Archive for the ‘Treatment Experiences’ Category

I’m So Fucking Sick of It

May 24, 2008

So much has happened.  If I would post more often this would be less daunting.  Things begin and end before I have the chance to set a single fingertip the increasingly unfamiliar key of my computer.  I’ll try to do a quick but accurate rundown of the necessary backstory.

Since I last left you:  The Dancer and I became an item, The Alcoholic called me relentlessly, The Dancer and I went on a few dates (and had a few sexes).

That’s pretty much what’s important, and now the story continues.  I logged online Wednesday night and The Alcoholic started messaging me as if nothing had happened.  He asked me if I had made a decision (because hanging up on him three times didn’t make it clear enough that I didn’t want to be with him).  I had already been struggling with the idea of being monogamous (even though I like The Dancer very much).  So, when The Alcoholic started pushing it, I ended up calling The Dancer and talking to him about it.  He said he didn’t really care if we were exclusive or not.  I know that sounds bad, but it wasn’t.

You know what…I’m so sick of this fucking situation.  Long story short:  I gave The Alcoholic a second chance, he’s still a supremacist asshole, and I dumped him for good.  Now, I’m BFF’s with his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend, which totally eats him up.  And I love it. 


Don’t Look Both Ways

May 20, 2008

I am a creature of self-sufficiency, independence.  The Alcoholic couldn’t seem to understand this.  You may remember The Alcoholic from my previous post.  I (reluctantly) agreed to date him.  It lasted a week.

He was an out-of-the-closet-closet case.  He could easily relax in the privacy of his bedroom, twirling his wrist like so many drag queens.  It was outside, out from behind the fortitude of a locked door and curtained windows, that he retreated into his homophobia.  Now, I’m not a huge fan of PDA, but I (and I don’t think many people would disagree with this) don’t think that a parting kiss or a held hand is shoving anything in anybody’s face.  I lied, I know one person who disagrees with me, The Alcoholic.  So, it was as he looked both ways before kissing me that I realized we had a problem.

His defense was weak, “We don’t live in San Francisco, sweetheart, this is the south.”  I don’t know how many times I heard those exact words.  Perhaps, if he had refrained from insulting me with such sarcastic endearments as sweetheart, I would have let it slide.  He refused to understand my perspective.  I would die to live my life the way I deserve to live it.  My love hurst no one.  Maybe fundamentalists should turn their sights on perpetrators of domestic violence.  Then again, they would be ostracizing a large portion of their demographic.

When my old flame (I’ll call him The Dancer from high school blew back into town I chose him.  Yes, I chose him because of our history and, yes, I chose him because I like him, but more than that I chose him because he’s proud of who he is, not ashamed by it.

Sea Man

April 24, 2008

My greatest fault is my ability to fall in love. On a whim I can conjure all the necessary hormones to create the feelings of euphoria, security, and intimacy. But once the chemical reaction starts, it can’t stop.

I met him Saturday night. We drove up onto a concrete slab where someone’s home used to be. We talked for a while. Coyly and almost unintentionally I would hang my head while listening to his deep, southern inflected voice, only to peer up over the brim of my glasses and tempt him with a smirk.

In these moments I, the seducer, often become the seduced.

Later the heat from the friction of our bodies fogged up the windows, and I felt oh-so-much like Rose DeWitt Bukater. It’s the only time in my memory that I felt honestly secure while having sex. It’s trite, but the notion of being wrapped up in the arms of a strong man has always appealed to me.

I met him again last night, and he sneaked me into his hotel room. After I took my medication we lied there in the bed together and talked. He said he wasn’t out and that it had a lot to do with his recent divorce. I pressured him and eventually he cracked. He’s military.

About the conversation that followed I’ll only say, I still don’t understand how a gay man can support a law that punishes him for something he can’t control under the disguise of protecting him. I take it back, I’ll say two things. For all those who may not realize, being closeted on a job is not the same as being gay on a job.

But I don’t care about his politics.

He told me he would go back to California soon. Back? I didn’t even know he was away. “Don’t get attached,” he said. “Don’t worry we can still have fun,” he said.

“I won’t,” I lied.

I know it’s only a fling, but at the mere suggestion of a time limit, the writer in me awoke. A tale of unrequited love. Two men (well one man and a boy) separated by distance and years. It could have been the oxytocin subsiding, but already I was missing what I haven’t even lost. And admittedly, it turns me on to be in a relationship that won’t work out.