My dinner with David Sedaris

Guess what?


Last night I had dinner with David Sedaris: Yes, THE David Sedaris! I suppose it was inevitable. I mean you can’t write diligently for eight whole months and not expect to hobnob with modern literary greats. As dinners go, it was fairly unremarkable; some type of baked chicken with green beans, but still, you can’t beat the company. Oh, Paul was there too. But he seemed less than impressed.

But I have gotten ahead of my story. Let me take a step back. The evening began with a reading at the Capitol Center for the Arts in Concord, NH. It turns out that people in New Hampshire really seem to like David Sedaris. The place was packed. Never having heard him speak publicly, I really didn’t know what to expect. So when he quickly marched on stage, eyes down, without much fanfare, to say that it was less than climatic would be an understatement.

“Hello, and thank you for coming” He sounds like a Smurf that just huffed helium.

I let out a loud laugh. When Paul squeezed my leg and told me to shut-up, I realized that this was not part of the act and that I was, in fact, the only one laughing. It was a rough start.

He redeemed himself after reading a few new essays and some quotes from his diary and then told us a joke:

A man is in bed sleeping when he hears a knock at his door. Angrily, the man says to himself “Who would be knocking at my door at this time of night?” He opens the door and there is a small snail standing at his door step. “Hello” the little snail says cheerfully, “I’d like to talk to you about purchasing some magazines!” The man kicks the snail as hard as he can. The tiny snail goes flying across the yard.

Two years later, the man is lying in bed and hears a knock at his door again. He opens the door and there is that same small snail.

“What the fuck was that about?” The snail says.

This time I laughed my ass off with everyone else.

But the real point to my story is that I sat across the table from David Sedaris while we had dinner. Well, I suppose I couldn’t really say “we” as he was doing all of the eating and truth be told, he had devoured most of it before we even got there. But you see the line to talk to him at the book signing was about an hour long.

As we waited in line and moved much like the snail from his joke, Paul said with a disgusted look on his face “He talks with a mouth full of food. Now I know why he moved to Europe. Look at those teeth.”

We watched as a woman with her entire library of David Sedaris books told him her life story. He seemed like a cat that was getting tired of playing with a ball of string, only looking up occasionally as if to say “Ok, I’ll bat this thing one more time”, while stuffing another bite of green beans into his mouth. The poor woman did not take a breath while speaking.

“If you act like that when we finally get to speak to him, I’m going to slap you.” Paul said.

Finally we reached the table. I was calm and collected, determined not to make a fool of myself as I handed him my book.

“Hi.” Mr. Sedaris said.

“Hi, I’m Bill and this is Paul!” Now my voice sounded strangely Smurf-like.

“You guys are together? How long have you been together?”

“Four years, well we’ve been married for one and a half years!” I said

“Where did you get married?” He asked.

“Boston, well Ashby, it’s a little town west of Boston. But originally I’m from North Carolina, but I moved up here. Actually, I’m from Greensboro. Your brother Paul refinished my Brother John’s hardwood floors. Your brother has the same name as my husband!” Oh God, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, Bill. I could see Paul looking at me out of the corner of his eyes willing me to shut-up too. I flinched while waiting for that slap that he had promised me.

I tried speaking again. “Does Hugh get upset when you write about him?”

“No” he simply replied.

“Are you and Hugh going to get married?” I tried another angle

“NO!” He said this as if someone had just pissed into his green beans.

“Do you guys like Glee?” He asked as his eyes lit up.

“Um, sure” I said.

“I thought a new episode was going to be on this week, but apparently not for two more weeks. Rachel and Finn and oh, what’s that kid’s name?” Mr. Sedaris said.

“Kurt!” I said this too quickly, I thought to myself. This was not the conversation I expected to have with my fellow writer. We both grew up in North Carolina and are ex-pats, well most North Carolinians consider Boston a foreign country, and write about our witty Gay lives. But he has chosen the lowest common denominator and is talking to me about Glee.

“Kurt, yes that’s it! They’re all going to have sex in the next episode!” He says with, well, glee, as he absent-mindedly writes something in my book.

“I’d pay to see that Blaine totally nude.” He continues and looks up at me like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. I look at Paul and his eyes say “Move it along, Dameron.”

“Well, thank you Mr. Sedaris” I say slightly disappointed and pick up my book as we walk away. I open the book and read the inscription: “To Bill and Paul, 2 gay homosexuals who are gay and do homosexual things, David Sedaris.”

I look at Paul and say “What the fuck was that about?”

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Don't say Gay!

There is a “Don’t say Gay” bill in the Tennessee senate that prohibits K-8 teachers from discussing sexual orientation other than heterosexuality and you know what, dammit? I agree with it. No, no, hear me out. Hell, I waited until I was 42 to come out, these kids can wait until ninth grade! But, I don’t think it goes far enough. Really! I have read the bill and honestly, we need to be a little more specific here or some activist judge is going to rip through this thing like last week’s panty hose. No, we need to protect the teachers from accidently discussing anything Gay.

So in a show of bi-partisanship cooperation, big bow, I have graciously made a list of “touchy” subjects that might lead young minds to think of Gay or Homo things. And this list took quite a while. Have you Googled the word Gay? Yikes! There were some things that shocked even me. But let’s start.

Ok, the 1890’s are totally taboo as it was known as the Gay 90’s. 1890-1900 off the list, no questions. Gay Paris? Hello! France, no talkie. And anyway, we’re calling them “Freedom Fries” now. The 1930’s through 1940’s were full of the word gay in musicals; another decade that should not be tolerated. I’m afraid that leaves some holes in History, but we can’t have a teacher accidently discussing world word II and turning young minds gay. But, we still have Greece! Yay for Greece! Oh, wait, there’s that whole Lesbos island thing and I have seen Spartacus. You know what I’m talking about: wink, wink. And the original Olympics with all those oiled up muscular young naked bodies? Greco-Roman wrestling? No, that’s it! No history. We have to be serious now.

Alright that was tough, no history. Science should be OK, but let’s review. First, if someone says Homo, what do you think of? Am I right? Homogenization. And if you talk about that, you have to talk about Pasteurization. Slippery slope. Louis Pasteur. Au revoir! He was French anyway. Homo sapiens? OK, no anthropology. Prisms and weather gets tricky because you have to talk about rainbows and we all know the gays stole the rainbow and as soon as that thing gets projected on the board, they’re going to be singing Judy Garland show tunes and clamoring for a gay straight alliance group. There was this scientific discovery of over 1,500 animal species that practice homosexuality! Did you hear about it? Who turned the animals Gay? I’m going to get all Whitney Houston on your ass: Hell to the No for science!

History. Science. Gone! End of discussion. Literature? Every British poet gets tossed. And don’t get me started on Walt Whitman, “We two boys together clinging, one the other never leaving?” Literature, you’re outta here!

Current Events. OK, there’s this really bad stuff going on in Japan and when you think of Japan? That’s right, Geisha’s. Technically it has the word Gay in it. I feel bad for the Japanese, but if they’re going to turn my children Gay…Lebanon: Did you see Glee? Poor slow Britney calls Santana Lebanese, thinking it means Lesbian. Ha ha! And to lighten things up here, I have to tell you a funny story. I saw a poster advertising a “Lebanese food festival” and I said to myself “What are they going to serve, fish tacos?” Ok, that was crude. But you get my drift. No talk of the Middle East. That’s some f'ed up shit anyway and it’s too much for young minds to handle. Forgive my French. Damn, I mentioned France again. See how difficult this is?

OK, History, Science, Current Events. What’s left? Physical Education? Young boys and showers? Fuggetdaboutit! There is math, but honestly, I was never good in math and when you start talking about the “universal language” of math, some poor slob is going to think that “love” is the universal language.

Let’s bring back Religion! Screw separation of church and state. What we need are some good old fashioned God-fearing children. Oh crap, Leviticus. As they say, one bad apple. I am a father. If I tell my children NOT to do something, you know what they’re going to do, don’t you? Men lying with men. Can’t have it.

Whew! No History, Science, Physical Education, Math, Literature or finally religion (Like they would EVER let us talk about that…). Our children may be dim-witted, but thank God, they won’t be Gay!

p.s. If you want to thank the Tennessee Senator who created this bill, visit Stacey Campfield's blog here.   Really, that's his name!  I thought it was a drag queen's name too!

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The kids are alright.

Paul is shouting up the stairs. “Children, I mean nasty little creatures that live upstairs, time for lunch!” Evelyn 18, Nick 16 and Monique 13 come bounding down the stairs and join me at the table. I am busy working on two notebook computers. I am Repairing Nick’s laptop for the fifteenth time because he has contracted yet another virus and on the other obsessively connected to the Internet.

Paul surprisingly, is organizing photographs. I say surprisingly, because if you knew Paul, you would know that there is rarely a time when he is not organizing. As Paul places photos in front of me he says “Why don’t I have a pseudonym on your Blog?” I tell him that I am using the French spelling of his name and begin shifting through the pile of photographs in front of me.

I begin to convulse with laughter and suddenly, Evelyn, Nick and Monique are at my side asking what is so funny. “This picture of your father is priceless. I think the collar on that shirt is bedazzled!” Paul, feigning annoyance snatches the picture out of my hands and says “As you can tell, my mother went through a time when she loved to embroider”. I say, “Well, I have to thank your mother, because this is the blouse that turned you Gay. You could take that picture to a therapist and all you would need to say is ‘see’?”

Then Paul finds his driver’s license from twelve years ago in a folder and throws it in front of me. I pick it up and my laughter is suddenly silenced and replaced with a “Yes sir!” It’s the same handsome face, but with a beard. This is something I have not seen before and it’s doing things for me. Paul then grabs the license back and says "OK, you're enjoying this too much.  It's creeping me out."

Absent-mindedly, Evelyn asks “I wonder how long it would take to pass out if you put a plastic bag over your head?” Now, most parents at this point would A) Be alarmed that their child would ask such a question, B) Ask if there is anything they would like to talk about? And C) Make an appointment pronto with a psychologist. But I say “Let’s Google it.” After I have found the answer I say “Apparently, two to three minutes.” Evelyn replies simply with “Huh.”

Paul has ignored this entire conversation and is still hung up on the whole taking the photo to therapy thing and says “I’ll tell you why I need therapy. I don’t have any Gay children, they are all hopelessly straight.” Nick looks at me across the table and with mock shame says “Billy, I am attracted to girls” Monique rolls her eyes, smiles and while patting his arm says “It’s OK Nick, we’re all family here. No judgments.” Evelyn is done with lunch and says “Thank you parental units.” And Paul replies “You’re welcome straight child.” as he kisses the top of her head.

Now, I know how this must sound to the average person; Plastic bags over your head, therapists, turning gay? The simple answer is humor is our medicine.  We joke with our five children about being straight or Gay, because we know that we’re all pre-wired and the world is far too serious about it. In short, we treasure their strange little twisted minds and love all five of them with all of our heart. We love them enough to allow them free reign of their imaginations and teach them what a wonderful coping tool humor is. We also love them enough to set boundaries and impose discipline when necessary. We’re a typical family and really, the kids are alright.

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Down with That!

The other morning while Paul was driving me to work a man wearing a “member’s only” jacket with four strands of grey hair pulled over his balding scalp crossed in front of our car on Comm Ave. His step was sprightly, considering he must have been at least 115 year’s old. My husband Paul exclaimed “Look honey, that’s you in five years. At least you’re still thin!” Thin was an understatement. He was a pile of bones held together by skin.


I have come to expect these comments from Paul and they are full of love, believe me. We joke about our three year age difference because in the frenetic pace of the Gay world, gay years are like dog years. If you were to eavesdrop on a young gay couple’s argument, hypothetically speaking, you would likely hear one of them exclaim “Have the past 48 hours meant nothing to you?!”

Often, I wish that Paul and I had met earlier in life, so that we had more time together. I was dwelling on this when Paul and I took Tina, my new work BFF, out for dinner to celebrate her promotion. When I told Tina we were going to a place called “Cuchi Cuchi”, her response was “I’m down with that!” That’s Tina, she’s down with everything. I could say we were going to get on a plane, fly to Latvia and drink goat’s blood and she would say “Honey, we’re going to stirrrr it up and I’m down with that!”

Towards the end of dinner, our waitress informed us that there was a tarot card reader in the bar and she would put our name on the list if we were so inclined. I have never had a “reading” so maybe it was the three Acai-Blueberry martinis, or the celebratory feeling of the evening, but when I looked across the table at Tina and saw the expectant look in her face, I said “We’re down with that!”

We grabbed another round of drinks and huddled around a small dimly lit table by the bar. The card reader, Betsy, was a middle aged woman with long silver hair and piercing blue eyes. She performed a somewhat vague reading for Tina, telling her how interesting it was that she pulled three cards with African women on them. Paul mumbled under his breath, “Way to state the obvious”.

After Tina’s reading was complete, I was feeling somewhat dubious and Paul had completely checked out. Betsy asked who was next. I hesitated and looked at Tina. Her eyes narrowed and seemed to say “Baby, you’re gonna’ get your reading!” So I said “Deal me in”.

Betsy told me to hold the cards and put my energy into them. I felt silly, kind of like when the waiter pours a sample of wine and you’re supposed to perform all sorts of histrionics before accepting it. I pulled out three cards as instructed and Betsy was clearly impressed with my choices.

“This card shows that you are deeply in love, in fact this card shows you diving into a pool of love.” She said. Then she looked up at Paul. “You two are married?” I nodded yes, not wanting to give too much away. “This other card shows that you will be coming into great abundance and the final card shows that you and your ex-wife made a pact before you were born to have children together.” This was definitely more specific than Tina’s reading. She then closed her eyes and said “You and your husband were warriors in a previous life in Mongolia.” She smiled to herself and said “Yes, I can see it clearly. In fact you have spent many lives together sometimes as a man and a woman.” I looked at Paul and the smile on his face said “I know who the woman was.”

As we were riding home on the T Paul said. “Pookie, I would have given you a card reading for thirty bucks and I would have at least given you a former life somewhere fabulous and warm. Mongolia is not fabulous and warm. Heck, I’d do a lot of things for you for thirty bucks.” I looked at his handsome face, with its mischievous smile and hazel eyes full of our stories. Eyes that promised me love on that first night four years ago. Would I pay thirty dollars to hear that those eyes would find me again and again? I’m down with that.

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Dude, Sweet!

Today is a holiday unique to Boston. Marathon Monday and Patriots day collide to form a weird type of holiday that shutters businesses and schools within the Boston city limits. Sort of like Saint Patrick’s Day, because anyone can claim to be Irish or a Patriot and the only proof you need to display is consuming more alcohol than your body can process. Because I work in Cambridge, technically I do not get this as a holiday, but because I live in Boston, I decided that “working from home” for half of the day was due to me.


My husband Paul and I walked down the sidewalk to catch a glimpse of the race at mile 22 and it was clear that this was a par-TAY atmosphere. The normal Boston College student backpacks had all been replaced with twelve-packs and despite it being just 51 degrees; they were optimistically dressed in shorts and tank tops.

“Oh look, the frat house is open!” Paul exclaimed. It’s not really a frat house, but we affectionately call it that because at the hint of any warm weather, the decks and front lawn are filled with intoxicated college age men. And when you have a group of young intoxicated men, stupid shit follows. Today was no exception.

“Dudes, do you want a brew?” A young guy in plaid shorts and BC T-shirt asked us. “All-set, thanks.” Paul waved. On the front steps were two guys leaning over another young man, his right knee bleeding profusely. “Dab, don’t wipe dude, dab!” One of them was heatedly telling the makeshift medic with a bloody rag. And then we passed by another frat boy holding a plastic bag, with contents that looked alarmingly like urine, getting ready to take a sip, but in a neighborly way held it out to us for a sample. We declined. And this was 11:30 AM, mind you.

I can’t tell you how many times Paul and I have re-enacted the frat boy’s mannerisms and language, leading up to what Paul calls in his Borat accent, “Sexy-time”. “Dude, the coach really kicked my ass in practice today! Can you rub the kink out of my back, bro’?” You get it: Straight-acting. I hate that term. When I posted a profile on match.com before I met Paul, every other Gay man listed himself as “straight-acting”. To say that is to imply that being Gay is undesirable.

I have asked my friends, Sam and Cary what is so appealing about hooking up with someone that is straight-acting. Cary says it is making up for all of those years in high school when the college jocks made fun of us homos and now we get the upper hand by sticking it to them, so to speak. Sam really doesn’t give a shit what his hook-ups act like as long they keep their grimy hands off his fabric headboard, so he really was of no help.

I think that society wants unrealistic definitions and boundaries. Boys play with trucks and guns while girls play with Barbies and dress up. When an advertisement surfaced this week about a mother painting her five year old son's toenails pink, you would have thought that she might as well have been signing him up for sex re-assignment surgery. There were so many critics that thought this was “improper”. The mother and son were clearly playing and loved this; Kudos to the mother for not condemning the son to a life of “This is what boys are supposed to act like”.

If more parents allow their children to be who they are then one day, maybe we can get rid of the term “straight acting” in the Gay community. Who knows, maybe the straight community will advertise themselves as “gay-acting”. And Dude, that would be sweet!

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Flamer

Last night I attended a business event set atop a downtown hotel with dramatic views of the Atlanta skyline. One thousand miles from home and I did not know a single attendee. On top of that, the invitation noted that there would be hand rolled cigars and cabaret dancers (women) with fire. “Oh, yay” I thought to myself. It was a business event that was clearly planned by a straight man. And that’s OK if you are a straight man. But as a gay man I was thinking big yawn.


I have spent so many years in the corporate world pretending to be straight and because I don’t do that anymore, I was dreading the event just a little bit. But, here’s the thing. When you don’t care if people think you are gay, life is so much more enjoyable. You get to be yourself.

Before I was out, I used to worry that the little things I did or said would give me away. I would shop for Old Navy pleated khakis to go with a blue button down shirt. You know, the “Man uniform”. And no need to try them on for God sakes. Why would I care about the fit? I’m a man, we don’t shop, we buy!

Now, I spend time looking for the right fit and color. I will notice and comment on a woman’s (or a man’s) haircut and shoes. Does that make me Gay? No, but even if someone told me that was gay, my reply would be “Thank you!”

Back to the event: I have found that grabbing a drink and a plate of food and then finding a spot at a cocktail table with others is the perfect way to meet people. Opening with “Do you mind if I park here?” seems to be always met with “Not at all!” And that is how I met two attractive women from South Dakota.

While other men were clumsily trying to pick them up, I was being myself and having a lot of laughs with them. In short, the other men were acting like “men” and missing out. At one point, a guy walked up and asked the two women if they needed a refill on their drinks. Marcia, one of the women, turned to him and said "You betcha'! Bill needs a refill." I told him any kind of red wine would do and we watched the poor bastard stumble off to the bar in a daze, clearly bothered to be fetching a man a drink.  Marcia laughed and said “You’re not like the typical IT person, you’re a people person!” I think she got that half right. I am a people person and I am an IT person, but I do not act like the typical man.

As the three of us watched the cabaret dancers light different appendages on fire and prance around the floor we laughed and enjoyed the show. I thanked my drink fetcher for being a good sport and introduced him to Marcia and Stacey and watched the wall around him come down.  I began to think that really, I can have a good time anywhere because I have learned not to care what other people think of me. Straight men would do well to do the same.

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I am here

The other night, Sam, Cary and I met for dinner at Stella’s in the South End of Boston. It is a tradition for us to meet once or twice a month to discuss what is going on in our lives. Things you can’t discuss in e-mails and texts and the conversation is significantly enhanced by a few drinks and a gay friendly location.

Our conversations help to keep us sane, literally. We met in a “coming out” support group some four years ago on a cool October night in Brookline. There were more than the three of us. Six to be exact.  Five of us have stayed in touch but poor Bob, the sixth retreated back into the closet after the sessions ended.

It’s funny now to think of that first night. Each of us so nervous we could barely look at each other, carrying an armload of emotional baggage. I may have been the only gay virgin in the group, but that didn’t make talking about it any easier for Cary and Sam. This group was about self-acceptance, not self-admittance. And we all had big issues with that.

The group met for 12 weeks and somewhere around the middle, we were told that the next session would be the “sex” session. It was promised to be a frank talk that we were extremely interested in and also caused a certain amount of anxiety. Sam reveals now that he sent a three page e-mail of questions to our therapist beforehand.

“Bullshit. He didn’t answer a single fuckin’ question” Sam, still frustrated reveals. In retrospect, the “sex” session was extremely tame. Our conversations these days would make a hooker blush.

As we talk, it is clear that just talking to other people of like mind is cathartic. It does not matter if it is structured in a group therapy session or over drinks. The important thing is that we continue to talk. I would not dream of denying the existence of my husband Paul; Just as Cary would not dream of denying the love of his life.

When I came out to a friend, one of the first things he said was “It’s difficult, because I immediately imagine the sex act” This troubled me. I don’t envision he and his wife having sex and that is because heterosexual love is a part of our everyday vernacular. This is why it is so important that we all come out of our closets. Not being a majority is difficult, but pretending you are not who you are is deadly. Find someone to confide in. And if you need someone to talk to, I am here.

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Best Quality Heart

It is Sunday afternoon and I am languishing on the sofa in our Boston condo while my husband Paul, ever industrious, pieces together an Ikea dresser. Flipping through the TV channels I bypass “Real Housewives” and stop on “The Joy Luck Club”. Because we are scheduled to meet some friends for dinner in Chinatown, my thinking is that I can pick up some Chinese to impress the waiter.



Chinatown-Boston



When Paul mutters something like “Would it kill them to print one written word?” I reply “I know! Wouldn’t you have hated to be a woman in China during the 1930’s? : Although you do have to admire the fashions. Oh, sweetie, can you move just a little to the right, I can’t see the TV screen?” And then I realize Paul is standing in front of the TV screen for a reason.

After I make a huge display of climbing off of the sofa to help with the dresser, we watch the movie while piecing together our Hemnes dresser. I don’t pick up any useful “restaurant Chinese”, but I do begin to think about how parents can really screw up their kids. I am a pro, being a child and a parent.



My mother expected the best of me. Being gay was definitely not the best quality. At Nineteen I tried to come out to my mother. Her response was immediate and severe. It was not an option and a therapist would help me to overcome this. Life she assured me would be dismal if I “chose” this lifestyle. So, I chose differently.





Suyuan says to her daughter Jing-mei: “That bad crab, only you tried to take it. Everybody else want best quality. You, you’re thinking different.”

I married a woman and together we had two beautiful daughters. A choice I do not regret, but every choice has consequences. Eventually life became so numb that even a needle could not produce any pain. I was forced to make a seemingly impossible decision. Continue to fade away or step out of the marriage.



What is right is not always the easiest, but I learned that living authentically is the best thing that we can do for ourselves and our children. My mother had evolved by that time and had shrugged off those inherited prejudices. When I came out to her again, she begged my forgiveness and became my strongest supporter.





“You took worst, because you have best-quality heart. You have style no one can teach. Must be born this way. I see you”

Paul and I were married on a beautiful summer New England day last year, surrounded by friends and family. My two daughters and mother and Paul’s three children and parents stood by our sides. Later that day, my mother told me that I was a wonderful father, a good person and that I had chosen well. These are the simplest, sweetest  and most powerful words a parent can say.

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Life Happening

Sam sent me an e-mail and told me we were going to Keezer’s in Cambridge to pick up a tux. “It’s your run-o'-the-mill tux store. Fifty bucks, it’s where all the Harvard kids get their rentals and I’m built like a box so I don’t care about fuckin’ tapered lines”. He weaves the F-bomb into every conversation like it was a punctuation mark and discards all of the “R’s”. Sam is renting a tux for $50 and spending $300 to attend a fund raiser dinner. If you knew Sam, you would know that this somehow makes sense.

We meet after work and I know why I am there. Sam is color blind and doesn’t trust the Russian store clerk. “Dameron, don’t just stand there and look pretty, help me pick out a vest” he barks at me. At the same time he is talking to the clerk as if he has known him for years. “And I want a tie with a clasp, not like that Mr. Tux crap. I spent two hundred bucks on a tux and I had to use a fuckin’ paper clip on the tie.” The clerk chuckles and wanders through the floor to ceiling boxes to fetch a bow tie. Just then a cute young guy walks by in a rental suit and socks, Sam elbows me, one eyebrow raised and tilts his head towards the young man’s direction. “Nice suit” Sam says. The young guy smiles at Sam and blushes.

This is what I love about Sam. He says what he thinks and never apologizes. To me, Sam is Boston: Brash and outgoing one moment, personable and tender the next. When my husband, Paul and I bought our circa 1940’s mid-rise condo in Cleveland Circle I worried aloud that the Boston College student population might present a noise problem. Sam’s quick reply summed up his personality perfectly:

“That’s city life William, never bothered me. That’s life happening”

We are sitting in a Mexican restaurant in Harvard Square deep into our fourth Margarita after the tux rental. Sam is talking and laughing about an unfortunate man we call “Monkey Boy”, because the hair on his neck does not stop to meet the hair on his back. He grabs a tortilla chip from a basket sitting on the bar next to him. “They leave these appetizers sitting out for bar patrons” he says while crunching down on the chip. I grab a chip and say “Very nice”. Sam laughs and spits out “You’re so fuckin’ gullible”. But that doesn’t stop us from eating someone else’s left over basket of chips.

We could stay out all night laughing and drinking, talking about Monkey boy and pointing out the other “team members” in the bar, but Sam looks at me and says “It’s a school night, William”.

Sam drives me home. As we cross over Comm Ave, a green line T passes into the city night. I am struck with a wave of sentiment for the home I’ve chosen. As the T screeches around the corner Sam says:

“Life Happening, my friend”

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Insomnia

Three AM……I am eating salt-less pretzels and drinking Kahlua and Irish cream. The salt-less pretzels were bought in a fit of “no sodium because it’s bad for me” obsession and Kahlua and Irish cream because Nyquil is usually my alcoholic knock-out medicine of choice, but I did not put it on “The List” after it ran out.


Naturally, I open up Facebook to see what my “friends” are up to. It’s a Monday, so most of them have commented on “What a Monday” it was. This is worse than Joan Rivers and the “Bitch stole my look” segment on TV. Although I have to say Celine Dion looks pretty good for a 42 year old woman with twins. Poor thing, her husband is eighty years old and now she’ll have three sets of diapers to change.

I turn back to Facebook and look up my real friends. I say “real” friends because they are the ones that deal with my daily shit and insecurities, unlike Facebook friends that only see the good pictures of me and hear about my amazing day!: Insert LOL and smiley face here. Real friends get the short end of the stick.

The first page I look at is Sam’s. Sam calls it “Stupid Facebook”, never just Facebook. He says the only thing people post is the “stupid” stuff. His profile picture is two years old and he never updates his status. I think the only reason he has Facebook is to use it to pick up guys. As my honest friend, he will tell me things other people would not dare tell me. “Don’t get all concentration camp on me Dameron” is what he told me when I lost twenty pounds. After a new haircut his only comment was “Huh, I like you with more hair”. I respect and expect these comments from him. I am not surprised that he would hate “Stupid Facebook”.

And then there’s Cary. His status updates are obscure 1980’s song lyrics. Not surprisingly, there are twenty four comments of people finishing those lyrics. Cary’s profile picture is always handsome and current. On his page today, there is a carefully orchestrated wall photo of two glasses of champagne and desserts sitting on a porch surrounded by palm trees from his trip to Punta Cana. Sam and I have to laugh about Cary’s oh so gentle e-mail to us when we joined Facebook, telling us he was not “Out” on Facebook; an admonishment. I don’t like to stereotype, but I’m pretty sure he has already outed himself.; Exhibit A) Duran Duran lyrics and Exhibit B) Staged photos of champagne and desserts. But we play along with it. Cary is the empathetic friend that you talk to when you need some positive reinforcement. If he told me I was looking skeletal or had a lesbian hair-cut, it would kill me.

And to round out my trio of real friends, there is my husband, who is asleep somewhere in Canada on a business trip. I wonder if he knows how fortunate I consider myself to breathe the same air he breathes. So, I open up my e-mail and prepare to tell him this. Instead I type the following E-mail:

Subject: Olson Twins


Watching TV and wondering why Mary Kate and Ashley never show their teeth when they smile? Can’t sleep, thinking about you. Love you.
XOXO,
Willy


And that is enough. I don’t post anything to Sam and Cary’s wall. These are my “real” friends. They don’t need a status update to know what I am doing or how I feel and that comforts me. Now, maybe I can sleep.

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Puppy Training

Winters in New England are like boring guests, they just don’t know when to leave. So, last weekend Paul and I packed our bags and headed to Miami. This annual spring break is what gets me through the winter. While walking to the bus stop through piles of dirty snow encrusted with frozen dog poop I imagine palm trees, sandy beaches and sizzling night life. I hit the gym months ahead of time with my sole motivation being to look good in a swim suit. Shallow, I know, but as Paul always says to me. “It’s not what’s on the inside that counts, but how you look on the outside”.

This year we took a clue from the “Biggest Loser” recording our weight and keeping a log each week of the progress. We decided that a weekly weigh in was best, but because I like to obsess about myself, I weighed in twice a day and it always had to be after my run, fully unclothed and preferably after a bowel movement, to get my true weight, measured in pounds and ounces. My daily run on the treadmill increased from three miles to six miles a day. Two months later and twenty pounds lighter, I was thrilled when one of my co-workers said:

“If you don’t mind my saying, I think you look too thin. You look like a runner from Kenya”.

“Really?” I said with utter glee. I knew that I had hit my goal.

During those same two months Paul was able to shed exactly half a pound. He pulled up his shirt and extended his belly as far as possible; looking twelve months pregnant and rubbing his belly he said:

“Look honey, I think its twins!”

He had given up early and instead of hitting the treadmill, hit the tanning booth, saying only

“Fat looks better tanned”

And this is the difference between us. While I obsess about myself, Paul obsesses about everything else. A short while after we first met, I invited Paul to my apartment. He remarked at how well stocked my refrigerator was. Because I was a newly out gay man, he expected my refrigerator to contain a can of beer, ketchup and a stack of cheese, as any straight man’s refrigerator would be stocked. One month later he was still surprised at how well stocked the fridge was, until upon further inspection, he realized that it was all of the same ingredients. Holding up a clear container of two month old soup, he said in a slightly disgusted tone “Everything has separated into what it used to be”.

From that time forward, Paul would start each visit to my apartment with a garbage bag at the refrigerator removing expired items and making a shopping list for replacements. All of my different colored hangars were replaced with the same white hangars. When I moved into Paul’s house, the closet was re-organized to accommodate my clothes. Once, I “kissed” the back of the garage wall while pulling in my car. The next day marine bumpers where installed and a little stoplight sensor was mounted on the wall to indicate when I was getting too close to the wall.

Paul never complains about these things. As a matter of fact, he seems to revel in them. It is just a part of his nature to engineer his life around me and he is only too happy to do that. We have our roles and I was completely happy with the arrangement until my mother dropped one line:

“Paul treats you like a puppy”.

Parents are good at slipping in those one-liners that have to be extracted by trained therapists. Of course what she meant was that I was a grown man, fully capable of taking care of myself. This bothered me.

I was thinking about this when Paul and I were walking down Ocean Drive in Miami. I saw a man walking a puppy and people were smiling and admiring the pair. The puppy stopped, squatted and pooped on the pavement. The owner, prepared, stooped over and scooped up the pile with a plastic grocery bag, while the puppy licked the owner’s delighted face.

I smiled, turned to Paul and kissed his cheek. Paul smiled and looked at me

“What was that for?”

“That was for taking care of me” I said. And then I told Paul what my mother had told me.

He grinned and said, “You must be the puppy, because you’re the cute one.” He kissed me back, grabbed my hand and said “Pookie, If I am the one cleaning up shit after you, who really is the master?”

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Going Home

This is the first time I have felt a bit sad when returning home to Boston from my hometown in Greensboro, NC. Usually, I am ready to get the hell out of dodge. Ready to run away from the blue haired ladies that I inevitably meet when running errands with my mother, who say "Aren't you just the smartest thang?" with their sachrinny sweet smiles. I imagine them returning home swiftly to their families and saying "You'll never guess who I ran into today! Poor Julie with her cocksucker son, he lives in the gay ghetto of Bawwwston". Although I'm pretty sure they don't say cocksucker, but it's my daydream so I'll decide what they say, thank you very much.


But this time, I took my 17 year old daughter for a drive by my high school and college and even after 30 years, the memories are still vivid. It's as if the memories have settled into the walls, the grass and the trees, wakened by my passing and running after me, saying "You may think you have grown up, mister, but we knew you when you were young and stupid" and then like a line from a half crazed Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction: " I will not be ignored, DAN...!" Except it's Bill...


Now, to be sure, the memories have been there every time I have visited. This is not the first time I have been home since moving to Boston seven years ago. No, this time the memories are more emphatic because my 30th high school reunion is gearing up. Facebook pages have been created, classmates are consulting personal trainers, plastic surgeons and colorists....This is real!

My daughter, Taylor and I logged onto the high school reunion page at 11 pm Saturday night, after I had consumed two or three glasses of wine and created my profile. I was choosing only the most flattering photos of me. The ones where the light was good. Important note: never create anything online after two or three glasses of wine. As a matter of fact, you should probably disconnect wireless routers and turn off all cell phones after a few glasses of wine.

Of course the first thing we did was to click on the pictures of those that had already registered. Taylor quickly scanned the page and located all of the names with pictures by them. "Oh, she looks sweet", Taylor said, clicking on the first little camera icon. "Uh, yeah, looks can fool you", I said, while secretly hoping she had contracted some type of STD. Taylor clicked on another picture and in unison we both said "Oh!" as if a huge bug had just hit the windshield. "OK, she must have been sweet?" Taylor said trying to salvage something nice out of our involuntary reaction to the picture. "I honestly don't remember her" I said, and sadly, that is probably the reaction that everyone would have at the reunion.

Then I saw the name. The school jock, the "big man on campus", the one every boy wanted to be and every girl (ok, and some boys...) wanted to date. "There, click on that one!" I said to Taylor. And there it was, sweet justice! I laughed out loud while grabbing the bottle of wine to pour another glass.

"Look, he's bald! and check out the schnoz!" I said. Taylor was looking at me for an explanation. I wanted to see more. "There are more pictures, Taylor, click on the next one". This was too good, he was fat too! I was now pushing Taylor's hand to click on the third picture. "Oh, his wife is beautiful." Taylor said. "He was the school jock, he must have married her right out of college." I said, a little defeated. "Dad, do you want to go to this reunion just because you have your hair and you are still in good shape?"

Secretly, I loved that comment, even though she was insuinuating that I was shallow. As a gay man, I was required to work out every day and use whatever chemicals were necessary to keep my hair. This was stipulated in the gay contract and my membership card could be revoked if not strictly adhered to. High school reunions were tailor made for gay men. We hit the gym frequently and obsess over physical characteristics. While my therapist told me that I had an "unhealthy body image" I knew this would benefit me on reunion night.

So, I tried to answer Taylor . "Sweetie, I spent high school trying to fit in. You'll find out that most everyone begins to accept themselves after high school, most everyone, not Republican senators.." And then Taylor began to roll her eyes, so I reeled it back in. "Your grandmother is a smart woman, she says that we spend the rest of our lives getting over our childhood".

"And you're still doing that?" Was Taylor's question, but I think she meant it more as a statement, as a recrimination. That made me think. Here I was, doing the same thing that all high schoolers do. Measuring someone's worth based on the way they look. I was not getting over my childhood. I was returning to it. And it took another high schooler to point that out.

"You're right, Taylor". And then I took the mouse and began to upload a picture of me and Paul, sitting on the steps to our condo in Boston. His arm draped around my shoulder, smiling with that big toothy, grin. The light was not the most flattering. I uploaded a picture of me and my children standing in the early morning light in front of a rental van, holding our Dunkin Donuts bags in front of us, looking goofy and ready for our trip to the beach.

"This is what I am most proud of, Taylor." I said.

I took another look at the school jock. He looked happy. His kids were beautiful. And really, I was happy for him.

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Valentine's Day

So we are driving into work today and Paul looks at me and says,
“Where’s my Valentine’s Day card?” In an expectant, puppy dog way.
To which I reply
“Well, maybe you’re not supposed to get it until later”, trying to be coy, because I really did not plan well and thought I would run out at lunch to buy one…..
“Don’t get me a friggin’ card, it’s a Hallmark holiday, all I want is a little slap and tickle later” he says.
“Very romantic” I tell him. Of course this gets him going, which is what he was looking for. He begins singing, with a pained country singer face

“Before I met you, I didn’t know I had a manginaaaaa….”

I am spitting out my coffee laughing now and he keeps going, this time singing Katy Perry,
“Baby, you’re a firework, look at me with sparklers on my perky breastisses….” elongating the "s" in the song

“Is that what you want, Dameron? Do you want me to come to the restaurant tonight and be all lovey, dovey?”

And I have a vision of him with balloons and flowers at this small restaurant and he can see the fear on my face before I even say anything…..
”Look, Dameron, I’m driving your little ass to work today, that’s your Valentine”.

“But, you do that every day” I say.

“Yeah, I need to stop doing these little things every day, so you’ll appreciate them. Put your ass on that bus” And then he says the same thing he always does when we talk about the bus. “Show me riding on the bus like a little Japanese school boy”. And I sit there with my arms held out in front of me acting like I am holding my lunch box sitting on the bus.
“Ah, so cute. So is Valentine’s day every day for you?” He says like someone talking to their puppy.
“I guess it is” I say. And then he makes his point:
“So, do we need cards and chocolates and flowers?”
“No, we don’t.”
“So, shut up and sit there and look pretty”
And I say, “Say it nicely…”
And he says “I’m sorry. Sit there and look pretty…Bitch!”

So, that was my Valentine’s day this morning, can’t say I would have it any other way……

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Back into the Closet

This weekend I went back into the closet. It was a conscious decision that was prompted by my partner.

"Pookie, I'm getting tired of trying to wedge your clothes onto the rack. and I looked at your polo shirts and some of them have got to go..."

Paul, my partner, is incredibly organized. In such a cute, adorable way, he will say

"Ugh, you are such a straight boy"

What this means is that I throw clothes on the floor, can't move stuff in the refrigerator to find things (such as a gallon of milk), laugh at slapstick comedy like "Norbit", and leave wet sweaty workout clothes in my gym bag.

One day our little every other weekend dog "Gi-Gi" , Paul's youngest daughter's pet, was frantically digging through my gym bag.

"See" I said. "Gi-Gi likes my gym bag."

"That's because she thinks there is something dead in there". Paul said without missing a beat.

He's right. In some ways I do not act like a gay man. In other ways, I do act like a stereo-typical gay man. But really there is no way that a gay man acts. We have all seen the movies and TV shows with the stereo-types. Organized, witty, sometimes bitchy slim men. Truth be told, there are a few of us that fit this stereotype. The rest of us are exactly who we are. Shaped by our environment and genetics.

Paul has always been organized. He is an engineer by trade. There is a place for everything and everything in it's place. I have never been that organized and sometimes good enough is good enough. But, Paul pee's with the door open, calls women "gals", subscribes to three different car magazines and was the prom king at his high school. He does not "act" like a gay man.

While we were growing up in our closets Paul and I passed as straight because our personal traits did not betray us as Gay. We owe a debt of gratitude to those that could not pass as straight. they were the ones whose closet door, if they had one, was made of glass. They were the ones who opened their closet doors and demanded equal rights. Paul and I simply waited until it became somewhat acceptable to be gay. Don't misunderstand me. We both always knew that we were Gay. We just kept the door shut until it had to be opened because we were suffocating.

So, I went through my clothes and threw out anything that I had not worn in a year. Three trash bags of clothes later I felt a real sense of accomplishment. It was like a weight had been lifted. We all have closets and they really do need to be cleaned out every now and then. I will go back in to see what is in there. To get rid of the old stuff, but I'll never keep anything in there that does not belong.

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H1N1, Prop 8 and Scott Brown & Turkey Schnitzel

Today was a tough day. Last night the senate seat long held by Teddy Kennedy, a long time friend of the lgbt community, was won by Scott Brown. Brown, an impressive campaigner, wrapped up in a charismatic, good looking package is a bigot. He voted against same sex marriage in Massachusetts 25 times and described lgbt parents as "ridiculous". How could this happen in such a blue state?

I'll tell you how. Martha Coakley, the Democratic candidate ran a lack luster campaign because she knew that she was a shoe in. She was also quoted as saying Curt Schilling was a Yankee's fan and why would she want to stand outside of Fenway Park and shake hands in the cold? She disparaged Red Sox fans and believe it or not, the people of Massachusetts hold their beloved Red Sox in higher regard than their political values.

Couple this win with the fact that my partner, Paul is Scott Brown's physical twin, which everyone has commented on, and it's a formula for conflicted feelings.

I was feeling defeated this morning driving into work. Here we go again, another politician telling us how immoral we are. When I got to work, I had to deal with a technical solution that had been decided upon without my input and I am the IT Director. Everyone was out to get me! Just as this crisis subsided, my alarm alerted me that it was time for my H1N1 vaccination. I hate shots. The nurse was nice enought to point out the two pimples on my arm.

Sometimes there is a perfect storm of bad events and you need one more thing to push it over the edge. I tuned into the Prop 8 trial in California and while the team defending the LGBT community was doing an excellent job of presenting credible expert testimony, they clearly pointed out how politically powerless the lgbt community is, who discriminated we are and how much the religious institutions of the world hate us. Final straw that pushed me over the edge.

When I walked through the door head hanging low after a long commute home. I was greeted by the most delicious smelling dinner, Turkey Schnitzel, brandied apple sauce and whipped potatoes. There stood Paul, with the sexiest grin pouring a glass of wine for me and suddenly all was right with the world. This is my sanctuary and no matter what happens each day, I know that I will be greeted by the love of my life and it is perfection.

We are each other's strength and the port in the storm. Somehow fighting against the rest of the world for our right to love each other only makes it stronger. There is no where else in the world or no other way I would rather be.

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A Snowy MLK Jr. Holiday in New England

This is my first post so I should start by telling you something about who and where I am.

I am sitting in the living room of my home in New Hampshire watching the snow fall. It has been snowing all night and now everything outside is white with outlines of pine trees etched across the sky. It's beautiful unless you have to drive in it. Fortunately today is the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday and I get a reprieve from the "C" word: Commute. I live in Manchester, NH and work in Cambridge, MA. Not an easy commute on a day with no weather hazards. So, today I find myself at home, the two oldest children upstairs in bed and the youngest on her way to the Orthodontist and time on my hands to write this first post.

I am 46 and my partner is 43. Yes, I am gay and we live a very normal life. That is the reason for this blog. See, three years ago I could not have imagined my life today. I was living as a straight married man teetering towards severe depression. I did not know anyone who was gay and living a "normal" life. Gay men were unhappy, alcoholics with insatiable sex appetites and spreading AIDS.

I grew up in the south. The product of a republican attorney father and a very Catholic stay at home mother. Being Gay was not an option. So I did what was expected. Married at 23 and first baby at 28. It was easy enough at first to "play" house. But as the years wore on, hiding who I was and what my feelings were ate away at me. So, when my wife (ex-wife now) asked me three years ago if I was Gay, my reply "I don't want to be" set me free.

Not a very affirmative response, I know. But it was how I felt then. I did not want to be Gay. It meant I was going to be unhappy, go to hell and probably die of AIDS. All of the things that the world had told me. But let me tell you this now. I was unhappy, and lying to everyone about who I was put me in my own private hell. How could it be any worse?

Jumping back to today. I am planning my wedding with Paul and living such a full life with a wonderful group of friends and family. This is the way life is meant to be for me. It is what God intended for me and I want to share this life and story with anyone who may be doubting their orientation or anyone who does not understand or anyone who just wants to understand why their son, daughter, friend, mother or father is Gay. I'll repeat again. This is the way God made us. It is not a preference or a choice. It is a piece of the puzzle that makes us who we are.

My plan is to share the everyday happenings that make up my life. The sometimes boring, sometimes exciting, sometimes sad and sometimes happy little details that make up my life and show you how "normal" a gay life can be. But when I say normal, you can substitute that word with wonderful......

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