My eighth grade graduation was a turning point of sorts. No more nuns, no more priests, no more going to church every Sunday to go through the motions of an hour-long Mass of sitting, standing and kneeling. It was June and in 1986 fashion (before I appreciated what fashion was), I didn’t want to graduate in the typical blue blazer and plaid tie. I forced my Mother’s hand and picked out a suit more appropriate for the day – a la Don Johnson on Miami Vice.

White pants, white lace up Capezio shoes, pastel colered shirt, and a stop sign red jacket to tie it all together. I had been to my Mother’s hairdresser that day and he Aqua-Netted my hair into a pre-Donald Trump do guaranteed not to move even through a hurricane. Suffice it to say, I stood out like a Pink Flamingo at a Pigeon contest receiving my diploma. The girls thought I was awesome, the boys were jealous, and I couldn’t see any of it because I refused to where my Coke-bottle glasses as they would ruin my new look. To the dismay of the Nuns, curious looks from other parents and stares from my school mates, I proudly walked up to receive my graduation certificate.

High school began in June of that year as was the custom and I found myself in a completely different world. My parents, long since divorced, could not agree to send me to another private school, so I found myself among the masses of teenagers who weren’t sure what was going on or where they were supposed to be, myself among them.  Gym class proved my breaking point. We were supposed to choose what we wanted to take, and there was quite a variety. But no matter which I choose, I still ended up in a locker room with the other boys changing and showering. I felt extremely uncomfortable, yet I still wasn’t completely sure why. I just knew that I should not be in a room full of naked and half-naked boys bantering about who was the best hitter or kicker or whatever, when all my eyes seemed to do was glance towards their mid-sections and feel embarrassed because of it. Shortly thereafter, I ditched gym clas altogether, having a family friend who happened to be a doctor write notes for me, excusing me from the rest of the classes. This same doctor, along with the help of an over worked secretary in the Principal’s office, kept me out of gym class through the remainder of my years in high school. They offered me swimming; I quickly produced a note saying I was allergic to chlorine. They offered me softball; I got a note from Dr. Magic saying it was bad for my back.  The secretary I worked for loved it, I did her job in place of gym class and she got to take lots of coffee breaks. In doing so, I was able to divert my (I then thought) misplaced feeling for certain boys whom, shall we say, exceeded the others in the locker room and not necessarily in gym class.

This went on until graduation, (which I achieved with honors), and it wasn’t until years later, I began to question the FAITH I had been reared to know. If I was GAY, I’d burn in hell before I woke up. Had I chosen the path that had been laid before me, I probably would have married the one girl who had gaven me a “hickey” before I was 14. As the sands drift down to 40, I find myself wondering which path would have been better… a life of perfect lies, or my life of imperfect appearances.
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Which path would you have chosen?

I was raised with faith – Roman Catholicism that is. When I was figuring out my sexuality, I was lead to believe I was going to burn in hell before I even got out of bed for having desires. Back then, they weren’t even desires – hell, I was 8 or 9 years old. Do you even have urges at that age? I just knew I was different from the rest of the small pack of students I was allowed to play with. The boys played their sports games with the other boys at recess, whereas I choose to play with the girls. What games we played, I do not recall. I just knew I was more comfortable with them than I was with the boys who seemed (forgive me Sister Eileen) hell bent on winning.

My eighth grade graduation was a turning point of sorts. No more nuns, no more priests, no more going to church every Sunday to go through the motions of an hour-long Mass of sitting, standing and kneeling. It was June and in 1986 fashion (before I appreciated what fashion was), I didn’t want to graduate in the typical blue blazer and plaid tie. I forced my Mother’s hand and picked out a suit more appropriate for the day – a la Don Johnson on Miami Vice. White pants, white lace up Capezio shoes, pastel colored shirt, and a stop sign red jacket to tie it all together. I had been to my Mother’s hairdresser that day and he Aqua-Netted my hair into a pre-Donald Trump do guaranteed not to move even through a hurricane.

Suffice it to say, I stood out like a Pink Flamingo at a Pigeon contest receiving my diploma. The girls thought I was awesome, the boys were jealous, and I couldn’t see any of it because I refused to where my Coke-bottle glasses as they would ruin my new look.

To the dismay of the Nuns, curious looks from other parents and stares from my school mates, I proudly walked up to receive my graduation certificate.

High school began in June of that year as was the custom and I found myself in a completely different world. My parents, long since divorced, could not agree to send me to another private school, so I found myself among the masses of teenagers who weren’t sure what was going on or where they were supposed to be, myself among them.  Gym class proved my breaking point.

We were supposed to choose what we wanted to take, and there was quite a variety. But no matter which I choose, I still ended up in a locker room with the other boys changing and showering. I felt extremely uncomfortable, yet I still wasn’t completely sure why. I just knew that I should not be in a room full of naked and half-naked boys bantering about who was the best hitter or kicker or whatever, when all my eyes seemed to do was glance towards their mid-sections and feel embarrassed because of it. Shortly thereafter, I ditched gym class altogether, having a family friend who happened to be a doctor write notes for me, excusing me from the rest of the classes. This same doctor, along with the help of an over worked secretary
in the Principal’s office, kept me out of gym class through the remainder of my years in high school. They offered me swimming; I quickly produced a note saying I was allergic to chlorine. They offered me softball; I got a note from Dr. Magic saying it was bad for my back.  The secretary I worked for loved it, I did her job in place of gym class and she got to take lots of coffee breaks. In doing so, I was able to divert my (I then thought) misplaced feeling for certain boys whom, shall we say, exceeded the others in the locker room and not necessarily in gym class.

This went on until graduation, (which I achieved with honors), and it wasn’t until years later, I began to question the FAITH I had been reared to know. If I was GAY, I’d burn in hell before I woke up. Had I chosen the path that had been laid before me, I probably would have married the one girl who had given me a “hickey” before I was 14. As the sands drift down to 40, I find myself wondering which path would have been better… a life of perfect lies, or my life of imperfect appearances.

Which path would you have chosen?

Until we meet again, Christian

The stars at night really are big and bright, deep in the now-wounded heart of Texas.

So I could see why upwardly mobile gay couples would want to make a home there. Minus a small populous of narrow minded, backward cowboys, it could be a very nice place to set up a home. Not anymore.

Not if you happen to be a gay couple.

Unlike Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont, the District of Columbia, New Hampshire and New York, gay marriage is illegal in Texas.  Very, very illegal in fact. In 2005, Texas voters passed a Constitutional Ban on same-sex marriage, even though State law already prohibited it. Talk about over-kill. Why not just post a sign at every entrance to the State saying “NO FAGS ALLOWED.”

Oh but wait, there’s more. I know of a couple who had been legally married in Massachusetts, had adopted a baby, and decided to start their little family in “The Great State of Texas.” Mom, Mom and baby makes three, and they were like every other married couple in the United States. The first few years were good ones – and then they weren’t so good anymore. They were so bad, in fact, that Mom and Mom decided to obtain a divorce and work out joint custody of the toddler.

The couple, Angelique Naylor and Sabina Daly, sought a judge in Austin, who granted the divorce.

Unfortunately for them (and the baby) the Texas Attorney General, Greg Abbott, appealed the decision. His reason?  Because he was protecting the “traditional definition of marriage,” which he interpreted to mean the same for divorce. Therefore, since they shouldn’t have been married in the first place, they could not legally be divorced. A Dallas appeal’s court three-judge panel also agreed that the State’s same-sex marriage ban WAS Constitutional. I can almost smell the logic, but the scent is very similar to cow manure.

Angelique and Sabina tried to stick it out, but finally separated in 2007 as the arguments between them continued to mount. They eventually were able to get a higher court to dissolve the marriage amid escalating animosity between them, but that decision too is being appealed. Here it is, 2011, and as far as I was able to find out, while the couple remain happily separated, the state of their marriage is in limbo. I am forced to wonder what box they have to check on a form that asks about your marital status, Yes? No? or Undecided!

Enter J.B and his husband H.B. They too were legally married in Mass-achusetts and decided to move to Dallas. Neither man would comment on the reasons, but they decided to file for a divorce in Dallas County in 2009. A district judge, Tena Callahan (Democrat), said that she did have jurisdiction to hear the case, saying that Texas’s ban on same-sex marriage was unconstitional.  Once again, the same Texas Attorney General swooped in and appealed to the 5th District court which overturned Callahan’s ruling to allow the divorce.  Shortly thereafter, an attorney for J.B. filed a Petition for Review of the 5th District’s ruling by the Texas Supreme Court. As I am writing this, I remain unaware whether J.B and H.B. are still considered married or not, but I’ll put good money on not.

As for the rest of us? Gay couples seeking divorce are getting mixed results across country. A Pennsylvania judge refused to divorce two other women who also were married in Massachusetts while at the same time, New York grants divorces without so much as a peep.

As for me, I’ve been single for over 10 years now and have no plans of marriage. However, if there are any attractive, successful men in their early 30’s reading this, drop me a line. I’ve always wanted to go to Iowa!

Think happy thoughts–just not about most Texan officials!

Photo: A wall covered in graffiti and a painted sign in Portugal. “Mais Amor Por Favor” means “More Love Please” in Portuguese.

Most of us awake to begin our day in our beds, safe under our sheets. Some start the day arising from the living room couch, remote control still in hand with an empty pizza box nearby. Others regain some sense of the new day’s dawning, lying on the kitchen floor, still wearing the carefully considered outfit from the night before, somewhere in the vicinity of an empty bottle of alcohol, or perhaps something else which I won’t mention, but you can guess. In all of these events, most of us wake up safe surrounded by walls. Walls made of brick or mortar, or concrete or wood, walls that protect us from the outside world and keep what goes on in our own little worlds from getting out.

Me? I arise to find myself restricted by walls of my own construction. Not just the walls that built some mansion, townhouse or crack-den. I am speaking of psychological walls that are more restrictive than those of the most secure prison in the country. Walls that took years, decades to build. Built with guilt, remorse, regret, shame, insecurity, fear, pain and a plethora of other emotions that have led my therapist to get therapy.

There came a point when I just stared straight at my neatly stacked pile of a concrete past, knowing what it was made of, and didn’t even make the attempt to penetrate it.

My pain, loss, sorrow etc. had become like an old partner. We don’t really talk much anymore, but we’ve been together so long we’re just used to each other. My walls were there to keep those pesky emotions out.

Then I began to think of all the other things that lay on the other side of my walls as well. My emotions were easily buried in large quantities of alcohol and drugs, which were used as material to make my emotional wall higher. All the meaningless encounters with dozens (a gross under-estimation, if ever there was one) of men to fill some hole in my soul that the death of my first love had left.

I could remember clearly, for the first time in years, the innocence I once had.

The child that got lost in all the bright lights and pretty faces and promises of a future that wouldn’t come. I was a person who cared about people and had people who cared about me.

I just got hurt maybe a few too many times, I think my heart just shut down.

Am I bitter? Damned right. Jaded?  Most definitely. A Bitch? When the occasion calls for it.

I’ve lied, cheated, stolen and done things I don’t even want to contemplate to keep up appearances. I rationalized it was okay as long as everyone believed I was that “perfect” person I portrayed myself to be. I thought I could buy happiness or love or meaning by wearing designer jeans and tipping well. I was a fraud.

Would I change it all? At this particular moment in time, I honestly can not say. I know all too well who I was.  I’m just now starting to figure out who I am or rather will be. Not to sound religious, but I’ve been through a re-birth of sorts.  I had the chance to look at what my life revolved around for over 20 years, how others actually perceived me compared to how I thought they did.

Now, the only people’s opinion’s who matter are the rare few that are still around. I have a handful of true friends and family that never, ever gave up on me. For them, I am grateful more than words can express. I wish I could repair the damage I’ve caused, but what’s done is done and it’s now part of the rubble of a wall that once defined me.

To uncharted waters…

“Disclosure.” It is one of the few words in the English language that still disturbs me.  In fact, it’s right up there with racial slurs, ethnic slurs, the all-to-often used four letter words (f…, sh… etc.), and the word “faggot” (I’ve never cared for either being called one from some uneducated straight person, nor do I like when gay men call each other that word). I was brought up to have some semblance of etiquette and some language just won’t do.

My third (and last) “husband,” if you will, and I eventually come to this conversation fairly late in our relationship. We had this old fashioned courtship thing going on, straight out of a good romance novel. From the night we met, there was instant chemistry. It was a fairy tale. (No pun intended. Okay, maybe a little intended.)

After having been on several dates, the night came when he took me back to his place. I was elated and terrified at the same time. Here was this stunning, witty, intelligent, charming, talented man. He was interested in ME! He laughed appropriately at all my jokes, and when his lips were pressed against mine, I’d forget all about my HIV and any thing else that was on my mind.

He gave me the requisite tour, and poured some cocktails. I think I managed one sip of my drink and he got out half a sentence before we were literally ripping each other’s clothes off. He gently took my hand and led me to the bedroom. Knowing what was about to happen, I HAD to tell him. I had to “disclose” my health status.

Now mind you, we are both half naked in his bed, and I was longing to be with him. Before things could go further, I somewhat abruptly ruined the mood by having “the talk.” We did and it was wonderful – at least for a while. Until, that is, he started to pull a way

from me.

He told me that he was falling for me, but he was too afraid. Afraid he’d become attached to me and I would get sick, or worse the possibility that he could catch it as well. We parted as friends, but there was just too much emotion there and I haven’t heard from him in over a decade.

My therapist owes him a pretty sizeable debt of gratitude. I think my issues with this time period paid for his new BMW, but I can’t be sure. But, as ever, I digress.

After having been through all this, I began to wonder when the appropriate time was to tell someone I was interested in (and hopefully was interested in me) that I was carrying HIV. Waiting until you are in the bedroom getting ready to be together is definitely not the route to take.  Dinner never seemed to work well either. “Could you pass the salt, oh and by the way” – I tried that once or twice.

I had what I thought to be a good conversation about it with one man in particular. I still thought that even after he hadn’t returned from the bathroom after a few minutes. Turns out, he just left. But, at least he had the courtesy to pick up the check on his way out while I sat there oblivious.

After I sat there for a good half-hour, angry with my date for having abandoned me, I began to wonder how I would handle that kind of news from someone I had just recently met. Personally, I’ve found it best to just blurt it out when the conversation allows. Better to get it out of the way. If they don’t run for the hills, there are always possibilities. If they stick around, who knows?

The sad thing is, AIDS is a four-letter word. It’s the elephant in the room that no one wants to mention. The community, at least from what I have seen personally, seems to have slipped into a “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” mood.

My advice? For what it’s worth, if you are one of the many people in the community with HIV/AIDS … don’t hide it.  We’ve all come out of the closet once. Just think of this as the spare-room closet. It may have taken me 17 years to realize, but this is NOT something to be ashamed of.  Unfortunately, it is a part of who we are. Granted, it wasn’t a welcome addition. But when you just let it be the unspoken elephant, all you end up with is a lot of peanut shells.

Follow your dreams. Once in a while the universe smiles on you!

It starts off like any other relationship. A friend probably introduces you and before you know it, there’s magic in the air. A feeling of happiness … the stress and mundane details fade into the background as you and your new acquaintance get to know each other.

There’s music in the air, dark smoky lighting encompasses the room … people seem to be more friendly with you now that you are with your new companion. You might find that although you are usually kind of shy at the nightclub/bar, you are now talking to complete strangers. And, you are having the time of your life!

A little time passes and that feeling of bliss seems to be fading and your boring old self is coming back to the surface. Ah, but it’s early, and so and so said it was ok … so you and your new “friend” make your way through the crowds to the rest room. There, you and your new “acquaintance” can be alone for a moment. You probably stand there nervously for a few moments, wondering if anyone knows what you are really doing in that bathroom stall. Since you are new to this particular situation, you may not know what to do.

In this case, I am speaking of cocaine. Our character dips his car key into that little plastic zip-lock bag (point to ponder, I understand why they make sandwichsized baggies, but what else did they have in mind for those oh-so-perfect-for-carrying- drugs bags?), pulls out a pile of white powder, carefully balanced so as not to spill any, and inhales some in each nostril as he watched his friend do earlier. Within seconds, he can feel the numbness descending into his body. Within minutes that feeling of bliss begins to return. Maybe a little more so this time, because he did twice the amount as before. Not on purpose, it’s just the way it happened.

There are also countless persons who are introduced to other seductive strangers. These people were properly introduced by a trusted doctor. Who would doubt a stranger that promised to help your problems or take your pain away or better help you cope with the things that keep you up at night or make your mind race all day.

This new stranger seems perfect.

Our doctor’s convince us that if we take this little pill or that little tablet, we will feel better. Our friends coerce us into trying this substance or that, because it will make us feel better. This begs the question, how bad did we feel in the first place?

Before you know it (I can’t give you a precise time frame), but your new “friend” becomes a constant companion. Kids getting on your nerves? Take a pill. Tennis elbow annoying you again? There are pain pills in the cabinet. Going out for the evening and don’t have much energy

? Do a few lines. Want to really take a break from reality, drop some acid. It’s OK, everyone else is doing it. “My doctor prescribes them.” “All my friends are doing it.” (Given enough time we can rationalize anything.)

As time passes, one of two things can happen. For roughly 8% of the people I have known in my personal life, they are able to put down that drink, flush that cocaine or crystal meth, special K (no relation to the cereal), ecstasy, GHB, acid, Quaaludes (for you party boys in the 70’s) and the rest of the drug alphabet and walk away. My hat’s off to you.

The other 92%, don’t always fair so well. I am one of them. As time went by, I found myself growing ever more dependent on anything that would let me forget my life for a while and let me live in my imaginary little world where I actually was happy with who I was (ironically enough, the way I felt before I fell into the pit of addiction). Money started to get tight, I found myself falling asleep at my desk, I started losing contact with people whom I deeply cared about who genuinely cared about me.

Everything, however slowly or quickly, WILL fall apart.

Addiction is nothing short of a type of cancer. A cancer of the soul. The saddest thing is, all the people who really care about you (who stuck it out) can just stand by and watch you slowly killing yourself. So, with a nod to Nancy Reagan, “Just Say No.”

Is there an evil troll in my dryer or do socks, like relationships, just part ways after too much wear and tear? A little too often, I consider what some people are thinking when they get dressed to go out in public (hey … I am gay!!!). As I sit here, alone (as has become the norm) in front of my well-worn keyboard, I have several things floating in and out of my semi-consciousness.

As of this moment, I am thinking of the English language and how certain terms have come to be a part of the ever-growing lexicon of communication. Be it from “texting” (which I find so entirely annoying, I had it turned off my cell phone).  I have to rant a bit further about this “texting” phenomenon … what happened to just picking up the phone and saying hello? It takes far less time to verbalize your insipid thoughts than it does to sit there, some while driving and downing mocha-chinos, to say “what’s up” than to type the words into those far too small number/letter combinations on most phones!

OK, that’s out of my system … felt good. This brings me to “Tweeting” (which I, as something of a techno-phobe, have yet to try). I’m not even sure what exactly it is, I just know that everyone but me – and perhaps my parents – knows how to do it and what it is. For pity’s sake, let me get used to one “latest thing” before they come up with anything else.  And last, but certainly not at all least, my beloved Facebook.

Ah, Facebook … the perfect way for someone who rarely feels the need to leave the house to have a social life, such as it is.  Friends and acquaintances from high school (not always people I would have otherwise sought out, but there they are all the same); others who had simply moved away and fallen out of touch or married or just plain dropped off the face of my little corner of the Earth.  To my shock (still gives me the chills), I re-discovered one good friend who I thought was deceased … I kid you not!  All thingsconsidered, I must admit I am an avid fan of Facebook. There is one term used incessantly on Facebook which, finally (I know, I tend to prattle on until someone stops me) brings me to the point of this: ”POKING”.

What the hell is Poking? I’m led to believe it’s a cute little way of letting the people you don’t actually converse with as much as you should – or get to see face-to-face – know that you are thinking of them. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Just a quick hello from a friend to let you know someone, somewhere is thinking of you.  A little happy thought from an old friend or even a “friend” you’ve never actually met in the flesh. A virtual little nudge from that guy/girl/or somewhere-in-between person who you can barely remember but are now “friends” with, that you crossed their mind at some point in the day. “Poking,” therefore, would seem like a nice thing then, wouldn’t it?

Then, of course, my mind thinks of other definitions of “poking” … the x-rated one … let’s just say that poking leads me to think of boinking, which leads me to think about … well, if I have to go into detail, you mustn’t have much of an imagination or no idea of what these terms of which I speak mean.  In in either case, go watch TV.  Poking, boinking, etc., all lead down a path I’ve traveled many, many, many, many times in the past. Did I mention I used to have an actual sex life? But, here again, that’s another story that took place long, long ago in a Galaxy somewhere downtown.

Now, excluding the aforementioned definitions of “poking” that have come to my deluded mind, I’m left with one more way in which to be poked that would not

be so pleasing. As in to be poked with a stick or some blunt object. That would not be at all satisfying (unless you are into that sort of thing … and who am I to judge after all the different ways of “poking” I’ve tried?) I ask you: Do you really want to be poked in this manner on a fairly consistent basis by pretty much the same people? Would you want to, let’s say, be poked in the face by a baseball bat from your Facebook friend in Utah?  Personally, I would prefer not to have things poked in my face (let’s just leave that one alone, shall we?).

If someone does “poke” you on Facebook, is it rude to not poke them back? The way I figure it, no matter how you look at it, you have to. They took time out of their blogging/video downloading day to poke you, so the least you can do is poke them back in a timely manner.

So, I leave it to you to decide if “Poking” is good or just another little evil in the world. If I tune into Facebook tomorrow and find that I have been poked more than usual … I’m not quite sure how I’ll feel about it. Someone please let me know!