Dear Blog,
What's the T?
In two words: Totally Tantalizing.
Some say singlehood affords many opportunities. Self-indulgence. Travel. Sex.
Since I've last written, certainly I have engaged in singlehood. More than some. Less than others.
This was the summer of my TLT: Total Life Transformation.
When you're single in NY for some time - correction: when you're single anywhere for some time - you often find yourself cataloging your options, priorities, and desires.
This past May began a new chapter. Like many New Yorkers, the choice of staying put or moving apartments was on my doorstep. New Yorkers love change. New pair of shoes. New hairstyle. New foodie fad. And without exception, new apartment. My choice was clear: do I renew my lease, or do I leave my fabulous Harlem pad with exposed brick, granite countertop, porn-star shower, and stainless steal appliances? Weighing the pros and cons was a process. Roommates who never paid? Con. Roommate who did pay? Pro. Exposed brick? Double pro. Relatively easy parking for an atypical driver in New York? Pro. Loud noise at 4 am on a work night? Double con. Easy access to dates, sex, and the like vis-a-vis sordid trips to bars or maximum ten minutes on Grindr? I suppose that last is all dependent upon your perspective.
After debating for some time and a failed, albeit enjoyably challenging dalliance with he who I shall refer to as the Activist, I elected to get out of Dodge. In typical New York fashion, I needed a change. Two years in one spot was one year too long.
The reality was, I hated what the apartment came to be: a constant reminder of... pain. I had moved in there with an ex who, without my realizing it, I'd tried forcing into someone he just wasn't. With him, as is often the case, the bad memories were louder than the good. That apartment saw sex, drugs, rock and roll, The Ex (gone back to momentarily like a cigarette smoker dips into a pack for another fag), and, of course, the passing of my best friend.
I needed to get out.
New York City suburbs are a strange sort of area. But, they were exactly what the doctor ordered. I contacted a good friend from a previous life who happened to be a realtor in a prestigious and affluent Westchester suburb not but fifteen minutes from Harlem by car. I told him I was in the market for a flat, that I was broke, my credit was poor, and I didn't currently have a down-payment. He helped.
Within about a month of making an inquiry with him, I found my new place. A quiet suburban flat in need of much homosexualization (the previous renters had a kid, a penchant for horrible furniture, and allowed the place to fall into deplorable disrepair under their stay). Bluejays pranced in the courtyard, crickets twiddled at night, and street light rarely seeped in. After picturing which 'Color Splash' colors would go where and what items (of which I am still acquiring slowly) would adequately suit this art deco 1920's style apartment, I told my realtor friend I wanted the place. And, through the magic of lightening-quick NY-minute financial saving and wee bit of unexpected parental support, I made it happen. I moved to the burbs. All while working during my very busy time of my year.
Somehow, during this time, my colleagues slash girlfriends and I planned a trip of epic proportions: we were to go to Central and South America during the summer for an adventure, which for me, a poor and humble public servant awaiting love's knock on his door, was only and barely surmounted by Armstrong's trip to the moon. Costa Rica, Peru, concluding for another friend's nuptials in Mexico at an all-inclusive resort were our itinerary.
And time marched on. I moved. I painted. I worked. I dated. And summer suddenly happened. I bowed out of Pride as well as my birthday, which happens each year around the same time as Pride. It didn't seem right to ring in my 30th and celebrate Pride when I wasn't actually proud; I wanted my best friend there, physically, to help in celebration. My girlfriend's Lauren and Arleni wouldn't have it. They gave me my first ever surprise birthday party. It was perfect. Some old friends from work. Some new friends from work. Libation. Cake. Laughter.
And the summer began. It would go by quicker than New Years, it seemed, and I'd barely have a chance to rest. Between bachelorette parties, birthdays, a date sprinkled here and there, and many day trips, it flew by. South America was here before I knew it.
Something changed in me on that trip. I can't quite put my finger on it, but at mile 25 of the Inca Trail in Peru, as I climbed, sweat dripping, over that final crest to see in the valley beneath Machu Picchu, I fell, or rose (or both) into some sort of transcendental plain. Whether from fatigue or adrenaline, desire and want and need, or actual metaphysical metamorphosis, I found myself... somewhere else. I found... myself. Quietly, I absorbed within me something I'd only experienced a few other times in life; as when I found myself arrived in Venice along the canal at the train station for the first time, where I stood amazed that I... me... had come so far as to be standing somewhere I'd never pictured I would ever be before.
And after that long trip, a trip of purification and cleansing, I found myself amid innocent debauchery in Mexico: sun-kissed along white beaches, pina colada in hand, I drifted into ecstasy and relaxation unlike anything I'd experienced for many moons.
After: Reality, here I came.
And I did. Ready, I fought my way into a new year of work, with new priorities and a new sense of self. Summer was over. And I was healthy, ready, energized, lookin' good, and able. My TLT was officially a success! I had transformed. I was finally and fully greeting 30.
Meanwhile, on August 8th, while I was somewhere below the equator, someone I would come to meet was on his way to New York in his relocation. A sort of mini-TLT for himself.
The universe has a funny way of giving signs, some times. I don't know what the sign is, necessarily, but it's there. August 8th was... is... my best friend's birthday.
Tee and I met on a random night at the bar Therapy. You know the story: boy goes out with his gay friend, other boy goes out with his gay friends, boy stares at boy, boy walks away, boy comes back, boy talks to boy, boy flirts with boy, boy goes dancing with boy, boy kisses boy and the rest is history. I think Oprah did a special on it once.
In any event, Tee and I would go out on several dates after meeting; and in meeting the stereotype of a Southern Gentleman, which he is, most certainly, Tee would offer to and actually pay for much of our goings outs, hold doors open, listen to me, ask questions, stare me in the eyes, make me laugh, and treat me with a genuine respect, patience, and understanding, which I appreciate. If I'd write this blog more-so, I'd get into the details. But this isn't Carrie's Sex and the City column.
Most recently, Tee and I went out to see Rocky Horror. Afterward, we went for drinks at a local Chelsea gay bar.
"Tee, do you want to be exclusive?"
After a brief and penchant pause, "Ya know, it's been on my mind. After I brought it up that last time, I respected that you didn't dive right in. I appreciate it. But it's been on my mind."
And as if seconds were minor eternities, a long sigh met me with baited, though concealed, breath, "I do. I really do." Sealed, next, with a kiss.
Sometimes in life, you just gotta grab what you want by the balls. Figuratively speaking, of course.
And I did. We did. It's new. It's different. It's good. At least, it feels good, and right, and true. And he makes me smile. Genuinely. And he makes me feel amazing. And he makes me forget... everything that has gone wrong. We've already had some of the tough conversations. And as he said when I left him, 'there will be good times and bad times... but I'm excited to see where it goes.' And as I said to him, 'Right now, I just want to learn you, and have you learn me.' And it's true. I do. Despite the nervousness... of which, there isn't much. I feel safe, wanted, and respected by him; and he is kind, and studly, and I smart, and talented, and I can only hope he feels the same way I do.
We spent two amazing days together. What did we do? Well, a lot of nothing. How great that is.
I don't know where it'll go... but, sometimes the best moments in life are the most exciting, wrought with the most risk and danger, like a white water rafting trip in Costa Rica, or a night time hike without light through the Peruvian Amazon. Change... real change... isn't always easy. I can't help but wonder if New Yorkers change 'stuff' so much to avoid changing the real stuff. The stuff that matters. The stuff that is only recognized in the deep silence of solitude. Despite the fear brought on by previous, dramatic, ever-so-tragic experiences, I'm pushing forward. Pushing through. After all, I am a New Yorker: tough as nails, so tough that I can move to and make work the suburbs. So tough, I can work my ass off at my job. So tough, I can be alone, but now, can be with someone else and remain me. So tough, my doubts only add fuel to my exploration. So tough, I can change.
However this turns out, it seems a fitting last chapter to my TLT. What's next after my TLT? I dunno, but I am excited to see how the "Tee" works out.
Yours,
Not-so-Single Anymore.
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