Partly Sunny Nights

It is 8:30pm and the sun is just beginning to set. Evenings in Seattle will be like this for the rest of May, all of June and into July before anyone notices the nighttime sun receding into Fall. How can I stay angry when the sky is still blue even as Jack Bauer begins his final two hours in pursuit of President Logan? This is what happens when I stop being angry:

We left Cincinnati when I was three years old and moved to Philadelphia so my baby brother could be born in a different city than I was. I don't remember if I was a difficult child when it came to bedtime. I'm sure I was no angel, no matter how much I would like to think so, but I don't believe I was hellion either. On this special night (special, how?), I distinctly remember being suspicious... at the age of four, I was suspicious of why my parents were trying very hard to get me to go to bed. (what are they up to?)

My mother slipped me into my cowboy printed jammies. The short ones, for summer. It was June or July. Then she kissed the top of my head and shoo'd me off to my bedroom, where the shades were already drawn tight and my father was waiting. But (what's that?) there was light flickering on the window sill. (Daddy, Look!) It wasn't the green buzzing street light that sometimes kept me awake. (What's that, mommy?) It was golden sunlight, the light of day!

"Daddy, Look! It's still day out!"

By this time, I has slipped past my parents' nervous defenses (What is he doing?) to stick my head behind the shade into the glare outside. (George, get him away from there!)

"Daddy, I can see my friends! They're still playing!"

Okay, so if this was a world where Stewie Griffin already existed, I would have channeled the precocious child to square off with my tyrannical parents. I would have pointed a stubby 4-year-old finger at them and yelled simply, "J'accuse!"

But I only had Muppets to draw on for my response. I did my best to furrow my brow the way Grover and Oscar sometimes did and I drawled, "Hey! How come it's bedtime?"

"No, honey, it's late," my mother purred in my direction. My jezabel mother! (J'accuse! J'accuse!)

"I wanna play outside now. Can I get dressed? I wanna play, too!"

"Honey, they're all going inside soon and going to bed, too."

"But it's still sunny..."

"It's the same time as bedtime every night."

Miraculously, I understood. Open mouthed, I understood. (Oooh!) Nothing had changed. The sun just forgot to go down (Mom, look!) on this summer night. Surely, it was the same time it always was when I went to bed. Bed followed bath. Bath followed dinner. It was all the same, but the sun got it wrong. I stared at the soon-to-be-setting sun so long, the yellow-white and orange-red glow turned green and blue on the backs of my eyes. (Even the sun forgets stuff.)

"Okay," I agreed, "but it won't be easy to sleep. It's sunny."

"I know, sweetheart. Just try."

"Ok, mommy. I'll try."

It worked. My mother relaxed.

The next morning I woke in the back seat of the car, wrapped in my favorite blue blanket next to my stuffed donkey Eeyore. As I blinked into focus, I could see there were stars in the sky. Only a few had been chased away by the sun coming up beneath the other horizon. Dad zoomed down the highway so the gentle bumps and turns rocked me back to sleep for a while.

We were going to Grandma's house. I know it all along.

There Will Be No One

I've been trying for weeks, but all I've got are a few pages of nonsense about what it feels like to breathe again. It left me wondering if AngryRevengeSex is still justified. The weight is gone and everything is lighter. Not happier, per se, but lighter. That's all.

Without the pit of anger pulling me Down and In and Inside Out, the air breezes against my skin in a thousand new places. Every inch of me is alive and healing. It makes me itch. Scabby itches. Bits of me are flaking off, but the new stuff is still raw. This tingly, itchy, living feeling that I'm not used to anymore makes me nervous. Scratching makes it worse, so I try to sit very still.

That's when I hear my breath. My lungs suck in huge gulps of oxygen. Like those great sheet-clutching gasps after a 2 A.M. coughing fit (or an equally mind-blowing 3 A.M. orgasm). Exhaling the terrible air left inside hurts, so it goes quickly. IN... out IN... out IN

All the weight that's gone has left me feeling hungry, raw, itchy-scratchy and anxious. That's why there will be no one touching me for a while. There is no room on my body for a hand to lay. But if I sit very still, and listen to my breathing return to an even In, Out. In, Out, the raw bits will return to normal, too. It was never about the breathing.

In My Possession

Only two things of his remained in my possession: the menorah I bought him on our last holiday season together and the printer he said I could keep until I got a new one of my own. The menorah will go to a friend who is at least as Jewish as my ex pretended to be. The printer had been staring at me from the back seat of my Jetta for months. My intention was to live up to my reputation as a kind and forgiving rube. I planned on returning it to him. Someday. Just as soon as I could stand the sight of him. You see, he makes me puke.

So today, I threw the damned thing away. As I pulled out of the parking garage to run errands - like maybe, possibly, finally swinging by Goodwill to clear out my back seat - I looked at the trash dumpster. I looked at the printer box in my rear view mirror. Instead of turning the next breath into a sigh of resignation, I stopped and threw the car into "P" for Park. I would have slammed on the brakes, but at 2 to 3 MPH and with no one watching, what's the point. To compensate, I made the conscious choice to slam the car door and storm around to the passenger side. I forced open the door to the back seat with all my might. I dragged that fucking printer out by it's stupid handle and flung it into the dumpster with one hand while the other hand propped open the dumpster lid.

The printer made kind of a thud. Not even a dumpster metal echo. ....thud....

I confess my disappointment.

I wanted a horrific *CRASH!* accompanied by plastic snapping and electronic components shattering. I wanted mayhem. I hoped there would be blood. I stood silent and dumbfounded, still holding the lid high over head. This wasn't good enough. There would have to be more.

I had been watching the first season of "Deadwood" on DVD and was fascinated by the filth and moral decay the show depicted against the backdrop of the Wild West. What a perfect place for my ex, I often thought. One aspect in particular astounded me. This afternoon, it suddenly thrilled me. Whenever the town boss, Al Swearengen, wanted to dispose of an antagonist, he would contact the Chinaman who raised pigs and ran the adjacent slaughterhouse down the nastiest alley in Deadwood. Pigs are disgusting, omnivorous beasts. Bodies had a way of disappearing into the mud after being dumped over the rail fence to their pen.

It was a lovely thought. Imagine the satisfying rush of ripping his fucking head open, peeling the skin from his body and keeping him alive long enough to allow pigs to feed on his squirming carcass. Alas, I had no pigs, no bloated carcass of an ex boyfriend. But I did have the master keys to the apartment building. And in that moment, I do believe, my heart swelled with purpose and I smiled.

I dropped the lid to fish in my pocket. Behold, the keys to Anger Management!

At the risk of being judged by nosy neighbors, I snuck back into the garage and headed for the supply closet. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in each breath as I whispered, "Please, be there. Please, be there."

Sweaty palms and jittery fingers made it difficult for me to keep my cool while I searched for the right key - square, short, brass, not silver. "Focus. Breathe."

I finally managed to operate my fingers, the key, the door, the light switch. It felt like I ransacked the place with Hulk-like imprecision. In reality, I stumbled over piles of cleaning supplies and extension cords toward the back of the room. I found the tool I needed quickly and ran back into the sunlight.

Behold, I held in my possession, the key to Anger Management! A sledgehammer.

If I couldn't skin my ex-boyfriend alive in retribution for his soul-sucking inhumanity, I could find satisfaction in destroying his fucking printer.

*CRASH!*
*SNAP!*
*RIP!*
Breathe.
*Sqeal!*
*Oink!*
Focus.
Die! You motherfucking scumbucket!

I mean, I was going to throw it out anyway, right?

Aiming for Orion

The Unemployed are a plague. They are unclean and contagious. Teeth, rotted from indiscriminate cannibalism of friends and neighbors. Clothing, rended and hanging off sallow limbs. Lacking intelligible speech, they resort to grunts and gurgles. And the blood... there's blood everywhere they go.

Oh, wait... never mind... I was thinking of the Undead! No one wants to date them either. Both species are undesirable. Silly me. Sorry for the confusion.

Here's a better way to start:

Let's assume for a moment - just for fun - that my life has trajectory. Let's pretend that I am rising above my recent past and moving forward at a significant slope, like a Calatrava curve that never seems to lose its tether to the ground.

Let's assume that I'm finally angry - about being treated that way, about always being sorry, about the truth and sickness behind secrets - so that I fly through this trajectory with a fire at my back, shedding light and incinerating the details behind me.

Let's assume my whole body is gasping. Ashen debris slicks the water and clouds the air around me. Every breath I take is weighed down by a mixture of particles and air. As clean air nourishes my lungs, jagged particles scar them and force me to breathe deeper and sharper.

Let's assume that from the very start, my legs and arms are flailing. But as I gorge on oxygen, I feed the fire behind me and find the strength to telescope a fist overhead. I lock on Orion, the wayward hero and raging hunter, and stop pinwheeling across the sky. Let's assume I can fly. Like Christopher Reeve or Ultraman. No cape. No silver suit with a huge zipper up the back. Just me, aiming for Orion.

The truth is, I don't know where I am going. I only know that I am going up.


P.S. Does anyone else have proof that Vin Diesel is a big ol' queer? I've been seeing stories that he wants to (1) remake Guys and Dolls and (2) star in the movie version of the Silver Surfer, who I think is one of the few Marvel comic nerd universe citizens with Major Homo tendencies.

Getting Past

I was looking for a way to get past missing Daniel. Some mortal preoccupation to yield new sensations that might possibly (please, oh, please) overwrite these old obsessions. The Cuff - an all-purpose gay nightclub complex with black walls, long hallways and strong drinks - was well stocked with men to suit any taste. I almost, but not quite, settled on the first guy who approached to talk to me. I hate coming to bars by myself. (Thanks for stopping by! Next!)

You have a beautiful smile, and I like the way that t-shirt pulls tightly over your pecs. (You'll do.) The conversation came easily. Even easier after two shots.

Did I hide my poker face well enough? It's not that I'm bored by the prospect of taking you home. I want to cry, but it's taken too much energy to pull myself together enough to look this good. Just because I changed my shirt four times before leaving the house doesn't mean you're special. Don't take it personally. I packed all my baggage tonight.

"Yes, you can give me a ride home."

"No, don't park. Just pull over. I live right here." (Look where I'm pointing, stud. Pull over!)

"No... No... Ok. Fine."

"Find a place to park. Try the next block."

I was just looking for a way to get past him. You've got great lips and I could kiss you like this for hours, but they're not his lips. I wrap my arms around your waist and pull our bodies together, but it's not the same. If I could just forget for a moment that your skin doesn't taste as sweet, maybe I could move on. Your dick is thick and hard (Damn!) and I think I'd like you to fuck me, but I admit I would be disappointed.

We keep touching and grinding into each other, and I keep kissing you long and hard so you don't have the chance to look into my eyes and see me looking at someone else. Your body next to mine, over mine, beneath mine feels so good. It's good to feel again. But that's all. It's not the same.

"You know what I'd love?" you ask. Did you sense something in the way I kept my distance? "I'd love for you to fall asleep right here with your head on my chest." Your hand grazes the ample black fur on the left side of your chest.

All I can do is smile. "Yeah. That would be nice."

It takes some adjustment to find the best possible position: My left arm drapes around your stomach. My right hand supports your left shoulder like a pillow beneath my head. (Oh, thank God!)

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. My face heats up trying not to sob, and I let a few tears escape quietly. I am grateful to have you here, but Daniel is here, too. I will not get past him tonight. Your heart beats. Your chest rises and falls more slowly. I let go. Just a little.

Learned Fear

He only hit me once.

We were walking along Gaylor Ave., taking pictures of the renovated bungalows and rebuilt Victorians that we could never afford to live in without a major label record contract or a winning lottery ticket. We cracked jokes at each other’s expense. We planned what to make for dinner. We laughed about exotic vacations we would take “some day.”

I made a crack about… whatever… I have no idea what I said, but it must have been insensitive because the street and the trees and the houses in the neighborhood all inhaled at once. They held their breath as he turned and pulled back his right hand into a ball. Because there was no air left on the street, I didn’t hear his fist swinging towards me. In the flash of light it took for me to sense movement in the corner of my right eye, my neck flinched and pulled away. We all exhaled, the street, the trees, the houses and me, as he made an impact on my right shoulder and knocked me off the sidewalk. I hadn’t been holding it in, so my exhale was sharply unexpected, but what I heard from the street and the trees and the houses was an electric hiss that replaced the air with a high-pitched scream.

I gasped, “What the… Ow! Yeah, that hurt!”

“No. It did not.” The street kept hissing and sparking.

“Yeah. I’m serious. You don’t know your own strength.”

“I know what hurts. I know how hard I hit you. That didn’t hurt.” Who taught him that bullshit? His father?

“Don’t you tell me what I just felt. My arm is throbbing to the bone.”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

Silence. The street returned to normal. The white spotlight around the two of us went out. I crossed the street. I didn’t want to walk beside him any longer. I had felt this fear before. He would rage outside my window on a Saturday afternoon if I told him I didn’t want to see him. He would terrorize me with phone calls and e-mails if I didn’t want to be around him because he was drunk or high or both. Some days, it got where the first ring or a ping on my Mac would make me cringe. I knew how to wait out those episodes. It would pass. Please, if there is a God or a higher power, let it pass. Let me sleep. Let it be quiet.

The next night, as we were getting ready for bed, he looked at my right arm and said, “Honey! Your arm! What did you do to it?”

He only hit me once, but I had learned to fear him. I learned to sit quietly on the couch until he came to pick me up. I learned not to question where he was or what he was doing or who he was seeing. I learned to swallow my pride and my trust. I learned to be weak in front of him and accept his friends instead of my own. I had a lot more to learn before this relationship was over. If he had hit me more, I could show you the scars.

Still Unemployed

You can go days without talking to someone. When you are unemployed, you send plenty of e-mails, read plenty of news of the outside world, and watch life move forward on dozens of cable channels like Bravo, HGTV and the Food TV Network. With days so full of job search, one-on-one conversations don't come up very often. And the longer you remain unemployed, the more you try to avoid them. When friends start talking about vacations they are planning or whining about their "money problems," you have nothing to say and an increasing desire slice open a jugular on them.

Being unemployed is nothing to be ashamed of, and is often a great opportunity for good things to happen. At some point, though, you cross the line to being "still unemployed," which is sad. I'm not sure where that line exists, but you know you have crossed it when even your mother, the woman who gave birth to you and was genetically predisposed to love you no matter what - when even your mother wonders out loud, "What's wrong with you?" A sneer mixed with love still hurts. Never mind that it was said after her second glass of chablis.

I am "still unemployed" after three months. My resume has made the rounds of my network of friends and their friends. It has been posted on job boards and forwarded to countless postings on Craigslist. I have had two interviews in three months. I was denied at every turn. What's wrong with me?

Maybe it's my career choice... so I lower my expectations and begin applying for every job at museum gift shops.

Maybe it's my strange patchwork of experience... so I re-evaluate my resume and change my Objective to "I'll do anything you want! I have no shame!"

Maybe I'm just not employable... so as a last resort, I log on to Manhunt.net to raise my self-esteem.

Manhunt is an online social networking community for gay men. In other words, it's a sex chat site. "Clean cut bottom pig seeks furry daddy!" I couldn't put that on my resume no matter how succinctly it describes me. I log on, check for e-mail and see who else is online.

Now, I could have logged on to any number of gay communities - M4M4sex.com, Adam4Adam.com, dudesnude.com or the very pedestrian gay.com. Manhunt is usually my first stop, though. Guys on Manhunt tend to respond quickly - more quickly than, say, the countless managers who let my resume linger in a pile on their desk for weeks while I have nothing better to do than troll this website for flattering comments and good kissers. [Author's note: whatever else I may be looking for on Manhunt is private information and not suitable for publication in this forum. Details can be forwarded directly to you, my loyal fans, if you wish to deposit a mere $9.95 into my PayPal account]

It never ceases to amaze me how many men are online so close to noon on a Tuesday. I can't help but picture them just as they are in their profile photographs - sitting half-naked bathed in the atmospheric blue glow of their computer screens. Even at lunch on a Tuesday, they must be bare chested. I wonder if these guys ever get dressed. I mean, I did... mostly. I don't have shoes and socks on and my shirt is still hanging open, but I put a shirt on. I may be unemployed, but I'm not that lazy. I have nothing if not a desire to keep up appearances, but these guys... well... oh, wait... I just remembered my profile.

Maybe I should button up my shirt and switch back to Craigslist.