I haven't had a crying jag in WEEKS! I used to about every week or so, on the way to work when I have to go down to Edison. Just a miasma of sadness sitting in my chest until it runs over. Of course I'd help it along with "Home" from The Wiz or "Be A Lion" from the same.
Yesterday on the street a fella was walking towards me, fitting my ideal description. Bald, built, and ringless. I made eyecontact and I allowed myself to smile--I allow my face to show what I'm feeling. And may I say I do this a lot anymore. I'm already looking, so if they see me looking, why not send them a smile? I'm not trying to hurt them and my intentions are pure. I like what I see, that's all. So I smile and then I re-occupy myself with whatever I was doing before I looked. Well, this guy yesterday returned eyecontact and the smile. And then zoom, we went past each other and it was over.
So now that I'm all gay and whatnot, how does it go to the next step? What does one man say to another man without the slightest idea (okay, there is the SLIGHTEST idea) that the other is available and interested?
Last night I wrote an email to a gay feller who I though was hot. I found him on a site that advertises such things. He lives in New York City. And I asked him the same question. We'll see if he cares one way or the other. He probably gets dozens of e-mails, and surely most of them hot guys do. But Since he put his stuff on the web for attention and solicitation, I figured I'd give it a shot. Maybe an intelligent conversation can be found out there? Maybe I can find a Gay Ned who looks like Jason Statham, lol!
So yeah, I'm not whining about it anymore. I'm doing something about it. I'm going to see what's up.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
So. There's This Guy.
He's about a head taller than me and he has a runner's frame. His head is completely shaved and he sports a sandy brown goatee. My new glasses very much resemble the ones he usually wears. He surely must be in his thirties. And I see no wedding or commitment rings.
He works in a designing firm on the same floor as our counseling offices, and I catch him at times near the 5:00 whistle if I come in early enough for my night gig. We meet at the bathroom--I'm arriving, he's leaving.
Now, you know chemistry when you see it. You make eye contact. You smile, they smile. You get a little flutter. You feel a little nervous. You want, more than air at that moment, to say something--ANYTHING--smart and funny and winning and deep and binding and everlastingly impressive.
Lemme back up some. A few weeks ago, while on the street approach to the building, I saw him heading my way, walking with someone in big conversation. That made the twice or third time, but that time, he was broadly striding in a kilt. Complete with black Doc Martin boots and that dangly, beaded, leathery adornment that goes in the front of kilts. (Kind of like a pipeless bagpipe? I dunno.)
So that was my in. I knew that the next time I'd see him, I would bring up that kilt. (No pun intended). I always need a good reason to launch into conversation. (Remember me, the guy who took meds for nearly a year because of social anxiety? I only quit because my doctor was holding them hostage. Finally the withdrawal symptoms have faded away. Now I feel unmedicated and still have managed to keep my dayjob and call new people back who want sessions in the evening. Yes, I was openly weeping on a weekly basis, but I was sad.)
But I digress! That kilt was IT! So, yesterday was the 'next time' I was waiting for. In fact, yesterday was layered in all sortsa circumstance.
I just got in and hadda go, ifyaknowwhatImean. But the bathroom key was not in our office. So I figured one of our therapists was inside using the facilities. So I stood outside of the bathroom, which is out in the hall, closer to the designer firm than to our counseling center--and I waited. It's taking a little longer than I wish, but so far I'm good.
And who should step out of the designing firm? Kilt-Guy! (Not wearing a kilt, by the way). HE has his own key. So I smile, say hello, and look beyond him into the bathroom so I can confirm that I'm waiting for someone from OUR office to let me in. Except 1) Kilt-Guy engages me, almost as if, while wearing a big smile, he's not going to let me in and 2) I see no one beyond him in the bathroom. I stumble over my words--"someone from my offices ... is it okay if I just ... the key ... I think someone's in there and I need to ..." AWKWARRRRRRRRD!
Kilt Guy lets me in though, he recognizes that I'm here a lot and has used a key to these facilities before, and maybe, just maybe, he's been feeling the same thing I've been feeling anyway. So I'm in the bathroom as he "heads" for the urinal, and now I see ... there's NO ONE IN THE BATHROOM. So possibly I've just bum-rushed my way into the bathroom with a false, and quite horribly cheap excuse to get in with him. After I've been stalking outside both the bathroom AND his office.
NOT a good look, people.
But to my GREAT relief, I found the key inside a commode stall, which I waved around like a battlefield flag as if to say "See? NOT a perve! NOT a perve!" because dang it, it WAS missing and I DID have to go! Well, icebreaker ACHIEVED. Here we were.
So I bring up the kilt. Again, no pun intended. And he shares freely. He likes it. He lives in Jersey City, in an ethnic community. He likes shocking the neighbors with his fashion choices. A chick on Fifth Avenue impulsively lifted up the back. And a few sundry other pleasantries.
But what I'm checking for is "Does this guy dig me? Is this more of the same, like what I got from the Haagen-Daas Dude? Are we flirting here? Does he know that I damn sure am?"
What a perfect tapered jaw I was looking at. What sky blue eyes, wide smile, anatomy-model bald head he has. My heart is just all a-pitter pitter pitter with the odd patter thrown in. Broad shoulders--not as chunky and bold as I usually like but there's some upper chest development and evidence that he's tight under those clothes. Flat stomach. Just ... he's just so ...
And out to the elevators he goes. One more smile, nod, and farewell as he stands and I go into the counseling offices with freshly washed hands.
And regardless of whether he's gay or not, this is how I know that I am.
This doesn't HAPPEN between two straight guys. I mean, I still believe there are constant degrees of ambivalence and fluidity. I believe straight guys are fascinated and still attracted to other mens' physiques. I believe that straight men still crush on the Hugh Jackmans and Jason Stathams of the world.
But do they go as far as I do?
I want this guy to want me. I want to practice a kiss where my heart actually bangs. I want to give in to the gravity of his masculinity, his looks, his charm, his style, his presence, his person. I wanna touch!
Look, I told my Former Father Figure a few weeks ago about why I thought I was gay and why I realized that my past relationships with women never worked. I used to think I was unable to "love." I used to think I never really could, because of my history with Mom, with no parental example, with the lack of practice by the time I was in my late twenties/mid-thirties--whateverhaveyou. Never mind that I thought muscular guys were hot. Nevermind that I bought Muscle & Fitness mags the way middle-aged men bought Playboy. Those facts were all compartmentalized away. I was a Christian and I was supposed to marry a girl. End of story.
So I believed that my affection for women, my admiration and appreciation for them--all that would surely turn into sexual energy given enough time. But it didn't. Even when I left the strictness of church and allowed myself to kiss my girlfriend--even when I was alone with her in her apartment, or in my own, and we were laying spooned together on the couch ...
... I never felt anything close to what I felt in the workplace bathroom yesterday.
I'm sure if he would have moved in on me and crushed me up against the commode stall I'd have fainted from the stark thrill of the moment.
I'm gay.
I'm gay.
And if Kilt-Guy asks me out on a date ...
I'm gunna go.
And that's what's going on.
He works in a designing firm on the same floor as our counseling offices, and I catch him at times near the 5:00 whistle if I come in early enough for my night gig. We meet at the bathroom--I'm arriving, he's leaving.
Now, you know chemistry when you see it. You make eye contact. You smile, they smile. You get a little flutter. You feel a little nervous. You want, more than air at that moment, to say something--ANYTHING--smart and funny and winning and deep and binding and everlastingly impressive.
Lemme back up some. A few weeks ago, while on the street approach to the building, I saw him heading my way, walking with someone in big conversation. That made the twice or third time, but that time, he was broadly striding in a kilt. Complete with black Doc Martin boots and that dangly, beaded, leathery adornment that goes in the front of kilts. (Kind of like a pipeless bagpipe? I dunno.)
So that was my in. I knew that the next time I'd see him, I would bring up that kilt. (No pun intended). I always need a good reason to launch into conversation. (Remember me, the guy who took meds for nearly a year because of social anxiety? I only quit because my doctor was holding them hostage. Finally the withdrawal symptoms have faded away. Now I feel unmedicated and still have managed to keep my dayjob and call new people back who want sessions in the evening. Yes, I was openly weeping on a weekly basis, but I was sad.)
But I digress! That kilt was IT! So, yesterday was the 'next time' I was waiting for. In fact, yesterday was layered in all sortsa circumstance.
I just got in and hadda go, ifyaknowwhatImean. But the bathroom key was not in our office. So I figured one of our therapists was inside using the facilities. So I stood outside of the bathroom, which is out in the hall, closer to the designer firm than to our counseling center--and I waited. It's taking a little longer than I wish, but so far I'm good.
And who should step out of the designing firm? Kilt-Guy! (Not wearing a kilt, by the way). HE has his own key. So I smile, say hello, and look beyond him into the bathroom so I can confirm that I'm waiting for someone from OUR office to let me in. Except 1) Kilt-Guy engages me, almost as if, while wearing a big smile, he's not going to let me in and 2) I see no one beyond him in the bathroom. I stumble over my words--"someone from my offices ... is it okay if I just ... the key ... I think someone's in there and I need to ..." AWKWARRRRRRRRD!
Kilt Guy lets me in though, he recognizes that I'm here a lot and has used a key to these facilities before, and maybe, just maybe, he's been feeling the same thing I've been feeling anyway. So I'm in the bathroom as he "heads" for the urinal, and now I see ... there's NO ONE IN THE BATHROOM. So possibly I've just bum-rushed my way into the bathroom with a false, and quite horribly cheap excuse to get in with him. After I've been stalking outside both the bathroom AND his office.
NOT a good look, people.
But to my GREAT relief, I found the key inside a commode stall, which I waved around like a battlefield flag as if to say "See? NOT a perve! NOT a perve!" because dang it, it WAS missing and I DID have to go! Well, icebreaker ACHIEVED. Here we were.
So I bring up the kilt. Again, no pun intended. And he shares freely. He likes it. He lives in Jersey City, in an ethnic community. He likes shocking the neighbors with his fashion choices. A chick on Fifth Avenue impulsively lifted up the back. And a few sundry other pleasantries.
But what I'm checking for is "Does this guy dig me? Is this more of the same, like what I got from the Haagen-Daas Dude? Are we flirting here? Does he know that I damn sure am?"
What a perfect tapered jaw I was looking at. What sky blue eyes, wide smile, anatomy-model bald head he has. My heart is just all a-pitter pitter pitter with the odd patter thrown in. Broad shoulders--not as chunky and bold as I usually like but there's some upper chest development and evidence that he's tight under those clothes. Flat stomach. Just ... he's just so ...
And out to the elevators he goes. One more smile, nod, and farewell as he stands and I go into the counseling offices with freshly washed hands.
And regardless of whether he's gay or not, this is how I know that I am.
This doesn't HAPPEN between two straight guys. I mean, I still believe there are constant degrees of ambivalence and fluidity. I believe straight guys are fascinated and still attracted to other mens' physiques. I believe that straight men still crush on the Hugh Jackmans and Jason Stathams of the world.
But do they go as far as I do?
I want this guy to want me. I want to practice a kiss where my heart actually bangs. I want to give in to the gravity of his masculinity, his looks, his charm, his style, his presence, his person. I wanna touch!
Look, I told my Former Father Figure a few weeks ago about why I thought I was gay and why I realized that my past relationships with women never worked. I used to think I was unable to "love." I used to think I never really could, because of my history with Mom, with no parental example, with the lack of practice by the time I was in my late twenties/mid-thirties--whateverhaveyou. Never mind that I thought muscular guys were hot. Nevermind that I bought Muscle & Fitness mags the way middle-aged men bought Playboy. Those facts were all compartmentalized away. I was a Christian and I was supposed to marry a girl. End of story.
So I believed that my affection for women, my admiration and appreciation for them--all that would surely turn into sexual energy given enough time. But it didn't. Even when I left the strictness of church and allowed myself to kiss my girlfriend--even when I was alone with her in her apartment, or in my own, and we were laying spooned together on the couch ...
... I never felt anything close to what I felt in the workplace bathroom yesterday.
I'm sure if he would have moved in on me and crushed me up against the commode stall I'd have fainted from the stark thrill of the moment.
I'm gay.
I'm gay.
And if Kilt-Guy asks me out on a date ...
I'm gunna go.
And that's what's going on.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Okay, for instance, right now I quite feel like a big rolling pile of steaming SHITE. At my workplace a client has screamed his misery to all the workplace and my interventions only made it worse. From that point I was to go into a meeting about him and recommend his removal from this program location where my office is. Which is how I got involved in the first place. Because my office is here and I have a meeting to go to at 1:30 and so my boss felt I should stay on deck, replace him, and advocate for the client's removal. Meanwhile this poor miserable bastard is screaming his throat raw and crying his eyes out, smashing his lunch to pulp and begging for everyone to Just LEAVE HIM THE UFCK ALONE.
And inside, I just could NOT agree with him more. In my heart of hearts I knew that if we all just let the man be, get off his back, allow him his period of readjustment to his broken schedule, he'd be FINE. Like he ALWAYS is. But no. Program Director and Administrators just can't tolerate it anymore. "Something has to be DONE." "We aren't serving his needs here anymore." "He's setting off all the others." Well, OKAY, maybe SO. But CHANGE is what triggers him and here you are suggesting that CHANGING HIS ENTIRE DAY, (ie travel time, site location, personnel, peers) is what he needs?!? And my boss wanted me to be a part of this?
So like the twelfth angry man on this jury, I just went along with the consensus. I faked words of support for the plan. Yes, I pointed out the risks of changing things on the client, but ultimately I caved to the pressure of essentially getting rid of the man. Like a good little clone, I did my job.
UFCK ME.
And so you see, this is the kind of outpour I need and putting that on Facebook just wouldn't do. I don't need people in my profession reading this. But that's just my job.
How and where can I post that my crush on Felicia Day could be the thing to save my hetereosexuality? My geek brethren read my expression of affection for her, and my gosh I do think she's amazing. But if I went on gushing about her on Facebook, but didn't complete my thought--which is--she may not trip my trigger, but with her I would learn. I would take the time. I would make love to her just because SHE wanted me to.
And then of course, I have to face facts, which I do here and cannot do on Facebook--how long could that last? Me making love solely for the other person? Not for myself? And is that fair to the other person?
Yeah. Not saying this on Facebook. Or Twitter. You guys who are here already--this is where you get The Rest Of The Story. Could you please keep this blog in your confidence? Please create no link bridges through your sites to this place here. Hate me if you must. Call me a hypocrite and a liar. But please don't kill me. Let me have my place where I vent, process, struggle. I need this place. I want you here. I need you here. Facebook is not where my heart is. Here is.
Now, to summarize;
I live on the lintel of The Closet. I'm comfy right here. I will express my crushes, my lusts, my whathaveyous, but I will not act on them. I am an Inbetweener. I would not wish this on a dog, but I'm here. On the day I decide that I'm out of the closet and in a relationship with a man--that will be the day I integrate all these areas of my life and let the chips fall. But I cannot--will not do that now. Because I have no one else BUT this right now. All I have are my geeks. They are my community. My support system. They are more vocal and more present than here. And it may so happen that I sacrifice this homosexual lifestyle to fit into the mould they have created for me. Just to keep their love. Yes, I would do that. I've BEEN doing that.
Because I need love. I'm human. I need love. In any form I can get it. I need it. And I'm not the least bit ashamed to say THAT, even if I'm ashamed to say all these other things.
Shit. I'm fighting for my fucking life here. Shit.
And inside, I just could NOT agree with him more. In my heart of hearts I knew that if we all just let the man be, get off his back, allow him his period of readjustment to his broken schedule, he'd be FINE. Like he ALWAYS is. But no. Program Director and Administrators just can't tolerate it anymore. "Something has to be DONE." "We aren't serving his needs here anymore." "He's setting off all the others." Well, OKAY, maybe SO. But CHANGE is what triggers him and here you are suggesting that CHANGING HIS ENTIRE DAY, (ie travel time, site location, personnel, peers) is what he needs?!? And my boss wanted me to be a part of this?
So like the twelfth angry man on this jury, I just went along with the consensus. I faked words of support for the plan. Yes, I pointed out the risks of changing things on the client, but ultimately I caved to the pressure of essentially getting rid of the man. Like a good little clone, I did my job.
UFCK ME.
And so you see, this is the kind of outpour I need and putting that on Facebook just wouldn't do. I don't need people in my profession reading this. But that's just my job.
How and where can I post that my crush on Felicia Day could be the thing to save my hetereosexuality? My geek brethren read my expression of affection for her, and my gosh I do think she's amazing. But if I went on gushing about her on Facebook, but didn't complete my thought--which is--she may not trip my trigger, but with her I would learn. I would take the time. I would make love to her just because SHE wanted me to.
And then of course, I have to face facts, which I do here and cannot do on Facebook--how long could that last? Me making love solely for the other person? Not for myself? And is that fair to the other person?
Yeah. Not saying this on Facebook. Or Twitter. You guys who are here already--this is where you get The Rest Of The Story. Could you please keep this blog in your confidence? Please create no link bridges through your sites to this place here. Hate me if you must. Call me a hypocrite and a liar. But please don't kill me. Let me have my place where I vent, process, struggle. I need this place. I want you here. I need you here. Facebook is not where my heart is. Here is.
Now, to summarize;
I live on the lintel of The Closet. I'm comfy right here. I will express my crushes, my lusts, my whathaveyous, but I will not act on them. I am an Inbetweener. I would not wish this on a dog, but I'm here. On the day I decide that I'm out of the closet and in a relationship with a man--that will be the day I integrate all these areas of my life and let the chips fall. But I cannot--will not do that now. Because I have no one else BUT this right now. All I have are my geeks. They are my community. My support system. They are more vocal and more present than here. And it may so happen that I sacrifice this homosexual lifestyle to fit into the mould they have created for me. Just to keep their love. Yes, I would do that. I've BEEN doing that.
Because I need love. I'm human. I need love. In any form I can get it. I need it. And I'm not the least bit ashamed to say THAT, even if I'm ashamed to say all these other things.
Shit. I'm fighting for my fucking life here. Shit.
I'm Not Ready
So I found My Ned and My Scott and where they've gone and learned how I can go too. Facebook. Childhood Buds, I know you guys are going to kill me for not being motivated to join for you, but you are guys who I can call on the frikkin phone for Pete's sake. Ned and Scott are these millions-of-miles-away guys who, without knowing me prior to all this blogation, poured love and support all up in the mix. Love and support are addictive, I must say. Y'all got children and wife, so hopefully you know what love & support feels like (oh, and you got me), but for me--so, yeah.
So I joined Facebook. I used my mutant name instead of my gub'ment, and see, I told you I knew people. I told you I was popular in other places. I already knew that.
But they don't know all what goes on up in here. And as the friend requests came crashing into my email account by the dozens (damn Facebook sign-up process raping my e-mail addresses and setting me the eff up for TOTAL EXPOSURE) panic attacks ensued. Can they find this blog through my Facebook? People I friended know about this place--will they tell? Do they have links at their places which could lead the intrepid here?
And what's here that I want to keep so private? Well DUH?!! It's just so ufcking nice to know who you are isn't it? Just so very ufcking cozy to put up pictures of your wives, girlfriends, husbands, children--just spread your arms wide open and invite the world into your life with no shame, no guilt, no fear. Isn't life just so rosy and happy and shiny for you?
Now my ass gets pressured, cajoled, wheedled out in the harsh sunlight and ufck me if that sh!t doesn't BURN. People finding pictures of me and posting them on my site without so much as a by-your-leave. I turn around and there I am. Wink, smile, wave of fingers, first and last name put the ufck out on blast.
Why? Why the hell is it so important for people to get all into my stuff? People who are ALREADY my friends?
People, I have two clients who internet stalk. I can't have them finding that I'm a geek, I'm gay, I'm this, I'm that.
So NONE OF MY REAL NAMES ON MY DAMN FACEBOOK, okay? Don't MAKE me have to close that bitch down so soon.
ARGH!! Why am I so angry?!
And when I consider that okay, let's let everybody know everything. Let's drop all the walls. My emotions go UFCK YOU! Not everyone has the right to know! Not everyone has earned my trust! Not everyone has displayed the ability to accept and not judge! UFCK YOU if you think I'm going to set myself up for ufcking failure. Put myself in a position to me rejected by people I once held in my heart.
The more I type, the more I want to check out of Facebook. I love Scott and Ned, but I'm SO so much less secure than those guys. I have SO much less to show and SO much less to be proud of.
I should have followed my instincts. This shit is a trainwreck getting ready to happen.
Ufck me.
So I joined Facebook. I used my mutant name instead of my gub'ment, and see, I told you I knew people. I told you I was popular in other places. I already knew that.
But they don't know all what goes on up in here. And as the friend requests came crashing into my email account by the dozens (damn Facebook sign-up process raping my e-mail addresses and setting me the eff up for TOTAL EXPOSURE) panic attacks ensued. Can they find this blog through my Facebook? People I friended know about this place--will they tell? Do they have links at their places which could lead the intrepid here?
And what's here that I want to keep so private? Well DUH?!! It's just so ufcking nice to know who you are isn't it? Just so very ufcking cozy to put up pictures of your wives, girlfriends, husbands, children--just spread your arms wide open and invite the world into your life with no shame, no guilt, no fear. Isn't life just so rosy and happy and shiny for you?
Now my ass gets pressured, cajoled, wheedled out in the harsh sunlight and ufck me if that sh!t doesn't BURN. People finding pictures of me and posting them on my site without so much as a by-your-leave. I turn around and there I am. Wink, smile, wave of fingers, first and last name put the ufck out on blast.
Why? Why the hell is it so important for people to get all into my stuff? People who are ALREADY my friends?
People, I have two clients who internet stalk. I can't have them finding that I'm a geek, I'm gay, I'm this, I'm that.
So NONE OF MY REAL NAMES ON MY DAMN FACEBOOK, okay? Don't MAKE me have to close that bitch down so soon.
ARGH!! Why am I so angry?!
And when I consider that okay, let's let everybody know everything. Let's drop all the walls. My emotions go UFCK YOU! Not everyone has the right to know! Not everyone has earned my trust! Not everyone has displayed the ability to accept and not judge! UFCK YOU if you think I'm going to set myself up for ufcking failure. Put myself in a position to me rejected by people I once held in my heart.
The more I type, the more I want to check out of Facebook. I love Scott and Ned, but I'm SO so much less secure than those guys. I have SO much less to show and SO much less to be proud of.
I should have followed my instincts. This shit is a trainwreck getting ready to happen.
Ufck me.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
REDACTION!!
In my previous post, I didn't mean it!! I didn't mean ANY of it! Oh please don't leave me! Please don't!!
Heh. Only half of that is true. In my last post I did mean it.
Tomorrow I'm going to put the rubber to the road on this one. I was spurred to write that post because of the recent falling out with Jester. Well Jester's friend and mine, My Cop Hero, wants to play peacemaker. The Cop's known Jester twice as long as I have, so he is Jester's greatest advocate. And I respect that. The Cop is also very fond of me. So he wants us all to be friends.
But I've decided, as have all of you at one time or another, that toxic friends are toxic. And that at this time of life, I need friends who can love me. Just like I am going to love them.
So tonight The Cop called and wanted to help me make up with Jester (because yes, I put it out there in our group messages that I was tired of it, and that I was taking a break. (Go Alan!) So I told The Cop that if he wanted o take on the role of peacemaker, then he was going to have to know why I'm tired of sparring with Jester and why I need more from friends (which will include The Cop, he will soon learn).
The Cop at first thought I was just going to lay Jester out, but I told him it had nothing to do with Jester. And ultimately, it honestly does not. It has to do with me living in constant fear of losing everyone and everything for "coming out of the closet." Irrational as that may be to you, dear reader, it is a very real fear to me. But thanks to the mostly silent Coaster Punchman these days, I started the list of worst-case scenarios and was able to put them into the light instead of the forever unknown nightmare dark. I started to be able to seriously consider it, both the benefits and consequences. Both the friends that would stay and the friends that would leave. It started becoming real.
So then I started telling people.
I told My Super Hero. (He stayed)
I told Childhood Bud II. (She stayed--and denied it for me)
I told my Geek Central buddy, and removed the vow of secrecy I swore him under. If anyone asks him, he can tell them. (Cowardy of me, but the advance here is that I don't want to deny it anymore. They suspect it, now let them know it for sure, even if I'm not the one to tell them. And if it REALLY matters to them, they can ask me directly.)
And tomorrow, I'm telling The Cop. And he can go tell Jester, and our other D&D geek buddies and I don't care anymore. I don't care no mo. I half want them to dump me. I like having my Saturdays free, and not having to go through the sparring and sarcasm deflection, and self-defense, and ridicule of my qualities and my profession, which I'm better at than anything else I do on planet Earth, with the Audio productions coming up a close second.
But the true part of my REDACTION is that my heart really doesn't want them to reject me. My heart is really sore from rejection. I miss the people I used to be friendly with and share words, thoughts, wishes, and encouragement with. They made me feel so good and so loved and now they are so gone. And this stings like a real bitch.
And maybe that's why I'm telling people about this sexuality now. Maybe I'm looking for the kind of love that won't fade away on me. Maybe the kind of love I'm attracted to is the only love I'm made for. The only love that will really make me happy. The kind of love that isn't faked. To be loved for me.
And if I'm going to get that love, then all the games have to stop. I have to be real if I want real love.
So let's just see what's what come Saturday morning, after the sh*t has hit the fan and the room is splattered.
Euw.
I need a better analogy.
Heh. Only half of that is true. In my last post I did mean it.
Tomorrow I'm going to put the rubber to the road on this one. I was spurred to write that post because of the recent falling out with Jester. Well Jester's friend and mine, My Cop Hero, wants to play peacemaker. The Cop's known Jester twice as long as I have, so he is Jester's greatest advocate. And I respect that. The Cop is also very fond of me. So he wants us all to be friends.
But I've decided, as have all of you at one time or another, that toxic friends are toxic. And that at this time of life, I need friends who can love me. Just like I am going to love them.
So tonight The Cop called and wanted to help me make up with Jester (because yes, I put it out there in our group messages that I was tired of it, and that I was taking a break. (Go Alan!) So I told The Cop that if he wanted o take on the role of peacemaker, then he was going to have to know why I'm tired of sparring with Jester and why I need more from friends (which will include The Cop, he will soon learn).
The Cop at first thought I was just going to lay Jester out, but I told him it had nothing to do with Jester. And ultimately, it honestly does not. It has to do with me living in constant fear of losing everyone and everything for "coming out of the closet." Irrational as that may be to you, dear reader, it is a very real fear to me. But thanks to the mostly silent Coaster Punchman these days, I started the list of worst-case scenarios and was able to put them into the light instead of the forever unknown nightmare dark. I started to be able to seriously consider it, both the benefits and consequences. Both the friends that would stay and the friends that would leave. It started becoming real.
So then I started telling people.
I told My Super Hero. (He stayed)
I told Childhood Bud II. (She stayed--and denied it for me)
I told my Geek Central buddy, and removed the vow of secrecy I swore him under. If anyone asks him, he can tell them. (Cowardy of me, but the advance here is that I don't want to deny it anymore. They suspect it, now let them know it for sure, even if I'm not the one to tell them. And if it REALLY matters to them, they can ask me directly.)
And tomorrow, I'm telling The Cop. And he can go tell Jester, and our other D&D geek buddies and I don't care anymore. I don't care no mo. I half want them to dump me. I like having my Saturdays free, and not having to go through the sparring and sarcasm deflection, and self-defense, and ridicule of my qualities and my profession, which I'm better at than anything else I do on planet Earth, with the Audio productions coming up a close second.
But the true part of my REDACTION is that my heart really doesn't want them to reject me. My heart is really sore from rejection. I miss the people I used to be friendly with and share words, thoughts, wishes, and encouragement with. They made me feel so good and so loved and now they are so gone. And this stings like a real bitch.
And maybe that's why I'm telling people about this sexuality now. Maybe I'm looking for the kind of love that won't fade away on me. Maybe the kind of love I'm attracted to is the only love I'm made for. The only love that will really make me happy. The kind of love that isn't faked. To be loved for me.
And if I'm going to get that love, then all the games have to stop. I have to be real if I want real love.
So let's just see what's what come Saturday morning, after the sh*t has hit the fan and the room is splattered.
Euw.
I need a better analogy.
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