Mr. Lonely Heart Seeks...

If you were to go on-line right now and login to any number of gay "chat" sites, you would find a variety of types of men: "raw dawg seeks to get it poppin' right now;" "older guy seeks younger Asian for nsa bb pnp fun;" "mr. right seeks one ltr;" "couple seeks third for no drama, safe sex;" and so on and so on. There would be photographs of guys' torsos with their heads cut off, full nudes, in the mirror pictures with guys attempting to appear super masculine, pictures of guys' asses, pictures of guys flexing their abs, pictures of guys' 10 inch ... remote controls... and so forth. Whether its an app on one's phone, or website, each and every guy is looking for something: it may be sex... it may be more than sex. Gay men have spent years... decades... in this country fighting for equality of freedom of sexual expression. Whether it's a result of that fight or simply the male libido, or something deeper than that, many gay men find a niche (bears, jocks, partyers, pigs, twinks, whatever) and allow themselves to conform to a preconceived prescription of an image in order to ... to find whatever it is they seek. Really, gay or straight, who isn't looking for... something?

As empowering as all of these labels are, as empowering as it is to call one's self gay, sometimes we gay men forget that before we are gay, with being gay, we are also human beings. And sometimes, while we conform to whatever preconceptions we have, in our quest to find whatever it is we think we want or need, somewhere along the way, we get lost. We lose sight of what is fundamentally important. We lose ourselves. 

Recently, I've been depressed. Many gay men usually experience this at some point in their lives. I don't mean the, "Why do I have to be gay?" depression, or the "My loved ones do not accept me!" depression, or the "I'm not cute enough to find someone!" depression (although the last most definitely relates to what I am speaking about). I am talking about that lack of fulfillment... when the hookups aren't doing it for you anymore, your job isn't bringing satisfaction, and even going to the gym isn't relieving a growing, latent anxiety. 

When my best friend died, I fell into a deep depression and despite concerted efforts to pull myself out of it, the grey skies of the winter months, the humdrum routine of a thankless job, and that all too dreaded approaching holiday, Valentine's Day, all assisted in moving a depression induced by a loss to a depression in which I was lost. 

Two weekends ago, after a sordid Saturday evening out with friends, my best friend and cousin called me. She had been in a severe car accident. My Sunday of planned relaxation quickly turned into a Sunday of unplanned duress. I quickly sped to her aid, fearful of what might have been another loved Leo having been lost in my life. After some time spent, I left grateful that she was fine. Something did not sit right with me, though. I returned home, empty... and lonely. 

The next day, I made plans with the Dancer for later in the week. We were to go on a date. We hadn't seen each other since before Thanksgiving when I revealed some very personal information over a text messaging exchange. We would meet on Wednesday and go out for dinner. Wednesday came, and I sent him a text to confirm dinner was still on for that evening. He said he was unable to have dinner that evening: he was waiting on a check, as often happens in the entertainment industry. He suggested Friday as an alternative and then jokingly commented, 'unless you want to pay.' I said sure. 

I picked him up that evening in the Upper West Side. Whether it was not having seen him in so long, or a general chemical exuberance, we were both all smiles. Our eyes were locked. We kissed. I expressed my happiness that I was able to see him. And we were off to dinner. While driving, I asked him if I had scared him off. He said at first I did, but then he had become very busy. He had moved into a new place and taken on several other jobs during December. After catching up, he told me he was venturing into a new area: space redesign. Think of it like interior decorating. With all of his connections, with his ability to see spaces and organize them to be effective spaces for entertainment, it seemed like a natural next step for him to pursue. He said he was redesigning the downstairs lounge of a famous Harlem restaurant. He said the name of the restaurant. My jaw dropped. He was renovating the downstairs to my ex... the Ex's... restaurant. He must've noticed my expression. "Oh, that's right... your ex works there doesn't he?" He and I had previously discussed the Ex in minor detail. "Yep," was all I could manage to say. Small gay world. What a small gay world it is. 

He comforted any trepidation I was feeling. "Don't worry. He'd be beneath me. I will be his boss." This, and a smile, relieved me. 

We arrived at our destination: the Meatball Shop in the Lower East Side. Over dinner, we talked... and it was in a word, nice. The conversation seemed to flow. There were few awkward pauses. Lot's of flirtation, as initiated by myself, and good food. I paid the check and I drove him home. We kissed goodnight. And I left. The next day I sent him a text thanking him for a great evening and asking if we could do it again sometime. There was no reply immediately and it was then that I realized, during dinner, he did not ask me a single question about my life. Everything I discussed was volunteered. There hadn't been a give and take. I was asking all of the questions, trying to maintain the conversation. Dinner only "flowed" because I forced it to. 

It was something of a disappointment and I found myself on-line looking for... love... My dinner with the Dancer, as nice as it was, turned out to be just what it was: dinner. Later on that week, we had made plans to have brunch on Sunday. Cancelled. The next week, and several flirty text messages later (all sent by me), I received a, "Give me a second..." That second turned into the rest of the week. My friend Lauren suggested I was not playing the game... I was making myself too available... she asked what he had to look forward to if I wasn't letting him chase me. I suppose she was right... but, then, I was never one for 'playing the game.' And, on top of it, the question burning in the back of my mind was: what if he didn't chase me?

On Facebook, in store windows, and on television, inklings of Valentine's Day started to sprout. The weekend after the Dancer and I had dinner, and right before our planned Sunday brunch, the unexpected happened: the most recent ex contacted me. I was in Brooklyn with my cousin. I was surprised... it had been months since any real communication. He said he found out about my best friend's passing and expressed his sympathies (finding out brought to you by Facebook). I was taken aback. After about an hour of back and forth over text, he suggested we get together sometime. I replied in the affirmative. He asked when I could be over. I was surprised... I did not realize he meant that same evening. I decided to go with it. Despite a tumultuous break-up, an unhealthy relationship in many ways, I still went with it. 

On my way over to his place, I found myself confused. Why was I going? What was I hoping would result? Was it a way to satisfy my loneliness? Was it a way for him to satisfy his? 

I arrived and sat in his room. It was as I remembered it, like nothing had changed. We talked. He asked if  I missed him. I answered in the affirmative. He told me about his past year, the guys he had dated... most of them, he said, weren't ready for a relationship for one reason or another. Finally, I asked him, "Why now? Why contact me after all of this time?" "Even with all the fights..." he said, "Sometimes you just want to fight with one person, just so you can be with them..." There was something strangely romantic and sadomasochistic about what he said. 

A few hours and some sexy time later, we were laying together. The room was quiet and still. He asked me if I still loved him. In one night, he had proven to be more open, more sensitive, more vulnerable than much of the time we were together. He said he loved me, still. I replied... I do. But did I? Did I really? Had I said it to spare his feelings? Had I said it to spare my own? Was I unsure? I knew when I said it some part of it was wrong; although I still loved him, so much had happened since "us" that I felt saying it was not the best thing. If anything were to ever happen again between he and I, it would have to be open, honest, and slow-going. 

He asked me to stay the night. We'd sleep in each other's arms and it would be amazing. It would be, in essence, everything I was wishing for in my life. Except, something stopped me. I had bought groceries which sat in the trunk of my car. I knew it was cold out, but I did not want to risk all the food I'd just bought spoiling. I explained this and he escorted me outside. 

Outside, it was snowing. It was the first real snowfall in New York since October's freak, unanticipated snow debacle. The night was serene and, as a person who finds signs in almost everything, I nearly spun around and told him I'd stay. But I didn't. I still left. And as I drove slowly home from Brooklyn, the snow gently cascading around me, I felt more lost than ever. What was wrong with me?

That next week, he texted me every single day. It was the first time ever he'd ever been so attentive. He asked me what I had thought about what happened. I hadn't mentioned it whatsoever to him and he wanted to know my thoughts on it. I explained that I didn't regret the night at all and I wanted to see where things were going. I was and am very cautious about it all and despite several warnings from friends, continued to text him back. 

And as the Dancer said he'd 'hold on a second,' and as this ex, G, said he sweet nothings, and as every guy on-line who contacted me only wanted to get off, and as Valentine's Day seemed to appear more and more and more, I felt the most incomplete, unfulfilled, dissatisfied, and alone I had felt in quite some time. 

It was mid-week. That night I had a dream. My mother, still alive, who I haven't seen in over six years, appeared to me. She was luminescent and angelic. She was young. She was vibrant. She warned me of something. Only when I was driving to my job that next day did my dream suddenly occur to me. I felt nervous: Had something happened to her? Was she okay? What had she warned me about?

That day at work, two fights occurred and, as the school day closed, members of a street gang descended on my students right outside of my school. They were in ski masks. Without getting into particulars, they were essentially responding to Facebook interactions between one of our students and another one of our students. The incident was over as quickly as it happened. It was said one of the men had a gun. Several of my students were involved and frightened. Thankfully, no one was hurt. I will not comment further on the matter.

I left school that day feeling a sense of fright, hopelessness, and loss. A year ago this past December, a former student of mine committed suicide. This image was immediately evoked in my mind and I felt more dissatisfied than ever with the world, my job, my effect in my position, and myself. The next day, it was spoken about but it did not seem anything had really changed. I now genuinely fear to go to my job. I fear for my safety and my kids' safety. I wonder if the virtual nonsense that caused this, that has been translating into physical altercations in my school, will cease. I wonder if the kids who are routinely disrespectful under a guise of machismo will learn. I wonder...

I left work that day quickly. I fell into a deep sleep as soon as I arrived home. When I woke, the day had turned to night and I found myself wishing desperately for a partner. I needed someone to comfort me, to listen to me, to spend Friday night with me. A fast hookup would not solve that. 

I explained some of my anxiousness to my good friend Sophia. She suggested that I come to Connecticut for a party the next night to take my mind off of everything. She'd treat me to dinner, I'd get a good night's sleep, and meet some new people. I agreed. In the meantime, I decided I needed to unwind. So, I went to my gym.

The gym I attend has many locations around New York. It offers a variety of services. Some of their locations include steam rooms and saunas. I have sat in their steam room many a time, especially when coming down with a cold. I went to the gym to do just that: sit in the steam room and relax. Of course, we gays know that what oftentimes happens in the steam rooms and saunas of gyms isn't always PG but more NC-17. 

When I went into the sauna that evening, two men were sitting there relaxing, in their own thoughts. Two guys exited as I entered, and directly in front of the door to the sauna, one of these guys performed fellatio on the other for a few seconds. Through the glass of the sauna door, I heard the one who did the performing ask the other if he'd like to get out of here. Love was in the air, as it were. 

The two men in the sauna left one by one and I found myself alone, ridding the toxins my body accumulated over the past several weeks. I closed my eyes. The door opened. When I opened my eyes, I found myself looking at a man in his mid-thirties sitting five feet away from me on the other side of the sauna. 

He eye-fucked me, and upon seeing this, I smiled internally and shut my eyes once more. I was not in the mood for anything to happen. I wanted to enjoy the peace and tranquility of the sauna. I wanted to decompress, sans orgasm. This desire quickly changed: every time I opened my eyes, there he was, staring at me, fully erect. Five minutes later, as I crouched as close to the opposite wall as possible, the door slammed open. A staff member called to me and the living erection five feet away from me, "Get out." I immediately exited, feeling a sense of nervousness. I showered and, while entering the locker room, was called a "Pato!" by the same staff member who'd opened the door. Pato, in case you're wondering, is Spanish for duck... and faggot. Half-naked, I immediately dressed. I hadn't felt so vulnerable in so long. 

I exited the locker room to find the same staff member waiting for me. He asked for my barcode, which permits entry into the club. I refused. He escorted me downstairs to the front desk and accused me of inappropriate activity in front of the desk staff member. He, in turn, asked me for my barcode as well. I refused. I asked the staff member who so rudely accused me what evidence he had. He had none. It didn't occur to me then, but how could something be happening when both myself and the other guy in the sauna had been several feet apart! After some back and forth, the desk man finally threatened me with calling the cops, who would conduct a full investigation. I asked why and on what basis. The desk man said I was trespassing. "How was I trespassing?" I calmly asked. He said the sauna closed down at 7pm. I asked where it was posted on the website that that was the case. He pointed to a small sign next to the elevator. It didn't occur to me to say it then, but no sign was posted on the door to or by the sauna. In addition, the unit was on and two men were in there. He said that they'd been having problems with these kinds of incidences and since the staff member saw us, I needed to give my bar code. I responded, exclaiming that the staff member was accusing me of something! Why is it you always think of the better thing to say after the fact? It did not occur to me to say that the guy had also made a homophobic remark and that this may be indicative of why he "tossed us out" and made such accusations; that he, based on some preconceptions, did something synonymous to the Salem Witch Trials of the 1600s. This all would probably have gone over his head. In any event, after more back and forth, I finally acquiesced and reluctantly submitted my bar code. I asked what would happen next, to which I was told I'd receive a call from one of the managers. He had said if I just admitted it there would be no investigation and I'd have my membership cancelled for only two weeks. What a deal! Except, there's nothing to admit. 

I still haven't received a call from the manager. 

Saturday, I was anxious to leave New York. I needed to get the hell out of dodge. I needed to forget about my life, love, the discriminations of a sexually conservative society, and work. So, I got on a train and made my way to Connecticut. Sophia picked me up. We caught up over drinks in Hartford, during which time a gentleman revealed the meanings of what a Monroe Transfer and a Filthy Ramirez are (the latter is his own coining, a variation on a Dirty Sanchez). If you are not easily offended, I suggest you look these up on urbandictionary.com. 

We ended up at a gay man's house party. He was hosting a gathering for Sophia's friend, who was going to shave her head that night for some specific and interesting purpose. Two by two, gay couples arrived. Sophia and I seemed we were the only single folk there. Having lived in Hartford some time back, I recognized some of the guys who entered. And finally, an old fling arrived with his now current boyfriend. Amused and bitter, I began downing drink after drink until finally, I found myself being told to enter into the next room. Everyone was gathering there. 

And like a burp, it spontaneously happened.

The woman who was shaving her head found herself, hair still unshaven, surrounded by a cohort of gay men who gawked in awe at her boyfriend bending down on one knee to propose to her. My jaw dropped and I clutched the invisible pearls which hung from my neck. I had escaped the constant reminder of being single in New York to find myself surrounded by gay couples staring at an event whose very definition is the ending of singlehood and the beginning of marriage. I wanted to vomit. I turned to Sophia. She understood my sentiments. I wanted to go. 

I found myself having one more drink in the kitchen before I left (free wine... eh, ya can't go wrong). I then realized in front of me were two single gay men who asked me who I knew and how I knew them. I told them who I knew, mentioning the name of the old fling. They asked how I knew him. Whether it was because he hadn't looked at me once that night (did I have the plague?) or because the alcohol, in combination with the irrevocable display of horror to which I had been witnessed, I simply said, "We fucked." The paused, and one finally said, "Wow, that's awkward." I replied, "Not really." After the past two weeks, and my previous evening, they only knew the beginnings of awkward. I was a pro. 

We left and enjoyed an evening of good food and dancing at the local gay bar, where I had previously worked. We journeyed to her home in the rural Connecticut where I slept to the sounds of the ringing in my ears. 

The next morning, instead of sirens, stereo bass, and obnoxious passers-by speaking louder than was necessary for a Sunday morning, I heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. I opened peeked behind the shade to see the morning light on frosted grass and tall trees. The room I slept in was home to countless works of created and collected pieces of art. It was surreal. It felt like a dream. So uncommon was all of this for me, I actually felt dizzy. I had to lay in bed for several minutes to gather my bearings. 

Waiting for the train to arrive later that morning, the bright light streaming into the arched windows of the New Haven train station seemed to me an old friend I hadn't spoken to in quite some time. It was serene. On the train back to reality, I began thinking about what was important to me. The closer I got to New York, the more lost I felt. 

My apartment seemed both familiar and alien. How did my life get me here? Wasn't this everything I wanted? I moved to New York after a tumultuous period in my life. I had worked so hard to get here. I moved her to get work, which I did, and fall in love, which I did, only to lose that love for one reason or another. Here I was in a place I did not want to be. I felt sick. My dark apartment, which barely allowed light into it, felt suppressive and lonely. 

And as I sat on my bed, listening to the medley of sounds of the outside world, I began to read. I spent time alone, reading, something I rarely find time to do. The last few pages of the book read, in so many words, as: 'sometimes you have to travel far to find what's right in front of you.'

It was like a light bulb had suddenly been turned on. For all the espousing I have done lately about being okay with me, I felt lost because the reality is, I am not okay with me. When we seek love so aggressively, it is doubtful that we will ever truly find it. At least, that's the case with me. Like every profile touting "man seeks this" or "man seeking that," I am seeking something... love... to compensate for some incompletion within myself. Not every moment needs to be read into, and not every thing has a symbolic significance or is a sign, but of this I am certain: everything about my life now is where it is now as the result of a series of events and experiences; I can only control my reaction to my life now and if I am dissatisfied with some part of it, I have the power to change that and to affect change. I will never find true love and happiness unless I find it within myself first, which means facing myself, in the mirror, alone, and seeing me for who I really am: a flawed and imperfect human being. And like the words in the book, my journey may take me far in my quest to find what is right in front of me... although, an evening in Connecticut seems to have done some of the trick at least.

Being single is not the end of the world. Love will come and go but throughout it, I can love myself. This may mean I need to spend more time saying I love you in the mirror and a lot less time saying "Man seeks love." 

The Good, the Bad, the Ugly... and the Comedy

Sometimes in life, you have to take two steps back to go three steps forward. In my case, it was more like falling down a mountain to face an exhaustive climb back to the top.

After my merry weekend with friends, I decided to face the music: work. Recently, work had become rather cumbersome to handle. In fact, life became difficult. My best friend’s premature death affected me more greatly than I realized. No amount of time alone, time with friends, shopping, listening to music, sex, drinking, or the like, or anything else lulled me into a sense of having completely processed his passing. I’m not sure anything ever will. I had gone through random moments of feeling “up,” and many intense, almost spasmodic sensations of hopelessness, despair, and grief. Work was the quite honestly the last thing on my mind and what with the holidays, time to process was replaced with time to give gifts and enjoy snow, so to speak.

Ever since it all began several months ago, I had fallen quickly into this lump. Life took over. I stopped going to the gym. I stopped caring about my appearance. I had more sleepless nights than I had decent night’s sleeps. I suppose all of that was normal. And so, at one point, during all of this, just after Alonzo passed, I texted my ex… the Ex. I asked him to come over. I didn’t tell him about what was going on. Whether it was a moment of weakness (we did not end on good terms, to say the least), or just wanting someone familiar (even though this familiar person never did satisfy my emotional needs), I irrationally asked him to come over… to cuddle. I needed the warmth. It wasn’t about sex. It was about feeling… less empty. He said he would come over. In typical fashion, he never did. No text. No call. Nothing. What did I expect? He had sent a text that next day, claiming he passed out, asking if we could get a drink or dinner. I didn’t respond. As usual, when I really needed him, he wasn’t there (I’m sure he’d say the same thing about me).

This past weekend, while looking for a bar with my newfound cohort, I texted him again. Only this time, it wasn’t for him to come over. In addition to bartending at a reputable restaurant in Harlem, as well as bartending at a few other places, the ex managed a bar on Friday and Saturday nights in a quaint French bistro-by-day space on Park Avenue in Midtown. I know this because I’d been there when he first began it in the fall. The ex and I had seen each other more this past autumn than in all of the years since we had not-so-officially broken up. He had even come to my house. There is a Fiona Apple song, Fast As You Can, that seems apropos for this: “I let the beast in too soon and then I even tried forgiving him, but it’s too soon, so I’ll fight again, again, again, again, again…” When he visited me, I served him tea. We chatted. I did not anticipate nor desire sex. Unexpectedly, this baby was most certainly and quite surprisingly thrown out with the bath water. At that time, he agreed to have dinner with me (don’t ask me why I wanted to, I still struggle with understanding that weird desire to return to the familiar, no matter how bad it was… and cue Rihanna’s We Fell in Love in a Hopeless Place). Needless to say, dinner never happened. Now, I hadn’t seen him before this visit to my place for quite some time. Fate, that old dog, has a sly sense of humor: I bumped into him later that same week (post our recent “hook up”). Even when I bumped into him quite unexpectedly at the local Starbucks very early in the morning while on my way to work, he said he wanted to take me on a date (his words, almost verbatim). Perhaps it was said out of nervousness, though. He whispered this to me while on an early-morning date; the date glanced me over and went back to his Grande-something-or-other. Oh, what a tangled web.

In October, just around Halloween, I bumped into him once again by chance in Chelsea. This was after or before having seen him at his bar, when, at one point, I waited until 5 in the morning to drive him home, thinking we’d chat and perhaps snuggle (I waited in vain!). As I walked down 8^th Avenue to run an errand, he was walking up it… with another lad… and they were clearly together, on a date. Now, life has its ironic twists. For example, when I moved unknowingly two blocks away from where the Ex now lives (with his now ex). Or when my Ex slept (multiple times) with a boy I introduced him to (in addition to many other “dalliances” while we were together). But none of these twists compared to the twist that this chance encounter would provide. I hadn’t even recognized the Ex. He stopped me first. He asked if I were going to the parade, to which I said no (I’d had a long night, I told him in an effort to illicit some less-than-warm and fuzzy-response). Whether out of surprise, revulsion, or sheer and utter disgust that this man, my Ex, who claimed (a nice way of saying lied, omitted, side-stepped) he had been too busy the one or two times I asked him about dinner, was now on a date. I left them, ran my errands, and found myself looking for food. With all of the restaurants in all of New York City, I happened to crave sushi. As it turned out, so did they. At the same sushi restaurant I had meandered into.

Fast forward back now to my cohort searching for a bar. When I texted him asking where exactly his bar was located, in the hopes I’d go there with my friends and get free cocktails, I didn’t realize two things: 1. Without realizing it, and without him having told me, his attempt to manage this sophisticated gay night at a French bistro on Park Avenue had seemingly failed, and 2. He had been out of the country when I sent this text.

I went to work, again, reluctantly, after this weekend of frivolity, and found myself in dire straits: for the first time in several years, I had a severe asthma attack. You see, this weekend had been usual. It had been unseasonably warm one day and freezing the next. I had been out both days, which, in combination with libation, and the polluted air surrounding my school, produced a violent asthma attack. Unbeknownst to me, my inhaler was expired (by nearly five years). I left work early that day, went to my doctor and received a new prescription.

That night, while struggling to regain my breath, I decided I needed to take the next day off from work. This turned out to be a very necessary course of action. Almost immediately, I received a text from him. He said he was deboarding his plane as we spoke and asked when I had sent the text (about where his bar was). I lied and said around New Years. He replied saying he had been out of the country (in France, as it turned out) for the past two and some odd weeks. I asked him what was going on to which he strangely suggested we grab a drink. I said we could do that at some point and inquired again as to what was going on. He said he didn’t want to tell me like this, over text.

And then the bomb was dropped. That moment I mentioned… that ironic twist was set forth upon me as a pestilence upon a people. Over a text message, my Ex, the Ex, the one who I had previously proposed to, the one who had cheated on me dozens of times (although he’d say I was exaggerating), the one who changed my life in more ways than I care to discuss here at present, informed me: he had gotten married. The Ex had married the guy with whom I saw him walking up 8^th Avenue. He had married “Frenchie.”

My mouth rarely gapes (no comments from the peanut gallery, please). I believe I heard it hit my polished wood floors when I read and reread this text message. I sat down and immediately informed Lauren and then Jason, whose logic and rationality weren’t the remedies I was seeking at that moment, despite their necessity. I quickly hung up both calls to let myself process the sensation of finding out the person you had convinced yourself you had fallen deeply in love with was getting married. Evidently, it had all happened rather suddenly. I found out that the Ex had proposed to Frenchie within days of meeting him. ‘It was some past-life shit’ he had later explained. It was love. I felt immediately comfortable with him (the implication in the tone with which he said this was one which insinuated that I had put on airs and did not feel or cause comfort).

Our texting went on back and forth and into the next day. As I attempted to rest and recuperate, he and I argued over text and finally over the phone. He said he had forgiven himself for everything that happened with us. Appalled, I replied wondering where the hell I was in that conversation. He said he had tried… once… I blurted, ‘Bullshit! You should have tried harder!’ He recounted several examples of experiences we had which were clearly fabrications – did he think that if he said it, I would forget? Had he come to a place where his own lies had turned into self-reinforcing delusions? Somehow, we hung up the phone and parted ways.

The week went by at work, rather uneventfully. Somehow, I managed to find humor in the entire thing. I even went to Bikrham Yoga to sweat out my angst. And then, Friday came.

A resolution I made to myself. Essentially, I see so many gay men do regularly… Hell… what I see so many do regularly: put others’ needs before their own in a way that is unhealthy and resulting in pain for one or both parties. This process comes from a place, not out of altruism or selflessness, but out of insecurity, pain, low self-worth. I have been guilty of this, and these past few months, having fallen into a rut, had become vulnerable to this in a way that was reminiscent of me circa 25 years old. Had I not grown? Had I not grown out of that ‘prematurity’ and moved into a new phase of growth and personal evolution? I resolved, in this New Year, to promote my personal wellbeing and growth… to take care of me. In doing so, I’d invariably bring light and love into the lives of everyone around me. This was something Alonzo did, and tried to help everyone he loved to do as well.

Friday afternoon, while preparing to leave work to attend a birthday gathering of friends, I received a text from the Ex. He asked what I was doing that night and if I would like to attend, with him, a gathering. His friend was starting his new job at a restaurant in Pelham, a town in Westchester County. He said we could take the train, though it was far. For some reason, I said sure. I asked him where exactly it was, and he explained. I asked if he was asking me to go because he knew I’d want to drive and thus, he’d in turn get a ride. He didn’t respond right away. About an hour later, I was home. I texted him again to confirm the night's plan. He actually called. He said there would be many of his friends from our neighborhood there and it would be great for me to meet people. His words, verbatim: “You’re a catch; you shouldn’t be alone.” I almost burst into laugher at the irony! My Ex… the Ex… who only days before told me about his recent marriage… was attempting to play matchmaker? Where are the Golden Girls when you need a friend?

He acknowledged that he felt as though he were making a case. I explained I had no idea why that was; I had already agreed to attend. We hung up. I could have predicted this next: he informed me that his friend would be riding with us. One friend seemed to turn into two. Finally, a few hours later, after resting, I was dressed and driving the two blocks to pick him up. Incidentally, he informed me that it was just us. The cold dissuaded his friends from coming out. He then proceeded to tell me about a friend, a guy, who happened to be giving him attitude because he was upset I was going. I asked if they had slept together. His answer was they hadn’t. His tone suggested they had. Aye, me. He then went on to discuss the kid’s ass, his husband’s ass, his husband’s family, his trip to France, etc. etc. etc. I sat, at first jealous, then annoyed, then bored, then listless.

We arrived at his friend’s little Asian Fusion restaurant in Pelham, oddly very close to my hometown. While looking for parking, the Ex commented that he might be looking to get a place up there… he’d like his own apartment and would like to live outside the city. I commented that this was very unlike him, considering my experience in constantly needing to entertain (and pay for) him while I was living as a student in Connecticut. Long story. He said simply, “I’ve changed.” I began to wonder, had he? Had he truly changed? Had I truly changed? Can anyone that’s been so viscerally affected by another person as we both seemed to have been ever change in the eyes of the other person… or for that matter, in our own eyes? He had acknowledged that we had been toxic for each other while together…

I had met his friend before at No Parking, a gay bar in Washington Heights, and had bumped into him here and there in the neighborhood. The Ex had seemed to have forgotten this (so much for my making an impression on him!). We decided to drink and eat at the bar since the restaurant was small and crowded. I ordered a cosmo. The bartender suggested I instead have a pear martini. When he poured me the drink, he warned, “Be careful, this drink will top you quickly,” to which I was forced to retort, “Don’t worry… I’m used to being topped.” I smiled at the thought of the brazen flirtation, unusual for the Ex to see ever, which he had just then observed.

We sat and talked. I told him agreed that we were toxic for each other. When I felt ready, when it felt sincere, I told him I was happy he was happy. And I was. And I am. Everyone deserves happiness. Everyone deserves second chances… third chances… and to a certain extent, past the bitterness… I am glad that he was able to forgive himself, although only he can truly know if that is truth or not. We showed each other pictures on our phones. He bragged in his own way about having gone to a Cyndi Lauper True Colors event and having sat in on Madonna’s back-up dancer selection event (the Ex had friends in high places). I showed him pictures on my phone, including those of cute boys, on which I paused at length, smiling (I smile now thinking about what I bitch I was purposely being).

Several libations later, the check came. The Ex suggested that I get this bill and that the next day, I accompany him to a Brownstone party, where he would just before then, buy me dinner. I told him I might flake on him and suggested we split that evening’s check. We had a little quibble about my newfound ability to flake to which he finally said he didn’t have money in his account and was waiting for his check to come in, which would be in the next day. I nearly heard my mouth hit the floor once again. I wanted to say, “Are you serious?” but instead, offered my card to the barman and told him to put it all on my card. Inside, I shook my head. If I were chatting on-line, I would have written, “omg, smh.”

We left. His friend accompanied us on our ride back into the City. And, as usual, the Ex in his own way, which once seemed tactful and manipulative, but now seems painfully obvious and pathetic, commented on the agreement he and his husband made about being apart from one another… how desires don’t cease… saying, in so many words, that he and his husband, like so many gay male couples, had an understanding. I pretended not to hear this and continued driving under a guise of drunken focus.

We dropped off his friend. I asked him what he wanted to do and he suggested we go back to his place, watch a movie and have a drink. I agreed. His apartment looked very different from the first and last time I’d seen it a year earlier, when I helped him move in with his now ex. We went into his room (he pointed out his new bed). I noticed his bank account up on his laptop, which listed an account as having a negative balance (again, see “smh”). He offered me Bourbon, a drink, which, in two sips, had me three-sheets. We undressed and changed into shorts and lay down to watch The Grudge. I was spooning him. Whether he felt uncomfortable, or was tired of waiting for me to make a move, or wanted to entice me, he asked to switch places so he could spoon me. Was he sympathetic now? Did he feel bad for having neglected me several weeks prior when I asked him to come over to hold me? After all, over dinner earlier that night I had explained in so many words what had recently happened. Whatever the case was, he held me for a moment. Finally, knowing he would probably not make a move (so he wouldn’t have to feel as guilty, since I initiated), I, in a drunken haze, turned over and kissed him. He kissed back. He kissed back hard.

A few hours and two times later, the sun was rising and he was getting ready to go to an early-morning shift. I lay in his bed. I stared at nothing and thought of nothing. I didn’t feel sadness. I didn’t feel happiness or euphoria. I wondered if the agreement the Ex had made with his husband included sleeping with ex’s or not. Then again, maybe it was just further justification to my long-held argument: the Ex never really did love me and very little could convince me that what we had, on his end, was truly love. Maybe not on my end, either. The Ex had returned from a shower. I gazed blankly at his naked body, looking at how it had changed and stayed the same. I found myself still physically attracted to him in some ways, but on a whole, something was very different.

He said he’d call me later on that day. I would come by his restaurant, pick him up, we’d get food, and go to this Brownstone party. I said sure. Something felt different, though. I had said it before. I had said it before to friends… I felt that this would be the last time I’d ever see him again.

We parted ways in front of my car. I did not offer a ride. I drove home and went immediately to my bed to take a nap. While resting in my own bed, old and weathered as it was in comparison to his brand-new bed, the sex we’d had wasn’t nearly as fulfilling or as satisfying as it been in the past. Was I different? Was my body changed? Was he? Was it because I was drunk? He certainly didn’t let me top him, though I tried (was that his way of remaining faithful to his husband?). The sex we had was just… okay. I realized then that the power and control he once had over me… the illusion of his sincerity, wonderment, beauty, humanity, and loveliness, as in relation to me, had disappeared and faded. He was just a hookup. Even if he had fulfilled some last-ditch attempt to feel like he still had it… like he could still ‘get’ me… unlike every single other time… I didn’t, in my heart of hearts, feel like I gave anything up or lost my dignity. Every other time, something inside me died. This time… I felt stronger. I felt better. I felt like I had said a goodbye that was a long time in the making.

I woke up from my nap and met my friend Sophia at Grand Central. We enjoyed a wonderful day of brunch, the MoMa, coffee, Chelsea Market, eyebrow threading, drinks, and dinner at Catch in Meatpacking. And when I went home that night, I fell into a peaceful slumber. The next day, I ran errands, went to the gym, spent some time with my cousin, and met my friend Natasha out for drinks. We chatted. I met her friends. I laughed. And after all was said and done, I decided it was high time I have a drink, by myself, at what it more and more becoming a stomping ground: G-Lounge in Chelsea. I arrived there on Sunday night and ordered myself a cosmo. I chatted with some guys (who made strange sounds in the bathroom while I was urinating in an attempt to make me ‘pee-shy.’ (It didn’t work, just FYI). And after one delicious drink, left, by myself,

On route home, I decided to take the West Side Highway. I pulled up to a light. While idling, I realized the man in the next car was staring at me. The light turned green and I sped off. At the next red light, the man was again next to me. I nodded to acknowledge him. He nodded back. I turned to face forward and smiled. I had to see what this was about. I faced his direction again and rolled down my window. “What’s up?” I asked. His response? “Horny as fuck. What’s good?” For a third time in a week, I nearly heard my mouth hit the floor. I nearly blurted out laughing. “Oh yeah,” I commented. “Yeah! Let’s get it in. Follow me.” The light turned green. I rolled up my window. As he pulled off to the right, to have an anonymous rendezvous alongside the West Side Highway, I glanced his way, and sped off, smiling. Sometimes things are sexy and hot. Sometimes things are corny. This was one of those times when for me, the line he used fell in the latter category.

I drove home along the West Side, admiring the water, enjoying the music on the radio. And that night, I went to bed, alone, and content. It was the perfect end to what had been an interesting weekend. Sometimes… when you least expect it, fate forces you to grow up. Sometimes, you have to fall down to the bottom of the mountain in order to see the great view you actually have.

New Years and the Weak of the Butterfly

It takes the earth approximately 365 days to make one complete revolution around our sun. As it is revolving, it is also spinning on a tilt, taking approximately 24 hours to complete one spin, creating our nights and our days. Our moon takes longer to make one spin, and as it slowly spins, it also revolves around our planet. The planets are simultaneously in motion. Our solar system lays in an arm of our galaxy, which is also spinning. And as our galaxy is spinning, it, too, is moving toward a nearby galaxy and in millions of years, long after our sun has died, these galaxies will collide and coalesce, forming a completely new, larger galaxy. The point? Everything moves. And fast. And as this fast movement happens unnoticed by New Yorkers, life at the "center of the universe," New York City, continues. People move from one place to another to another. It seems like the norm is movement. Does this make "rest" abnormal?

New Years Eve in the City that never sleeps. It is said that New Years is a time for renewal. This year, in the spirit of change, I dedicated myself to several resolutions. 2012 would be a new year for me... the year of change.

To ring in the New Year, I decided to spend the night with my good friends Lauren, Jason, and Natasha. Lauren, a sports aficionado, was returning from her much-needed week away skiing the slopes of Utah's mountain country. We decided we'd do "something" for New Years, even if that something was nursing a bottle of wine for the evening. As it so happened, though, Natasha, another sports enthusiast, had other plans. Her fabulous sister Shana rented an apartment for the evening in SoHo. We would ring in New Years in an apartment as equally fabulous as the woman who rented it for the night.

After a night of debauchery on Thursday and Friday, I woke up late and journeyed to Bloomfield, Connecticut to spend a few hours with my good friends Sarah and Andrew. Sarah's children were celebrating a birthday. A few hours of fresh air, birthday treats, and good company, and I was energized for the forthcoming evening. I returned just in time to greet Jason and Lauren at my apartment uptown. While they began the evening in my kitchen, I began the evening changing into a wonderful little Versace shirt I picked up in Florence a few years back. And off we were into the night. Of course, Gloria Estefan and Chris Brown were our musical entertainers for the drive downtown. Whether it was the energy of it being an admittedly arbitrary fresh start on this night, or being with my friends, I felt high on life, among other things.

After some misadventures finding parking, we finally arrived to what would be our evening of fun and frivolity. My high on life quickly turned into a high on... fish. SoHo looked less like SoHo and more like... Chinatown. Actually, it was Chinatown. The apartment was located on a side-street above a fish market. Despite the fishiness of the situation, we would make the best of it. We greeted some friends of Shana and went into the apartment. As we entered, I held up a bottle of wine and exclaimed, "Happy New..." my enthusiasm trailed... plummeted off. Our fabulous SoHo loft was a windowless box the size of a small walk-in closet. Natasha sat on a toilet seat in the bathroom nursing a drink. Her countenance resembled at that moment Amy Winehouse smoking a cigarette after several drinks. Several party-goers were sitting around the room watching television and having beer. I turned to Lauren who turned to me. We immediately burst into laughter. Oh, how the mighty do fall.

Several minutes later, after meeting and greeting the party-goers, our consummate host for the evening showed. I realized, as this happened, where my eyes deviated. My eyes locked onto a very handsome young gentleman and good friend of Shana's. He informed us that he would be leaving to go to work momentarily at a gay bar called G-Lounge. We decided we'd meet him there. We would ring in the New Year out of the box apartment and out of the closet.

A few hours later, we found ourselves at G. Music blared, happy faces pushed and shoved through crowds, and we danced. I couldn't think of any place I would have rather been than with good friends among us gays. After a few hours, Lauren and I bid our friends adieu. I dropped her off and, rather than go back out, I decided I'd have a comfortably early evening (hit the sheets around 2am). This was interrupted, though. A half an hour later, I received a call from a friend who needed a place to crash for the evening. I agreed, of course, and spent much of the evening conversing over some beers. Later on, the G-Lounge employee came over to spend the remainder of the evening.

Laying in my bed in the wee hours of the morning, I began thinking about my resolutions. I had, in one night, managed to break almost all of them. Where was the change I committed myself to only a few days prior? Life is short, indeed, but if I was unable to be okay with myself, by myself, on New Years of all days, how would I manage the 364 other days of the year? Still, wasn't it alright to have a night of frivolity and debauchery? Doing so did not mean I didn't love myself or couldn't be by myself. In fact, maybe it meant I did love myself, giving myself permission to be 25 again. Everything moves and changes. Maybe 2012 was a year to be less like a stoically responsible adult and more like the cute, moderately young gay boy that I am.

The next day few days, I forced myself back into the swing of work. This proved especially difficult given the changes and goals I had set for myself. "G-Lounge" and I set a date for Wednesday. We'd have dinner and get to know one another, although the date would only amount to just that, dinner between two new friends. In the gay world, it's common for two guys who have sexual chemistry to have dinner and just be friends. And, in fact, I had no expectations. I was informed in advance that this particular young stud was currently dating someone else, but that they had an "understanding." I was fine with this given the circumstances: New Years, fun and frivolity, no expectations. I wondered, though, was this consistent with my new resolutions and what I have been open to for the past few years: a serious, long-term relationship? They do say everything happens for a reason. Was this a test of my newfound take on life? Is it okay to grab life by its proverbial balls?

Over dinner, I began thinking about my own life. I am only 29 years old, and there I was with a beautiful young 26 year old, abs and ass for days, smile to light up a room, great laugh, who had his whole life ahead of him. A life that would be filled with love, loss, mistakes, trials, errors, offers, stardom, and beauty. I realized what I was thinking at that moment. I was only a couple of years older... Did that make such a difference in perspective? As I listened to him, I got the impression that the one thing he was missing was a sense of stability. But then, doesn't having your whole life ahead of you inherently create a sense of instability by virtue of that unknown? Can one be stable in the unknown? Somehow, our moon stays in orbit of the earth, as it spins around the sun, as the sun spins around billions of other stars... somehow, everything flows and does not spin out of control, and the chaos that would be becomes a beautiful ballet of movement and form and symmetry. Perhaps stability, balance, is something within your inner spirit. Movement does not have to be indicative of restlessness and the unknown of the future does not have to be indicative of a lack of focus, or direction.

The next day, Jason gave me a belated Christmas gift. It was a painted picture of a butterfly. Butterflies are the quintessential organism to represent change, short of ducklings into swans. It takes caterpillars different lengths of times to become butterflies, depending on the species. Every species is different. And when they do, this little worm of a species becomes a beautiful, free spirit. Before New Years, it had been my goal, my resolution, to do just that: focus on me, do the things that made me feel good, and enjoy this life. Had I done that over these past few days? Needless to say, it was the perfect gift at the perfect moment. I felt like this week I had faltered on the promises I had made to myself. I had become weak, succumbing to confusion.

A few days later, I found myself having drinks yet again with Shana, G-Lounge, Natasha, and some other new friends. While having drinks, G-Lounge approached me, 'Listen, I'm not all over you or anything because some good friends of the guy I am dating is here.' He later told me he said this out of respect, but for some reason this reality check made me feel a certain way and, at the time, I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. I told myself I didn't need to know this and that it didn't make a difference anyway: I had no expectations and he and I weren't even dating. We relocated to another bar and picked up my spirits with a little dancing with a boy called Jerel. Somewhere in the ass shaking, spinning, and revolutions around the small dance floor of the Toolbox, something that could only be matched by the movements of the planets themselves, I perked up. I felt sufficiently ready to call it a night and managed to get home in time to have one more beer with this fabulous group of new friends, who was staying the night (or morning, as it were) in my living room. A week of work and running around made me tired, so I crawled in and out of my bed. I felt like an old man. An old man whose adult responsibilities were intruding on my desire to "stay up" and enjoy my company. Finally, the need to sleep overcame me and I resigned myself to bed. G-Lounge entered my room, and this desire to sleep quickly changed to other desires. Only, this time, something seemed different. I found myself just wanting to talk and get to know G more-so. The next morning, we did talk some. And as he and the rest of my company left to have brunch, I felt a million miles away from myself. I couldn't figure out why.

I decided to have brunch with my good friend Oswaldo. We met at a quaint little restaurant called Arte Cafe in the posh Upper West Side. Somewhere between the second and third mimosa, I began recounting my recent week to Oso. "I felt an insecurity like I was 23 again..." After explaining this further, he replied, "That was 23!" What was it that was causing me such angst?

And from the Upper West Side to Hell's Kitchen, I found myself having dinner with my cousin and her fiance, a reputable artist named Scrapworm. "Let' me ask you guys a question... you guys have known me for a very long time. How would you characterize my personality? Am I a prude? Do I come across as being too serious? Am I too responsible?" I framed this question for them, giving them the play-by-play of the week. We discussed. We discussed everything from relationships,  getting into relationships, staying in them, what couples talk about, the subtle but prevalent pressures to conform to certain perceived standards in the gay community, drugs, sex, and rock and roll... After this, I realized, this insecurity was me feeling the need to conform to certain standards in hopes of getting into a relationship. At 29... at 27... hell, at 25, I was and I am so passed the one night stand. It's happened, I do it, but it's not what I am open to or, in the end, what I want. Saturday night and I decided to enjoy a few glasses of wine with my friend Oswaldo in his fabulous loft apartment where we spent the evening watching Clockwork Orange. It was a necessary end to a week filled with self-reflections, doubts, and questions.

I woke up this morning to a dream. In the dream, I was a child desperately trying to garner love and attention from someone who was absent in my life. I couldn't do it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the love I sought and I was tortured for it. I woke up with a startled revelation: for years, even when I had convinced myself otherwise, I had done exactly that... seek unrequited love. This insight into my own psychology, though difficult to face, proved most useful.

In the gay community, there is such a pressure to be a certain way, to do certain things, to look a certain way. I am not a bad looking guy by any means, nor am I an adonis, and I am fine with that. At 29 years old, I am still learning and growing, but now, more than ever, I know who I am, I know what is important in life, and I have a level head on my shoulders. I have nothing but love to give, starting with the love I give first and foremost to myself. And wherever someone is at in their own evolution, it makes no sense to judge or criticize them as a defense mechanism out of some inept insecurity. In my relationships, when someone isn't where I think they should or could be, I realize now that I've looked for whatever I could find that I believe is wrong with them in order to make myself feel better about myself. The reality is, I had to take a long hard look at myself. I can be open to others but still be true to myself and that self is just fine just the way it is. When I go to the gym, it's not because I want to look better to get a date, and it's okay if that's why you go to the gym. But for me, it's to make myself feel good. My motivations reside inside of myself, not out of any spirit of competition, insecurity, or pressure to conform.

I can be responsible and still live life each day. I have eliminated the expectation within myself to "have it all," yet I still have high standards for life. I can have fun but I don't have to do everything at once. In short, like every celestial body, I can have and maintain a balance: I am stable within myself and yet I live in the unknown of the future. I can have fun, do the "hook up" thing, or not, and that doesn't make me any less or more of a person. I know what I want in another person, and I am not in a rush to find that other person anymore. When the time is right, love will come my way, and until then, and even then, I will do me, whatever that looks like. I suppose this dalliance actually resulted in a confirmation of my resolutions. Perhaps I didn't forget my resolutions after all. Perhaps I was actually living them after all. And in the end, I am nothing but excited about the next 364 days of revolution around the sun.