| Tears? Not Good | |
|---|---|
How tough is unrequited love? This tough: I stepped into the restroom at work tonight and cried. | |
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Fem Boy
A kid walked into the Nepalese restaurant in Harrisonburg this evening. Obviously gay. Mod haircut. A tight shirt revealing the countour of his chest and belly. A peek of skin when he leaned against the counter. A man's purse strapped around his back.
He walked like fem gay kids walk -- fast and scared. His face was blank and tense, almost unnervingly so. No doubt he's been the object of ridicule most of his life, so I assume he's put up an emotional shield.
When he entered the restaurant, he glanced quickly at me -- my table was directly beside the door -- and I smiled. I hope he saw the smile. And I hope he knew the smile was meant to convey love, not scorn.
Even in the gay community, you still see warnings on guys' on-line chat-room profiles: "no fems." In a way, it's our version of the dark-skinned/light-skinned black conflict. The "straight-acting" gays feel superior to the feminine gays.
I find the "no fems" admonition offensive, partly because it tries to marginalize a group of people -- something gays should be familiar with -- and partly because those guys face enough daily trauma in the straight world without being ostracized by their gay brothers.
But to be honest -- and it hurts to be honest -- I sometimes wince when I see "flaming fags." I absofuckinglutely hate having that reaction. But it's there. Why, I don't know -- I assume it's something middle America taught me as I grew up -- and I'm determined to fight it.
So I strip away the pretense and look into the eyes of those fem guys. Try it. You'll see a scared puppy. And you'll see another human being, a human being longing for the same things you want: love, companionship, respect and security.
He walked like fem gay kids walk -- fast and scared. His face was blank and tense, almost unnervingly so. No doubt he's been the object of ridicule most of his life, so I assume he's put up an emotional shield.
When he entered the restaurant, he glanced quickly at me -- my table was directly beside the door -- and I smiled. I hope he saw the smile. And I hope he knew the smile was meant to convey love, not scorn.
Even in the gay community, you still see warnings on guys' on-line chat-room profiles: "no fems." In a way, it's our version of the dark-skinned/light-skinned black conflict. The "straight-acting" gays feel superior to the feminine gays.
I find the "no fems" admonition offensive, partly because it tries to marginalize a group of people -- something gays should be familiar with -- and partly because those guys face enough daily trauma in the straight world without being ostracized by their gay brothers.
But to be honest -- and it hurts to be honest -- I sometimes wince when I see "flaming fags." I absofuckinglutely hate having that reaction. But it's there. Why, I don't know -- I assume it's something middle America taught me as I grew up -- and I'm determined to fight it.
So I strip away the pretense and look into the eyes of those fem guys. Try it. You'll see a scared puppy. And you'll see another human being, a human being longing for the same things you want: love, companionship, respect and security.
I hope I see that kid again. I hope he looks at me. I hope he sees me smile. And I hope he smiles back.
Dick Naked
Koji looked like he had just seen Dick Cheney naked.
His face twisted ever so slightly, eyes narrowing, lips struggling to smile.
Apparently, I wasn't his type.
"Hi. How are you?" I said, emerging from the tiny foyer at the Chelsea Savoy Hotel on 23rd and 7th.
"Good, good. And you?" he replied, his stricken gaze still on my face.
Oh god, I thought. Keep the meter running.
Koji and I had made arrangements to meet after talking on-line and on the phone for hours over several weeks. He was 34 and reviewed Broadway plays for a publication back home in Japan. I was a 49-year-old sports editor from Virginia. Somehow, we clicked.
It was a gay.com success story. Or so I thought until that cold April night when we met at the appointed hour for dinner.
"Hangawi OK?" I asked, thinking he might suddenly develop bronchitis and beg off.
"Yes. Should we take a cab?" he said.
A cab? Good grief, no. He could stare at me all the way to Midtown.
"Let's walk," I suggested, wondering if my salt-and-pepper hair looked more black or silver under the neon lights.
By this time, Koji was politely masking the biggest disappointment of his dating life. We had a nice chat as we walked briskly to Hangawi, a soothing Korean vegetarian restaurant on 32nd Street. Dinner went smoothly too, and he even took me to a theater district joint for strawberry shortcake afterward. We parted with a generic peck on the cheek outside of his subway stop at about 11 -- four hours after the date began.
Obviously, Koji's good manners had taken over. But, just as obviously, it was the last time we would see each other. I think we chatted on-line twice afterward -- briefly -- and then he and his gay.com nickname disappeared forever.
It's the nature of cyberspace. Hope fading into reality. Budding friendships dying like too-early crocuses in the back yard.
Koji was an extreme example, simply because we actually met face to face. Other friendships on platforms such as gay.com vanish with less trauma, less personal capital spent.
I still wonder what happened to the Vietnamese-American from the East Village with the Ivy League degree and quick wit, to the Hell's Kitchen Filipino who was almost an icon on gay.com until he too faded, to the Indian dorm-keeper at a New England college, to the Latino in Queens with the keen social consciousness, to the black kid from U.Va. who was trying to make it as a software developer on Long Island, to the Russian economics grad from Columbia, to the 40-year-old from Brooklyn with the taut body who still danced professionally, to the Virginia boy transplanted to South Beach, to ... well, the list is endless.
But another list, a shorter list, exists, too, a list of cool guys who were fun to hang out with, fun to meet face to face. That's what makes cyberspace, specifically gay.com, a lifesaver for gay men. It's a safe, energetic place to meet guys, and not primarily for sex, although -- clearly -- gay.com is sex-driven.
Why Koji and I didn't mesh is anybody's guess. No doubt, he pictured me as far better-looking than I am -- pictures do sometimes dissolve into fantasy -- and found the skin-and-bones version repulsive.
Oddly, though, the incident didn't enter my mind when I dated other guys afterward, guys who never looked like they had just seen Dick Cheney naked.
His face twisted ever so slightly, eyes narrowing, lips struggling to smile.
Apparently, I wasn't his type.
"Hi. How are you?" I said, emerging from the tiny foyer at the Chelsea Savoy Hotel on 23rd and 7th.
"Good, good. And you?" he replied, his stricken gaze still on my face.
Oh god, I thought. Keep the meter running.
Koji and I had made arrangements to meet after talking on-line and on the phone for hours over several weeks. He was 34 and reviewed Broadway plays for a publication back home in Japan. I was a 49-year-old sports editor from Virginia. Somehow, we clicked.
It was a gay.com success story. Or so I thought until that cold April night when we met at the appointed hour for dinner.
"Hangawi OK?" I asked, thinking he might suddenly develop bronchitis and beg off.
"Yes. Should we take a cab?" he said.
A cab? Good grief, no. He could stare at me all the way to Midtown.
"Let's walk," I suggested, wondering if my salt-and-pepper hair looked more black or silver under the neon lights.
By this time, Koji was politely masking the biggest disappointment of his dating life. We had a nice chat as we walked briskly to Hangawi, a soothing Korean vegetarian restaurant on 32nd Street. Dinner went smoothly too, and he even took me to a theater district joint for strawberry shortcake afterward. We parted with a generic peck on the cheek outside of his subway stop at about 11 -- four hours after the date began.
Obviously, Koji's good manners had taken over. But, just as obviously, it was the last time we would see each other. I think we chatted on-line twice afterward -- briefly -- and then he and his gay.com nickname disappeared forever.
It's the nature of cyberspace. Hope fading into reality. Budding friendships dying like too-early crocuses in the back yard.
Koji was an extreme example, simply because we actually met face to face. Other friendships on platforms such as gay.com vanish with less trauma, less personal capital spent.
I still wonder what happened to the Vietnamese-American from the East Village with the Ivy League degree and quick wit, to the Hell's Kitchen Filipino who was almost an icon on gay.com until he too faded, to the Indian dorm-keeper at a New England college, to the Latino in Queens with the keen social consciousness, to the black kid from U.Va. who was trying to make it as a software developer on Long Island, to the Russian economics grad from Columbia, to the 40-year-old from Brooklyn with the taut body who still danced professionally, to the Virginia boy transplanted to South Beach, to ... well, the list is endless.
But another list, a shorter list, exists, too, a list of cool guys who were fun to hang out with, fun to meet face to face. That's what makes cyberspace, specifically gay.com, a lifesaver for gay men. It's a safe, energetic place to meet guys, and not primarily for sex, although -- clearly -- gay.com is sex-driven.
Why Koji and I didn't mesh is anybody's guess. No doubt, he pictured me as far better-looking than I am -- pictures do sometimes dissolve into fantasy -- and found the skin-and-bones version repulsive.
Oddly, though, the incident didn't enter my mind when I dated other guys afterward, guys who never looked like they had just seen Dick Cheney naked.
Never Say Goodbye
Eric Higashiguchi pulled up in front of my office in his rental car. "Man, this is cool," I thought. "A gay.com friend come to life!"
I'd "met" Eric several months earlier on-line. We'd talked for hours and hours on the phone when he was a law clerk for a federal judge in El Paso. Later, Eric moved back to California -- he was a Hawaiian but got his degree from Cal-Berkeley -- after landing a job at a Los Angeles law firm. Business took him to Washington, so one afternoon he drove two hours to Harrisonburg just to have dinner with me.
Eric emerged from his car and shook my hand. He was a nice-looking guy in his early 30s, the product of a Japanese father and Puerto Rican mother, but -- more importantly -- he was sweet. A wee bit shy. Intelligent. A fun conversationalist. On the phone, we talked about everything, but food was always Topic A. Nutella was a particular passion. So, it was appropriate that our two-hour window that evening -- I had to go back to work -- revolved around dinner. We went to a home-style Indian restaurant here and had a neat conversation. He clearly liked me. I thought he was cool, too.
Most special, we never talked about sex. Not in on-line chats. Not on the phone. Not in person. We laid the foundation for a friendship rather than a hookup. That's not always easy to do with gay.com guys. Distance, though, takes its toll. As he adjusted to life in L.A. -- and later moved back to San Franciso -- and as I got involved with other guys closer to home, Eric and I lost touch. We'd see each other on-line every few weeks, but we didn't talk on the phone, and our friendship became more a memory than a reality.
Still, every so often, I'd think I should call Eric and see how he was doing. I knew he was lonely, I knew he was having trouble finding somebody to love.
Today, at work, I got a call from a stranger in California. He asked if I knew Eric. He then told me he had bad news. Eric was dead. He'd taken his own life a month ago. Friends had found his cell phone and were calling everybody on his contacts list.
Did being gay contribute to Eric's death? It's so much harder for us to find committed mates, to find true relationships. He was sweet but not sexy, just the sort of guy the girl next door wants. But maybe not the kind young gay guys seek out.
I wish I'd called Eric. I wish I'd known how deeply he hurt. His memorial service is this weekend. I can't be there. But I'll be thinking of him, and I'll be thinking of this simple fact: Never let a friendship lapse, never neglect a friend, never say goodbye.
I'd "met" Eric several months earlier on-line. We'd talked for hours and hours on the phone when he was a law clerk for a federal judge in El Paso. Later, Eric moved back to California -- he was a Hawaiian but got his degree from Cal-Berkeley -- after landing a job at a Los Angeles law firm. Business took him to Washington, so one afternoon he drove two hours to Harrisonburg just to have dinner with me.
Eric emerged from his car and shook my hand. He was a nice-looking guy in his early 30s, the product of a Japanese father and Puerto Rican mother, but -- more importantly -- he was sweet. A wee bit shy. Intelligent. A fun conversationalist. On the phone, we talked about everything, but food was always Topic A. Nutella was a particular passion. So, it was appropriate that our two-hour window that evening -- I had to go back to work -- revolved around dinner. We went to a home-style Indian restaurant here and had a neat conversation. He clearly liked me. I thought he was cool, too.
Most special, we never talked about sex. Not in on-line chats. Not on the phone. Not in person. We laid the foundation for a friendship rather than a hookup. That's not always easy to do with gay.com guys. Distance, though, takes its toll. As he adjusted to life in L.A. -- and later moved back to San Franciso -- and as I got involved with other guys closer to home, Eric and I lost touch. We'd see each other on-line every few weeks, but we didn't talk on the phone, and our friendship became more a memory than a reality.
Still, every so often, I'd think I should call Eric and see how he was doing. I knew he was lonely, I knew he was having trouble finding somebody to love.
Today, at work, I got a call from a stranger in California. He asked if I knew Eric. He then told me he had bad news. Eric was dead. He'd taken his own life a month ago. Friends had found his cell phone and were calling everybody on his contacts list.
Did being gay contribute to Eric's death? It's so much harder for us to find committed mates, to find true relationships. He was sweet but not sexy, just the sort of guy the girl next door wants. But maybe not the kind young gay guys seek out.
I wish I'd called Eric. I wish I'd known how deeply he hurt. His memorial service is this weekend. I can't be there. But I'll be thinking of him, and I'll be thinking of this simple fact: Never let a friendship lapse, never neglect a friend, never say goodbye.
My Name Is Chris ... And I (God Help Me) Love Wal-Mart
As a liberal, I shouldn't admit this, but I absolutely love Wal-Mart. I love all the products, all the low prices, all the shoppers, all the surprisingly cheerful workers. I even love its sooooo unfairly maligned produce.It's actually a destination resort. Every time I go, I feel like I'm visiting America. As Calvin Coolidge said 80 years ago, the business of America is business. And nothing epitomizes American captitalism like Walmart. It's sort of a smiley-face virus, destroying potential enemies and conquering whatever body it inhabits.
Yet, I love it. I love the way it democratizes a town. In Harrisonburg, everyone --from college students to Hispanic immigrants to Valley Christians to professors to mountain folk -- shops at the super Wal-Marts. I love its honest, ultra-confident capitalism. LOOK AT THE SELECTION! LOOK AT THE PRICES! AND, EVEN AS WE SMILE, LET'S MAKE ONE THING CLEAR: IF YOU'VE GOT A PROBLEM WITH US, FUCK YOU. WE'LL WIN!
Yet, I love it. I love the way it democratizes a town. In Harrisonburg, everyone --from college students to Hispanic immigrants to Valley Christians to professors to mountain folk -- shops at the super Wal-Marts. I love its honest, ultra-confident capitalism. LOOK AT THE SELECTION! LOOK AT THE PRICES! AND, EVEN AS WE SMILE, LET'S MAKE ONE THING CLEAR: IF YOU'VE GOT A PROBLEM WITH US, FUCK YOU. WE'LL WIN!
Yes, I know all the bad things: how it destroys ma-and-pop stores (which are often overpriced and/or understocked, by the way), how it underpays its workers, how it forces suppliers to make things cheaply (thereby depressing wages and, diabolically, creating a ready-made market for its products), how it offers subpar medical benefits.
But it really does seem willing to address many of those criticisms, and it hires lots of people who, frankly, would have trouble getting a job anywhere else. This, too, is clutch: Wal-Mart's workers treat everybody who walks into the store equally. Doesn't matter if you're the university president or the poultry-plant worker, you're going to get a smile and a thank-you and maybe even a smiley-face sticker for your kid.
The merchandise, of course, spans the gamut. Some is junk, some is cool. I've used Virgin Mobile phones for a few years now, simply because they were on a display near the cash registers and I threw one into my cart. I have dishes from Wal-Mart that I've used nearly every day for years. You just need to pick and choose. As for groceries, you can get everything from blood oranges to fresh horseradish root -- often of better quality than at the snottier supermarkets.
And let me stress, I know snooty. I love farmers' markets and Whole Foods and gourmet shops. In fact, when I first started shopping at Wal-Mart several years ago, I noticed my credit/debit card had been frozen. I called the bank. They told me they had put a security hold on it. Why? "Have you been shopping at Wal-Mart?" they asked. Turns out Wal-Mart was so out of sync with my profile that they thought somebody might have stolen my card.
(Oh, and did I mention how cool it would be to be one of those Mad Max cart boys?)
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