"You Try Sometimes But They Won't Stop..."

Another post titled with a lyric that I plucked out of a song. I featured it recently, though ... "I'd Do It All Again" by Corinne Bailey Rae, if you recall. Today I think I know why this song had me bawling for a week.

"I'd do it all again" doesn't just mean I'd make all my choices all over again -- it also means I'd fail the same way all over again, too. I'd make the same mistakes, make the same ommissions, the same acts of cowardice, waste the same amount of years of my life, have the same regrets that I do now, and be this old with nothing to show for it as I do right now.

I was made acutely aware of this today when on Twitter, in the public arena of my 463 followers (some of which you guys are), it was assumed that I was not gay. The young lady in question challenged my sexuality because I knew stuff about soap operas (I was crying out against the inherent violation I felt from them cancelling All My Children and *choke* One Life To Life). Well because she assumed I was straight (those are the words she used) I chose to let her go ahead and keep assuming that. The girl is clearly fascinated by me. She loves my sense of Twitter humor. And she involves me in conversations when she's play-fighting with a fellow New Yorking Geek. And myself, I have involved myself in those playfights as well. Instigated one or two. Trying to play matchmaker, in fact. She's resisting that (although who knows what they're texting each other behind the scenes), but she seems to be probing around MY area to see what I'M made of.

And those are the times when I wish it were true. That her assumption was right. That I was eligible and available. That I could just fall into a whirlwind romance and go along with the flow and upset no applecarts and challenge no one's assumptions, and shock no one, and be well-wished on by every witness of my relationship. But that's not what happens when you're gay. This is why kids jumped off bridges and campaigns called "It Gets Better" were started. "It Gets Better" because it starts out HORRIBLY, full of judgment and ridicule and rejection and classifying and ignorance and segregation and attitudes and whispers and scoffing and name-calling and ... stuff.

So I dodged my Twittersationalist. Deftly warped and weaved around her assumptions, leaving all who witnessed with "The Impression" which I've been nursing for years now. Alan's a little strange, but funny in a "ha-ha" way. I've LITERALLY had guys on a podcast call me "Cool--Because he's just himself." AND THAT KILLED ME because I swear before God how I wished that they were seeing the real me for true, and STILL thought I was "Cool." A part of me wished that they kind of know I'm gay, but since I don't talk about it they don't, and that adds to my "coolness." But no. One of those guys once asked me, a few years ago now, in a Direct Message, if I was gay, and that was back when it was more horrifying-er. I'm sure I denied it back then. So he must be left with the impression that, 'Hey, Alan likes to flirt with straight guys! But he's straight too! So he's COOL!'

So ... I'm not.

And I was thinking all this as my battery slowly died on my phone and my Twitter access died with it. And I started feeling like a failure and a coward. So I turned on Corinne Bailey Rae's "I'd Do It All Again" and realized why it was a painful song for me. I was doing it all again.

Then I went downtown to get some English-style fish and chips, and made a detour, and marched myself right into The Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Community Center on W13th St. and inquired about groups I could attend. I got me a brochure and I found out how to get me a peer counselor and we 'gone talk about some stuff and I'ma fucking figure out how to get the fuck out of this closet. Because I need help and I went and got me some.

Because I can't keep doing it all again.

Cool, right? Not the way you thought this blogpost was going to end, right?

But wait, there's more.

So you know how I've been fizzzling out on Match.Com? Well, no, I haven't gotten any of the dreamy hunks to wink back at me (and good gosh are they dreamy) but I DID get a letter from a fellow therapist. In Jewish Mother Voice; "A DOCTOR."

He wants to start a dialogue! I got that just yesterday, after I looked at his profile -- because after I did that, he was notified, so then he looked at mine and voila! He likes what I am.

Of course, I'd love to say he was a dreamy hunk, but ... not so much. I mean he weighs what I weigh, only stretched out to 6 ft tall, so hopefully he's got something nice to look at. SOME interlocking rib muscles would be cool.

Well, I'll find out. Because I wrote him back. Because why not? Plus--like my First Man Date, he's given to being therapeutic--he's a listener. Hopefully patient, but also hopefully, he's got something more. Something I find sexy. A manliness maybe. A guy-ness.

We'll see.

And I'm going back to The Center on Sunday to get my therapy on.

So yeah.

So let's see what's what.

Gym Story

And this is exactly the way I'd always wished it would happen!

So today at the gym, I do what we always do. I'm getting my workout on, deciding what to do and what not to do, seeing what equipment is avaialable and what's not, noticing the astounding bodies and the not-so-much, knowing which set I belong to and being mad/sad/depressed/determined about it. And also what we do, brief eye contact and then possibly a very masculine head nod of acknowledgement, and keep it movin'. Because omg shoot, kill, and eat us right there on the spot if any of us dare be gay at the gym. So unless we're working out with a buddy (and I use the term loosely) we're all in our own little orbits of homophobia, saying nothing and dying to look sexy.

During, I saw a fella who I found attractive in a strange way. He had loose unkempt hair. He was medium build, no discernable paunch (unlike me)but no outstanding v-shape or awesome shoulders that I usually go for either. He had one of those interesting mouths, though. Lips thin and somewhat recessed, in an m-shape. Very white-guy-in-his-forties. Possibly Irish. Curlicues of wild chest hair poking up at the neckline. Not unlike the George that I used to live with three years ago. (Or is it four now?) Not unlike him at all. So let's call him "George II." I wound up doing shoulder shrugs next to his weight rack, where he was doing squats. Nary a word passed between us. I can only hope at this point that no one notices how much I look at them during any given gym session.

After I was done, I hastily changed back to my street clothes, not even stopping to shower. I had no one and nowhere to go so why bother? I was listening to a shuffle of Corinne Bailey Rae and it was affecting my mood again. The first lines of many of her songs can soooo send me to that place --

"Seems like everyone else has a love just for them ..." - Breathless

"Ohhhhhhh ... you're searching for something I know won't make you happy ... " - I'd Do It All Again

"I don't want to give you up, I don't want to hold you up..." -Closer

"So young ... for death ... we walk in shoes too big ..." - I Would Like To Call It Beauty

So I didn't wait around for a shower and I didn't do any aerobics on the elliptical. Just shrugged on pants, shirt, sweater, jacket, hat, scarf, sneakers, and I'm out the door.

Now, this gym is on the 15th floor of a Time Square hotel (one of its' best perks with BEAUTIFUL views of Hell's Kitchen and into the T-Square itself) so leaving it takes me to a bank of elevators. And who should be standing there waiting for an elevator? Why, George II of course! I'd missed when he stopped doing his squats and threw his clothes on, but it had to have been in a lockerroom apart from mine because I didn't see him. And trust me, I look. The lockerroom is the place where I get involuntary confirmation that I am, indeed, gay. Sorry, straight guys who just want to go get their workout on and get on with their day after a shower, but we gay guys are checkin yo shit out. I try not to stare, I promise. To be honest, I don't like you nude anyway. Your junk is ugly. No, I'm sorry, it really is. And your toes are often ghastly. But once you slip into your BVDs ... h'oh boy. And you be wearing them SEXY ones too. Oh no, not just tidy-whities anymore hath our Johnny Straight Guy, oh nooo. And then some of you have the nerve to have abs, and those interlocking rib-muscles?! And NORMAL clean feet with well-proportioned, trimmed nails on EVERY toe? You bastards.

Again, I'm trying not to stare. But wow. A glimpse says a lot.

Where was I?

Right! The elevators with George II! So these are highspeed elevators to service the 30 stories full of hotel tourists above us, who've shelled out good money to be here, and so accordingly, if you press the down button you better be ready to dash to one of the eight possible elevator doors that could open -- because it will not wait for you. And fortunately, when one did arrive, it did so near me, so in I went -- and I held the door for George II to catch up to it. Then I said as much to him by way of banter -- you know, about getting to the vator before it leaves. To which he answered 'It's a fitness test.' Which I laughed at because I thought the same thing about the hard-to-open lobby doors downstairs! And I said so aloud!

And then George II and I had a nice little stream of casual convo all the way down the elevator, down the escalators, through the lobby, out onto Broadway, and two blocks north until I departed to cross the street.

And we didn't talk about anything at all, really. Just about gyms and their opening, closing, the value of ours and the possible value of others. But his voice was sooooooo nice. Cool. Deep but clipped. Announcing every consonant and vowel. Like he could be a radio DJ. Again, very Middle-Aged White-Guy. Comfortable and safe like Ward Clever or Fred MacMurray. And apparently, comfortable with ME! So comfortable in fact that when I was ready to cross the street, he jut out a hand for that fraternal shake and announced his name! To wit I clasped in kind and gave him mine. So masculine!! So buddy!! Nice strong grip, but not trying to out-macho one another. Just Men being Men!

And then I thought DANG! I LIKED that!!! and went to my train.

So, his name is not "George". But neither's was the original George. And I'm not in LOVE or anything. George II had some manky teeth which caused his M-shaped lips to be as recessed as they were. But then again, my teeth are gappy, so who's perfect?

But he was the kind I like. Just a guy, you know? A guy who is open and friendly and ... a guy. An average guy. Who might have a interlocking rib-muscles under there. And a chest full of hair. And who might be gay.

So I'll end it with this -- the odds are, he's not gay. He's probably divorced and probably a sex addict. He's probably disorganized and maybe has some destructive addictions that he's trying to overcome. I'll probably never know why he'll accept me as a friend, but he will. And I'll probably wind up with a big inappropriate crush on him, and on it will go into nowheresville. You know ... that town at the junction of Despair Rd and Chronically Frustrated Life Ln?

Because hey. I'm nothing if not consistent.

And that's what happened today!

*curtsey*

The Therapist

Me.

More than once I have sat with a client and together we have arrived at answers for their lives that illuminated the whole room. Last week, one of them said "I don't know why I spent so much time worrying about what other people thought of me."

The peace on the client's face was incredible.

And I sat across from them thinking, "Why am I in THIS chair? Why are they not MY therapist??"

And those words have been in my head ever since. Because I've spent SO much time considering others thoughts about me. All my life, I guess. And it is seriously killing my happiness.

Over the weekend I was sitting between hobbies and feeling not lonely, but kind of ... oh, say, put out. Inconvenienced by being alone. And I do now have friends. But I thought to myself, in this one aspect, "Why am I alone? Why am I allowing myself to be alone like this? This is just STUPID."

Then I promptly did nothing.

But I tell you what. Out of all the people I've come across, whether it's through Blogging, Tweeting, Professionally, or In Person -- 98% of them refuse to be without someone. They don't care HOW effed up their lives are or WHAT their challenges are. And they don't give. A. Shit. what anyone thinks of them when it comes to this area. They hunger and they fill their appetite.

I owe myself nothing less.

I'm getting closer to blowing these doors off. FUCK Victoria Jackson and all her ilk who want to keep me in this closet. I don't see THEM doing without.

Fuck this.

Why am I alone?

I See What's Going On Here

So I come to my blog and I spew my latest vitriol, drop a few f-bombs, then I go out and tell someone else that I'm gay. Somehow this is a process for me.

Because this time I told one of the Inner Circle. That is to say, the band of geeks that I've gone down to North Carolina to meet, dine and share with at the comics convention --I told the wife of that group. Her husband is the glue that holds us together with his podcasts and his energy and near-autistic love for comics and us. Out of that group we lost the 36 year old brother to a massive heart attack a year ago from Thanksgiving.

She knitted me a hat and is knitting me a scarf out of no reason, just because she likes me and thinks I'm a great guy--and she's a Mom to all of us and she's a fantastic woman. So I felt the safest with her. Her husband will probably also not freak out too, too much--but I can tell he sometimes gets uncomfortable with homosexual things. And our Geekmates in the cipher, one is a church-working mid-American Christian. Another is a slightly effeminate single black fella transplanted down there. Another is a brilliant satirist young feller, single and unlucky at love, living with mental illness. Lastly is a handsome young stud-nerd who is just a few degrees of seperation away from normal. He's like the Marilyn of this Munster family.

They are the faces that I see so often whenever I fear rejection the hardest. They are the ones who project all sorts of ladykilling antics on me to live out their fantasies. And they are the ones who, if a Gay Me repulses them, will hurt like a bitch. A biiiiitch. And no amount of "Well fuck that guy!"'s will make the pain vanish. I'm getting choked up right now just contemplating it.

But yeah. I keep saying it and it keeps being true. I can't stay like this, frozen and frightened and alone and lonely. Since the Amazing Mister Cosplaying Superhero Comic Nerd He-Man Gay Dude hasn't come to sweep me off my feet and out of my closet, I'm going to have to do it the slow hard way, on my own.

I have to take on the identity for everybody to see.

Then I have to start living out in the open.

Because I'm dying here in the dark.