaline rush that left me on a high unique, but not superior to the one’s I had experienced in my life.

Following the opening night performance, I received a surprise—one that in retrospect seems more like a link in a chain of surprises. 

Recently, I’d received an unexpected message on Connexion (my preferred gay dating site):

I’m pretty sure  I saw you at a few weeks ago at church.  Just wanted to say hi and let you know you weren’t the only one there.  ;)

-- Anson

My initial reaction was a complex sense of disbelief.  First, because I had felt completely alone in that meeting; and second, because Anson happened to be the most gorgeous man to pay me attention since the breakup with Mark nearly a year ago.

I thought nothing of it, especially after the conversations started to wane and performances began to pick up.  For sentimental reasons associated with Mark, I reserved the phrase “on the same page” for very special occasions and Cole knew when I used that very phrase to describe Anson that I was smitten the week of the big show.  Refreshingly, we shared the same doubts, the same insecurities, and both remained positive about life.

Having played it low-key as I attempted to manage school along with the show, and as I sorted out how I felt about dating Chandler (who, despite his sincerity, inspired relationship doubts every time he lit a cigarette), I decided to mention the performance to Anson only in passing.  For that reason, it was nearly a shock when—having never seen him in person or heard his voice—he tracked me down in the lobby.

Cautious about the surprise he pulled on me, he hovered for a few moments.  He smiled at me from afar as a throng of elderly strangers complimented the performance and offered their granddaughters’ phone numbers.  Each time I glanced over and caught his brilliant blue eyes, the post-performance excitement teemed over a bit. 

When we finally had a chance to speak, he immediately offered a hug and a simple, “You were great.”  He took delight in my ear-to-ear smile and the giddy nervousness of my posture.

“Thanks,” was all I could muster in that moment. 

In a way, I felt the universe was messing with me in the worst of too-good-to-be-true senses.  I was completely unprepared and unsure of what to make of him.  How serious could he be?  Would he do this for just anyone?  Is he the nice guy?  He admitted he dated as much as I did, leaving me even more astounded that he had put together delightful surprise , let alone that he had paid me any attention at all.

We visited for a moment before another crowd of elderly audience members offered up their supportive words.  He smiled and offered a hug enigmatic in length and pressure.  My mind whirred about as I tried unsuccessfully to precipitously understand a man I’d barely met. 

The string of surprises continued that week—an excellent grade on a paper that week, a call from a friend I hadn’t seen in months, and an impromptu date with Chandler following the final performance.  Though it felt great to see a familiar face and subtly tie romance to art as he waited outside the dressing rooms, I couldn’t escape the feeling that we were at an impasse.  I hadn’t ruled out dating him because he smoked, but rather I had made the decision not to decide. 

Reservations like that never lead anywhere, and this was no exception for us.  We enjoyed ourselves, but my attempts to be open-minded and try something new remained pretext for things not working out with anyone in the past year.  At this crossroads it seemed like there was the possibility of the opposite with Anson.  He held the same beliefs and feelings and showed concern for his own life. 

I knew what I wanted, but I didn’t know if Anson had come to a similar conclusion since he had so many romantic options available to him.  It was a matter, at that point, of keeping that option available without making it the only option—a dating suspended animation if you will.

Life rushed on and on the eve of our first date, I received another surprise via email—an opportunity that left me wondering if my life would take a new turn and romance would be placed on the backburner for a while:

“GMB—We are pleased to announce that you have been selected to volunteer in the Ministry of Education (MINEDUC)’s Teach English Program….”

End of Series.

Food for Thought #12

Two words: visual poem.

Courtesy of Cole

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.

Food for Thought #7

A response to some of yesterday’s thoughts from Cole:

This really speaks to the diversity I continuously emphasize.

Man Harem Must See

It’s not often something grasps my attention so suddenly and so completely (or Cole’s for that matter), but a certain film has done just that this week, and it’s not because it stars a GMB Man Harem inductee, one Lee Pace:

Pace stars as an injured and depressed stuntman telling a little girl with a broken arm an epic story about five heroes on a mission to defeat an evil governor. His story, the little girl’s and that of the heroes intertwine in an amazing movie filmed over four years in eighteen different countries. The visuals, acting, costumes, and story are all magnificent in this movie I found for $3 at a going out of business sale.

The movie? The Fall:

Some visuals:

An amazing tale of storytelling and responsibility.

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.

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.

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.

Fireside Flak

Quickly, I thought I’d weigh in on the Fireside issue before I finish my Missionary Monday post.

Let’s take this from a different perspective for a moment: needs. First, Who is the audience of the fireside and how will its content serve them? It’s clearly an outreach effort to gay members, their friends, and family members. Ultimately, as Beck points out, this boils down to a damned if you do/don’t scenario as one attempts to address the needs of this group.

1st, let this group of people know they are not alone. This is where the fireside will succeed. The higher the attendance, the more productive the emotional outcome in this sense.

2nd, provide a dialogue regarding these issues. In order to address concerns of this group, it is necessary for these men and women to feel they are able to vocalize their concerns to one another. Being heard is one of the most important aspects to emotional suffering. I believe this can succeed to a very limited degree. As Rob put it, “homosexuality should not exist” the way it is currently treated, and it’s very difficult to approach a problem that should not exist within the gospel. Fireside goers will be able to discuss their feelings, but this discussion will be constructed around a framework of shame in the sense that homosexual feelings cannot be discussed positively.

3rd, offer solutions/coping strategies so that one can lead a happy life. This is the presumably the primary reason Ty Mansfield has been invited as keynote speaker. I take issue with this for the same reason as Rob and MoHoHawaii, but would like to extend it one step. There is an unspoken endorsement of Mixed-Orientation Marriages, which—perhaps—can work for some, but I have seen multiple cases in which that goal has only led to heartbreak for the men and women involved (including my own best friend Cole). That said, I feel many other solutions emphasized above that outcome including celibacy.

Put simply, hands are tied and mouths stifled because of the larger discussion (or lack thereof). Celibacy and Marriage seem to be the only endorsable outcomes for gay members of the church. While I tend to think that the fireside will be successful in providing a sense of community, I tend to think that the only way for the meeting to have any further success (and avert unintended damage) is for the program to include success stories of celibate saints AND accounts of unsuccessful mixed-orientation marriages, so as to not elevate Ty’s circumstances as the only or best possible outcome for gay saints. It’s very possible that the program does take this into account and if it does, it would be the best possible program given the current atmosphere of fear and silence.

MoHo Cameos

As a literary geek, I'm fascinated by words in all their forms. Street signs, television scripts, formal poems, etc.

I've been blessed in my education with a wealth of research experience and a vocabulary to discuss phenomena in media. The difference between assonance, consonance, and alliteration might not mean a lot to you, but it sure does to me. (I won't bore you with an explanation at the moment).

That said, there are plenty of other helpful concepts that I don't think you'd mind me sharing and one of those is intertextuality, which according to the OED is:

"The need for one text to be read in the light of its allusions to and differences from the context or structure of other texts; the (allusive) relationship between esp. literary texts."

As many of you involved in the MoHoSphere have noted, it's a small world. Everybody seems to know everyone or be one or two bloggers removed. As a result, it's interesting to examine the connections and influences of blogs on and between one another. For instance, one might run into two different accounts of the same dates by two different bloggers.

I'll spare you any more technical analysis for the moment and note two instances of what I'll term "MoHo Cameos." Instead I leave you some impressions and observations and an uncharacteristically disjointed post:

One of the first instances was my second encounter with boskers, who I've come to appreciate as a methodical thinker who's gone through many of the same processes that I have. In a post referencing our meeting at a MoHo party (a monthly get together for gay Mormons/ex-Mormons). I brought my best friend "Cole" and was fascinated by the extension of his pseudonym onto another blog.

More recently (as in yesterday), Moving Horizons shared the impressions of our face-to-face meeting (his first with a fellow MoHo). The implications of his post on the concreteness (and its subsequent parts) brought to homosexuality by interacting in the flesh is probably more interesting than my wondering about how the two blogs will interact textually as a result. It's a good post I recommend (not out of my own vanity).

My Favorite Things #3

Cole asked me a very interesting thing the other night:

“GMB, why aren’t you a Mac user?”

Under the assumption that most ecologically-friendly, socially-conscious, artistic people are Mac friendly, his inquiry made some sense. My liberal guilt has called into question my devotion to my poor PC many a time.

That said, there is one thing that keeps me going with my 3-year old Dell laptop:

Windows Live Writer

It may sound silly, but the interface of this blogging program is perfect for me and parting with it would be like saying goodbye to 30 Rock. My workplace has already offered to lend out a new Macbook, but I still can’t make the jump. Perhaps I’m misinformed or my research on the topic is lacking, but all the equivalent tools for Macs seem to be less intuitive or otherwise lacking.

Those of you on PCs and serious about blogging, I highly recommend it and those of you on Macs feel free to attempt to persuade me to join the dark side.

Food for Thought #6

So, a few of my favorite things came together recently and my weekend is perfectly planned:

I have a date with David Tennant!

…well, a date with myself to watch David Tennant…

…as HAMLET!

The DVD is already pre-ordered because how can you go wrong with such a great combination. (Why Shakespeare meets sexy , of course).

You can all thank Cole for this link to enjoy it all yourselves:

http://www.pbs.org/wnet/gperf/episodes/hamlet/watch-the-film/980/

Sonriso, Part 2

Red Flags and the Kindness of Strangers

This post is rated PG-13 for some language.

At worst I feel bad for a while
But then I just smile
I go ahead and smile

—“Smile,” Lily Allen

A few nights after that steamy evening with Derek, a chat window popped up unexpectedly one night. It was Drake, a guy I’d spent months chatting with and texting without any success of lining up our schedules for a single date. I’d heard through the grapevine that he was in a relationship, so this conversation was particularly unexpected.

“GMB!”

“Hey, Drake! How are you?”

“Pretty good. Life’s treated me well. I saw you online and thought I’d say hi.”

“Thanks. I like hearing from old friends, but you know it gets weird when they’re in a relationship. I’m self-conscious of what it’ll look like sometimes.”

“That’s one of the silliest things I’ve ever heard. I know we haven’t talked for a while, but a friend is a friend.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“There’s not a ton of good guys out there, so we’ve gotta look out for each other.”

His sentiment brightened my day a bit, but I wondered if its surfacing was not entirely spontaneous.

“I heard you’re seeing Derek.”

“Yeah. He speaks pretty highly of you. He considers you his best friend.”

“We go back a few years, I guess.”

“He’s handsome and witty.”

I wasn’t really expecting what came next although I wasn’t entirely surprised.

“He is. You just need to be careful.”

Drake didn’t elaborate, but rather left me to wonder just what he was leaving for me to discover for myself—a topic we would discuss over coffee a couple of weeks later.

Cole had acted similarly since Derek and I began to date. They went to school together and knew each other from a distance. Only later did I learn that it was by Cole’s wishes. That said, their paths did cross. A few nights after my chat with Drake, Derek made a confession:

“I was at a party last night and ended up telling Cole everything.”

My heart skipped a beat. I’d kept something from the one person I could trust the most. It was something deeply personal that I was still processing. I was planning on telling him about that hand job sometime down the road (despite his joking remarks that he would disown me if I got any action before he did). In a way, though, I’d kept it from him as I withheld the details of the date.

Cole’s response was ambivalent. He was happy I was comfortable with myself in the moment and reassured that I wasn’t so comfortable afterward. Just what I needed at the time even if I wasn’t able to reach out for that kindness myself. At this particular time in my life, that seemed to be my luck.

Despite what I’d learned about Derek that week, I was gearing up for our next date, a day at the Sundance Film Festival with a few of his friends. I’d wanted to go since I was a freshman in college (as one of my instructors was in Napoleon Dynamite and offered to take us before it sold out). Thursday night, though, he dropped a quick text: “Saturday won’t work after all.”

He didn’t really offer an explanation other than “Things didn’t work out,” which left me a bit upset. I put on a smile and let it all go in the moment, though.

“It’s alright. Some other time.”

“Next week. I promise,” he said.

Later that night, a chat window popped up as I was finishing up a paper on some Brazilian short stories.

“I hope you’re having a good night. I’m Zane, BTW.”

Zane was another one of Derek’s friends. The one who’d invited him to Sundance. I bet this is going to be an interesting conversation, I thought to myself.

“Nice to meet you. Derek’s thinks you’re pretty much the coolest guy he knows. He really goes on a lot about you.”

“Oh really? LOL, because he’s an asshole.”

Although I’d half-expected something negative from him at that point, his comment really took me by surprise. He explained:

“Derek’s a fun guy to hang out with, but doesn’t have a lot of substance. He’s why gay men have a reputation for being drama queens.”

“I’ve started to see that more recently. It’s got to be true if one of his best friends goes to some length to track down a total stranger warn him.”

“He’s got a pattern. He goes for he wants and when he gets as much as he possibly can, he moves on. Don’t let it get that far is all I’m saying.”

“Okay. That’s good to know. Next week’s definitely the last.”

“Next week? Aren’t you coming on Saturday to Sundance?”

“He told me things didn’t work out for me to go.”

“See…Total asshole. The only reason I got the passes was so that I and my friends could meet you. I’d hardly call it a reputation, but I’d call it a good one still.”

“Wait… Why was I not invited then?”

“You’ll have to ask him. If you ask me, though, I think he’s insecure about us possibly liking you better… and for good reason.”

The time had come to contemplate my next move.

End, Part 2.

The Silence that Kills from Within

In commemoration of Day of Silence

A while back, I heard one of the most unnerving and upsetting things I’ve ever heard in regards to my best friend. Discussing his homosexuality once with his Bishop, Cole was told that he was “beyond feeling.”

This really blew me away. Beyond happiness? Beyond pain? Beyond love? Beyond being loved? I still don’t know if that’s even possible—to be completely ruled by a numb sense of ambivalence. Why would anyone try to convince someone that he’s broken on the inside? Especially someone who does so much for those around him. Someone who helps so many people emotionally access unknown parts of themselves through music.

There was no rational explanation or emotional outlet. This man was wrong and he was doing harm to my dearest friend. I did all that I could to reassure Cole that he was at a much better place than in the months following his broken engagement to a girl. Just as he was healing from that tragedy and on the precipice of coming of age in a musical sense, another part of his world began tearing him down.

All of this left me feeling angry but incapacitated because that’s the last thing I wanted to feel towards a leader in The Church. For so long, I’d managed to walk the slack tightrope straddling the boundaries between a gay life and a life in The Church. I placed one foot in front of the other on a daily basis, limiting myself only to kissing and make outs, but nothing more. There were of course challenges to all of this—currents of wind pushing against my solemn, deliberate steps—but nothing seemed to frustrate me more than those coming from my LDS Brothers and Sisters (terms of affection and equality for other members within the Mormon Church). Cole wasn’t the only one who felt as if he was being torn down.

As I took the last class required for me to graduate from Institute (a religious education system serving those 18-30, generally), I became uncomfortable. I’d been uncomfortable before (not knowing how to handle the advances of my female classmates before I knew I was gay) but suddenly, I listened to everything with a new awareness. It was difficult to hear other people talk speak to the “issue” of homosexuality when I’d suddenly become a first-hand authority on the subject.

“It’s unnatural.” “It’s Satan’s influence.” “It’s because they masturbated too much.” All of these comments rattled around my head. No one including the instructor of the course seemed aware that there were people like me. People who had been totally faithful, who had served missions, who had been held up as examples. Now, though, because I’d kissed another guy, because I wanted to be with a guy for the rest of my life, because I didn’t agree on Proposition 8, I was a pariah.

In class, I became silent and anonymous. I would disappear for a week at a time working through the chaos in my head. I could not be at peace with both wholes in that atmosphere—complicit in my silence or outed by my voice. The instructor would occasionally send an email concerned that I’d missed two classes in a row completely unaware that his voice was one of those pushing me away. The one place I was supposed to be “a safe haven from the pressures, trials, and challenges of the world” (see the website) had become the one place I dreaded most because there was no room for my voice or my stories.

I put up with that feeling until the end of the semester, occasionally defiantly opening connexion on my laptop rather than taking notes. When the semester was finally over, though, I rejoiced because the silence could no longer kill me from within. I only had to deal with those feelings in the occasional Sunday School lesson or at the occasional family barbeque.

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 8

Volti Subito

Ianto was really everything you could hope for in a guy—caring, talented, intelligent—and I really appreciated it. In a matter of weeks of forging a pattern for ourselves—a dependable, stress-free approach to dating. We were both dating other people, but interested in finding something serious and this led to regular conversations regarding the development of our relationship.

A staggered series of nights over those weeks was spent eating and watching TV. The wonder of the situation was that it didn’t really matter what we were eating or watching. We could be sharing an order of Wendy’s French fries and watching a movie starring Paris Hilton and Sarah Brightman, but the quality of the night would not be discounted a single smile or witty comment.

“This may be weird to say, Ianto, but it’s going to be weird to have you out of town for the holidays… and my birthday,” I said holding him in my arms as the credits to 30 Rock trumpeted in the background one evening.

“It will be different and I assure you we’ll celebrate when I get back,” he said, turning around for a quick kiss. “You be thinking of where you want dinner and what you’d like to do. Make sure it’s something special.”

And so, as he went on his trip, I did some thinking. He was the best guy to come along in months. Without a doubt in contention with Mark (my ex-boyfriend) for a very special place in my heart. Ironically, as he’d left to serve a full-time mission, I’d locked my heart much in the way that he was directed in his preparation to leave.

I could feel a change within me. A greater capacity to trust and care was resurfacing and I was growing confident in myself. I am desirable. I am a good person. I don’t need to change. It was at this time that I had stopped seeing Anderson and Derek entered the picture.

It became inevitable to compare Ianto and Derek, to examine just how different they viewed me and how I viewed them. Ianto was cautious and stable while Derek was adventurous and provoking. I knew that I couldn’t start dating anyone else because they both seemingly presented opportunities at a relationship. I stopped checking on my Connexion (gay Facebook) profile and stepped up communication with both of them.

As I awaited Ianto’s return, I considered the adventures I’d had with Derek—the experiences at the club, going to geeky movies, and getting busted by mall security towards the end of an unplanned make-out session. Part of me felt as if I had to choose while I also cautioned myself about rushing things.

After Ianto returned, we immediately celebrated my birthday before school could dominate our lives once again. We weren’t on anything as we planned the night, but all of the decisions were made on impulse. The night started out auspiciously enough at a great Chinese place with a karaoke bar.

“C’mon. The birthday boy’s got to sing,” he teased.

“No way. Never.”

“You’ve got to make this night memorable somehow. What are we going to do? It’s got to be the most random thing you’ve always wanted to try.”

“I do have an idea…” I said timidly.

“Spit it out. I’m probably going to laugh, but that’s a good thing.”

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to wax.”

“What? Your eyebrows?”

“Um… my shirt area.”

He did laugh for a few minutes. “This is going to be memorable alright!” He didn’t have much hair to his name to be self-conscious about, but he did have experience waxing his arms.

We made our way back to his place and it seemed like the kind of date I’d longed for since before I even thought about these things. Whatever we were to do at that moment would be somehow special and done with care for each other. I trusted him in that moment unlike I’d trusted anyone but my best friend Cole in months.

I didn’t care about the stretch marks and scars I bore to him. I knew that didn’t matter in his eyes. At every step of the process—pouring and spreading the hot wax across my back, placing the strips, tearing away the hair—he showed concern for my comfort. “Is this too hot?” “Was that too hard?” “Are you okay?”

It was obvious comparing him and Derek that he was the type of man I could only dream to end up with not just in this moment, but also in my life. We settled on his bed for a cuddle after he applied some lotion to my back and I put my shirt back on.

“That feels so nice,” I said, laying on top of him. “I know I won’t forget tonight.”

We grinned at the reference to our earlier concern. His hands on my shoulders and mine on his, we pulled each other for a kiss. Our heads and lips turning in synchrony, our embrace tightened and we turned to each other on our sides. Taking his right hand in my left, I instinctively guided it down my side. As I let go, it went up my shirt, blazing a trail across my waist.

I didn’t want him to stop, but in that moment, all the passion was diffused:

“What are you doing?” I asked. “I’ve never really done anything.”

He respected me and stopped, but we were both intimidated by the awkwardness born out of the moment and the certainty that I felt about him being the right guy at that moment in my life was thrown by the wayside. The same thing may have gone through his head.

Although we returned to our rhythm of dinners and movies, something was off. Our next kiss revealed it all:

Hesitantly, I turned and kissed him. Our eyes locked and closed, but the magnetic impulses were absent. I pulled away somewhat surprised.

“GMB, we need to talk,” he said.

End, Part 8.