Coming Out on Live TV

Last summer, I was pruning the boxwoods in our garden in Maine, when my neighbor Irene, a retired schoolteacher, and self-professed book maven walked by and said, “Hey, Edward Scissorhands, I saw your book in the New York Times.” 

I waved the shears at her and said, “Thanks!”

She dropped the hand she was using to shield her eyes from the sun, and scrunched up her face contemplating my reply, Thanks?

“I mean, so what did you think?” I corrected myself.

“You ready to be the poster child for all of this?” she asked.

“Um, sure, yeah,” I replied.

She raised one eyebrow and displayed a closed-lip smile. It’s a look I’ve seen before, typically, when my youngest daughter, Marisa, uses a phrase I don’t understand. Something like, “Ugh, Dad, you’re such a stan.” She’ll give me that look, and I can read the question in her face before she asks, Do you even know what that means?

“Um, sure, yeah.”

I published a book, a memoir about my personal experience. I wasn’t the first person to come out later in life, or as I like to say, Fashionably Late. That always gets an eye-roll from Marisa.  

Irene didn’t say anything, but I could read the question in her facial expression, But really, are you ready?  As she walked off, she shouted, “William Dameron tamps down the tall grass of untold experience,” echoing a sentence from the New York Times Review. That phrase has become somewhat of a joke in our household. We use it any time we try something new, like when I tell my husband, Paul, I tried a new pork chop recipe, and he’ll say, “Tamping down the tall grass, huh?”  

Since that summer day, I’ve received emails almost daily from people who’ve read my book. Most are kind, a few decidedly not, but almost all of them state the same thing: they feel heard. I reply to every single one. It is not something I take lightly. While I may have written one of the first literary memoirs about a person coming out later in life to his spouse and family, I am not the first one to do it. I can joke about many things, but I stand in awe of those who come out, often in environments much more hostile, sometimes life-threatening.

As queer people, we make a decision every day whether to come out or not, to co-workers, new neighbors, a manager, new clients, or even the taxi driver. It gets easier, but there is always that split second thought, is it safe?

Recently Philip Schofield, the host of This Morning, in the UK, came out on live TV. In light of those events, The Times published an excerpt from my book, and the BBC interviewed me on the Victoria Derbyshire program. Because I joined by skype, the studio didn’t want to consume the bandwidth by sending their video back to me. While I was being interviewed, I didn’t get a chance to see what the studio looked like. Maybe that’s a good thing because when they sent me a screen capture later, I certainly looked like the poster child for coming out and also? it reminded me of a scene from the movie Edward Scissorhands when he appears on a TV program.

In that scene, an audience member asks Edward if he has ever considered corrective surgery. “Yes,” he replies quietly. Then, another audience member stands up and says, “But if you had regular hands, you'd be like everyone else.”

That line slays me.

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When I Said It

It was a garden level apartment, too far from Boston and too close to nowhere. On the day I moved in, I wrangled a queen sized mattress by myself until a young Latina held the lobby door open with her foot and guided the bed with her hands, using facial expressions and Spanglish to communicate, “Mira, left, left!” That first night, I lay awake on the bare mattress and listened to muffled conversations seep through the walls, too distant from English and not close enough to any language I could comprehend.

I was alone in a way that I had not been for more than twenty years—seven hundred miles and a secret separated me from my family.  It was not a complete break, but more of a fracture that we were attempting to heal, as if giving it a rest could mend the broken bones of our marriage.

I tried setting up rituals to break up the solitude, drinks at the Picadilly Pub with co-workers on Thursday nights, take-out sweet and sour chicken from Chin’s Garden for Friday dinner and a run along the abandoned rail bed of the Assabet River trail on Sunday mornings. But on Saturday nights, when the light faded, loneliness crept into my unfurnished apartment, like the scent of foreign foods being prepared by the unbroken families around me.

The sun would slip below the horizon around 4:30 pm and shortly thereafter, a group of Brazilian men in dark Levis, whooping and hollering, would emerge from the cinder-block apartment building and climb into the back of a pick-up truck, the night stretching out before them like a lubricious promise.

I chose one of those Saturday nights to rent a video, when video stores were still a thing. I walked up and down the aisles surveying the titles, already knowing which DVD I would select, too ashamed to see it alone in a theater and barely brave enough to hold it in my hands. I would rent it and return it through the after-hours slot and then cancel my membership.

I waited until most of the customers left. My heart pounded as I walked up to the cashier, DVD in hand holding it close to my body so no one could see and placed it title side down on the counter.

“Do you want popcorn or candy?” The cashier asked, nodding his head towards the selection.

“No, just this please,” I said without looking up.

He turned the video over, glanced up at me and said “I need your membership card.”

I thought his stare held a certain conviction as I fumbled through my wallet and when I looked up after finding my card, I caught him regarding my wedding band.

When I returned home, I poured a healthy amount of gin into a glass, placed the DVD into my laptop computer and sat in the single chair next to the small, folding kitchen table.

A dusty little town, the longing twang of a guitar chord and the forlorn landscape of Wyoming was all it took for me to know their love was doomed from the start. When it ended, one dirty, blood-stained shirt neatly folded into the other, it ended me too.

Like Ennis del Mar, I’d have to stand in that open space for a while, too afraid to move forward and too changed to go back. Looking into the mirror that night I decided for the first time to try out the foreign words, see how they might fit. It was more of a confession and less of an affirmation and only a whisper.

“Shit, I’m so gay.”

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Fashionably Late

Great news! My story “Operating Instructions” will be featured in the upcoming anthology Fashionably Late: Gay, Bi, and Trans Men Who Came Out Later in Life. The collection sheds light on a largely overlooked segment of the LGBT+ community and offers affirmation to older men coming out of the closet. The book will be out in March, but you can pre-order copies of the book right now through its Kickstarter campaign! Click here to visit the page.

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Flash Fiction: The Weight of Words

 

“Mom, I want to tell you something,” I said to the back of her neck.  She was sitting at the kitchen table busying herself with something in her hands.  I don’t remember what it was, sewing perhaps.  She did not turn her head when I spoke to her, but continued to look down absorbed in her busyness, removed from the weight of my words.

I sat down at the table with her and took a deep breath.

“I think the love that Susan has for her girlfriend is natural,” I said as I let out my breath. 

She took her glasses off and placed them on the table.  Her face screwed up with disgust and her lips were pulled tight over her teeth.  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me.

“It is not natural.  It’s disgusting!”  She spit out and waited for the words to sink in and detonate searching my face for signs of wreckage, but the damage was internal. My face remained stoic.

“It’s not disgusting,” I said, my voice wavering. It sounded too defensive and high pitched to me. This enraged her, but instead of arguing the point she altered her strategy.

“Do you have those feelings?” She asked accusingly, raising her eyebrows.

“I don’t know, maybe.  I mean, I can understand how she feels,” I replied, the sound of my heart thumping in my ears drowning out the drone of the refrigerator.

“I knew it the minute you walked in the door.  Susan and her girlfriend dressed you up in those clothes,” she said looking down at my shirt and then continued in a high pitched mocking tone imitating my cousin Susan, but sounding nothing like her, “It’s OK, just go ahead and be gay!”

I felt shame, shame for how I dressed and for how my voice sounded and for having those feelings.  Mother had never accused me of being gay, preferring to use another scare word, effeminate.

Don’t put your hands on your hips like that, it looks effeminate.

Those flip-flops make you look effeminate.

Which friend are you talking about, the overweight effeminate one?

I did believe that my cousin’s feelings were natural, but I was not defending them, I was testing the waters and now I was drowning.  Mother could sense it as she circled with wide dark eyes, baring her teeth.

She opened her mouth to take another bite out of me. “I suppose you want to be a woman now.”

I watched my body sink as my soul drifted away. The feeding frenzy had begun and would not end until there was nothing left of me.
 
  

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In the Before

Walking through the lobby I quickly glance at my smart phone: three minutes.  "Shit!" I throw open the door and run across the uneven brick sidewalk, the heels of my shoes making a quick click-clack sound. I spring up the cement steps two at a time and emerge from the alley onto Brattle Street. But my feet have responded before my brain, it will take more than three minutes to get through Harvard Square to the bus. As the resignation seeps into my bones, the scene around me solidifies.

The accordion player on the corner nods at me while he plays some unknown tune, infusing the square with a French laissez-faire atmosphere. Two women speaking to each other point to their destination, an Indian restaurant, while walking slowly past me. Tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures, oblivious to business people quickly re-adjusting their paths to avoid a collision. There is a remnant of daylight still left on this late February evening and in the air a promise of spring. Time pauses like a ball at the end of a string in the apex of it’s upward arc.

I Turn around and begin to walk down the stairs.

“You’re going the wrong way.” Two female co-workers cheerfully warn me as they walk into the square.

“No, no I’ve decided to take a different way home.” I respond smiling.

There is a sense of acceptance and relief as I begin my walk home. Passing by the restaurant next door, I notice a group of people on the other side of a window sitting at the bar. They are chatting animatedly while lifting bright colored drinks in martini glasses. I pause and stare for a moment too long. A couple inside the bar senses my gaze and glances at me. I look down at my feet and continue walking through the alley. I used to imagine being one of those people who stopped for a drink before heading home. When I move into the city I will do that, I thought. But even after moving into the city two years ago, I am still in a hurry to get home.

My path takes me across the JFK Bridge and the boat house. The sky over the Charles River is striped in bands of orange, gold and indigo as the light drains from the sky. Silently, a team of scullers in a racing shell slips through the dark water towards the horizon.

After I have left the buzz of Harvard Square I turn onto a residential street. Neat rows of houses with yards are illuminated by soft circles of light from the street lamps. As I pass, motion sensitive porch lights flicker on to greet me as if some electrical current is emanating from my body.

I used to live in a house with a yard and a driveway.

I used to own a car.

I used to be greeted by my daughters at the end of the day.

I follow the road and cross the pedestrian bridge over the Mass Pike and I am thrown into a cacophony of sound and smells and people that make up Harvard Avenue in the Allston neighborhood; life happening. Here a blend of Korean, Irish, Italian, Middle Eastern, soul food and Jewish cuisine exists in noisy harmony. The evening air is mixed with honking horns, Asian dialects and loud college students. Graffiti and murals dot the business fronts. This is urban life.

Six years ago, in the before, I would drive down this street. It was a necessary leg on the one hour journey from my home in the suburbs to a support group that met once a week in Coolidge Corner. When I would drive down this street, I marveled at the diversity of life. I marveled that there was some pivotal moment in my life that forced me to choose a different path.

I stop in front of a second hand store, filled with tables and lamps and odds and ends; pieces of another life. In the glass I catch a reflection of myself and in that same reflection a line of cars stopped at a traffic light. If time were to bend upon itself, the younger me would be in one of those cars nervously trying to figure out what he would be revealing at the support group tonight; worried about running late, worried about all of the changes. He would look through the car window and wonder if the older me was alone in this life.

I want to talk to the younger me and tell him not to worry; that the right thing to do in life is rarely the easiest. That even though the most trying times lay ahead of him he is travelling down the right road.

At the intersection of Harvard Ave and Comm Ave., I look down the road wondering if the T is near. But I can’t see beyond the bend so I continue to cross the intersection. Halfway across, the ding-ding of the bell rings in the distance and I hesitate. I turn around and run back in time to jump on the T, suddenly in a hurry, five stops and then home.

When I walk through the door, Paul hugs me and says “It took you a little longer to get home.”

Holding onto him, not wanting to let go I whisper.

“But I am home."

Finally.

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Honesty

When I am socializing with my friends Sam and Cary, people often ask how we met each other. “Group therapy” is my response. I don’t say this because it is true, which it is, but more because I know how much it annoys Sam. After the awkward silence when the inquisitor has walked away, Sam scrunches up his face and looks at me with utter disgust “Dameron, you don’t need to be so freakin’ honest”. Now that he has given me the green light. The next time I will have a better answer: “It’s kind of a funny story; we were at this methadone clinic….” But I do believe that honesty really is the best policy.


I have only lied once about my relationship with Paul and that was because he asked me to. Not exactly a sound foundation, but it is the little way that we gay couples show our love for each other: by denying their existence so they can keep their job. It was about a year into our relationship. Paul’s company headquarters are located in the Midwest: “God’s country”. As luck would have it, we were both travelling through Germany for separate business trips. I joined Paul at the hotel bar for a drink and met several of his co-workers. His boss turned to me and asked “So, where did you two meet?” Looking down I searched my drink for an answer “AA, but it really didn’t do anything for us.” The lie was so obvious, that it didn’t seem like I was being dishonest. But after that, I vowed to never lie again. OK, that was a lie. I vowed never to lie about my relationship with Paul.

The whole point of the group that Sam, Cary and I attended was to become honest: A twelve week “coming out” support group. We would meet weekly and “check in”. This was our therapist’s way of putting us on the spot. Andy would take a deep breath in and then slowly let it out while saying “Bill, do you want to tell the group about your week?” It seems silly now, being so nervous about telling people we were gay, but during those first few weeks, it was excruciating. “You know, I practiced coming out to my neighbor’s dog, Rusty. He responded pretty well by licking me. Maybe next week I’ll have the courage to come out to my mother.”

Now in any other environment my friends would respond with “You came out to a dog? That is the stupidest fucking shit I have ever heard.” But because this was a supportive and non-judgmental environment, I heard “Good for you Bill. I’m sure that your mother will respond just as well as Rusty, well, minus the licking” followed by a polite round of laughter.

Eventually, it became easier and I soon exhausted all of my avenues for coming out, co-workers, family, friends, The Wal-Mart cashier with one hand on her hip, everyone was fair game: “Well now you go girl! But I’ma’ need you to enter your pin number, precious.” Nobody really seemed to care. Which was nice, but once you experience the drug of being honest, you need another hit.

Soon I learned that honesty could work like a shield, deflecting undesirable situations. Travelling through Bangkok with a sexaholic straight boss can be a challenge. “Bill, I’m going to take that girl, which one do you want?” My boss said. It was the perfect opportunity to be honest. “No shit, you’re gay? Hey, what about him, do you want him?” He didn’t miss a beat, but at least the swarm of prostitutes moved on to more promising prospects.

Acquaintances from my past would contact me through Facebook. “Bill, it’s so good to see you on FB. Last year I married the man of my dreams, he’s a missionary. Have you accepted God as your personal savior?” I would spread a little bit of honesty “You married the man of your dreams? That’s great, so did I!” Poof! She was gone.

But then I applied for a job and went through a session of intensive interviews. I was excited about the job and soon learned that I was at the top of the list of candidates. It was an “Old Boys” club. All of the executives where white middle class straight men. “So, what sports did you play in high school/college?” They would ask. And then came THE question. “Does your wife mind you travelling?” Damn, honesty is a double edged sword. I thought for a minute. “Well, actually my partner travels a lot himself.” And just like that, Poof! The job was gone.

I lamented to a friend about how I was discriminated against. It was an outrage! I wished that I had the opportunity to make the decision about the job instead of having it made for me. “But you did make a decision.” He said. This made me pause and think. He was right. Honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

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Never can say goodbye

My father never could say goodbye. You know the feeling: Someone across the room that you really don’t recognize waves and smiles at you. You return the smile and wave eagerly thinking “Oh, hello…you!” Then you realize the intended recipient of the wave is behind you. It’s embarrassing and awkward. Just like conversations with my father on the telephone. One minute he was there. The next minute, I never really knew when, he had finished and hung up. No goodbye. Red-faced, I would keep on talking just in case anyone within earshot could hear me. “Oh, yeah, uh-huh, OK Dad, sure goodbye!”


He was not being rude. He was just efficient. I guess that’s just about the nicest way to say it. His efficiency extended to how he addressed each of his five children, all boys as “Son”.

“Son, this is your Dad. Just calling to see if you’re still alive”

I suppose the Dad part was redundant. But you have to admire the efficiency of not having to remember our names. On the rare occasion when he did try to call us by our name it was as awkward as his telephone conversations. He would go through the list: “Chu, John, Matt, Bill…” After each name, he would realize that it didn’t work, blink and snap his fingers. Put a beat behind it and it was a name calling scat routine.

And if he had issues with remembering our names, it paled in comparison to the list of his “lady friends” names. Being the cunning attorney that he was, he found a way to identify them all without admitting the guilt of not remembering their names. The waitress, the girlfriend, the wife, the lady with the husky cigarette voice and fire red nails all had the same name: “Sweetie”. It was necessary because he always had one waiting to enter center stage as the other one exited. Performing a Scat of girlfriend’s names was not acceptable.

I did not have the type of lady friends that my father had. My friends, who were female, actually were my friends, which was a source of constant worry for my father. While I could admire the wrapping on the package, my father enjoyed what was inside the package much more.

I did have two female roommates in college. It was a “Three’s Company” type of arrangement, but with a twist. I was the gay man playing a straight man. Because my father provided a monthly stipend based on half of the apartment costs, it only made sense to take in a third roommate without telling my father and spend the leftover money on beer. This was my college finance major in action!

What I didn’t count on was my father calling the apartment and talking to my third roommate, a blond bombshell. When Karen told me that she spoke to my father I felt like the gig was over. “But he seemed really sweet.” Karen said. “He called me sweetie!”

 

I called my father prepared to admit the scam.

“Hey Dad, so about Karen…” I started.

“Son, you never told me about her.” He said.

“I’m sorry I should have told you I had another roommate.”

“Yeah, sure son, another ‘roommate’” He chuckled. I could almost see the invisible air quotes he was making. This was not the reaction I expected. He suddenly sounded like Dean Martin. I half expected him to say “You old dog, you!” Then it clicked. He wanted to believe so badly that Karen was my live in lady friend: a real lady friend, happy ending and all. Who was I to deny him this one small pleasure?

Many years later he lay in his bed and waited for all five of his sons. After we all arrived, he quietly slipped away. A year after he died I was determined to visit his graveside and tell him who I was: disclosure and closure. I searched the cemetery for hours in tears looking for his tombstone. While I knew exactly where he was buried, I could not find him. Later I learned that my brother had neglected to order the headstone. Even in death, my father never could say goodbye.

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The Odd Couple

Whenever Paul reads one of my blog posts he invariably reacts differently than I anticipate. At one end of the reaction scale he does not find them nearly as humorous as I do. At the other end, he is horrified.


Take The “C” Word for example. I laughed out loud while writing that one. As Paul began to read it I waited for the belly laughs, the guffaws. By the time he had finished, the disappointed look on his face made me wonder if he was constipated or had just remembered that yesterday was his mother’s birthday. His response was: “You dropped a lot of F bombs in that post.” Defensively I said “Well, that was how I felt!” I had presented my precious baby to him and his response was “Uh-huh, ugly.”

After reading another post I expected his response to somehow mirror my sentiments about our lost summers of youth accompanied by a far-off wistful look. What I saw was more of a “Where did I put that suicide prevention telephone number?” look.

“Are you getting ready to check out?” He said. There was real concern in his voice.

“What?”

“Pookie, I’m concerned, are you really that tired?”

“We all get tired. I’m just going through one of those phases.” I simply said

“I don’t allow myself to be tired.” Was his response.

I wanted to laugh. But he was serious. And then I began to think about it. It reminded me of something a neighborhood Mom had said when I remarked how well behaved her children were. “We do not allow them to misbehave.” I was as dumbfounded then as I was now. I had always thought that controlling children was just as futile as controlling bodily functions. Quite literally, shit happens.

If controlling my body was an option, sign me up. I’d start with my abs. “I don’t care what you say about the mouth eating all the time, I’m talking to you now little mister, so flatten it up!” And to my hair: “You’re looking a little thin and pale lately sweetie, let’s fatten you up and get some color back in those pretty little follicles!”

Paul sent me an e-mail this week that was a perfect example of how we differ. He had decided to get up early and drive from our condo in Boston to make a 9:30 AM appointment in New York. The e-mail started with “I got here an hour and a half early, so I put Wal-Mart in the GPS and shopped for our supplies for the weekend.” Number one, I would consider arriving anything other than five minutes early to be a waste of perfectly good sleep time. Number two, Wal-Mart would be the furthest thing from my mind at 8:00 AM. And finally, shopping for the weekend on Tuesday?

But this is how Paul operates. His mind and body are in constant planning and production mode. While it is generally accepted that once my work day ends, sitting on the sofa and watching trash TV is just about as industrious as I am going to get. I am good with creative thoughts, but bringing them to fruition is where Paul comes in. My off –hand comment that it might be nice to have a honey onyx backsplash becomes reality just by mentioning it to Paul. I pass the ball and he takes it to the end zone.

The second part of the e-mail elaborately detailed how he was going to borrow his sister’s truck to pick up a new bed at Ikea and swap the one in our Boston condo for the one in New Hampshire and then switch Nick’s bed for the one that we had. I was exhausted by the end of the e-mail. But it occurred to me that how we differed was also what made us strong. Each of us has his strengths. Maybe having a differing sense of humor also made us stronger.

Finally, Paul’s e-mail stated that he would stay in New Hampshire that night so he could get a good night sleep in the larger bed and give his “restless legs” a break. Even his legs are constantly moving. I wanted to reply back “Well maybe you just need to have a little talk with those legs. Show them the back of your hand and then we’ll see who stops shaking!” But something tells me that he would not see the humor in that.

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End of the beginnings

“Life is a buffet and most poor suckers are starving.” The valedictorian’s speech begins with a promising quote from Auntie Mame. Maybe this won’t be the typical “Reach for the stars” bullshit speech as my friend Sam oh so delicately calls them. But as the valedictorian begins to literally count the hours that are spent eating in a lifetime, my mind begins to wander and I begin to think about lunch. I think to myself how nice it would be to hear an honest and frank graduation speech. One that would take into account the one thing that these students do not have: a lifetime of experience and disappointments.

I was not a star pupil, but in the school of hard knocks I’m right up there. So, in my head, I begin my speech. My voice is deep and authoritative, like a gay white man’s version of James Earl Jones:

“My fellow students, faculty, family, friends and distant relatives that feel trapped into attending, and so will be drinking a little earlier than usual today. I welcome you! Sitting here before you are the sullen teenagers that you argued with this morning. Their inability to set an alarm clock or ‘for the love of God’, manage their own time was the last straw this morning. They will undoubtedly not acquire these skills in the next two months before college and more than likely, never will.

Parents, you tried your best, but let’s face it; you could have done things better. If your goal was to make sure that your children had something to talk about in therapy. You have succeeded!

Students, you probably did not try your best. Facebook, Twitter, texting and social acceptance were your first priorities. Schoolwork was merely background noise. Congratulations! The rest of your life is truly all about social acceptance and sexy profile pictures. No one picks you up in a bar because you look intelligent.”

At this point, I would hit them with a closing so poignant and relevant that it would guarantee a standing ovation. Or perhaps they would be ecstatic because the speech was so mercifully short.

“And in closing, I would like to…” And here the applause would be so thunderous, I would have to pause “Thank you, thank you, please, let me finish. Ahem, I would like to quote a line from The Real Housewives Countess LuAnn’s classic hit ‘Money Can’t buy you class’

Money can’t buy you class. Elegance is learned, oh yeah. And the primary mistake, texting on a date. If you make a lady wait, she’ll take a pass.

Thank you and congratulations, graduates!”

I realize that I have missed most, if not all of the valedictorian’s speech and now the graduates are lining up. I see my stepdaughter Evelyn getting ready to march up on stage. I am hit with an unexpected wave of pride and immediately become one of “those” parents. You know them. They are big, loud and have piercings in places that seem extremely uncomfortable if not downright unsanitary.

I am up on my feet yelling Evelyn’s name and whooping. I swear to God, I actually whooped. I sense that my husband Paul is distancing himself from me: shrugging his shoulders and rolling his eyes as if to say “I have no idea who this person is” to the strangers around us.

But I am a convert. I can see Evelyn’s future and it is bright and full of promise. I can see my future too, and it is full of a juicy cheeseburger.

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Rhinestone Cowboy

This is a guest post that I have written for another blog and wanted to bring the story back "home" to live with the rest of my stories.  Many of you have asked if I still have those rhinestone studded jeans.  Like many songs from the 70's, they were a one hit wonder and we should let them fade away.  That pun was intended....However, I have scoured the Internet and actually found a picture that is shockingly similair.  God, what was I thinking.....

In 1977, I was unceremoniously dumped into the public school system after eight years of Catholic school.

Studio 54 debuted, Donna Summer oozed disco sex, and Saturday Night Fever introduced me to polyester boogie nights.

It was also the year of my rhinestone-studded pants, and my brief professional writing career.

The rhinestone-studded pants were an unfortunate fashion risk that I took while attempting to fit into junior high school. Apparently, disco fever had not taken hold as quickly in Greensboro, North Carolina as it had in New York. The pants earned me the title of tackiest dresser, and taught me an important lesson: To fit in, I would have to look like everyone else.

If there was anyone who did not look like everyone else, it was Mr. Dickinson, my Social Studies teacher. With shoulder length brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a hint of five o’clock stubble, his looks were singularly distracting. I had learned from Catholic school that my thoughts about him were immoral, but God would just have to forgive me. Not that I would ever divulge those thoughts in the confessional booth.

Mr. Dickinson, an avid environmentalist, gave us an assignment to enter an essay writing contest. The theme was “Wildlife needs you!” Yes! I thought to myself. Here was my chance to impress him.

During that entire hour of class, I poured my heart into writing about beautiful oak trees with Spanish moss, soaring eagles, and purple mountain majesties. It was a masterpiece so expressive, so well-crafted, that he would have no choice but to proclaim his love for me. He would do this discreetly, of course, probably by passing me a note.

As Mr. Dickinson walked by and collected our papers, I beamed with pride and looked over at Darnell-The-Jock’s one-sentence scribbled work: “Wildlife can suck my big fat…” And then it hit me. Darnell had taken this theme in a direction I could not have imagined. If that was what he thought about the assignment, how ridiculous was I going to look?

I won first place. But there was no impassioned note from Mr. Dickinson declaring “I love you! If you love me, check this box.” What I did receive were two tickets to the Greensboro Natural Science Center, and social suicide delivered via an announcement of my achievement on the school PA system. Second important lesson: To fit in, I had to think and act like everyone else.

My brief writing career ended. Writing about what I knew would divulge the secret I had to keep. Being Gay was not an option. In order to survive, I had to keep my thoughts to myself.

And that is what I did for 30 more years: survived. But after all those years, the secret became too heavy to bear. Just saying three words — “I am Gay” — allowed all of the other words to come spilling out. Life, it turned out, could be so much more than survival. It could be downright wonderful. I met and married a man who rivaled all that I imagined my life with Mr. Dickinson could be.

Writers write about what they know. And what I know is a variation on my ninth grade theme paper: “Life needs you.” Life needs every unique individual. When I write about my everyday laughter, loves, and neuroses in an authentic and humorous way, I validate who I am and celebrate what I have found.

I write for the ninth grade boy who wonders if he will ever find love.

I write so that others will do more than survive.

I write so that others will live.

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Summer breeze, makes me feel fine

“What? What do you want Dameron?” Paul says as he glances at me while driving. I am startled out of a daze and realize that I am staring at him as we are commuting into the city. That is my defensive gesture now: To become emotionally vacant while commuting. “I want a month in a cabin on the coast of Maine.” I say staring blankly.

“Oh, like Misery?” He says. “I can eat chocolates and become big like Kathy Bates and tuck it.” He is not taking me seriously. “Well, can’t we at least make it a more romantic abduction?” I say. “I’m going to look like Kathy Bates and you want to make it sexual?” He counters.

I don’t think he understands what I am trying to say. I am tired: Tired of working, tired of commuting because we have children in New Hampshire and Virginia and have lent out our condo in Boston. Tired of the rat race and simply tired because I have insomnia. Let’s face it, I’m tired!

Last summer we planned a wedding and renovated a condo. This summer was supposed to be the “Summer of Bill”. No plans. But now we have our house in New Hampshire on the market. Plans are springing up everywhere. I want a summer like the ones I had as a kid growing up in North Carolina. I want to wake up and not know or care what day of the week it is.

I lapse back into a daydream. It is morning and the window over my bed is open while the attic fan is pulling in the cool but warming morning air. The cicadas are whirring so loudly that it is hypnotic. I hear my mother’s voice like music talking and laughing on the wall mounted phone downstairs. She has the phone cord pulled tight over the counter while standing at the stove frying bacon. Someone has just mowed their yard so I smell fresh cut grass.

There is nothing to do today but get up and ride my bike to the swimming pool. Strangely, North Carolina, Boston and the Cape all exist in one geographic area, so my friends Sam and Cary meet me at the pool. We’re fifteen and I can see Sam as the Eddie Haskell that he is: Impressing the mothers with his charm and pulling out a doobie and dropping the F bomb when they walk away. Cary is the good looking quiet kid who knows the lyrics to every song on the radio and will do any crazy thing we ask him to do. There is no Internet, no cell phones, no laptops, no computers and no responsibility.

“Out on the edge of Glory, and I’m hanging on a moment with you!” Paul’s hacked rendition of Lady Gaga brings me back to the present. “I think she’s singing about sex sweetie.” He says. “Yeah, that was funny the first five times you told me that too. But, no I Googled it, she’s singing about her grandfather dying. ” I say. “That’s just dreadful, she’s singing about having sex with her grandfather while he’s dying? Jus’ dreadful.” He says while elongating the “S”. He has been in his own happy morning world while I have taken a break from reality.

Later that night, after a tough work day I take the bus home and walk up the four flights to our condo. There is a glass of wine waiting for me and dinner in the oven. After dinner, we stretch out on the sofa, watch TV and eat ice cream. The sound of the air conditioner is as numbing as the sounds of the cicadas were in my mind. It’s not a month in Maine or a return to my childhood but right then, it feels just as good.

What’s your summer dream?

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Check it out. I'm a relationship expert!

As a tribute to fathers during pride month, Nerve magazine interviewed three gay dads for sex and relationship advice.  Follow the link below:

Sex advice from gay dads

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The most beautiful man

“Ask to see his Abs.” I was not sure I heard John correctly, so I simply said “What?” He repeated. “He has abs. Ask to see them!” “But we all have abs.” I said. “Yeah, but you can see his.” John said. “Well it’s a lot easier to see them when you’re in your twenties.” I said.


It was the annual gay pride parade in Boston and our group of friends was enjoying drinks on the beautiful terrace of George and Doug’s condo in the South End. This was not just any deck; it was a football field that enjoys amazing views of the Boston skyline. It was mostly a group of gay men, so you can imagine all of the jokes about “Big decks” and “Deck envy”.

I say mostly gay, because there were some straight women and one straight man that joined us along the way. He was the one with the abs. And his “straightness” was questionable to most of the men there, except for the straight woman he was with.

He was young, attractive, dressed nicely and was a part of the parade. That must make him gay. But when the question came up and someone asked me if I thought he was, I said no. “What? What?” There was pure disbelief. “He’s not gay, because he says he’s straight” was my reply. Again, shock: “But, I said I was straight when I was 28!” Someone next to me said.

I began to think about a conversation that I had with one of Paul’s friends at lunch that day. They worked together for many years. I asked her if she was surprised when Paul came out to her. “Oh, not at all” was her response. I could see Paul cringe when she said this. But she was not being critical or humorous. This was just an honest reply. Paul was obviously not happy about this, so I asked “Is there something wrong with being gay?”

I think that the gay community is its own worst enemy. And here was the perfect example of it. On one hand there was a good looking sensitive young straight guy that was marching in the parade to support us, so he must be gay. On the other hand my husband felt like someone recognizing that he was gay was somehow undesirable.

So, to celebrate gayness, I want to tell you about the most beautiful man that I saw in the parade that day. I hope that my husband will forgive me for describing him to you. He was walking by himself and striking is not a strong enough word. Dressed simply in black his skin was glistening in the cold rain. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him.

He was carrying a sign:

“Almost 56 years together & 7 married. Paul died March 31 of Leukemia”

His face was tear stained and so was mine. Here was love laid bare and open for the entire world to see. There was no better example that the words gay or straight do not matter. This was love and pride.

Agree? Disagree? Like? Dislike?  Comment below!  Click on the link that says "Comments" with the number next to it!

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Playing with balls

“You boys going to play golf?” We heard this question so many times that eventually I began to think that this was the de facto Charleston, South Carolina way to say hello. On par with “Say hi to your Mama n’ them!” It doesn’t really mean anything, but it’s nice.

Why else would seven men in their forties be together in public? Their wives weren’t with them, so they couldn’t have been duped into shopping or sightseeing. Which brings up the second most popular greeting, mostly uttered by concerned older ladies: “You boys leave your wives at home?” Paul would lean in towards me, slap me on the behind and whisper into my ear: “Oh, no, I brought my little wife with me.”

These people clearly needed to be reassured that their world order, the very foundation of their life was not being shaken. So my friend Rob devised an ingenious way to respond honestly without having to go into great detail. “Oh, I expect to hit some balls soon!” He would say. “Oh, that’s gooood!” The relieved older ladies in their visors would drawl and smile. “Hit ‘em hard boys!”

Now aside from being in my forties and flattered to be called a “boy”, I was mostly annoyed that the only thing men could possibly do together was play golf. I felt bad for all men, not just us gay ones. I suppose if they had known that we were gay, which would be obvious because we would be wearing our rainbow flag T-shirts or carrying our Judy Garland albums. The options would have expanded. They might have asked “Are you girls going to get facials?” But even with that question, we could have answered honestly “Oh, I hope to get a facial soon!

Our visit to Charleston has become an annual Columbus Day tradition. I say tradition, because we have gone once and plan on going again this year. That’s a tradition in my book.

Rob and Mark moved to Charleston from the Boston area over a year ago and built a beautiful home in a Disney like suburb. The closest that we came to playing golf was driving Rob and Mark’s golf cart through the neighborhood to the community pool and tennis courts. My husband Paul was alarmingly enamored of driving this cart. I saw my future with him in some gay retirement village version of “Del Boca Vista”. Complete with our Hawaiian shirts, knee high socks and shorts.

Later in the day we went to the beach and the weather was so warm and beautiful that most of us ended up in the water on a clear October day: something that would be unthinkable to do after August in the frigid New England waters.

“Now Mike, I want you to take a picture of those boys swimming in the ocean!” Sam overheard a lady incredulously say to her husband. I have to laugh when I think of her showing her friends and children this picture of gay men frolicking in the water. Just by looking at the photograph, there would be no indication that it was autumn, but I could hear her saying “These boys were in the water in October! They must have been hot from playing golf!” Her husband, probably a little more aware would say “Eunice, them boys were homa-sex-yuls, you dang fool!”

She would experience an epiphany as delightful as the warm water on a fall day was to us. What is on the surface is rarely a mirror of what lies beneath.

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Guest Post

Check out my guest blog post over at Freelancedom.com on my Reason to Write:

My Reason to Write: So that others will live

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Meet the folks

“Well, I guess the way the evening is going I have to ask, what are your intentions with Paul?” Ralph asked me. Now I had no idea what way the evening was going, or how its direction could possibly influence the question. But, I was like a cat backed into a corner. I could begin hissing and scratching or roll over and purr. I chose the latter.

“Oh Ralph stop!” Don demurred while playfully slapping Ralph’s arm. He reached out his gloved hand to pick up his chocolate martini and took a sip through a straw so that his lipstick would not smudge. But the whole time his fake eye lashes never batted once in anticipation of the answer. As they leaned in close, there was not a breath between them.

“Each day I wake up and think that I couldn’t love Paul any more, but each day I do.” I said. Ralph and Don exhaled. Clearly, this was the answer they were hoping for. Ralph and Don were the family that Paul chose, not the family he was born into. His “gay parents” Paul playfully calls them.

If you met Don on the street, you would not remember him. If you met his alter-ego, “Crystal Chandelier” you could not forget him. And that is who I met that first night of the inquisition. After I passed the test I asked Ralph how long it took Don to get made up. “It takes a bottle of booze and a pack of cigarettes” was his quick response as he rolled his eyes and took another sip of his drink.

Later, I had the opportunity to see this process as we sat on the deck one beautiful late summer evening in Maine. While Ralph smoked his cigarettes and weaved a story, Don began the transformation. Drink by drink and smoke by smoke Don would join us on the deck and disappear into the house. Each time he reappeared with a new layer until eventually he joined us as a glittered and feathered Crystal Chandelier

While I had to bare myself emotionally for Paul’s “gay parents”, I had to bare myself physically for his “real” family. They were all packed into a hotel room for his 13 year old son’s birthday. “Oh, don’t worry. My family is great. Don’t forget your swim suit. There’s a water park in the hotel!” Paul told me. “Swim suit? Oh, OK…” I said nervously while looking at the calendar. There weren’t enough gym days for that. I pictured myself standing on an auction block so that his family could inspect the goods. “His calves are a little spindly, but let’s see the teeth” I imagined his father saying.

But soon his sister Peggy was telling a story about her two sons. “They created a cartoon character of Grammy on the Nintendo Wii. In the boxing game they use her character as a punching bag. You should see them giving Grammy upper cuts!” She said laughing. Instantly I felt at ease. These were people that did not take themselves too seriously and laughed at themselves before laughing at others. I loved them.

It occurred to me how similar these two families were. Neither one gives a damn what the world thinks of them. It took me too long to realize the same thing about myself. But now they are my family. And they will never let me think too much of myself. Thank God for that.

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Around the world in 80 Drinks

OK, maybe just 8 drinks. Epcot is tailor made for the American tourist. It’s an English speaking foreign destination without the attitude or the smell. Add a liberal amount of alcohol and the appeal widens to stressed-out parents and the gay population in general.


“Canada is where they serve Molson, right?” I ask Paul. He looks at me as if I have no socially redeeming values. “William, it’s not all about the drinks. Did you see the gardens in Canada?” “There are gardens?” I reply. Paul sighs and begins walking again. The sun is beating down on us. So we decide to take a ride on Spaceship Earth for the short line and merciful air conditioning.

We are sitting in the two person car that carries its passengers on a trip through time highlighting the importance of the written word. Instead of paying attention to the mechanical movements of the ancient Phoenicians, Paul is flirting with me as if we have just entered the “Tunnel of Love” at a county fair. This is something I am sure Disney never imagined in his future world. Or maybe he did, he certainly seemed to have issues with his mother. As evidenced by the murder or absence of her in every Disney cartoon movie.

Towards the end of the ride, Judi Dench’s voice elegantly asks the passengers to record their answers to several questions on a computer screen. The answers will be used to produce our “Future World” she declares. I am happy to do something other than look at the creepy mannequins, which are decidedly dated. After all the questions are answered, a video plays with our heads superimposed onto cartoon bodies.

Our future selves purchase clothes online, and check themselves out in the mirror. They prance through our future house and push a button for breakfast. While they sip coffee a huge TV appears, so they can catch up on entertainment news. Then they pop into a hover craft bound for the city. We both have a good laugh at this.

In the car in front of us sits a single lady in her fifties with waist length wiry grey hair. Her clothes are surely made of earth friendly materials. We watch her “future world” play. She tends to a garden on her rooftop in the country while recycling all of her household materials.

Suddenly, my future world seems kind of frivolous. And to be honest, my future world is pretty much a mirror of my present world.

Later that evening, Paul and I begin the “Epcot Pub Crawl”. Ingeniously, Disney has designed a world cocktail tour with each country represented as a backdrop. We start in Great Britain (ale for me, gin & tonic for Paul) and work our way around the globe. Mexico (frozen margaritas), Norway (glacier shots), China (plum wine), Germany (Jagermeister), Italy (prosecco). Halfway there! USA (bathroom break because neither of us are fans of Bud

weiser), Japan (sake was never was my favorite so souvenirs for the kids), Morocco (Muslim so no alcohol and let’s face it, Africa and the gays don’t mix.) Finally we pick up Grey Goose Slurpees in France, bypass Canada (pretty much USA North) and then make a run for the border and end up in Mexico again for nachos.

I sip my adult Slurpee and “make love” to my Nachos, as Paul says. I look out over the manmade lake and the twinkling lights of the fake Paris in the distance. In a moment of absolute clarity that often follows a few adult beverages I romanticize my life. Sure, everything around me is a representation, but what in life is truly real? The cartoon has captured a dimension of my life, not all of it. And to be honest, if the future mirrors the present, I can live with that

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Divine Design

HGTV has warped my sense of reality. In the same amount of time that it takes me to consume half a package of raw cookie dough and a bottle of wine, the designers accomplish truly amazing things with imagination, a dash of design trickery and a little elbow grease. And they look pretty damn good doing it. When did carpenters begin to look like GQ cover models?


I am not sure if it was the sugar rush or the alcohol, but at the end of one show, I was certain that Paul and I could do the same thing, if not better than those pretty boys. With just a budget of $2,000 I was positive that we could renovate our Boston condo. My thinking was that the renovations featured on TV were much larger than our 497 square feet of “dated, but good bones” space. Bring on the parade of young, buff carpenters and paint chip samples!

The term “Reality” TV is a little loose. I expected young muscled guys with good hair.  What showed up at our door, when they showed up, was more like something from “The Hills Have Eyes”; Science experiments that have gone terribly, terribly wrong. I would receive an e-mail from my friends, Sam and Cary after each appointment; “WELL??” the impatient subject line would state. I knew what they were expecting: “Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me….” What I was crafting in my mind was: “Dear Better Business Bureau, I never thought this would happen to me…”

When it came to picking out paint colors and furniture it was a breeze. Paul gave me a choice of two and when I started to pick the wrong one, he would gently guide me towards the other. “Pookie, you have the ‘vision’, I’m just the labor”. He said. I basked in the glow of my superior design skills, while Paul demolished, constructed and rebuilt our condo. The budget of $2,000 was not close; however, it was a multiple of $2,000.

HGTV was not there for our renovation, but I have a vision of them filming a segment on our renovated space. The film crew van would circle the block one hundred times looking for a parking space. Cue the doorbell sound while Paul and I graciously welcome the host, “Welcome to our new home.” We say. The irritated sweaty host replies “Makeup!”, because he has just climbed four flights of stairs.

“OK, Mr. Dameron, let’s see the rest of your space”. The host says. “Oh, this is pretty much it.” I reply. Giving the camera man the universal “cut” signal the host, clearly not happy says “Look, Mr. Dameron, when you filled out the online form for submission, you indicated that this was a ‘Spacious’ condo remodel!” A little embarrassed I say “Well, I’m a gay man, have you seen our online dating profiles? This is about as truthful as it gets, and in terms of size…” The host cuts me off. “Just show me the effing water view!”  I crowd the crew into our bedroom and say “OK, if you can just stick the camera out that window and just a skoach to the left, you’ll catch a glimpse of the pool if you look real hard….” I turn around just in time to see the door slam behind the host. But, I don’t care; because it’s the fourth Wednesday of the month and I know their van has been towed.

It may just be 497 square feet of Martha Stewart paint, Ikea cabinetry and refinished hardwood floors in a fourth floor walkup. But it’s our 497 square feet of heaven in the city. And I married the young buff carpenter.

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Rules of the game

The first rule of air travel is: you do not talk about air travel. The second rule of air travel is: you do not talk about air travel. These rules are not written; they simply exist and are subject to change at any moment. I used to travel in a cocoon of ignorance, blindly following the herd, but recent trips have enlightened me and I am willing to share these rules with you if you remember rule number one.

Third rule of air travel: Do not try to do anything by phone. If you must change a reservation, never believe the Indian ticketing agent. Bairavi has been coached on how best to annoy you by mispronouncing your name, and calling you Ma’am even if you sound like Barry White and your name is John. If you ask about any other flights, she will tell you it is sold out. She does not understand English. Bypass this and fly standby by checking in at the airport.

Fourth rule of air travel: Flirt shamelessly with the counter ticketing agent. This one takes skill as you must determine if he or she will be flattered or repulsed by you. When you ask if you can be put on the standby list he will tell you that you must do this at the gate. This is a warning! You have not flattered him enough and therefore he has no interest in you. Flirt more and with luck, you will be told that you are number one on the standby list.

Fifth rule of air travel: You will always be standing behind the unseasoned traveller in the security line. Learn to spot these mouth breathing time sinks by looking for some common traits: a bewildered look, drinking from a two liter bottle of soda, or putting their luggage down and forgetting to pick it up. You cannot avoid it, but you can be prepared to skirt around them when they are surprised that they need to show ID.

Sixth rule of air travel: The counter ticketing agent is a liar. Proceed to the gate and ask the gate agent if you are on the standby list. She will tell you that you are the last person on the standby list. If you tell her you thought you were first, you may notice the airline personnel aggressive gesture: hand on hip, one eyebrow raised and lips pursed. Caution!: When you see this gesture, assume the submissive role by lowering your head and backing away slowly. Stand close to the gate so that you are in their line of sight and are not forgotten but do not look them directly in the eye.

Seventh rule of air travel: Do not joke about allergies with the flight attendant. On the rare occasion that a bag of eight peanuts are offered to you, the flight attendant will invariably be back in 45 seconds to snatch the bag of peanuts out of your hand and announce that there is an “allergy” on board. Apparently, allergies have achieved consciousness and no longer need human hosts. If you are offered pretzels instead, DO NOT joke that you are allergic to pretzels. You will immediately see the aggressive gesture described in the sixth rule. Assume the submissive role or you may see the aggressive gesture elevate to a finger wagging and neck roll.

The final rule of air travel: Your life is ending one minute at a time and if you have someone that you cherish, every tick of the clock that you save by following the air travel rules is another second closer to home. Learn them. Follow them. Love them.

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The Secret

I had a sneaking suspicion about my husband Paul from the beginning. There were the telltale signs that were too hard to ignore. But, I did, because I didn’t, no that’s not it, I “couldn’t” accept it. But the burden of knowing is simply too hard to bear alone. So, I am ready to admit it, even though I may be ostracized. Here it is: My husband is a morning person.


In the beginning, he would sleep late. Our habits were the same and it was sheer bliss. But then, I began to notice that the other side of the bed would be empty at 8:30 AM on weekend mornings. “It’s OK, he’s in the bathroom, just stay calm” I told myself. And I wrapped myself in ignorance, like the blanket around me, and went back to sleep until 10 AM, like any “normal” person would do on a weekend morning.

But then I began to notice other things. Was that the sound of a lawn mower at 9:00 AM? It sounded so close, as if it was in our yard! “No, it couldn’t be” and again, I would lull myself back to sleep. Clearly, I was in the denial stage.

Then, one day it became clear. I saw him leap from the bed. He was singing, damn him! I rubbed my eyes and looked at the other side of the bed, sure that I was dreaming. It was as empty as my heart felt at that moment. Slowly, I turned my head to look at the clock. It mocked me with its bright digital numbers; seven AM. So, there it was. I felt as if I had just discovered “straight” porn on his computer. That was my turning point.

I have been through all of the stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and now, finally acceptance. Apparently being a morning person is an immutable characteristic. I have done my research. People are born this way and should be accepted as they are. You can’t change them. God knows, I have tried. I would grunt monosyllable replies to his questions in the morning, but clearly he could not reciprocate.

Just yesterday Paul was driving me to work in the morning, chattering away and singing to the radio. I drifted in and out of consciousness. Pieces of his cheerful morning monologue became clear and then faded away: “Are those your cute little shorts in the back of the car?” I heard him say and then another piece of random morning speak “So, they light the little dolls on fire and cook on them!” He laughs and looks at me. “The Australians, Pookie. The barbies!” Nonsensical happy morning speak.

He flaunts it now and I have resigned myself to be a supporter. He will probably want to march in some “morning person” pride parade and I will bravely accompany him with my “I love my morning person husband” T-shirt. The problem is, it will probably be an early morning breakfast parade at some God awful hour. Maybe I can convince him to make it a brunch thing.

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