Chasing the Franciscan to Francisco

            When you make it together for fourteen years in a relationship that our society says isn’t legitimate, it should end with a celebration.  Instead, ours ended with simple signatures on legal documents.  Closing this chapter of my life so that I could freely move on to the next one did bring a bit of relief, but it was far from a happy moment.  We shared very good times together and the finality of our signatures underscored that it was truly over.  Done. 

            We were both getting what we wanted, relatively.  We met in the conference room at his office, and signed all the paperwork.  Most of the major details had been worked out, but there were still a few loose ends that still need to be cleaned up.  And given that we hadn’t really reached a stalemate during any part of this process over the past two years, there was no reason to believe any details would fall through.

            He got the condo and I got the car, as well as my freedom.  Without a legal mailing address, I had half my clothes at the condo – my winter wardrobe, and a few other items. The loose ends were minor, like leaving your jacket at a friend’s house one night while watching the Miss America Pageant and you just have to schedule a time where you can retrieve it.

            He handed me the car key. He still had to sign the mortgage papers.

            “That’s all you need from me, right?” I stuffed the copies of my paperwork into my bag.

            “That’s it,” he said.

            I stated to get up.

            “Oh, the condo keys,” he said, “could you just leave them with the doorman?”

            It felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.  I knew I would have to give him the keys at some point.  But keys were a big deal to us.  In our life together, we gave keys to friends who we trusted to come sweeping in at a moment’s notice to do things like feed the cat in a crisis, or if we were stuck in traffic, they could get the vodka chilling on ice before we arrived. And now, even with half of my wardrobe still there, a dog we have cared over for fourteen years, and boxes of stuff that I needed a place, he was asking me for the keys.  I had figured when I had those details worked out, I would volunteer the keys to him, suggesting he leave my name on the emergency contact form with the doorman.

            If I were the crazy lunatic ex-boyfriend who left boiling rabbits on the stovetop, I might understand, but I’m not.  Since moving to the lesbian pad, my arrival was always announced.  And when I came to get something I needed, I always cleared it with him first.  I felt that all we had left was respect, and if I didn’t at least honor that, we’d be throwing chafing dishes at each other.

            “Okay. They’ll be with the doorman.”

            It took everything I had to hold it together until I could get out of the building—the building for the job that my professional network helped him get.  I practically ran to the street, where I lost it.  Walking to the condo to get the car, the finality of our separation and the depth of its sadness hit me like a city bus squashing a bicyclist.

            I walked to the condo to get the car, unable to hold back the ugly cry, making it one heck of an ugly walk. 

            I am alone now, I thought. I don’t even have a mailing address.  All I have is a car.

            I walked past the Paralegal’s building.  Alone, I walked the route we took to discover gin martinis.  I walked by myself down the sidewalk where the Lawyer and I plastered “You Are Beautiful” stickers on street signs and overpasses.  The stickers were still there, staring me in the face.  Permanent mementos to the bliss we once had.

Landing With Airport Guy

            I had a date with Airport Guy.  After months of going back and forth, we finally crossed paths again.  I had met him sitting in the Admirals Club in St. Louis while on a layover on my way to Atlanta.  This was nearly ten months ago.  We hit it off instantly, and have managed to stay in touch.  Not two weeks after our initial meeting, he was on a business trip to Chicago and we had arranged for our first date.

            Joint massages at his hotel spa followed by a leisurely dinner.

            “How long have you been dating?” The massage therapist grilled me with all the questions as she massaged my body.

            “About fifteen minutes,” I said.

            “Ooo, and he’s treating you to a massage? This guy is a keeper.”

            “He is.  A genuine guy, caring, compassionate, dedicated.  Loyal.”

            “So you’ve been chatting for a while?”

            “Yes.  He lives in St. Louis.”

            “And you’re from here?”

            “Yes.”

            “So if you’ve all been dating for fifteen minutes, it’s probably too soon to be talking about who is going to be moving where? Or are you just going to do the long distance thing?”

            “Well, he appears to be pretty perfect, but he has a boyfriend.”

            “Oh, I see.”  She kneaded my shoulders, working in silence for a few minutes. Her tone of voice had indicated that she was dying to know more, but didn’t want to appear too judgmental.

            “So, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you feel about him having a boyfriend?”

            “Oh, it’s fine, really.  This is all just practice until the real one comes along, sweeping me off my feet.”

            “That sounds like a pretty open-minded way to view that.”

            She moved to my feet and started started working on a knot in the center of the arch.

            “What part of the body is that connected to?”

            “Oh, it’s connected to a muscle that goes up the back of the leg to your calf.”

            “No, I mean reflexology, what is it connected to?”

            “Oh, right. It’s connected to your intestines.  The G.I. track.  Sometimes people get knots here when they have a lot of stress in their life. Particularly if you have a lot of change.  Men tend to hold that stress in their stomachs.”

            On the upside of getting a massage on a first date is that all the stress of the day, week, and quite possibly the month gets worked out.  But on the down-side, when you have the knot connected to your intestines rubbed out, it can only lead to one thing: flatulence.

            So much for making a memorable impression on a first date.

            Gassy and bloated, I sucked down water and wine to cover for my excessive trips to the restroom.

            Despite what felt like a suffocating dying baby kicking its way out of my body, we had a pleasant conversation over dinner and our time together was enjoyable.  Airport Guy approached life with an emerging sense of adventure, and I could tell he was on his way to single life, even if he didn’t know it.  Together, we might possibly be each other’s rebound.

            When I returned from the bathroom for the twentieth time in about an hour, I came back to the table to a text message from the other side of my table: “Would you like to stay with me at my hotel tonight?”

            I quickly tapped out a reply: “I thought you’d never ask; I’d love to.” 

Finding Home

            I was catching up on Glee. I have to admit, I hadn’t watched it all summer. Not a single episode. For some reason, it was just too painfully lonely to get through an entire episode, so I didn’t even try.

            In the middle of the episode, “Home,” Will Schuester and his high school squeeze April Rhodes launch into a melody of Burt Bacharach’s “One Less Bell to Answer.”

            One less bell to answer

            One less egg to fry

            One less man to pick up after

            I should be happy

            But all I do is cry

            I completely lost it, descending into the downward spiral of a snot-inducing ugly cry.

           

            Cry, cry, no more laughter, I should be happy

            Oh, why did he go, I only know that

            Since he left my life’s so empty

            Wallowing in a pit of a snot hole, I realized why this show is so challenging to watch alone: its humor, the sophisticated writing, it’s over-the-top campy flair are all qualities the Lawyer and I enjoy in a good show, and I’d like nothing more than to be sitting with him, watching and sharing. The music used, is, after all mostly from our childhood. It’s celebrated with teenage characters that sing with heart-felt passion the sentiments of a song that was a hit long before they were supposedly born, giving a new ironic twist to these numbers. I love it. We love it. It’s part of the show’s appeal.

            But I’m not wrapped up with the Lawyer. He’s wrapped up with a Flight Attendant who comes from a different generation. A Flight Attendant who doesn’t even understand that Cindy Lauper used to be straight, George Michael wasn’t always a sex addict, and Madonna – well, she invented the formula Britney Spears is now using to propel her career forward.

            That’s what makes me so sad when I watch the show. The Lawyer and I could be sharing pop culture on such deep and meaningful levels. Could be.

            Though I try to forget it just can’t be done

            Each time the doorbell rings I still run

            I don’t know how in the world

            To stop thinking of him

            ‘Cause I still love him so

            I end each day the way I start out

            Crying my heart out

            Laying there in a puddle of tears, no egg to fry, I realized that’s what was so comforting about the Lawyer. He was my home. It’s why the Paralegal rose to such an elevated position in my world. And the few times I’ve been wrapped up in the arms of the Marine all night, spooning. Each of these men, in some way, they were my home.

            They grounded me. They filled me up. They made me feel like we’re all going to be all right.

            And I miss that.

            Terribly.

            I grabbed my iPhone, and despite having deleted the Paralegal from my phone, I managed to fire off a text message.

            “I felt at home with you. I miss that.”

            An hour and half later, my phone chimed. It was the first time I’d received a text from him since he texted telling me he was headed to rehab.

            “I felt the same also. It sorta came from nowhere.”

            My heart sank. If he feels the same, if the feelings are mutual, then why is he not here? Why?

            (One less bell to answer) Why did he leave me

            (Why, why, why did he leave)

            (One less bell to answer) Now I’ve got one less egg to fry

            One less egg to fry

            (Why, why, why did he leave) And all I do is cry

            (One less bell to answer) Because a man told me goodbye

            (Why, why, why did he leave)

            (One less bell to answer) Somebody tell me please

            Where did he go, why did he go

            (Why, why why did he leave) tell me how could he leave me

            I threw the phone across the room. Recognizing my own ridiculous nature, I realized that while the Paralegal can help me to find my home, my center, my groundedness, I can’t depend on him solely. Or the Lawyer. Or the Marine. That place of home must come from me. From within me. Glee is just a silly show, and it will always be there. New shows will come, and with them, new men will enter my life. And at this moment in time, I’m watching Glee alone. But in that, I am home.

            I am home.

            As much as I wanted to know why, and as much as I wanted to know the answers, I knew in my heart that pummeling the Paralegal with questions would accomplish nothing. And why must I know? He just said he felt the same. He just admitted it came from nowhere. Why must I know, when it just is?

            I typed a reply and hit send.

            “I know.”

            I had found my home. 

Thrash Him With a Dozen Roses

            I was torn between two lovers.  Feeling like a fool.  One lover, inside of me, wanted to lash out against the Paralegal.  The other lover wanted to respond with love and compassion.

            Neither felt appropriate.

            The First Lover wondered what the sense was in keeping any semblance of secrecy to this blog.  Part of the reason it was anonymous was because the Paralegal had gone to rehab.  Now that the rehab storyline appeared to be completely fiction, it didn’t seem to matter.  Why not come out of the closet?  Why not send a link to the Paralegal with a note saying, “I know you like a good story; this one should be a pretty good read.”

            But the First Lover was not completely satisfied with that concept.  Why not send a dozen roses to the office, the card reading, “http://breakingboynews.blogspot.com”?  The women in the office would turn rabid.  They would have to know who sent them, ripping the card from his lying, texting fingers. They’d gather around a computer, unable to pull Internet Explorer up fast enough, only to discover the corporate firewall is preventing them access. They’d swarm from computer to computer, trying to find one allowing them access.  The skirts would chase the pants suits, who would take the lead shoving unsuspecting men out of the way.

            Someone would try pulling it up on their Blackberry.  Another racing for the site on their iPhone. 

            “AT&T, don’t fail me now.”

            Chaos would erupt as a pants suit would be to task breaking into the office of a partner who is gone for the day.  The link would spread like wildfire, as people fired off e-mails to their personal accounts to dive later from home.

            Finally, they would gain access, and the nosey, resourceful pants suit would begin to read it for all the ladies swarmed around.  Their hearts would collectively break as they realize the coworker they adore is not the coworker they thought they knew.

            It was delicious; First Lover savored the thought.

            “It’s just going to cost you eighty dollars, and you wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing that because he would never share that with you,” the Office Ladies said.

            They were right. And the Second Lover realized that he reached out to me. He accepted my friend request, and he had to know that I would discover the truth, yet he still reached out.  He’s wanting to connect, and it’s quite possibly the most he can do.  I should be grateful for that.

            The two lovers inside of me were having a spat that escalated to a full-on argument with screeching back and forth. I made a bag of popcorn as I watched the scene unfold in my head, munching on a kernel at a time, wondering what might happen next.

            But the next morning when I went to restalk the Paralegal, all the Wall posts that had any connection to me were gone.  The message he was missing someone, that he was at the gym for four hours on my birthday, that he was getting a sunburn while he was supposed to be in rehab, they were all gone.

            It was as if he was trying to erase his past mistakes.

            Yoga Girl suggested that I send him a message, saying what I learned from reading his Facebook page.  It sounded like a good plan. I could say what I wanted to say, I could convey the pain he caused. I could demonstrate to him how deeply he hurt me.

            It sounded like First Lover was taking over.

            I had come to discover that if I eat a big bowl of spaghetti with meatballs before I head to clairvoyant class, I’ve filled myself with the gluttonous comfort food that helps ward of the desire for four chocolate martinis after class.  While sitting there, sucking down a noodle, I realized that I actually don’t have to do anything.

            First Lover clearly was in a food coma, allowing Second Lover to take over.

            Let him come to me.  And then, if he does, I can say to him all the things I wanted to say to him.

            I was feeling good about arriving at this point.  I shared it with a friend in my clairvoyant class.  She listened carefully.

            “You want some feedback?”

            “Sure,” I said, excited that maybe she held the key to the universe and was going to unlock some universal knowledge.

            “I keep hearing, ‘you, you, you’ in what you want to say to him. What about you? What do you want? What do you need? Why not something like, ‘I’m in close intimate relationship with people who can be open and honest with me.’ “

            Clearly, First Lover was not in a food coma, Second Lover was.  Chocolate martinis and meatballs are a strategy of first lover.

            As her words resonated through me, Second Lover began to shake off the food coma.  I realized I don’t have to heal the Paralegal. I don’t have to right his wrong. I don’t have to reach out to him.  That’s not my responsibility to clean up the mess he has created or to solve his problems.  And if he’s going to be in my life in any way, he’s going to have to fix the mess.

            For whatever reason he reached out to me. For whatever reason, he is trying to erase his past mistakes. And in that moment, is it right for me to thrash him with a dozen roses?

            I can just keep on keeping on, living my own fabulous life. Posting my own fabulous Wall posts and photos.  He will see the same messages motivating people to say, “I love reading you posts, your life is so interesting.”

            And that’s the me that I want the Paralegal to fall in love with.  If he can step into that space then, great. And if not, that’s his experience.  If for whatever reason he can’t step into the love I have to give, that is his choice, his loss, and its not mine.

            Second Lover was on to First Lover.

Facebook Friends

            The Paralegal accepted my friend request tonight on Facebook. A few weeks back in clairvoyant training, we had been playing with manifesting things, flexing our ability to make a request of the universe and then receive it.  It’s a powerful tool, we were warned, and before we asked for something big, like a new job or a new relationship, it was recommended we play around with smaller things.  Like flowers.

            “Something frivolous.  It doesn’t matter.  Anything,” our instructor said.

            “Love notes?” I blurted out.

            “Love notes?  You want more than one?”

            “Why not?”

            “Okay, love notes, then.”

            So I made my request of the Universe, to receive within two weeks a love note from the Lawyer and from the Paralegal.  And then I forgot about it.

            Later that week, while dancing the night away on a bench at Big Chicks, one of the songs of last summer came on.  One of the songs from when the Lawyer and I were spending our weekend nights tearing up the dance floor.  I Shazamed the song, and fired off an e-mail with a message about the song.

            “Dancing on a bench at Big Chicks. How much fun are you having?”

            The next day, I got a reply from the Lawyer.

            “I miss Big Chicks.”

            Later that day, I was flipping through photos on Flickr, when I found an image that made me think of the Paralegal instantly.  I fired off a message with a link, simply saying that I thought he would enjoy the picture.

            He, too, replied that day.

            “Beautiful picture. I’m well. I hope you are, too.”

            I replied with a picture of his watch on my wrist.

* * *

            A few days later, while running during lunch, it occurred to me that those were my love notes.  They were the most love either of these men could ever express toward me.  And that I was asking the Universe for something neither of these men could provide.  The Lawyer, in his brevity, said as much with words as he did without.  He’d never been to Big Chicks before, and I was the one to introduce him to its charm.  By declaring this he missed Big Chicks, he was really saying that he missed us, and the time we spent together there.  Our nights on the town, flirting.  And the Paralegal, it was the most he could do to acknowledge the message.

            But it didn’t end there.

            About a week later, I got a random message from the Paralegal. It was an image of the skyline of Chicago. There was no text in the message, just a subject line.

            “My walk.”

            A few days later, I sent him a simple message recalling our relaxing adventures together.

            “I miss Sundays.”

            He replied the same evening.

            “Ditto.”

            It seems a simple dialogue with the Paralegal had begun again.

            So when I exchanged some credit card points for movie vouchers, I fanned them across my desk, snapped a picture, and emailed them off to the Paralegal. A nod to our shared fondness of walking across town and going to the movies.

            I was completely surprised when the Paralegal, after weeks, maybe even months, accepted my Facebook Friend request tonight, the same night I sent him a photo of movie coupons.

            I looked over his page, and his wall post updates.  His spirits seemed to be high, he still had the quirky view on the world that I have fallen in love with.  He’d reported through Wall posts that he is running more and more. I was happy for him.

            But then I noticed he was posting messages from parties.  He was still going to dance the night away at Visions Nightclub.  Curious for a boy who had just been in rehab. And then, Memorial Day weekend, when he was in rehab, he posted that he was headed to the beach, only later to have a sunburn.

            My internal stalker kicked in, and I kept clicking “Older Posts.”  For two hours, I sat there combing through his Wall posts, pulling out my journal and comparing dates and time stamps. The day he went to rehab, he went for a run. The night he was supposed to be at a fundraiser with me, he was at home in bed, watching a movie.  My birthday, which he had agreed to take off to spend with me, he spent four hours at the gym.

            I was heart broken. Wrecked. Furious. The tears I shed for him. The pain I felt for him believing he was going through rehab. The confusion of whether or not I should let him go or keep him close to my heart, sending him light and love.

            When I was there, with him, I just felt his love was real.

            But then, there, on his wall it was.  On the Saturday I was at my friends’ lake house and I was receiving text after text from him of adoring love, he posted, “I’m missing someone.”

            After our walk to the zoo, dinner on the town, and watching a movie, he posted, “The most BEAUTIFUL day.”

            There were others, too. The nine pictures he uploaded all snapped in the Art Institute on our afternoon there.

            All evidence that what was there was real.  For the moment that we shared. For the moment our spirits tickled each other with laughter.  For the moment we held each other’s hands.  For the moment we looked into each other’s eyes and stopped breathing.

            I am certain it was true love we had.

            And I am certain it was true love that had been broken.

Psychic Intervention

            “Hey. I’m back. I hope you are well.”

            That was the message I got from the Paralegal about a month after he went into rehab. It unraveled me. Once a week while he was away, I sent him a message that I was thinking of him and he was not alone in his process. That I was there to support him however he needed to be supported. I didn’t expect a response from those messages, thinking he might be in complete isolation, but sending him love and compassion was just as much for him as it was for me.

            For a month, I meditated on the knowledge that he could have disappeared into rehab without letting me know. But he didn’t. And through depths of missing him, it provided comfort to know that he cared about me as much as I cared about him, otherwise he would have just vanished. So I tried to relax into knowing that when he could, he would be in touch again. It was easier said than done.

            And there he was, in touch. My intuition had been right, and for a moment there… As much as I wanted to know, I realized that for all the questions, I didn’t need the answers. That probably the worst thing I could do for him would be to badger for an explanation. But why did I need an explanation? If he wanted me to know, he would tell me. And if what was between us was real, the answers would come with time. I knew he was alive, he made it through, and that was most important. I tried calling, but he did not answer. I tried sending messages, but they were not returned. I thought about sending flowers, but for all I knew, he could have quit his job.

            It hurt.

            It hurt, and I was furious. I swam. I ran. I rode my bike. I meditated. In his absence, I tried to fill my time with taking care of me. How could he not know how much I cared? How could he not acknowledge the love that I was sending? How could be so self-absorbed to think that his problems were bigger and more important than my problems? We all have problems, and we deal with them.

            Oh, addict. That’s what addicts do. Their problems are bigger than anyone else’s in the world.

            There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could control. Except for my own feelings, and my own reaction, and letting him go.

            The week after the return of the Paralegal, I was having a hard time breathing in the reality. I found myself wondering if I should ask myself for patience, giving him space and time, or if I should let it be. The voice in my head from the night we met still haunted me, and his inability to acknowledge the love and support I was offering practically killed me. Every time my phone would chime, I’d leap for it, only to discover it was some breaking headline news about the former governor’s criminal trial, causing me to sink into the depression of empty hope. A complete train wreck with the inability to focus, it was time for a romantic intervention; I needed divine guidance.

            I called the Psychic.

They'll Send Us to Rehab

            “Sisterfriend, I found this place that does free energy healings every Thursday.  You want to go?” I called Yoga Girl as soon I found the Clairvoyant Center of Chicago.

            “Oh, absolutely. Sounds like an adventure, Sisterfriend.”

            “I was thinking dinner after work and then find our way to the Center for a healing.”

            “Hey, maybe we could swing by the Chakra Shoppe to see Blanche. I’m thinking I need some more crystals.”

            I absolutely love Yoga Girl’s unquestioning willingness to set off on an unexpected adventure, as well as her ability to up the thrill quotient with her own contribution. 

            We’d been going to the Chakra Shoppe for quite some time, and have found it is the Target for the New Age, with a wide selections of crystals, incense, books, herbal teas, chakra sprays and lotions, music CDs, and candles, all organized into departments by chakra, as if they are as ubiquitous as housewares and sporting goods. Like Target, we always manage to find stuff we didn’t know we needed, and it’s hard to get in and out of there for less than one-hundred dollars.

            The place is run by a woman named Blanche Black who, with a name like that, was destined to specialize in chakra balancing and healing merchandising.  Wearing flowing lavender gowns, she appears to be in her fifties, but Yoga Girl and I actually suspect she’s 253 years old, born amongst the Redwoods or something, preserved only by the chakra spray that she mists into her aura every day.

            We looked at the merchandise, trying on hematite rings and tigers eye neck charms, picking up rose quartz figurines.

            “Looks like that crystal wants you,” Blanche said with a shoulder shrug, a no-pressure sales technique the moment we drop something.  “Looks like it picked you; it jumped.”

A Romantic Tragedy

            “I think you should come to Chicago for I.M.L.,” I said to the Franciscan on the phone.  We had been in constant touch since the big masturbatory weekend, and I knew him well enough to know that the International Mr. Leather Weekend, with its parties filled of men donning fetish costumes drawing crowds from all over the country, this was right up his ally.

            “Oh, man. I’d love to. But the boyfriend is taking his mom to Hawaii, so I’ve got dog duty,” he said.

            “So is that an invitation for me to come visit?”

            “Yeah. It could be. If you want to come visit. I’d love to see you and spend time with you.”

            In learning to focus on my needs, I discovered that if I didn’t have a pro-active plan for the holiday weekend, I’d feel abandoned and alone. That was the energy I took with me when I found a ticket purchased for a few random miles on a credit card I no longer used; it was a plan, and it would fill my weekend.

            I packed every condom I owned.  I didn’t pack any lube, assuming he would have plenty; lube is hard to transport across the country – you always have to check your bags as the three-ounce limits for liquids and gels is never enough for one good night.  And certainly not three nights with a former Franciscan Monk I met through a weekend of eroticism.

            But even as I packed the supplies for potentially the biggest boy time of my life, I packed without expectation, having an open mind and an open heart.  If I was in the guest room for three days, then I was in the guest room.  And if we had non-stop sex, then we had non-stop sex. Whatever would unfold, my intention was to rest and relax in the company of man who I had a great connection with, and pass the weekend without the abandoned toddler demon taking over.

Clearing My Throat

            I had a muscle in my neck that cinched up like a girdle on a drag queen, so I went to my chiropractor, the Kook Doctor. 

            “My God, what did you do?” He asked.  “This muscle in your neck is never like this.”

            He was working on this muscle on the left side of my neck, and practically strangling me.  I asked him what he was doing, which is what I usually do – I’m not always convinced he knows what he’s doing, but he’s so easy on the eyes, I have patience for him.  Ease on the eyes, as you might imagine, is the first and foremost requirement in my healthcare professionals.

            “What muscle?”

            “The one that connects your chest to your neck.  Keeps your head on, and is attached to the lymph nodes in your neck.”

            Jesus, I thought.  Heart – throat – head. As I had been working on advocating for myself, finding my voice, and declaring my needs, my throat had been ultra sensitive, getting strep throat several times over the past year.  I couldn’t help but think it was related to the emotional work I was doing.  For the past few weeks, they all had been interconnected in a variety of ways.  The Kook Doctor massaged the muscle out, and for the rest of the night, snot seemed to drain from my sinuses down my throat.

            He asked me about what was going on, and I told him the Paralegal was in rehab.   He’s been tough on me around the Paralegal, thinks I should just be done with him. Thought that from the moment it started.  I told him about Body Electric, and some of the stuff that bubbled up around shame, powerlessness, selfishness and fear.  He told me that I should stop dwelling on moments with my father, and just let it go.

            “How do you let something go if you’re not consciously aware of it?”

            “If you’re not conscious of it, then it doesn’t matter.”

            “But your body remembers, and you react emotionally.”

            He’s enough of a Kook Doctor to know exactly what I was talking about.

            “You’re not considering getting more panchakarma again, are you?”

            “Considering it.”

            “No! Don’t! I’ve never seen you so depressed and out of it as what you went through after panchakarma.”

            “I had to process some stuff.”

            “Listen, before you go for more panchakarma, you need to get a second opinion.  Call the psychic.”

            For a moment, I wondered what sort of alternate reality I live in that my chiropractor is recommending a second opinion from a psychic.

            I could see in his face agitation and concern as he rattled on all the reasons he felt I should not get panchakarma.

            “Listen,” I interrupted.  “I think you need a hug.”

            I threw my arms around him. He shut up and we just stood there for a moment, holding each other.  The reality was I needed a hug, and not his judgment.

Falling in Love for a Second

            “Gone for now.”

            That was how the Paralegal left for rehab.  I had no idea.  Yoga Girl had no idea.  We had been out drinking plenty of times to know that he didn’t drink like an alcoholic.  Or at least he didn’t drink like the Lawyer.  We could have a bottle of wine for dinner, and then be done.  His work schedule and his fitness routine just didn’t lend themselves to a typical sort of substance abuse.  Regardless, I had no idea, no information, and I was going to have to find a place of peace on my own, and trust that if the Paralegal wanted me to know the details he would tell me.

            I felt in my heart that he loved me and his words were authentic, but what little comfort that provided did not make up for the pain in knowing that he would be gone, the uncertainty of the future, the sorrow for the incredible hurdles he would have to overcome, the anger that I was completely powerless to whatever life might toss the Paralegal’s way or mine, and that, ultimately, whatever his selfish addiction, I would be the one to lose out on his love. Do I have patience? Do I let him go? I didn’t know.  But I knew if I just kept breathing through my fears, the answers would come.

            That was the energy I took the next morning into a workshop I had signed up for.   Sitting on the bus, I meditated on the idea that the answers would come with time.  But then, why did I have to know the answers? The Paralegal was in rehab, he was getting help he needed, and I should be joyful for him.  Why do I have to write the end of the story? Why can’t I just wait and see what happens next?  And if I give the Paralegal the space he needs to do his work while focusing on the work I need to do, then just maybe when I know I’m ready for the next step, the Paralegal will be too.  And if not, then maybe another, more fabulous man would come into my life.

            And just maybe I would meet him at my workshop.

            I had signed up for the workshop months before, not really sure what I was getting into.  Since ending my relationship with my former partner, I just had a feeling that I needed to learn more about emotional intimacy, becoming more comfortable with it.  I could talk to a therapist every week, but that just seemed expensive and slow.  I was looking to fast-track my growth, so the idea of some sort of intensive workshop was appealing. I searched the Internet, and didn’t come up with a whole lot.

             I found weekends in Berlin, but the details were lost in translation.  The weeklong retreats in Costa Rica or Hawaii sounded exciting, but I wasn’t prepared to drop the cash needed.  But one workshop, a weekend, looked like it was promising: Celebrating the Body Erotic, offered by the Body Electric School.

             Only, the details were a bit vague, not getting much more specific than helping people to get more comfortable with their bodies, or looking to connect with people on a deeper level.  So I emailed the coordinator asking for more information.

            He suggest I look at the Web site, indicating the video described in great detail what the weekend dealt with.

            Still, I had no idea, specifically, what the weekend was about.

            So I emailed a follow-up question asking if the workshop delved into issues surrounding emotional intimacy.  He indicated that it didn’t deal with intimacy directly, but by exploring some of the hurdles to erotic energy, it gets at issues of emotional intimacy.

            Good enough. I signed up and mailed a check.

            Over the months that would follow between registration and this moment on the bus, thinking through the energy I was carrying into the weekend, it became apparent to me that the real challenge was not emotional intimacy with others, rather a true and authentic emotional intimacy with myself.

            It weighed on my already heavy heart as I thought about all the questions with unknown answers, and why I must know the answers. Why can’t I just throw myself into the flow of life and see what happens next, with full comfort that everything would be okay?

            I hopped off the bus and walked to the warehouse where the workshop was being hosted.

            I stood on the street corner, about fifteen minutes early, waiting for the door to open for the Saturday morning session.  A cab pulled up. The door swung open, and out stepped a man.

            The Principal.

The Rise and Fall of the Paralegal

            A crowd of men, mostly straight men, jumped up and down in the white strobe-lit fog of Excalibur. They faced a stage, which had a D.J. who was spinning techno noise that was almost as white sounding as the fog that filled the air. It was as if 1,000 men were waiting for the arrival of the Mother Ship to beam them to another place.  I’d not been to Excalibur in nearly 20 years since my college days, but the promise of finally meeting the Paralegal set me on a mission. After a month of good text and a few phone conversations, it was time to actualize the virtual.

            The Paralegal was in the crowd, and when I spotted him from a distance, my eyes locked on him as I swam upstream through the flow of the crowd before standing right in front of him.  We had been texting for a month after bumping into each other on Grindr.

            He recognized me right away, and we both broke into huge smiles. His beauty was breathtaking, and as I looked into his grin and the depth of his eyes, a voice said to me, this man could never love me.

            I ignored the voice in my head, his face containing the softness of compassion, like a giant ball of sunshine, and we locked into an embrace.  A couple of inches taller than me, with long runner’s legs, his arms wrapped around me, we were engulfed in a sphere of white light.

About Last Night

Undulating waves
Nipples flick, controlled by tongue
Slathered like a whore

Slow Motion Train Wreck

So last night was pretty much a slow motion train wreck. I sometimes wonder what lessons the universe is trying to send my direction that I need to learn.

I never heard from The Paralegal. Earlier this week, we had discussed crossing paths, spending some time together. Doing something other than just sending adoring text messages back and forth. So yesterday, our banter led us to the suggestion of spending some time together. Late in the afternoon, he sent a message saying he had to hit the gym. I figured two to three hours then, depending on how big of a workout he was hoping to get in.

In the mean time, The Laywer starts messaging me, looking to go out for a cocktail. I have not heard from The Lawyer in seven weeks, except for a quick exchange where he needed something. Now he travels a lot for work, so it's not unusual that I would go this length of time without seeing him, but it is unusual that I would go this long without a peep.

I was getting ready for The Paralegal. Outfit selected. Showered. Meditated, released The Lawyer so I could be open for The Paralegal. And is it any coincidence that as I release my anxiety around The Lawyer, my bowels open up? I feel lighter, slimmer, and ready for anything.

And then, nothing. I shoot up a flare, actually leaving a voicemail for The Paralegal. Nothing.

So all dressed up and nowhere to go, I call The Lawyer back, and reluctantly make a plan for dinner and drinks (read: go-go boys). So we meet up, and over dinner, catch up on what has been happening in each other's lives not just over the past seven weeks, but over, really, the past three months as we've not had this much face-to-face time since then, and our communication has been strained, to say the least. We danced, for a while, around the big pink elephant in the room, and then I finally asked: how were things with the Flight Attendant?

Just Good Text

I found myself a little bit weepy this morning, stuck in that spot sandwiched between the past and the future, called the present.  I've been chatting with Airport Guy and The Paralegal with a pretty consistant regularity since I left town for the Holidays.  All good text.

In thinking about the texts, how they make me feel, and the I've come to realize that the ongoing conversation with each boy has come to represent the ongoing conversation the voices in my head are having with myself.

The Paralegal, with his texts of adoration, and genuine concern and well-wishes as the day goes on, eventually revealing that his heart skips a beat when he hears from me -- he is the future me: carefree, in the moment, light, able to go with the flow.  It's hard not to receive these texts and say to myself that if he really does have an interest in me, then he would find a way for us to cross paths.  That he would receive my offers of dates.  But he hasn't, so therefore he must not really, truly care about me.  But he does say his heart skips a beat, and mine does to.  So why is it so hard to just be present in the moment, to experience how that feels when my cell phone chimes and it's him wishing me "the sweetest of sweetest dreams, my handsome and adorable man"?

I'm working to breathe through these moments.  To fill my heart and lungs with this warm energy that surrounds me.  To live it fully, without writing the conclusion, or falling for what so far is just an idea. To trust that if this is meant to be, it will unfold at its own pace in its own way, and to not make it more than what it really is: just good text.

On the other side is my ongoing conversation with Airport Guy.  I met him in the Admiral's Club Lounge while changing flights at Lambert-St. Louis's Airport on my way to Atlanta for Thanksgiving.  Very soon after, we were particpating in some good text, and quickly, he met all the Boy Requirements of the Moment: must adore me, incredibly hot, and has a career track.  And one additional Boy Requirement that I need to add to the list now: must pursue me.

So shortly after Thanksgiving, Airport Guy sent me a message saying he was traveling to Chicago for a business trip, and he hoped I would be available to cross paths for dinner.  I told him I had a naked yoga class, but I might skip that night if he had some compelling suggestion.  Dinner was his treat, he offered, hoping that could compete with naked yoga.

It did, and I had a date.  A real date.

As the evening approached, Airport Guy informed me he would be done with business as early as two that afternoon, and if I could get away, he'd love for me to join him at Bliss, the spa at the W hotel -- for a treatment.

I met him at the lobby bar at the W, and we grabbed a quick glass of Big Fire Pinot Noir before heading to the spa.  He is handsome, tall, with a terrifically engaging smile, and a casual laugh.  His attentive eyes suck you in.  In moments, he wisked me away to the spa for a massage.

"What's the occassion?" my massuse asked.

"We're on a date."

"Oh, wow.  How long have you been dating?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Oh, I"m in love with him already!  He's a keeper!"

Following the massage, we headed to Wine Bar for another glass of wine before heading to HB Home Bistro for dinner.  Dinner was romantic, and his knees brushed mine under the table.  In the middle of dinner, Airport Guy sent me a text: "Will you come back to my hotel with me?"

Without hesitation, I sent a message back: "I don't know; what's the thread count?"

The hitch with Airport Guy: he's got a boyfriend.

A boyfriend of ten years.

But I know what that's like. To be trapped in a spot that is making you so unhappy, afraid that the devil you know is better than the devil that you don't know.  Waiting for a sign, or a message, or another man to come along and signal that change is less scary than being stuck.

We had a perfectly lovely time, and Airport Guy is sweet, and endearing. He's quick to pick up on all my best qualities and recognize them.  All that, combined with him being trapped has made him a bit rusty at dating.  Quick to say he misses me; quick to say I'm worth the extravegance of a massage and dinner on the down.  He'll figure out soon, I hope, that first dates do not need tobe $400 evenings.  I would have enjoyed him just as much had it been $50.

And so, here I am today, texting both The Paralegal and Airport Guy with spontaneous regularity.  The Paralegal making my heart skip -- with a forming idea of who he is, and what we are or can be.  And Airport Guy, showering me with adoring attention, but stuck in his life, and feeling misserable about it.  Too afraid of change to embrace the change that will actually lead him toward happiness.

"I could see myself loving you," Airport Guy says.

Yes, but not when he's stuck in his past.

Until then, it's just good text.

The Haiku

So you might be wondering if I ever wrote that haiku. I went to bed thinking I would never hear from The Paralegal again. That most definitely, I was too forward with kissing his soft lips, or I was too sloppy drunk, or too handsy-pansy, or he would take one look at me and think of me as too old or too fat. The final storyline script of heartbreak, already written.

But then I received a text from him early Sunday morning. We bantered back and forth a bit, like two lovers plotting and cavorting while dozing in and out of an early morning slumber. I was kicking myself for having so much doubt, but at the same time, I was okay. The night before had been a blast, and I felt like I was fully present, going with the flow. Wondering how I ever managed to walk into the V.I.P. Club without paying cover. Wondering how I even found The Paralegal in the dark, smokey haze of what was clearly the mother alien ship.

There was a part of me that was okay with not hearing from him again. That I don't need him in my life, but if he chooses to be in my life, then I'm okay with that, too. But he has to choose to be just as much a part of my life as I may want to choose to be a part of his. And the text bantering continued.

He said he was going to go to the gym and would be watching a movie. I suggested that if he'd like some company during the movie, I'd come over. He responded promptly: absolutely. I figured if he was as tired as I was, that might not actually happen. And while it never did come together, we did continue bantering via text. And it was during this exchange that he admitted meeting me was the highlight of his night, and he loved hugging me. Hugging me was the best.

And so was hugging him.

Mid-day, I met up with Development Guy and we headed to the gym. It was a different feel, as if the night before had been healing in some way. Development Guy was Just Development Guy. We work out together. He's funny. He's sassy. And he absolutely refuses to open his heart. And that's just fine. Opening my heart to him won't heal his past pains.

And so, we lifted weights.

When I returned home, I wrote The Paralegal his haiku from the night before:

Light dances around
Fog envelops techno beat
His beauty sparkles

Stepping Into the River of Life

A lot has unfolded in the last 48 hours, and I think I've experienced pretty much every emotion there is. From the sadness and frustration that comes from The Paralegal standing me up, to an incredible emptiness and loneliness that I felt while working out with Development Guy. While running on the treadmill and watching kickboxing on Spike TV--think hot, lean, angry men beating on each other--I was able to let go of all of those empty, lonely feelings that just led to anger. And what replaced it was joy, happiness, laughter, and love. And I've been basking in this positive glow for almost 24 hours now.

While working out with Development Guy, I came to realize he's just not available for anything beyond a friendship. And that's okay, I enjoy his company and he's a good sounding board for professional purposes, and he does like a good time. But to stand there as he lifts weights, flexing muscles, waiting for him to ask me out on a date (or at least a date that comes with a little romance), I just don't know if that is ever going to happen. And the more I long for it, the more heartache I create for myself. We were driving back from the gym, and I asked him what his holiday plans were. He gave me a lengthy explanation of what he plans on doing. And then end of conversation, as if I had just asked him for my help. No question as to what I might be doing for the holidays. And that's when I came to realize it's not me -- he's not open to anyone.

I had dinner with Yoga Girl. We both are about the same age, were in a relationship about the same length of time, and then left our Ex-s about the same time. We've been luck to find each other and she has become a willing, competent, and supportive partner in crime. We'll hit a gay bar, and while I collect three or four numbers in a night, she always manages to find the lone straight guy in the bar -- the needle in the haystack. She has a particular talent for this, and if you turn your back for even just a moment, she'll have a man hanging on her.

Following dinner, Yoga Girl and I hit the town for a holiday party. We walked into the condo in Buena Park, and were immediately met with unknowing stares, as if we had arrived at the wrong party. I only knew one of the hosts, and I can't even recall how we met. In fact, it had been so long since we had crossed paths, that I couldn't exactly recall what he looked like. But when we spotted each other, there was a spark. Fireworks that say, "Why haven't we been spending more time together?"

"Sorry, I didn't dress up like the theme," I said.

"Oh, don't worry about it. You look smashing," The Host said. I had worn a green shirt with a red, white, and silver necktie and a grey jacket.

"Thanks. I didn't have anything that looked like the theme, so I dressed like a candy cane."

He laughed.

"I'm hoping I'll get licked later."

"And I'm hoping I'll get the honors! You do look delicious tonight."

I'm coming to realize that these moments only happen when I check at the door the feelings of anxiety over other relationships in my life that stem from what they are not, rather than embracing fully what they are, and feeling the joy and gratefulness that comes from them.

Throughout the evening, however, in between flirting with The Host, The Paralegal was texting me. I had snapped a photo of me dressed like a holiday candy cane, and he promptly replied that I look so handsome, he just wants to hug me. He was at a party with some DJ and had mentioned the lights were amazing and that he wished I was there so I could write a haiku about the lights.  Yoga Girl announced after a couple hours that she was ready to move on. We were either going dancing at Big Chicks or we were going to fund where The Paralegal is and hunt him down.

Feeling up for an adventure, we went for the later, and I texted The Paralegal to say we were on our way, and he was going to get to claim his hug tonight.

Yoga Girl and I had no idea what we were getting into. We approached Visions Nightclub, which, as far as I can tell, is a more exclusive V.I.P. Club that exists within Excalibur. We walked up to
the line at Visions.

"Are you on the guest list?" A round woman stood in front of a velvet rope, blocking the path.

"No, but we know someone on the guest list--I'm pretty sure," I said.

"The cover is twenty dollars."

We pooled our funds and handed her twenty.

"It's twenty dollars each."

Yoga Girl and I, looked at each other, laughing. We combined all our money, counted it out and all we had was thirty-three dollars.

"Is there an ATM?" I asked.

"Oh, what the heck," she said. She gave us two green coupons and said to go on inside.

The club has multiple levels and is quite the elaborate maze, with balconies overlooking multiple dance floors. It took us a while to find where The Paralegal was. What we have now come to realize is that we pretty much walked right into the more exclusive, V.I.P. club within in the club. And the Paralegal, was in the other area. When we finally found it, it was packed with men. Hardly any women in this crowd of straight men, all facing the stage, where a DJ was "performing." They just stood there, with the fog filling the room, and the lights shining down. Yoga Girl says it was like an alien mother ship landing, and the entire crowd was completely mesmerized by the lights and the thumping techno noise. It wasn't even really music, but just noise.

I set out to find The Paralegal, and when we found each other, he claimed that hug. We stood there for a few minutes, just holding each other.

"It's so good to finally meet you!" He said. "Oh, and I like hugs."

We went to go get a drink. It was not the setting that I had hoped to meet him, but I could say that he is real, and the awkwardness of the first meeting is behind. After weeks of texting after finding each
other on Grindr, I was afraid I was becoming attached to the Idea of The Paralegal--an idea completely formed in my head, rather than the reality of The Paralegal. To continue to put off meeting each other,
would just heighten the anxiety around whether or not I actually like the Paralegal or the Idea of the Paralegal.

We stood by the bar and few a few moments we made out, his soft, kissable lips and his tasty tongue brushing up against mine.

The Paralegal and I stood there, dancing. He is so stunningly handsome, and it was hard to not write out an ending -- that now we've met, he's not going to have any interest in me, that the idea of me is almost better than the reality of me.

"I think that guy stole the battery to my phone!" Yoga Girl, referring to a guy she had met, showed me the back of her phone, its guts completely on display, the battery gone.

"I think he would have stolen your entire phone if he wanted the battery. I bet it just fell off," I suggested.

Suddenly we're on the floor, looking between people's legs, as if we're searching for a lost contact.

It wasn't long after the loss of the phone battery that Yoga Girl and I decided it was way past our bedtime. How it got to be 3:30 a.m., we were not really sure. I hugged The Paralegal one more time. We kissed, and we departed ways.

In the cab home, I thought that i would never see him again, or even hear from him. And that's fine. But for one night, with no expectations of outcomes, I was able to be in the moment, to enjoy it for what it was.

Stood Up Again

In the time it took me to set up this blog, I've been stood up again.  I suppose I haven't completely been stood up, as it's not like we had a completely confirmed date.  But that's what I struggle with today, in this world of e-mail and cell phones and text messaging: when is a date confirmed?  The Paralegal and I had talked on the phone, and agreed to cross paths tonight, on Friday.  We didn't set a time, nor did we talk about what it was we were going to do.  I figure as the week goes on, we can hammer out those details.

It's not like we're not in touch much.  He texts me when he gets up in the morning, at 5:30 a.m., before he heads to the gym.  I'm usually at the gym by then, so as most people are still in entering their final R.E.M. Cycle, we've already had a conversation about the weather and our dreams.  Oh, and an exchange of how handsome we think each other is.  The banter continues through the day.

So on Thursday, I asked, via text, if we're still on for Friday, tonight.  He says, "We could be."

What?  Yes or no.

The Paralegal mentions that he doesn't know how late he's going to be working, despite having said it was going to be a slow week.  So this morning, I ask if we're on again.  He mentions that he doesn't know how long his boss is going to make him work.  I suggest he pass along to his boss on a PostIt note, this haiku:

Tasking, tasking work
Disgruntled boss stands in way
Hot boy on cold night

And with his response, I was certain this seventeen syllables had sealed the deal.  We banter through the day.  At 6 p.m., the time he's supposed to got off from work, I get a message that he's still there.  An hour later, I ask if he's still working.  He says yes, unfortunately.  We banter back and forth for another hour, before he goes silent again.

And then, at 9:22 p.m.: the message that he's home, and done with work.  And one well-wish: he hopes I enjoyed the glass of wine I mentioned I was having.

Is it too much to expect men to be clear with their intentions? Is it too much to expect that if there is a change in plans, or an alteration of the implied plans, that those shifts be communicated? That I be released to go about my way, so I'm not just hanging, waiting?  What has happened to common courtesy?  Or, if he is as interested as his texts tend to proclaim, that he work to make up the schedule mix up, or clearly reschedule at a time when his work will not compete.

* * * * *

So as I move forward, I plan to update you. But I also plan to go backwards, filling in some of the backstories on the dates that have already taken place. The time when some of the crucial lessons have been learned.  Two steps forward, one step back.

At least I got a new blog set up.