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 8th 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 8th 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.
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