Pen and Ink

Pleasant surprises.

I've never been much of a bar person. It's probably been 20 years since I went out to a bar by myself with no agenda other than maybe, hopefully, wishfully meeting someone.

After a day of major retail therapy and a bit of a nap, I was restless. It's a beautiful, sultry Saturday evening in Fort Lauderdale and I was faced with the prospect of an evening home alone with the TV remote.  Cary was out with guy du jour. I saw John last night. And the guy I really wanted to spend the evening with is off trying to figure out his life.

So, I decided to head over to Georgie's Alibi for a drink. It was early -- maybe 8 p.m. when I arrived. I didn't care about being out late with the masses and I really didn't care if I met anyone. My only motivation was simply not to be home alone and to be out among the lavendar brotherhood.

After getting my drink at the bar, I started my first pass through the bar. Along the back wall, seated at one of the banquettes were two guys, one of whom pointing at me and motioning me over. It wasn't that crowded, so I knew that I was the one he was focused on. 

As I approached, he seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place him. He shook my hand and introduced me to his boyfriend, Chris. Nice to meet you Chris, but who the hell is your boyfriend, what is his name and from where do I know him?

Boyfriend said, "I left the store and am doing visual at another company."

OK, that narrowed it down.  Then I realized, "Oh wait! It's Mark from Bassett."

He helped me on several occasions with furniture and lighting and was really friendly every time I went into the store.

Long story short, we ended up chatting for a couple of hours. It was such a pleasant surprise. Here I was, expecting to stand in a corner, nursing a drink and being all shy and not talking to people. But I ended up chatting with two really nice fellow New Englanders and having a lovely evening.

Mark and I exchanged phone numbers and promises to give each other a ring. I definitely will do that. I'm also planning a pool party for later in the summer, so it will be nice to have two additional, fun people to invite.

Four-thirty a.m.

After a busy weekend of Pride events, I should be sleeping. Oh, if only.

I went to bed at 10 p.m. last night, which is a little on the early side for me. Barely 30 minutes later, I was asleep. But then just five hours later, there I lay, wide awake, my mind going and going and going, on an endless loop, playing out scenarios, situations, conversations. And this has been going on for a week.

There's a song called "Tuesday, 3 a.m." from the soundtrack to Latter Days that comes to mind. If you saw the movie, I'm kinda like the Christian character, up at all hours. 'Cept he's much hotter than moi.

Crescendo.

It's Gay Pride Weekend here in Fort Lauderdale.

This city has two Pride weekends, actually. There's one in March, which doesn't have a parade, but consists of the typical vendors hawking rainbow stuff and a stage with marginal talent performing. Mostly, I think, it's an effort to extract dollars from tourists.

The real Pride event is always the third weekend of June. They changed things around a bit this year, though. The parade, usually mid-day on Sunday in the oppressive heat, was moved to Saturday night at 8:30. Sun's gone and so is the heat.  Smart move.

Unfortunately, it rained.  So there we were, Cary and his current whatever S, Wayne and Paul, David (his significant other is a doc and was working), and yours truly, dashing into Georgie's Alibi to escape the rain. S is a p/t bartender there and knows many of the bartenders on the "Drive." So we basically drank for next to nothing.

After Alibi came Bill's which is right across the street. There I ran into Tom, a colleague from work. He said he thought a bunch of people from work were driving up from Miami, but I never saw any of them.  After a drink there, we moved down the street to Sidelines, a sports bar I had never gone to before.

The place was packed and it was there that our party for six reached a crescendo. We were packed together in a huddled mass among the crowd. Someone commented on a troll sitting right next to us and suddenly everything -- and I mean everything -- was hysterical. We are all doubled over with laughter, tears running down our cheeks.  After an emotionally stressful week, it was exactly what I needed.

Some of us switched to water after that, but the party continued down at Rosie's, where there was dancing in the parking lot. Because of the rain, most of us were wearing flip flops. Have you ever tried to dance in flip flops?  'taint pretty.  But nonetheless, we danced.

After Wayne and Paul bid us a goodnight, Cary, David, S and I returned to the starting point of our night of revelry: Alibi. S insisted I have another drink, but when he wasn't looking, I lost the cocktail and ordered a bottle of water.  

At 1:30, longer than I have stayed out in forever, my bed was a very appealing sight.

Just don't call me 'papi.'

I've been curious about something lately: the phenomenon of younger and older gay male couples. Why are guys in their 20s attracted to those of us in our 40s? Or, for that matter, why would someone be attracted to someone 20 years his senior?  And vice versa? What do older men see in younger guys, aside from physical appeal?

My curiosity started to be piqued when I met Stalker Boy a year and half ago (you can go back to January and February 2007 in this blog for the "Boy" series of posts, but long story short, 24-year old guy starts following me around on campus, makes a point to meet me, etc.).

The question has come up again since I've become single. Placing myself back on a couple of gay "social networking sites" (and I use the phrase loosely), I've been amazed at the number of 20-somethings who have contacted me, expressing their desire for whatever. Sometimes it's sex, sometimes it's more.

Last week, while hanging out at Starbucks in Wilton Manors with a couple of new friends, I saw a man in his sixties -- someone I knew many years ago in Boston -- with his much younger boyfriend. There had to be at least a 30-year difference between them. My friend stopped to chat, but I didn't meet the boyfriend.

Now, like many people, I have often looked at these couples and thought "sugar daddy" or "kept boy."  I think it's an obvious assumption. I'm sure that in some circumstances, it's an accurate assumption. But in many cases, I would be wrong.

I've done a little research. I've posed the question to a couple of these twenty-somethings who have chatted me up on Adam4Adam or Manhunt.  My assistant and I had a long talk about it; he's 35 and has had a long-term relationship with someone 20 years his senior. It's his second such relationship.

Today, I even got into the conversation with N, who is a straight woman in her late 30s. She revealed that she once had a relationship with a man some 30 years her senior.

Every time I posed the question, I got pretty much the same response. The appeal, for the younger person, is safety and security. And not financial security either. Rather, it's the comfort of being with someone who has had more life experience, who can provide a guiding hand through life, the reassurance that his older partner has gone down the path before.

It's a really interesting notion, one that I kind of find appealing. But not that if it is the sole reason to be with someone. Obviously, for any relationship to be solid, there has to be a balance, both men need to get something out of it.

So that leads me to the other half of the equation.  Why do older men go after younger guys?

Of course, there can be a physical appeal, but anyone who has been in a relationship for any length of time knows that in the long run, the physical is a secondary reason.  I think there has to be more.

I tossed the question out to my friend Paul when he was visiting a couple of months ago. He's always been attracted to younger men, so I asked him why. His answer was interesting.

"I don't want to feel old and boring."

That, I thought, was very interesting because it's something that I fear. I have no problem with growing older. Hell, I'm more secure in who I am as a person as I get older and I'm really enjoying my life.  But I agree with Paul completely. I don't want to feel old. I want to be in tune with popular culture. I want the latest electronic toys (that damned iPhone keeps calling my name). I know I will grow old, but I don't want to feel old.

So it's all very interesting. And you're probably thinking, "why is he writing about this?" There's a reason.

And let's leave it at that for the moment.

Writer's block.

For those who check this blog periodically or who subscribe to the feed, you've undoubtedly noticed the absence of activity lately.  There are things I've wanted to say, but I've just been lethargic about writing. I haven't wanted to exert the energy to put my thoughts into words.

It's been so bad that I haven't even been able to put other people's words into a blog post. Case in point, there's a poem I discovered a week or two ago that absolutely sums up what I've been feeling. A copy of said poem by one Lorelei Ramirez, has been sitting on my kitchen counter, just waiting to be shared.  So here goes.

Writer's Block

Unfortunately,
Tonight I am only able to reach into my mind's shallow waters
(play along the shore as you stick your feet in gently)
'Cause any deeper, I suppose-d (when that word was in the making)
You would have drowned in a pool of overheated alphabet soup
that did not spell a thing.

Now here I sit, 5:30 a.m. on Monday. And just now, I'm thinking about the blog and decided to get up, after being awake for God-knows how long already, and share this poem.

Part of my ambivalence about writing, I think, is the quality of what I've actually been writing. Or, more to the point, the depth of what I've been posting. And, even more to the point, the lack of depth.

In the past I've used this space to write about personal thoughts and experiences. The category "The exhibitionist in me" is for these types of posts. But I just haven't felt the freedom to go there lately.  I've decided, though, that I am going to jump over that hurdle and focus on writing things that mean something to me. 

The last couple of months have been a time of transition. I became the sole owner of my home, a daunting proposition, to be sure, but one that is a bit breathtaking. I look around this house and my yard and I think, "Wow. I did all this."  Not alone, certainly, because I would never have gotten here without Mike, but still, I'm carrying it on my own now, without having to be reduced to eating dogfood out of a can.

This time as also been one of major transition in some of my relationships. The long-running "Glenn and Mike" show truly ended as he moved back to Boston. I ended two years of dating John and now we look for a way to continue as friends. It's a period of being "weird but not weird," as he puts it. And another friend walked out of my life, only to come back very suddenly and unexpectedly, a real shot in the dark. 

It is this last situation that I think finally pushed me back to these pages. I've been inching my way back, but over what was a really weird weekend, I was compelled to write again.

So here I am.

I need a shower.

So there I was Friday evening, pulling up to the swank home in Coral Gables that was the setting for the Republican fundraiser.

Cary parked his car right next to mine. As we got out I said, "I feel dirty already."

We walked in the door and I encountered my boss. OK. "Good," I thought. At least I've been seen. And I know that as a major liberal Democrat, he was sharing in the pain.

Standing next to him was "not-so-evil-but-still-a-Republican," a woman I've met once before. She greeted me with a hug (I really don't think she knew who I was.

As Republican's go, she's not bad. Really in the right place on a number of issues, including GLBT rights. But still, she's part of that hateful political party.

We made our way through the beautiful home and found a bunch of my co-workers, Democrats all. At least I was in good company. The irony of the situation is that there were probably as many Democrats there as Republicans. The things we do!

I was finally able to introduce Cary to my friend M -- both had heard about each other for months and were happy to finally meet.  Then later on, Cary and I started talking to another colleague, V, with whom I work closely. When Cary mentioned he works for Saks, V's eyes brightened. She linked her arm with mine and leaned into Cary to start on a sponsorship pitch for one of the programs she runs. As soon as she opened her mouth, I just started laughing. I knew where it was going.

But Cary, trooper that he was all evening, took it in stride and actually promised to call V.

A little while later, we were herded outside in the zillion-degree heat for the speechifiying. We had to listen to the host. To the host's father. To all three of the Republicans.

I needed a shower after, and not just from sweating profusely in my business suit.

Saturday night, I was at another work-related dinner and G, my boss's right arm, was there.

"I was going to send you a text earlier. Thank you for going last night."

I assured him that I did it because I am committed to our organization.

"I had to take a long, hot shower after," he said. "It just reaffirmed that I have nothing in common with these people and that they are freaks and that I am opposed to everything they stand for."

Amen, brothah.

Where's my soul?

My boss' right hand, G, called me the other day.

"I need you to go to a cocktail reception that A is holding on Friday night."

GROAAAANNNN...I hate work things on Friday and Saturday night.

"What's the reception for?" I inquired.

The response stopped me cold.

It was a fundraiser for evil Republican #1, evil Republican #2, and not-so-evil-but-still-a-Republican.

OK. I don't get involved with any political fundaisers, let alone ones for Republicans. But he pleaded, saying that he had to get people there. When I asked how much it was going to cost me, he said, "Just 50 bucks."

I had no choice but to agree. I then called Cary and told him that he had to go with me, as we had plans to go to South Beach to see SATC that night.

A few choice words later, he agreed.

The next day I walked into G's office with my checkbook. I tried to write the check to him and then have him write the check to the evil republicans, but that didn't work.

Then I confirmed that it was just $50. Yeah, technically it was. But what he had neglected to tell me that it was $50 per candidate!

It pained me to write those checks. 

G said "I hope it doesn't kill your wallet."

"It's not my wallet."

"No, it's your soul. I'm right there with you."

I hear dead people.

While on my music rampage this evening, I noticed a pattern: I've been listening to dead people.

First Laurie Beechman.  Dead.

Then Laura Branigan.  Dead.

Then Freddie Mercury.  Dead.

Thank heavens I didn't put on the Meatloaf/VH1 Story Tellers album I was contemplating. More likely than not, he'd croak by morning.

All of 'em died way to young too.

OK. That's enough of my self-indulgent posts.  I'll put up something lighter tomorrow.

We will rock you.

This is the continuation of the post immediately below.

Laurie Beechman, God bless her soul, morphed into Queen.  Now there was another diva -- Freddie Mercury. What a monster talent! And like Laurie, he died way too soon.


What more would he and Queen have done? 

Nonetheless. Feeling down in the dumps?  Just put on Queen's Greatest Hits and full volume.  Your troubles will be long forgotten.

Lift me up.

One of the great things about living alone -- especially in a single family house -- is that you can turn up the volume on your music as much as you want.

I'm appreciating it tonight. I came home feeling a bit blue, for reasons that I am not going to go into. As I often do when feeling this way, I retreat into music. Right now, I'm listening to Laurie Beechman's "Time Between the Time."














With 15 foot ceilings in my family room, Laurie's voice just soars. This album is particularly beautiful. Laurie's voice was rich, full of nuance. As I've written before, I was captivated by her in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat back in the 1980s.

She is one of those artists who can lift me up out of any funk.