[De]Friend: The Longest Goodbye

[De]Friend: The Longest Goodbye
September 27, 2012

Where are you?

You should invite me over to commiserate, but I probably won’t come.

That was mean.

You know I always want to hang out with you.

I’m just being terrible at “coy.”

It’s a weird look for me.

I think about you too often.

I’m sorry if you’re confused.

Now, it’s time for you to stop playing coy.

Boy: you haunt me.

Like a pop tune that I unabashedly know every word to despite my tight pants.

I like laying in arms/with you in my arms.

I miss it often.

You’re appreciation of my use of colons is sweet, and “haunting” is not really the look you were going for.

So I’m going home in a bit.

Shit together or not, you affected me.

Colons aside.

You’ll be hard-pressed to be honest with me again after this.

So I’ll keep recreating momentary delusion with lesser-than misanthropes.

Take that!

She likes words.

I just like you.

But you know that already.

I’m not looking to join you on your liberation tour.

You talk too much.

Some of my favorite moments between us have only involved animal noises.

Boy: if you’re never going to be interested I’d rather hear it now.

Then, I can just put you in the friend bubble.

Otherwise, I’ll continue to think about us in wrestling garb pressing our bodies against walls and bad analogies until we shook with cum-stricken exaltation.

Your exaggerated exclamation marks said it all.

You’re a smart man, Boy.

I wear my heart on my sleeve.

While I’ve known for quite some time that you were never going to materialize in my life again as anything other than someone who drinks “Smurf Piss” alongside me at a bar, I have always hoped that one day we’d end up in a yoga class next to each other and back in an embrace.

I’m talking too much.

Clearly, I’m showing my Eastern upbringing.

Should probably go to bed and write a fucking poem about it in the morning.

I’m being unfair.

But I hope you understand.

Our friendship I value, but I just needed to remind you that I would happily entertain something more with you if ever given the chance.

You spoke to me.

I’m done now.

Get some sleep.

Sorry to burden you with my ramblings.

Boy: you’re ethereal, but I’m not going to Amy Winehouse/Eliot Smith myself over you.

I just harbor this weird feeling that one day you’re going to realize that you really liked me.

In the meantime, I’ll probably eat chicken nuggets and sriracha fries knowing that lesser-than men will love me even if you can’t.

It’s terrible, but at least it’s honest.

And sometimes I just think about how nice it would be to hear you call me “boyfriend.”

Those nights are cold like tonight.

I would change everything and nothing about myself for that.

I’m done.

I’ll expect to hear from you never.

Thank you.

I’m happy with your silence.

I talk too much.

I can’t believe you indulged me this much.

Have a good night, Boy.


And the morning after …

It’s official.

I have to delete you from my phone.

And Facebook.

And I should delete myself from the Castro.

I would say I’m sorry for saying all those things, but I’m not.

I’m mostly just embarrassed that you know them now.

So, now you know I never really wanted to just be your friend.

How I was a sniveling little puppy lusting around the Gayborhood trying to pick up your scent.

Honestly, Boy, I have liked the conversation and the friendship, but here’s the last colon: I’m done.

I’ll always be cordial to you if and when I see you, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I hope it’s not soon.

Sorry I ballooned what for you was probably something so insignificant into so much more.

You, very one-sidedly, meant me much.

Thanks for always being sweet, Boy.

Good luck with everything.

Cape Cod: Smiling (For Amanda and Tim)

Cape Cod: Smiling -For Amanda and Tim I was trying to picture the person I want to be when I'm older, and all I could see was you. I couldn't see your accomplishments or accolades. I couldn't see your body, or its fluctuations. All I could see was the smile on my face that you've carved over the years. It encompasses every other smile I've ever deigned. The smile you've gifted me has been the one of church giggles, Chaplin farce, the moment Dorothy reawakens in Kansas, my first home run, when she hit that high C, first time without training wheels, reading David Sedaris on the plane alone, and seeing a child walk with new feet. I'm smiling just thinking about it. And mostly about you. When I grow up, I don't need to be successful, wealthy, intellectual, able to finish the New York Times crossword, thin, funny, or an astronaut for that matter. When I grow up, I need to know you've grown with me. Then I'll lay down the mirror only to find my reflection in your beautiful face. Smiling. Grown up. Complete.

Filling the Dance Card

Bruises indiscript and earned, draped in pijama bottoms and tank top with a stole to keep warm against the impending fog. Traipsing through the concrete koi of the Tenderloin's sidewalks, picking up tricks and accents and pieces of "his"story. My story begins with love, and ends with love. And with love, we'll begin. No longer a beard, but rather a bow Sliding my chin up and down the fiddle of his body, chest to toes and back again. The music of our bodies drowning out the not-so-very-white noise of Hyde Street's harpies,fixated on fixes, and never repaired. Syncopated panting Joplin's itself from my window, down the fire escape and into the ears of dredges awaiting a bus that may never come. Next stop: Rio de Janiero. My body am abandoned American Spirit smoldering in an ashtray still as samba and smoking as a saxophone holding E flat. We touch as brush strokes on a high hat, Symbolically reminding the other that we intend to have the next dance.

Naufrago No More

I thought the twilight would never get here.
The moment when the snoring of Father Time syncopates the rhythm of the fog horn in the harbor.
That moment when it's still dark but one can feel the heat of the impending sun creeping just under the horizon.
This is when he comes to me.
Valor stripped.
Clothes, the same.
There is nothing visceral about this moment.
We are simply raw.
Club anthems and rarified DJ rants are hushed, and Joni and Van and Bob take to the stage.
They play so lowly they could feasibly be conductors on the underground railroad of our conversation.
We don't cheat anyone; ourselves or our lovers, when we speak like this.
This is rejuvenation.
This is good.
Our voices hoarse from a week's worth of drinking in one night and smoking cigarettes at a dangerous clip.
Skin shines with the residual salt of so much dancing.
His voice is a supple sweetness hidden inside the frightful pith of a pineapple.
I'm just fruity.
Easy fruit, with edible skin and without a stone.
This twilight talk is different.
This talk has garnered my tears.
This is the time I leave him, for once.
This feels good, shoe on the other foot.
This feels good, pushing him away.
This looks foolish, but it's the smartest thing I've done in years.
This sounds like an intervention, but it's closer to an exorcism.
It's about time for Joni to slide pick her way off to California, and my time to pick myself up, ragged and snotty, and away to bed with me.
His bed.
Not my bed.
Not our bed.
There are no more pills to be had, no more whiskey to be drunk, no more cigarettes to be smoked.
There are no more words, other than "good night."
His arms pull me in and my legs allow it out of exhaustion and custom.
His lips kiss the salt from my cheek, and I am resolute to stand there until his body disappears into the embrace of his new lover.
That's something we agreed upon in the settlement:
He gets the man.
I get the sunrise.
I got the better end of the deal.

Touch[Downs]

This is not done yet by any means.

Touch[Downs]

I don’t normally drink alone in my apartment. Ever. I’ve always been comforted by going out to a bar because at least then I’m engaging in what might be the lowest form of prostitution: I’m alone, and paying, at the very least, a bartender to comfort me in a moment of weakness. Tonight is a different story, however. Tonight is the 30th birthday of the man who helped me transition into kissing the mirror in front of me instead of breaking it to bits and cutting myself with its remnants. Tonight, I’ve walked miles of beach with couples, their dogs, and versions of relationships I may never know. Tonight, I talked to my little sister about men that have been inside me and meant something.
Tonight, I ran into Tammy and Tonya.
One could not ask for a more altruistic duo. Tammy has fostered more illegitimate and unwanted children than Brad and Angelina could ever aspire to. Selflessly. Unapologetically. Her husband died several years ago and it spurn her into taking on children the way that lesser-than heterosexuals take up crocheting or model airplane construction. She cooks at the local Methodist church for disenfranchised, disease-ridden miscreants, and occasionally persons the counter at their secondhand store.
Tonya is nearly 50 years old. She has DOWNS syndrome. In conversation, one can generally gather every third or fourth word but never a full sentence. She adapts her appliqué nail polish with the seasons, and dons sweaters that fit loosely and chronicle her travels around this grand country spreading the news of how upwardly mobile her tribe truly is. If anyone is to be considered “handi-capable,” it is she. Her only handicap is her supreme memory. When the rest of us are paying people to help us forget, Tonya revels in reminding us what awful human beings we are. Never malicious about it. She’s just glad we take notice of her haircut and strategically off-centered ponytail.
This is where I crack another PBR Tallboy and light another Parliament Light. This is where I get real. This is where I realize that I harbor envy for those less fortunate than myself.
Tonya met a boy.
His name is David.
I’m a jealous bitch.
Apparently, there is a dance held on Cape Cod that approximates mentally retarded adults against a soundtrack of cool/soft rock of the 70s and 80s and offers them ample opportunity to let their inner/outward wild child shine in a safe environment. It’s a ‘tard prom. If I hadn’t spent most of my life worrying about how all of my mentally retarded friends would feel about me using that term, I would have coined it ages ago. Their feeling: “You had a prom; why shouldn’t we?” My sentiment: exactly.
Apparently, at the Tard Prom, Tonya met her “sweetheart.” Monosyllabic words are often a challenge for her, yet she was able to utter a complex, compound word such as “sweetheart” when talking about her new found love interest, David. Going back a brief moment in time, we three are at a restaurant. Correction: Tammy and Tonya are at the restaurant, and I’m sat at its bar. Alone. Drinking a Manhattan. Shaken, when I wanted it stirred. Drinking bourbon when I wanted rye whiskey. Paying for a sub-par drink constructed to less than the standard to which I wanted it prepared.
Tonya’s in love.
I’m drinking an approximation of death.
But I’m thrilled for her. She waxes poetic about her love of this new boy, and even though I can only understand every fourth word, I know that she truly cares for him and he apparently thinks quite highly of her. It’s mid-January and her nails still have Christmas trees on them. She ebulliently tugs on my vintage leather jacket and says, “I like … soft.” Yeah, Tonya. I like “soft,” too.
My mind is racing at this point. I’m not drunk, and I have another mile to bike in the cold before I reach home. I mount my bicycle, mostly because I want to be home and drunk enough to understand how I could manifest such envy for an over-weight mentally retarded woman. I get home, open a beer, pour a Scotch, and do what every narrowly attractive, intellectual single gay man would do in a situation such as this: call my mother, refuse to leave her a voicemail, and then take the next-best-thing by calling my little sister and strong-arming her into an hour-long conversation that is at best a monologue punctuated by her occasional giggle or grimace at my inappropriateness.
I do what any sane individual would do at a time like this, and I quickly turn the subject around on her. While I would love to wallow in my own guilt around judging harshly the actions of a middle-aged mentally retarded woman, I, instead, insist that straight people don’t actually have sex but rather calculatingly violate one another. At this point I’m not even sure if I believe this statement, but I’ve made it so I have to go along with it. I begin to reference the number of times my sister has coquettishly

Don McLean's Paperboy

Bar full of conversation staler than its Chex Mix, collecting cobwebs and cumstains in the same Nicorette-laced breath.
Longing for a soundtrack much less appropriate and much more distorted.
Let them go deaf!
They're not listening to each other anyway.
They can GaGa-gag themselves with this shit.
Where is Fred Schneider when you need him?
Oh, masterful Fred, with so much gusto!
Where are you against all this vibrato?
The mahogany hums with so much grinding and so little fucking.
Anxious twitching causes palms to sweat rivers and crotches to bulge.
Why can't it get that hard when it's supposed to?
Dreams of one day being better paid than the vapid go-go dancer turned bartender who can barely spell gin let alone mix it.
I'm hip-tini to your scheme, mother fucker.
I want to stream my discontent the way queens upload their foibles.
Should have fucked that one.
Ended up fucking his friend.
Congratulations! You put one relationship light years out of reach by settling for an alternative: the one who said, "yes."
GOD DAMNIT, BOYS!
We can be monogamous, too.
Hell, we can even stay together.
We're not our parents.
We're fags.
But we can break the monotony of illustrious promiscuity.
We can love one.
Other than ourselves.
Not equally, but pretty damn close.
I'm about as interested in how many reps you did at the gym as I am in how many times my mother climaxed conceiving me.
(It was 3, by the way. We're tight.)
I will howl until someone hears my cry!
Not for my mother.
She got hers.
I want mine.

Flagging

Marking territory
With flags, piss, and leashes.
Sanity ebbing and flowing with the tide:
In comes the water,
Out goes his shit.
I am rosy skin tight shorts short of attention drawn singly to my ass,
A burial ground of boyfriends past.
Etched in cum across my back
The lyrics of some old Dolly Parton tune
A many-colored coat of men I've worn in and worn out and yet to win.
I do not whine because I drink.
I do not sink because I float
On this inflated sense of self.
In this mirror of oyster shells,
I am unbroken.
Mine was not to be yolked.
Strong backed, ox-shouldered
I carry the weight.
Heavy with so much chatter
Of from whence I came
And where I'm going.
I have feasted at the urinals of Madrid and found light
In the dank bowels of subterranean sex parlors.
I have outwitted the straightest of cock and watched it bend to my will.
A little more to the left, my dear.
I have stolen underwear and gum and cigarettes all in the same breath.
Rifling through medicine cabinets has no longer become a pasttime but a fact-check.
I still have wet dreams of Neal Cassidy jerking me off in the front seat of a Buick,
Under a September moon with Marlene Dietrich on the radio.
Instead, I settle for RedTube military dramas with Drew Carey narrating in the background.

I lied to be laid.
Now, I've laid down my lies only to find I lay down with liars.

Lie down no more.
Marked I may be,
But matched: never.