A couple of weeks ago, my friend Chris returned from a seminar back east waxing eloquent about a guy she'd met there who was perfect for me. Usually when some- body says they have a man for me, I run and hide. I haven't yet figured out why people think I'd be attracted to some bitter old queen. I must be paying off some Karmic debts, I don't know. Anyway, Chris has good taste so I went along with the thing and before the day was out, Brian, the perfect guy for me, had called from San Francisco telling me that Chris had told him she had the perfect man for him. That would be me.
So Brian and I began our friendship via the telephone and e-mail. I should have known that I was in trouble when his e-mails arrived as one long run-on sentence and appeared to have been written by a dyslexic who'd never heard of a spell check and thought an icon was Madonna. Be all that as it may, Brian seemed charming and interesting on the phone so I allowed my fantasies to unfold.
By the second day of our phone-affair, Brian had invited Chris and me up to San Francisco and by the third day of our phone-affair, we had purchased our tickets and practically had our bags packed. (OK, so I practically had my bags packed.) Do you have any idea how difficult it is for a homo to decide what to take to a blind date in San Francisco? Let's just say that packing for eight months in Rome was easier. As it turned out, I ended up leaving suddenly, two days earlier than planned and all my favorite clothes were still at the cleaners.
You cannot even begin to imagine the epic proportions of this calamity - every homo worth his salt knows that every other homo in the world can look at what you're wearing and know in ten seconds or less whether or not he's willing to spend the rest of his life decorating your homes together. So I'm setting off to San Francisco to meet the perfect guy for me and all of my favorite clothes are hanging on a rack across the street at EuroClean. These are the kind of experiences that can lead gay men to have nervous breakdowns.
Brian is having back surgery on Tuesday, three days before our scheduled arrival and swearing that it doesn't matter because he's tough and everything will be OK by the time we get there. Wednesday afternoon I get a desperate phone call from him asking me to come up early because he's in terrible pain and has nobody there to help him and take care of him. By this stage of the game, Brian and I have bared our souls to each other through countless hours of phone conversations and endless e-mail diatribes and I felt that it was safe enough to go up early on my own and be with him. I guess I need to reevaluate my understanding of the word safe.
I changed my ticket at ridiculous expense and was on a plane within two hours after his desperate phone call, failing unfortunately, to tell my boss that I was leaving work early and wouldn't be there Thursday morning. Oops.
I raced home from work, threw a few unimpressive pieces of clothing in my travel bag and headed to the airport without even so much as a shower or a pee. That wouldn't have been such a problem had I bothered to shave my balls that morning - but I was saving that and the mudpack and other essential beauty routines for Friday morning before our scheduled flight out. I seriously thought about slipping into the lavatory on the plane and shaving the sideburns from my shaft and giving the twins a quick polish before landing in San Francisco. But then I worried that if the plane hit some unexpected turbulence, I might cut myself and have a hard time explaining to Brian why there were fresh slash marks all over my genitals. It didn't seem worth the risk. So I ordered a Bloody Mary instead and reassured myself that sex with Brian was probably out of the question anyway since he'd just had back surgery. Who knew that a handful of Vicodin could wipe away so much pain?
The limo driver was waiting for me at the gate and I guess I should have known that I was in trouble when his sign said "Mr. Clark" on it and Mr. was misspelled. He offered to take my bag and I declined saying, "No, it's very heavy. I can handle it." But he wrestled it from my hands and two minutes later, with his left shoulder out of its socket and his arm permanently lengthened and disfigured, he asked me what I had in it. "I told you it was heavy," I said as I shoved both of my hands into my pockets, making it perfectly clear I wasn't taking the goddamn thing back. We got to the limo and I stood patiently next to the door, waiting for him to open it after he'd nearly thrown his back out swinging my bag into the trunk. "I told you it was heavy," I reminded him again, silently to myself.
On the drive into the city, I thought I'd be polite and make some conversation with the driver so as to be as proletariat as one can possibly be while sitting alone in the back of a limo. "I noticed you have an accent," I said. "Where are you from?" Dumb question. Dumber answer. "I'm from Sicily," he shot back. At which point I launched into my best Italian, not thinking for a moment he'd lie to me about where he was from. Well, wherever he was from, it wasn't Italy. Judging from the Arabically mispronounced two words of something that he tried to pass off as Italian, I figured he hadn't been gone from his motherland very long. And that his motherland was clearly somewhere due south and east of Sicily - say Morocco or Pakistan, maybe Saudi Arabia. "Sicily? I don't think so dude. So, do you miss driving a camel for a living or is this limo gig keepin' ya happy?"
We passed by some big stadium and I thought about moving onto the subject of sports and then realized I'd better just sit back and shut up. The only thing I knew about sports was this catcher in baseball, (or was he an umpire?) who was gay and wrote a book about it and how far could that conversation go with my limo/camel driver? Maybe this would be a good time to get my razor out and get the boys cleaned up before meeting Brian. But what if we slammed into another car and I cut myself and had to explain the cuts on my nuts, not only to Brian but to the cops as well? I sat back and pretended to be asleep.
So long story longer, we get to Brian's and he's out front waiting for us as we pull up and the first thought that runs through my head as I see him is that he looks like Charles Manson. If this had been a movie, I would have told the limo driver to step on it and get me back to the airport. But it's not a movie and I get out of the limo. Brian signs the ticket for the driver since he'd offered the luxury of the limo and escorts me into his beautiful home above the Castro on a hill overlooking San Francisco.
We head straight to the kitchen where he pours us each a glass of wine. "That should feel real good on top of your Vicodin," I quipped, not sure if I should be allowing either of us to be getting drunk at this point but being as incapable as ever of turning down anything that comes out of a bottle with a cork in it. Honest to God, in the first half hour I'm there, Brian has said hi to me about forty seven times. Every time he looks at me, he says hi. "How old did you say you were," I'm thinking to myself. Maybe he's suffering from a mild case of Turrets and can't help himself. Doesn't matter, he's opening a second bottle of wine. I can overlook a mild case of Turrets for the moment. Problem is, I'm starting to say hi back.
Brian: "Hi."
Tom: "Hi." "Didn't I just meet you somewhere a few minutes ago?"
Brian: "Hi."
Tom: "Hi." Yes, OK, so now we've thoroughly established the fact that you can say hi. Now, can you say, "Shut the fuck up!"
I'm about to ask Brian if I can have a handful of his Vicodin when he comes up from behind me, puts his arms around my waist and starts kissing my neck. OK, so I can wait a few minutes for the Vicodin. Then he unbuckles my belt, unzips my pants and they drop to the floor, revealing the fact that not only wasn't I wearing any underwear but that I wasn't displeased about what was going on. "I knew I should have shaved on the plane," I mumbled. "What?" he asked. "Nothing. Hi." "Hi," he whispered back. Whew now I'm getting the hang of this. He's easily deflected.
I turned around and asked him what he was doing. (Like I didn't know.) "Didn't you say you wanted to shower?" he asked. "What, here in the kitchen? Do you mind if I use the shower?" So Brian takes me by the, ahem, well, let's just say he led me into the bathroom, not by the hand, where much to my dismay I discover that like in any good pervert's bathroom, the shower doors are clear glass. He sits on the toilet and watches me shower while the theme from the Twilight Zone keeps running over and over in my head. I'm looking around for a razor but realizing that shaving down under when you have a hard on is just asking for trouble. And what if there was an earthquake while I was shaving and I cut myself and...
"I knew I should have done it on the plane," I thought again as I stepped out of the shower and quickly covered myself with a damp towel. I wanted to ask for a dry one but said "hi" instead. Good god, it's contagious! This would have been a great time to get my clothes back on and run. But instead I say hi and ask for some comfy clothes. "Oh great Tom, that's really putting the brakes on things. Why don't you just ask him for some lube and a condom while you're at it?"
A couple of glasses of wine later, we're laying in bed and Brian's moaning about his back and I'm thinking this is going to be one hellacious night with his groaning about his back hurting him and stuff and I'm wondering if my ear plugs are still in my shaving kit. But maybe this is perfect - he's hurting so much that sex is totally out of the question and I'm off the hook. Yeh right. The hook suddenly appears in the form of his hand grabbing the back of my hair and shoving my face down towards his crotch. I tried to stop him. I really did. "You can't do this Brian - you're going to hurt your back. Oh well, Oh my, OK, just a little..."
An hour later, with both my arms aching as a result of the superhuman efforts necessary to get Brian off in spite of the Vicodin and wine, the deed is accomplished. We settle into a momentary position of comfort and I reach over to run my fingers across Brian's brow in a sweet little goodnight gesture and he reaches up and brusquely pushes my hand away from his head, muttering that my hands are hot and not to touch him. And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I'd just been used. I was nothing more than a trick who was now expected to have the courtesy to get up and get dressed and go home. Turned out to pasture post-orgasm as it were. Except that home was a few hours to the south and there weren't any flights from San Francisco to Southern California at one o'clock in the morning. "Maybe this is just a bad dream," I thought, as I rolled over and buried my head in the pillow.
Eight o'clock the next morning, I get up, pull on my borrowed boxers since I didn't bring any underwear and wander into the kitchen where Brian is making coffee.
Brian: "Hi."
Tom: "Hi. How's your back?"
Brian: "It hurts. Listen, I just want to be honest with you. I don't feel anything for you and there isn't going to be a weekend here for you and me. Just thought you should know so that you aren't wasting your time sticking around. Oh, and before you go, would you mind going to the pharmacy around the corner and picking up my prescription of Vicodin?"
Tom: "Sure."
So there I am, a million miles from the safety of my home, standing in a strangers kitchen in his boxers being told that after having fucked me, he isn't interested in me but would I please run down and get his drugs for him before getting out. Suddenly I'm feeling like I'm in a place that makes the Twilite Zone feel like Mr. Roger's neighborhood. I'm 46, I haven't had sex with anybody in over a year and just like that, I've become somebody's trick de jour on the pretense of spending a weekend with him helping him out. I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what to do. I couldn't cry and I couldn't scream. I just stood there feeling stupid and embarrassed. And pretty damn hurt. But I held onto my poise and asked Brian where the pharmacy was still feeling too disoriented I guess, to tell him to go to hell.
Insult was added to injury as I waited over an hour at the pharmacy, only to be told that their printer wasn't working and I'd have to go to another pharmacy at the bottom of the hill. Do you have any idea what the hills are like in San Francisco? I do. They're particularly long and steep when you're wounded and bleeding from rejection at the hands of a man who's asked you climb the stupid hill to get his drugs for him right after he's asked you to get out. No, wait a minute, it isn't the hill that's stupid. It's me that's stupid. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Pant, pant, pant. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Well anyway, the rhythm of the stupids and the trompings and the pantings kept me from falling down on the sidewalk and bursting into tears. Something which I knew I could get away with because I was in the Castro for god's sake. This is like the queer Mecca of the world. There's probably been thousands of broken hearted boys just like me, falling down into the gutters of grief in the early morning hours of their rejections, publicly and unabashedly carrying on here in the Castro. I guess if you can't do rejection shamelessly and openly here, where could you do it?
But I couldn't do it. Not there. Not then. As I sat in the lobby of the hospital where the first pharmacy was, I watched as a group of well dressed and well groomed men pulled up in a Mercedes and quietly got out. One of them remained in the front passenger seat. From where I was sitting, he appeared to be an old man. One of the others guys went to the trunk and pulled out a wheelchair and rolled it around to the passenger side of the car. It was apparent that the man in the passenger seat was very sick and very weak. He was hooked up to an oxygen tank that one of the other guys held patiently for him as he struggled slowly and awkwardly to get out of the car and into the wheelchair. He was so weak and moved so slowly that it took several minutes for him just to get out of the car. I couldn't quite figure out why nobody was helping him aside from holding his wheelchair still and holding his oxygen tank for him. "He must have a lot of pride and be very determined," I thought to myself. "Not bad for an old man."
The large glass doors to the lobby slid silently open and the group of men came straight towards me. It was then, as they walked quietly towards the elevator, that I realized that the man in the wheelchair wasn't an old man after all. In spite of the ravages to his body, his thin and snowy-white hair and the way his head hung weakly to one side, I knew I was looking into the face of someone who was no older than I was, and maybe even younger. Not even AIDS in all of its terrible larceny, can take away the truth of who its victims are.
I sat silently for awhile, this young man's face being indelibly etched into my consciousness. Later, as I grumbled my way up and down the steep hills of the Castro on an errand for a man who had so flippantly used and rejected me, I realized how fortunate I was to still be able to get up and down those hills with so little effort. I certainly had nothing to complain about. The man I'd just seen being wheeled into the hospital would probably never leave there again - his friends and brothers surrounding his wheelchair now, in somber rehearsal for the day not so far away, when they would surround his final resting place.
With my perspective solidly back in place, I delivered Brian his drugs, kissed him defiantly on the mouth and took off for a long walk in the Castro by myself. "Take that you swine - I'll have the last word here," I harrumphed to myself as I turned on my heels and marched away. I called my friend Paige and asked her if I could come over and stay with her and John because I'd just been dumped by the guy I was supposed to be spending the weekend with. She told me to get my butt over there immediately, so I hailed a cab and headed for sanctuary. Chris arrived the next morning and the four of us did San Francisco with great flair, laughter and delight. Brian quickly vanished into the ethers of my memories. I took a deep breath and just let it all go as the weekend continued to deliver one beautiful silver-lining after another.
It's funny how things start out going in one direction and then end up going in quite another and it all ends up being so much better for the change. Sunday morning, while Chris was at mass with Brian, (don't ask) Paige and I went to a dance/movement affair called "Sweat Your Prayers." For two wonderful hours we danced around a room with a bunch of other free-spirited people until every last vestige of Brian was danced and sweat right out of me. My body felt so free and light and happy - the prayer and the answer coming all at the same time.
I never did get the boys shaved over the weekend but it didn't much matter - those who did love me over the weekend were loving other parts of me. Parts of me like my heart and my smile that are just fine the way they are and mostly don't need shaving before a date.
San Francisco Nights
Copyright 2002 by Tom Clark
All rights reserved
This article may not be reproduced or reprinted
without written permission from the author.
25 Years
25 years ago today my late partner Les died of complications related to lymphoma. It’s strange to even write about it anymore because it’s been so long; we were together 6 years and a lot of water has flowed beneath my bridges since then. It was a period of tremendous growth and excitement though and in looking back I’m reminded of how much I learned, how much fun I had and how amazing it was to make music with Les almost every day that we were together. I miss Les sometimes but I always miss the music.
In the months and years following Les’ death I experienced such sadness that I thought I’d never be ok ever again. But 25 years later I am ok and I’ve gone on to create a life that’s rich and full of love and constantly infused with deeply satisfying pursuits. The music is gone and that left a hole that will never be filled; other things have taken its place though and I’m mostly ok with that.
I’ve explored virtually everything I want to explore about death and Les’ death in particular. I wrote a book about our time together and it felt like that really took care of so much of what needed taking care of in my soul. I’ve talked openly and freely about him and us and my experience in all of this. At some point I realized I was happy again and that I just didn’t have much else to say.
The anniversaries come and go but 25 years feels pretty significant; a day of gratitude for my time with a beautiful and extraordinarily gifted man who showed me how to have fun and play and dance and savor life.
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