The Week To Come

So a few days ago, or maybe a few weeks ago (hello speeding train that is my life), I was made aware of ANOTHER small indie comics convention to take place next weekend. In the outer boroughs. That seems to be the kind of venue that Hunky Comics Geek might show up at, since that's what he did at the last two that I attended.

So guess what I'm doing next weekend? And guess why?

Again, I'm going to find out what's what. If he's arrow-straight I'll have very nothing to lose, except the potential to see him barechested. And even so, I still could if we became friends. Straight guys--well okay, GUYS--find some of the strangest reasons to strip their shirts off when they have something they're proud to show off. And if anyone has a reason to show it off, Hunky Comics Geek doth possess it.

What I am aware of is that I'm setting myself up for that familiar ol' heartache of unrequited lust. I'm not sure how else to interpret those long, on-the-edge-of-approach looks from him, but given humans, there could be dozens of alternative reasons.

I could look exactly like an old Army buddy of his.

He might have seen me at a previous convention when I was working the booth for My Hero, and given his build, he also is aiming towards being A Hero.

He could be a Blackophile, one of the rare breed of white folks who attribute the Black Man all these powers of unspoken cool and prowess, sight unseen. I do know a few guys who are this way and since I enjoy fulfilling a few myths AND I'm an Anglophile, we get along fine, no matter the fact that out of Black types, I'm WAY more Carlton than Fresh Prince.

But whatever the reason for the previous eyelocks, I have to know. His handsomeness & potential haunts me.

And in addition, let me put this out here too; if he's straight, then I'm putting myself in the same position position I've been in for ... well ... since I broke puberty at the hands of a pedophile at the tender age of 6. Pretty gross, right? So the fact remains that if he IS gay, and DOES want me--there's no guarantee that I'll capitulate. I've considered over and over again, and the evidence is in, that I'm just not ever going to be sexually active with a consenting adult, male or female. Too repressed/haunted/scarred to be with a dude and not turned on enough to be with a lady.

I have waves of time when I'm okay with that. It's my comfort zone and intellectualism is my defense mechanism, with a liberal dose of compartmentalization. I have my comics for rollicking fun, the internet for my online conversations, I live in NYC for my culutural infusion of cool, and the audioworks that I love. My career is about to get ALL the way on track, I'm about to get a job that keeps me in NYC and frees me up to pursue the PhD, and I didn't die of a massive coronary at 36 like my friend did the week before Thanksgiving.

I said I wasn't happy before, but right now, with the future looking a little brighter...well I'm not UNhappy right now. So if Hunky Comic Geek wants me ... in THAT way ... there's no guarantee of a happy ending. Pun intended. Or if he DOESN'T want me. It's all just another chapter in This Redeemable Life.

With many more to come!

NO pun intended.

Weekend Process

So I went to a small comic convention, prompted by one of the New York City comic geeks who didn't even show up in the longrun. I went all alone and counted myself as brave, until I got in there and found a perch from where I didn't move the whole time I was there. Hey, I was alone and everybody there were strangers. I GOT there, what else d'you WANT.

Eheheh. Defensive much?

But here's why I'm blogging.

The last time I went to one of these small conventions was down on Lexington Ave in Manhattan, in the Armory. In June. I went to meet specific comicbook internetters who run a podcast that I heart muchly. It was a nice meetup and it went well. I didn't make an utter, UTTER ass of myself nor did I chase off these highly admired and mancrushed-upon men of fandom and action! But an odd thing happened when we were in the pizza shop.

A dude who I didn't know caught my eye. A Dude. So you know the drill. Muscley, balding, alone, the whole nine. And the odd thing is, I caught his eye too. I mean CAUGHT! Like soon as eyes locked, it looked as though he was about to say "Hi!" Such was the smile and nod he gave me. Well, of course I smiled back. Oh, in smiling, I've learned that I am King. I give good smile! But I was in the company of the internet podcast mancrushes so I had my perfect excuse to do nothing. And I watched this hunky comic guy go sit by himself and eat a few slices o' pizza. Which, as I did so, we did that eye-thing again. I swear it was like he knew me from somewhere and was on the cusp of saying so, except he never did. Just like I never did ask him if he did.

Yeah, well, guess who I saw from my perch this weekend. Hunky Comic Geek. And guess what happened. That eye-thing. Every time he walked past. Along with the smiling, mine and his. Right up to the verge of speech and then not. And guess what DIDN'T happen? Not a single word.

And yes, I kept hoping he'd maybe sit down near me because this time I was alone too! Or that he'd come close enough for me to ask him, "Do I know you?" because I felt like I could pull it off this time. Because I really felt like this was the strength with which this eye-thing was happening. I mean, picture it, he's walking past, I recognize it's him from the Lexington Avenue convention, and just as I'm doing so, thinking "Wow is he good looking," he looks up and looks me dead in my eyes and smiles as if to say, "Oh hey! I recognize you from that other convention, right?" But he then averts his eyes and keeps moving and it's done. Then picture this happening four more times. And increasingly my smile is saying, "Dude. Let's talk--you want to talk to me right? Dude, you're like this amazing looking guy and I want to talk!"

I had even come to a point where I thought, "Look, who cares if he's ... if he wants me. At the very least he wants to talk to me. Maybe he does know me from somewhere and I can at least find out from where, and if he's straight as an arrow or married with three kids, at least I can make a new gorgeous friend who is easy on the eyes!"

And so as this thought sounds better and better to me, moving me from will to power, a NYC geek enters the convention who I DO know, recognizes me, and comes sits next to me. Yeah. You know what that meant. No more of this dalliance. Flirtation. Pursuit. Because what? I'm going to out myself now?

But I do have some consolation for you, the poor unfulfilled reader. Another fellow geek went to the last day of the convention yesterday and took pictures of the con floor. And of course I scanned his online pics to see if I could find Hunky Comic Geek.

And I did! WOOT!

So I played with my Paint program enough to now show him to you.


Doesn't he make your knees weak? Come on, hetero men, admit it. He's so damn handsome.

So all I've got to go on is that he likes small press indie comics. At one point I thought he might be a comic creator because he hovered over in the same area, but he didn't have a badge. In fact, the wristband identifies him as a paying customer. And ...

pluh. Why am I going on and on? Just to process this I guess. Because AGAIN, the moment is passed now. Add it to the mountainous pile of "I Wish I Had..."

But I swear. If I ever run into him again--which is possible honestly, then I will slay this dragon. And ESPECIALLY if I see him ever outside of a comicbook convention setting in this city of millions and millions, well...then it's God. And if he's available and interested in me?? Well then it's God saying that Gay is Okay! It'd be God saying, "Look, I sent him to you. Now stop doubting my love and concern for you and stop being afraid that I won't accept you as you are. Have more faith in Me than that. I will never leave you and I will never forsake you. I love you. Unconditionally. Now go get this gorgeous bastard--I made him just for you!"

Because if God would make me a homosexual partner (for life, may I add because... well just LOOK at him!) then He'd call him a 'gorgeous bastard.'

And that's what's going on.

Message In A Bottle

So I've done well for a little while, yeh? Shared my sanitized thoughts on Facebook. Been whimsical, played well with others, been a little naughty, had some fun, yeh? Met some new people, met some old people, met some people I like, and a few I don't think I'll like in the long run. Viva la zeitgeist!

This morning I'm ever so slightly off kilter, tho. I miss the initmacy and unlimited word count of Blogger. And tomorrow, after a two month successful dodge of training, I have to perform another 8-hour crisis management class. The thought of it today when getting out of my car and coming into the building, made me want to scream and curse someone out. I felt/feel cornered and threatened and angry as all hell. I never asked to be put up in front of a classroom of strangers and entertain them via a curriculum with physical touching. And tomorrow I've got a training partner who I do believe will be her first time. So I don't have just the class to manage but a new trainer as well. And it makes me furious enough to quit. If this had been the job, I would not have taken it.

But let's face it, this aversion to discomfort is just the tip of the iceberg. I'm sick to death of discomfort. It's ALL discomfortable. ALL OF IT. Yesterday I had the evening off (a tradition I believe I'll insist upon. No more Monday nights at the office). And I played ChampionsOnline for a good 8 hrs as a result. Yeah, from about 4pm to midnight. Why? Well, because it's awesome to get out of my skin and inhabit the fit and colorful little hero who can literally leap tall buildings in a single bound, heal with one surge of his bioenergy, and explode villains away with another. That's why. And too, because it kind of feels sucky to be me.

So I complain about working as much as I do, and I toil toward the goal of going monojob, but then I realize that when I do have that opportunity to have free time, its all spent trying to be anything else but myself.

And I've been on the road of self-discovery. I'm as introspective as a clam. Solopsistic to an absolute fault. Obsessive. And the answers I find lead me to one major idea. I'm not a happy man.

I can be happy. I can laugh and find real joy in things. People's lives are wondrous. People's ideas are special and unique and beautiful. The works of man are breathtaking. Life is precious. People are precious. And I know that I am too.

But what it feels like? It feels like crap.

Would it still feel like crap if I were in a loving relationship? Would it feel like crap if I had a 6pac? Would it feel like crap if I could live off one job? If I were a Doctor of Psychology? If I had my own apartment? If my car was paid off? If I had a cat again? If I were younger? Taller? Had superpowers?

You know what? I don't know. Sometimes I think this is just what life is. A series of disheartening challenges with brief flashes of light and hope and happiness. No? Is it better for you?

Are you happy? Mostly?

I really want to know.

Can you tell me?

A Fad?

Well, I haven't seen the handsome and virile Kilt Guy since I posted. I have traded looks again with another strapping dude at the 125th St. station while waiting to cross trains, one that had real potential if I knew how to do more than smile.

But I don't think I do. I mean, ol' dude caught my eye as he came off the D train, and I smiled. he headed toward the steps and looked back at me, and I smiled. He headed up the steps and looked back one more time, and me, who kept looking ... smiled. Then he was gone. His expression said, "Really? YOU?" Or maybe that was just what was going on in my own head about myself.

What I've discovered is that my male-enhanced libido helps me flirt, but the awkward socialness that I expirienced as a hetereo is following me into my homoness. I can't open my mouth and say 'Hello.' I can't initiate the conversation that will lead me to, "I'm interested in you, let's go out." When I was hetero, I was petrified of not being enough or having enough. Now "as the village's only gay" I'm terrified of what I do have.

And I'm still brainwashed down to my core. It still doesn't look right for two men walking up the avenue holding hands. Two men pushing a baby carriage. Two men sharing a tender kiss. No. For me it's the rough grunting sweaty porn sex. The stuff that doesn't look anything like love, but more like hunger. The male power.

And in this, I find my disorder. My own trauma. I come back to the abuse. The introduction to sex through perversion and crime. The shame and self-loathing.

And so I think I'm going to leave it there. I think this experiment of The Redeemable Life is a failure, like so many experiements must inevitably become in order for one to succeed.

Facebook is a nice, sanitary place where I don't have to drag through filth the people that I've come to love but chase away. This unsolvable thing about sex ... I'm done. Nothing works. Time to find my joys in other things--the things I've always done. Comic books. Audio dramas. Helping others who possess more potential for success than I ever had. Well, maybe I once had.

It's been nice and it has gotten me through the last six years of depression, eviction, terror. It showed me the hearts of good people. It's been a special place and I miss it every day.

I miss it and I miss you every day.

In Other News

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.

Okay. So Now That I'm Gay ...

Here's a list of women that I'd go straight for.

Felicia Day


Sade

Corinne Bailey Rae



Freema Agyeman

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.