And Not A Drop To Drink

One of the little quirks of living in Spain is the domestic water system. Visitors will note the public fountains scattered through the streets and plazas. And I don't mean the decorative fountains seen in the formal gardens and major intersections. I mean the small spigots, often little more than a stone pilaster with a brass bowl and push-button faucet. They seem a quaint throwback to medieval times when they were the only source of clean water in the heart of the city. Some are quite lovely, having been designed by famous architects and urban planners or decorated with exquisite statuary. They are, however during these modern times, dreadfully inadequate when they become one's only source of water. 

Today is Monday. I have been living without running water in my home since Thursday. 

I know, I know. I'm probably coming across as a whiney fat-cat American right now. But ladies and gentlemen and the rest of you, I challenge you to go without water for five days. It will totally change your perspective on a resource too many people take for granted. I know there are people living in this world who have never had running water. I know there are people who can't take a drink without worrying about dysentery or cholera or any number of horrible diseases, infections, and parasites. But for me this is the first time I've gone this long without a steady source of water I could assume was clean. I've been accustomed to simply turning on the faucet any time I need to clean my hands. I've been horribly wasteful. 

On Wednesday I drank a couple of cups of tea, I took a shower, I used the machine to wash a load of laundry, I washed dishes, I flushed the toilet countless times, I watered all the plants on my balcony, I mopped the floor, and I washed my hands at least a dozen times just during the preparation and consumption of meals not to mention on several other occasions. On Thursday I drank tea and started a load of laundry. That was when I heard the frustrated humming of the washer. 

No big deal. It's downtown Sitges. The water system here is considerably older and sometimes less trustworthy than that of newer developments. Our flat has a cistern on the roof that is supplied with a constant stream of water. A valve with a float (kind of like the ones you see in toilets) stops the water when the tank is full. An electric pump pulls water from the cistern and sends it into the flat. We've had sand and other particles get caught in the pipes before. I knew I just had to check the valve and the pump to make sure both were unclogged and functioning properly. I went upstairs and checked everything out. Nothing seemed to be wrong. 

I emailed the landlord (who, like half the men in Catalunia is named Xavi [The other half are named Jordi.]) to ask for his assistance and if he knew of any work going on in the building that would require the water to be shut off. I didn't hear back from him until Saturday. That's when he told me he didn't know what was going on. By that time the laundry was spilling out of the hamper, the dirty dishes were piled in the kitchen like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie, my plants were beginning to wilt, and my body odor was to the point I didn't want to be around me anymore. I'm not even going to mention the stress of having to move my bowels and knowing I can't flush the toilet. 

The partner emailed the landlord too and eventually heard back that the water was shut off for nonpayment. Xavi never moved the water bill into our names so we never received any notices. We just assumed he was pulling the money out of the checking account like he does for the rent. Utility bills have been moving out of the account for months. And just as a side note: here in spain, utility bills tend to be bimonthly, trimonthly or at random intervals I have yet to understand. 

Today the partner went to the water office here in town. He discovered not only have no water payments been made for our flat during the time we've been here, but no payment had been made for the entire previous year. It took them TWO YEARS to turn off the water for nonpayment. 

You think homestead rights are pretty crazy in the U.S.? Try having the right to get water and electricity, to even not pay your rent for two years without recourse. That's Spain for you. It's nice to know as a renter I have that extra layer of protection. It would have been nicer to know I was using it. 

Uncomfortable

I recently spent a couple months in the US visiting the kids and the rest of my family in Kentucky. Originally my trip was related to spending some time with the kids during their Spring break. But due to unforeseen circumstances I ended up staying for much longer. My mother, god bless her, saw this as an opportunity for me to drive down to visit them in Georgia. 

To be honest, I'm not all that crazy about the idea of driving down to Georgia. Since I don't drive anymore traffic makes me very nervous, especially with the kids in the car. And then you have the whole big wet cotton ball of discomfort that is spending time with the conservatives. 

Admittedly, most of my family is fairly liberal. They're by and large the modern evolution of the good ol' civil rights-fighting southern Democrats. Long before I came out I spent many Sunday afternoons arguing the finer points of why a white person can't say the N word even if "they say it about themselves all the time."

Of course now that they know I'm queer, they really do try. I have to take the little wins and try my best for the sake of peace to let that be enough. I have to remind myself it's a good thing when they tell me my "choice" to be gay doesn't mean they love me any less. But hey, I've said it before, I had 27 years to get used to the idea before I told them. They need time. 

I can survive around my family just fine for the most part. I know when I can make fag jokes to keep them comfortable. I know when to bite my tongue. And I know when to stand my little piece of ground. The difficulty comes when I interact with people who don't have to (at least pretend to) love me. 

My kids were invited to an Easter egg hunt at the home of one of my mother's oldest and dearest friends. Being out to one's very southern mother means you are out to everyone she knows including all ministers, friends, hairdressers, and guys in the grocery store line in front of her who're buying a copy of the Advocate. So I knew my mother's friend knew I'm gay. I wasn't sure if the other people at the egg hunt knew. 

The group included my mother's friend's daughters and their children, a middle-aged neighbor and her granddaughter, someone's elderly grandmother, my sister and her son, and me and my two monsters. Preparations were made for the kids to decorate eggs and the adults stood around making specious compliments to their artwork and small talk. Small talk in the southern US almost always includes everyone's health and what they're doing, the weather, and church. Discussion of the new minister at my parent's church (specifically the fact that she's female and by extension inept) let me know this was an excellent opportunity to keep my mouth shut. 

Eventually conversation alighted on my personal history and what I'd been up to in the years since I last saw most of the people there. One of the daughters turned to me and asked, "So, what in the world brought you to Spain?" 

A direct question requires a direct answer, right? I looked at the expectant faces of the elderly and the impressionable. The older ladies wouldn't really want to hear about my partner and his globe-trotting job. The mothers might not be too keen on me exposing my "lifestyle choices" to their children. So I gave the best answer I could come up with at the spur of the moment. "An airplane." I smiled my most becoming please-drop-the-subject smile and endured the giggles. 

"Yes, I know but why Spain? What are you doing there?"

I wasn't going to get out of this one easily. I was only trying to avoid a potentially uncomfortable revelation. I was only trying to preserve their false memories of the sweet shy little boy they once knew. I was only trying to hold the tattered remnants of the closet door over myself for the sake of their social comfort. Sure I would like to be out and in everyone's faces about it, but sometimes it's just easier to leave people in their closed-minded cocoons. 

"I'm writing, blogging and fiction, short stories mostly. It worked for George Orwell." Another not-so-clever dodge. But, thank their misogynistic racist god, it worked. 

She pointed at her teenage son who'd been bored with everything, shuffling his sneakers through the whole scene waiting for the first opportunity to get back to his Facebook chats and PlayStation games. "Oh, he's been reading Orwell, haven't you?"

I was off the hook. No old minds were cracked open with my sinful ways. No children's futures were shattered with the knowledge that homosexuality exists. I was, however, left with the feeling I owed her a real explanation. She was, after all, something of a childhood acquaintance. Both of the daughters had been too old to play with me when we were kids, so we had never been really close. But I don't like the implied dishonesty of my question dodging. 

Alas, the opportunity never presented itself. We hid and then helped the kids find eggs. We ate pizza. And then her boys were ready to be somewhere else. 

As we were leaving the hostess pulled me aside to thank me for coming. 

"Thank you for having us." I hadn't completely forgotten my manners.

"I'm glad you came. I didn't know if you'd be, um, uncomfortable." I suppose a sweet attempt at an allusion to my newly known sexuality.

"It was great to see you all again. The kids had a great time." 

I don't know exactly what my mother has told her. I don't know what she thinks of homosexuality. But I can guess given the conglomerate of conservative social opinions among my family and their associates. I certainly didn't want to "throw my queerness in their faces." I was more concerned about their comfort than my own. Maybe she and her daughters were just as worried about being invaded by my unfamiliar world as I was about returning to theirs. But hopefully if there's any bit of light to be found in this muddy mess it's that they got to see an example of a normal gay man. A loving father. A person who hasn't forgotten the politeness of his upbringing. Someone who is still who he was before they knew his sexuality. 

Too Much of a Good Thing

My nine-year-old and I were talking to a friend yesterday. The conversation centered on the fact that he and I have been spending a great deal of time alone together the past week since my daughter is on a field trip and his mother is gallivanting in San Diego. We've had the house to ourselves for a few days. It's been pretty nice. She asked him if we'd been drinking beer and watching bad movies. Bless his heart, he said he would never drink beer. "So, what have you been doing since the women have been away?"

I'd bought him a bottle of root beer and we'd made pizzas the night before. We put whatever we wanted on the pizzas - didn't have to waste our resources on making a plain cheese for the females.

Then the topic turned to bacon. One of his favorite pizza toppings and also one of his favorite breakfasts, appetizers, and deserts. "My mom never buys us bacon."

Wow, I didn't realize he wanted bacon so badly. So I suggested we go for a grocery shop - to get bacon. The idea was since it was our last night without the women-folk we'd make a meal of all the things we most like to eat. We explored the isles, picking out random foods he liked but rarely got to eat. Lime Jell-o. Frozen mozzarella sticks. Canned chili and french fries (mostly for me). And of course, bacon. Two packages of bacon. 

We mixed up the Jell-o and put it in the fridge. We put the cheese sticks in the oven and got out the griddle. I guided him through the process of cooking bacon to his liking. He had never been allowed to make bacon for himself before. He was a little timid about getting popped by the sizzling grease, but adapted to the process soon enough. We only cooked one package, thank goodness. 

I think I ate one piece of bacon. He gorged himself on cholesterol and deliciousness. By the time our "meal" was over I could actually hear my heart trying to pump the coagulating animal fat through my veins. The boy lay on the couch moaning, his hands clutched to his abdomen as he stared like a zombie at cartoons on the television. He went amazingly quickly from, "I can't believe I ate a whole pound of bacon," to, "Do you think the Jell-o is ready?" It wasn't sep up yet, thank goodness.

This morning when I woke him up to get ready for school I asked if his stomach was feeling better. It was.  I also asked if he wanted the other pound of bacon for breakfast. He said, "No, let's save it for tomorrow." He opted for the Jell-o instead. 

I Haven't Done That Since...

So today was, um, not my niece's birthday but we celebrated it today. She wanted to go skating. Roller skating - you know: in a rink with bizarre carpet on the walls, smelly skates, bad expensive food, and white trash as far as the eye can see. (Yes, speaking as a long-standing bit of white trash myself, I'm going to leave that last sentence as it stands.) There was actually a man there dressed in red Coca-Cola pajama-bottoms. Yes, my children are being raised in a community where people think that is an appropriate thing to wear in public. 

So we went skating. I didn't know such things as roller rinks still existed. No joke, the last time I went roller skating they had Janet Jackson's "What Have You Done for Me Lately" on pretty heavy rotation. Actually the music hadn't changed all that much. Ok, Miley Cyrus, the High School Musical gang, and other bits of Disney detritus were a major feature. But they played a mix of recent popular stuff with some good. I was feeling so nostalgic I actually said to my daughter, "Do you hear that? It's Kool and the Gang! Let's hit the hardwood!"

Roller Skating is difficult. Much more so than I remember. Balance has become a stranger to me over the past 20 years. That and falling is much more painful (and easier to come by) when your center of gravity is a good two or three feet higher than it once was. My feet feel like I've been walking on hot coals while very short people hit my ankles with croquet mallets. The soreness in my arches extends to my hips. And the bruises, sheesh. My coccyx may very well have broken off on one of my unexpected trips to on-my-ass. And once I caught myself with a hand and I think there might be fewer bones left in my wrist  now  as a result. 

But the kids I think managed to suffer more than I. I was lucky enough to fall relatively few times. The girl fell maybe a conservative 500 times. I thought she was seriously hurt a few times. And she has a lovely greenish bruise on her elbow to prove it. But she didn't give up. Which is just a wee bit amazing. I rarely get to see much tenacity in my kids (except when it comes to giving up on things or refusing to try new things). But she stuck to it 'till she had developed confidence and balance. By the end she was talking about going skating for her upcoming birthday. 

The boy, however took a different tack. He fell a handful of times, gave up, and spent the rest of the time scrounging for tokens to feed into the ski-ball machines. I seriously only gave him 50 cents. Yet by the end of the evening he had earned enough tickets for about six worthless prizes. Yes, that's my little entrepreneur, or my little thief - I'm not sure which. 

And just like in the 80s, I found I could skate much better by the end of the night. I finally remembered how to do that crossover thing to turn in the corners. I was embarrassing myself bopping along to the rhythm of the music and only losing my balance every now and then. Visions of Xanadu danced in my head. I was beginning to fancy myself almost as good as the skate-dancing set - but not quite. By the time we made our wobbly-legged way out the front doors, I was actually a little reluctant to leave the smells of stale nachos and foot fungus, the thumping of popular [sic] music, and the denizens poor oral hygiene. 

An Open Apology

Via PageOneQ:

Deb Price of The Detroit News wrote a piece last month about how educators are not only NOT protecting LGBT students from discrimination, but are in fact contributing to the hateful, hurtful environment in which these students find themselves. In her article she focused on a report by the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network called "Shared Differences." The report took data from more than 2,000 LGBT students of color:

The survey results paint a grim picture of kids so hardened to anti-gay remarks, shoving or worse that they don't even bother reporting the abusive incidents to a school official or parent.

These students rarely read about LGBT people in textbooks, nor do they learn about gay history or people in class.

What they too often learn firsthand is that school is a place where they can expect to be hurt -- emotionally or physically. The predictable but sad result is that many of these kids skip classes and see their grades drop.

Price's article did indicate that schools with LGBT clubs and organizations, supportive administrators, inclusive textbooks, and anti-harassment policies were taking steps in the right direction. The report can be found at glsen.org.

This piece really hits home for me. 

Once upon a time, (OMG, like 15 years ago now) I was a gay student. It was, to say the least, a miserable experience for me. I can not fathom how much more difficult it is for a GLBT student of color. It's hard enough just being a teenager. Top all the hormones and pressures from parents and peers and society with a couple of unfortunately ugly stigmas and I don't know how some kids survive. All I can say is you must be very brave, and I salute you. 

Then I became a teacher. And you know what? It wasn't any better. I once suggested to another teacher that there was a need for a gay student organization. I was thinking about trying to start a GSA or something. She responded with horror. She told me I didn't want to do that: I'd get run out of town or maybe even shot. I was then only just out of the closet myself. Well, only out to a handful of my friends who I knew were alright. Scary. 

I tried to exude tolerance and acceptance in my classroom, but I had gotten a clear message that it wasn't alright to be gay. I tried to be positive and to encourage my student to expose themselves to different viewpoints. But I was terrified at the same time. I was called a faggot numerous times by students. And I didn't know how to rescue my students who were similarly insulted by their peers. I failed them over and over again.

It was the kind of community where young gays didn't come out while still in high school. Occasionally stories would trickle back to me about former students then in college who had come out of the closet. These stories were usually met with disgust. In fact, one student told me that if he ever saw his former best friend again he would kill him. I tried to dissuade him from this stance, saying that he was still the same guy, he just didn't want to date girls anymore. But I don't know if the message got through all the testosterone. 

A few lesbians were out. But they were constantly harassed by students, teachers, and administrators. One couple I knew were often cited for public displays of affection. Even while heterosexual couples engaged in heavy petting in the hallways, these young women were berated for kissing. I'm not saying I wanted to see all that, but fair is fair. Or at least it should be. My room became a sort of haven for them. I still discouraged them from making out, but I was honest about it. I just don't have any desire to see teenagers playing tongue hockey. 

Probably the most discouraging thing that happened was when a friend and colleague pulled me aside one day. An administrator had given her a message to give to me. I don't know why this administrator didn't approach me directly. Perhaps I would have better understood the intent of her message had she done so. But anyway, my friend pulled me aside one day after school. She said X is really worried about you. X thinks you've been telling too much to some of the other teachers and she's afraid you might get yourself in trouble. I still don't know exactly what she was implying. Did she think I didn't want people to know I was gay? Did she think I might get in legal trouble if a student decided to claim I was being inappropriate? Was it a covert warning that my job was in jeopardy if I came out? Was it a threat to my life? I don't know. But suffice it to say I never felt safe teaching in that environment again. Once I realized the administration wouldn't have my back, I knew I didn't need to be there anymore. 

I did teach again a couple of years later. In another school. In another state, also not known for it's acceptance of gays. This time I was gun shy. I still came out to a select group of friends. But I was very much in the closet in my classroom. I still fought the good fight when I felt I could. When students said, "That's so gay." I responded, "Do you mean that's so happy or that's so homosexual?"

People were a little more tolerant at this school. I had one class with two out and outspoken lesbians. Another class had a bisexual girl. And yet another had a boy who identified as bisexual. I tried to be nonplussed by their disclosures (some kids are "out" for the shock value) and always accepting. But I'm sure insults were abundant. And I know there were enough tough gangster-types to make sure the word faggot saw plenty of action. 

I just hope I was mostly a positive influence in the lives of these kids, especially the LGBTQ ones. To them: If I ever made things more difficult for you, I apologize now from the bottom of my heart. I hope you can forgive me for not stopping them when they called you faggot. I was scared too. And I stopped them as often as I could. When I called you lesbians, I had heard you using the term among yourselves and I understood the term to have positive power for you. I'm sorry if it seemed like I was calling you out. I meant absolutely no insult by it. I'm proud of your for being able to be true to yourselves. When we made up the word queerdo to talk about how some people view goths, I hope you didn't take it as an insult. It was a joke. I absolutely support your right to be who you are and even if I kid you about it, I think you're great and I hope you're doing alright. Queerdo.

The Mysterious Social Habits of the English Perma-Tourist

Aside from the propensity for extreme loudness (a characteristic found in both English and American tourists), the English perma-tourist is also likely to be extraordinarily, even recklessly friendly to other English-speakers. An example: 

My partner and I went out Saturday night with the intention of attending one of the gay-specific (pre-)Carnival events. We missed it. But we did end up in one of our preferred music bars later in the evening. This particular place caters to a gay clientele but also garners a significant heterosexual following because of its excellent music and friendly atmosphere. 

My partner made the acquaintance of a couple from the UK who had ensconced themselves at a table. The usual intoxicated greetings were exchanged, including names which were forgotten. I'll call them J and C. J is a young man from near Birmingham. If he were gay he would be on the young extreme of exactly my type: stocky, chiseled, tough-ish (I should add here in case he ever reads this: I find the fact that he's not gay an absolute turn off). His fiance, C is possibly one of the loveliest women ever produced by the British Isles. She's well-proportioned and blonde with a sweet yet outgoing disposition. And the two of them are absolutely devoted to one another. 

They were biding their time until they could meet up with a bartender friend at another bar which didn't open until later. Within five minutes my partner had invited them come up to our flat for a drink while we waited for the other bar to open. We didn't know these guys from Adam. They very well could have been modern Europe's answer to Bonnie and Clyde. But they weren't, not that I didn't quietly boil with angst about the possibility all night long. 

Actually they were absolutely wonderful guests. We had a great time hanging out with them. Thankfully they didn't seem too bothered about the mess in the flat. (If it were up to me, I wouldn't invite anyone to the flat unless I had specifically spent at least a day cleaning in anticipation.) C needed to crash for a while (Spanish bars open much later and Spanish alcohol portions are much more generous than those in the UK). So we three guys hung out and talked. 

J turned out to be a great guy. Thankfully he was confidant enough in his sexuality to not be threatened by a couple of fags. In fact, when it became apparent that C's nap was going to eat through his chance to meet his friend he was cool enough to accompany me to the club and then another gay bar afterward. It's always good for one's street cred to show up at the late a.m. sauna bar with a handsome aparently straight guy. We ultimately didn't find his friend and ended up heading back to the flat in the predawn hours (he only slightly shaken from being cruised hard at the sauna). Before those of you with dirty minds conjure up images of a menage a quatre, they slept on the blow-up bed in the living room.

So while I do find my partner's outgoing behavior bizarre, even reckless, it does often yield enjoyable results. How often does one get to spend his Valentines Day bar crawling with a handsome straight couple?

What I'm Listening To

Like many people I got a new ipod over the holidays this year. So I've had to do my best to fill it like a pinata (I can't make my tilde go on top of my n) with sweet chocolate music, pictures, and podcasts. I went to get a glass of water so I could think of how to extend that metaphor, but I've decided instead to abandon it and just go on. Bleh.

So wanting to listen to good stuff without having to fish through my thousands of songs has lead me to downloading podcasts. Very quickly I have developed strong attachments to several of these. I now, unlike most people in the western world, enjoy workdays better than weekends because my podcasts get updated then. How sad is my life that these random voices I download have become my friends? Actually, I like some of these personalities better than most of my friends. Alas, I shed a tear. 

There are some great and popular things out there. And believe it or not, the two are not always mutually exclusive. Some of NPR's offerings are worthwhile. And I truly do miss me some Terry Gross now that I'm spending most of my time outside the states. So Fresh Air is a must. Also from NPR, I get Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me! which is like Hollywood Squares except it's funny, smart, and entertaining.  I also get This American Life, but I think that comes from Chicago Public Radio via NPR. It's very good for filling up large chunks of time. Like when I'm changing trains in Prat de Llobregat and the train that was supposed to arrive at 12 minutes before the hour actually arrived at 13 minutes before the hour causing me to miss it, and the next one doesn't get there for 56 minutes. It reminds me of when I was a kid and got my first cassette recorder for christmas and I went around "interviewing" adults. Except these adults take the kids with the tape recorders seriously, so you get some quality shit. 

Not at all as far as I know associated with public broadcasting is Dan Savage. The Savage Lovecast updates like the blog on Tuesdays. I'm beginning to suspect he's growing weary of the whole naming sex acts after people and organizations we don't like schtick. (But Saddleback is a fucking stupid name for a church.) Beyond that there's a shitload of sex advice, which is good. It's especially fun to laugh at all the morons. Actually, I'd say the show is 10% politics, 20% sex and relationship advice, and 80% laughing at the morons. (Dear blog gods, please don't let my first comment be someone pointing out my math.)

OK, so that's the popular stuff I listen to. Almost everything else I listen to is gay. In the homosexual way, not the stupid way. Hot Gay Comics from Here! is a talk show about, you guessed it, gay comics. It's often funny, but the word hot is way overused these days, and here's a prime example. Also from the queer media world I get something that was called Wisecrack when I first started downloading it. These days it seems to have about three titles depending on what Logo is shunting off as comedy. 

My partner doesn't like it, but another daily podcast I enjoy is Feast of Fools. These guys actually make me want to live in Chicago. And buy their t-shirts. I have to write them and see if they ship internationally. They have some great guests, and even when they don't, it's worth tuning in for their take on gay news and events and just about everything. They led me to Deven Green's podcast. She's about the funniest saucy boozehound in Hollywood. Actually her comedy is largely based on dubbing new vocal tracks over cheesy 80s TV shows. She's not gay but her husband is damn sexy. I also want to buy her t-shirts (and have Joel's babies). 

Last but not least are two podcasts from Lavender Media. Big Gay News is a daily news update with Bradley Traynor. I honestly wonder where he gets his headlines. He seems to know stuff at least a day before every other queer news outlet. Traynor's alter ego is Wanda Wisdom. She's the hostess of Lucky Bitch Radio. Her show is more of a talk show type thing with some news thrown in. It's funny, informative, and often uplifting. And the giant cherry at the top of all this whipped cream is the Random Mini Disco Dance Party, a surprise intrusion of a song from the 70s or 80s in the middle of the podcast. I'm just nelly enough to love it. 

So there you have it. My friends. I mean other than you, ladies and gentlemen and the rest of you. These are my friends who actually talk to me. I only have to press play first. 

Slow News Day

Today is the 29th day of 2009. Tomorrow marks my 30th day of trying to write every single day. You know what? I look back and think, my goodness I'm worthless at this whole blogging thing. I read a blog today by someone who has some obvious mental problems. It makes me wonder if I sound this bad when I'm having a paranoid day. At lest I'm not trying to sell a (signed and numbered) book about my craziness. Oh, if only I could. That really needs to be my next step: have a coked-out crazy butt-sex session with a soon-to-be famous person (weather in reality or my own little fantasy world) and then schlep the memoir about it online. You'd buy it, wouldn't you ladies and gentlemen and the rest of you? Political posturing mixed with schizoid fantasy sells, doesn't it? People buy Rush Limbaugh's books, don't they?

But I'm growing weary of all these drawn-out sordid tales. Ted Haggard's recent reemerging is ridiculous. Weren't we through with all that years ago? Why drag it out and discuss it again as if seeing this bozo re-crucified on HBO is going to help anybody. Sure, maybe it'll sell a few more books by Haggard's former butt-boy. It'll give a couple more of his former meth-buddies their fifteen minutes. But it won't help those poor queer fifteen-year-olds hiding out in their evangelical parents' houses waiting to be shipped off to ex-gay camp, will it? It doesn't do any good for closeted homosexuals trapped in their heterosexual lives. Why doesn't the media focus on an ex-ex-gay for a minute? 

Come to think of it, is there an ex-ex-gay movement? Surely I can't be (other than a few overexposed celebrity examples) the last normal everyday former closet case? It's worth looking into. 

Laws, er, Suggestions of Attraction

From January 16, 2009

I ran into one of the guys who’s painting the air-shaft in our building today. I was coming downstairs, having just collected some of my laundry from the roof, And I looked an absolute mess. Every now and again I tend to take a day off from personal hygiene, not for any lofty reason like I’m saving water or protesting nuclear weapons or anything noble like that, but because I’m freaking lazy. If nobody is going to see me for 24 hours because I’m holed up in the flat recovering from a hangover, why bother? I’d hate to be the kind of guy who has to brush his teeth before he kisses his LTR in the morning, but I’m not filthy. I think there’s a balance somewhere. And I think maybe I’m somewhere (not too far, mind you) on the dirty side of that balance. 

Anyway, I was scuttling down from the clotheslines on the roof. I like to do this around 14:00 (2 p.m.) because that’s siesta and I’m less likely to run into people then. And as I said earlier, I’m looking like Tom Cruise’s second to last appearance in Interview with the Vampire, when he’s been munching on rats and snakes and is terrified by helicopters. I’ve seriously paused by the roof door, taken my time re-locking it before walking downstairs so I don’t have to say hola to the woman across the way. Not that she’d even give a damn about me looking scroungy. But one does want to present one’s best face to such a prim and proper business woman. After all, she does own at least half of this building. 

So I’ve taken my time locking the roof door so as to avoid her and begun my descent. When who should I meet on the stairs, but some strange man. 

Let me take a moment to assure you, I’m not one of those queers who goes chasing after heterosexuals. The last thing I need in my life is to pine away after someone who could never be interested in me. And I’m married, or affianced anyway, so it’s not like I’m looking. But maybe five times since high school, before I had any knowledge of the mechanics of attraction, I’ve had this magic bizarre locking of the eyes moment with men. And with the exception of the night I met my partner, all of those moments have yielded exactly nada. 

One would think that after thirty-three years a man would know what his tastes are. But not me. No, my tastes have to come from behind and knock me in the head. I guess it’s at least partly the fact that my tastes don’t fall into any normal category. I’m not into twinks (at all). Nor muscle Marys. I don’t necessarily like blonde guys over those with brown hair. Short hair is a plus but not an absolute. Bears and leathermen are often a safe bet, but not exclusively. Big but not chubs? I guess. Certainly I don’t prefer one nationality over another. I couldn’t possibly give a damn about skin color. Cut or uncut? Yes, please. So what is my taste? I can’t argue that this guy on the stairs is exactly my taste, but I did quite fancy him. 

So there he is on the stairs. He has on thick black and yellow rubber boots and brown coveralls. His face is flushed like he’s just come in from the cold and climbed three flights of stairs, because he just did, and he has a slight peppering of facial stubble. His close-cropped hair is a little longer on top like maybe he goes to a barber. It looks wavy; if he let it grow out he’d probably look like one of the guys from the Brady Bunch. It’s hard to tell his body type under the layers of clothing, but the overall impression of his age and the softness in his face lends to the assumption that he’s got a little of the middle-age spread going on. Not fat or even unfit, and certainly not skinny. But he seems to have a working-man’s muscles and a married man’s layer of insulation. 

And his eyes. Once upon a time I was always going on about blue eyes. And I still get caught by the starkness and depth in the blue eyes of a random Scandinavian in the bars. But I’m no longer so hung up on the color. There is another more important aspect in some men’s eyes that catches me. He had this characteristic. It’s an openness, a guilelessness. I won’t say innocence lest you homophobes out there start screaming pedophile. (I’d be more likely to fall in love with a collie than a teenage boy.) But even now, hours later when I conjure up a mental picture of his eyes, I feel the organs of my abdomen dissolving into ticklish jelly. 

So there he is tromping up the stairs in his paint-spattered boots. And there I am, a cross between half-dead Lestat and a charwoman with my laundry and my slept-in clothes. His bone-dissolving eyes pin me to the wall. I’m a locust, a beetle awaiting his examination. I’m a nematode bisected by his not-blue-eyed glance. 

He said hola.

I said hola.

I took my laundry inside, and the echo of his boots died in the stairwell. Maybe my taste is...completely unavailable.