A dream....

I was in some sort of vehicle; a flying vehicle. Not a copter or a plane, more like a car. No tires though. It was blue, metallic I think, no roof, it may have only seated two. There were only two of us there. Michael and I. Aah, Michael. It’ll be 10 years now. I lost him 10 years ago. He was 32. We thought it was the flu. Bronchitis maybe. I bought him Nyquil and soup. In early 1999 a routine exam revealed that he had cancer; tumors in his chest and brain. I moved from the boroughs to Westchester, right next door, to help him. He wasn’t my lover… my partner. He was my friend. But, there was love there; we loved each other in a complicated, probably one day way. There were many times… those times… let’s just leave it at “those times”. In any case, I wasn’t even unpacked yet when the call came. I rushed to the hospital. Infection. Organs ceased functioning. I arrived barely a minute after he died. I wish that I had made in time. I got to hold him anyway. Michael tends to be the one in my dreams when I go places. He seems to be with me then. And, when things are scary in my dreams, sometimes, he tells me what to do, warns me. It was like that when he was alive too. But, I digress.

I don’t know where we were going. We didn’t speak. I remember at some point we started to descend out of the sky, so I can only assume that we went up to begin with. It was all very green on the ground. There were a lot of gardens. Not flower gardens. They were herb like, vegetables, leafy. There were dirt paths and roads. Hand built fences and trellises. It was simple. Almost poor looking. There were some buildings. Buildings is a strong word for what they were. Cottage? Maybe. Huts or shacks. They were made from white stone and concrete, simple brown roofs, with some red. I was a little disappointed. I don’t know why. If I knew were I was, or perhaps, what I was expecting, what I was doing there….. ? But no. I had no ideas or expectations that I am aware of. I was just there. Michael was gone. I guess he just took me there and went on his way.

A man walked over to me. He came down the dirt road out of nowhere. I knew him. The face was little different. Thinner I think. His teeth were always a little far apart but it seemed more pronounced now. He was taller. Even with a few differences I knew him. His eyes were the same, his skin tone, even the hair. He was a second father. I knew him well. It was my grandfather. I can’t recall the year just now, but it must be 20 years since he’s gone. He smiled at me. I remember being surprised to see him. He hugged me. I started to cry. I woke up. Sitting upright in my bed. My arms bent; partially grasping air, partially holding myself. I sat there for a while. It was awhile before I stopped crying.

For the past few days I’ve thought that I dreamt of visiting heaven, but I needed more. I’ve been typing adjectives into Google Images trying to find visual. What do you expect? I’m a photographer. I need a visual. I found this picture. It’s about right, only, there was more. More buildings, more dirt roads. I looked at the caption by the photo on the web site where I found it. I was a little surprised to find that the photo is of my grandfathers home town in Italy; Zungoli. Maybe heaven is home. I get superstitious. I believe in some things. I keep trying to find a reason for the dream. My Mom says that grandpa just wanted to give me a hug.

A long way.

A long way.

Sometimes, something makes you spit it all out. This is as close to completely, publicly open as I have ever been.

I have to look up the date. I know that there is a copy of the deposition transcript somewhere. I’m already short of breath. It was February 21st, 2004. A Saturday night. I was returning home after seeing Monster, starring Charlize Theron, at the Kaufman Astoria Theater. I was with Kelly. It was a chilly and uneventful evening thus far. My nieces christening was in the morning. I had a long trip to upstate New York ahead of me.

We walked along 35th Ave. We stepped out onto 32nd St. We were crossing. Suddenly, the ground fell away from under me. Buildings, parked cars, mailboxes, parking meters; they all took flight. No. They weren’t flying. It was me. It happened so quickly, yet, I remember every single second. I can still see it in slow motion. I felt a thump on my leg. Not a thump. A slam. I felt a pull at my ankle. A hard yank. Everything spun around, again and again. I hit the ground. Hard.

Once the world stopped spinning I looked around. My sneaker had been torn off. There was blood on my sock. The lower leg of my jeans was torn and black with street grime. Kelly was at the window of a black, Ford Explorer SUV. She was knocking on the window. Her voice was raised. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Man against machine, that’s what it was. First it hit me. Or maybe it grabbed me first. I don’t recall now. Or, I don’t want to. It picked me up. My foot and ankle were tangled between the spinning tire and the dirty wheel well. It dropped me, dropped me, dropped me. I could feel myself spin. Twirl. The street lights were streaks. Over and over.

I remember that I reached for my things. My glasses had flown off my face. The contents of my bag were scattered on the street. I remember thinking that I had to gather my things. There were some people around. This is New York. They’ll steal my things. My wallet, my cell phone, my keys, my breath mints, and the candy I bought at the movie and decided not to eat. Everything seemed so far away. I reached, but I couldn’t. I tried to stand. I couldn’t. I started to feel something. Pain. Aches and pains. It hurts here. There too. Oh God, there too. My heart was pounding, the ground was cold. It hurts. Oh God it hurts. Please. Someone call for help. Please. Kelly, call 911. I started to panic. I remember trying to think of what to do. What should I do? Think. Calm. Breathe. Hold on. Logic. I need logic. Be in control.

An ambulance was on the way. I need to use the phone. What if something is really wrong? What… what if some is really wrong? What if I die? They won’t let me call once I’m the stretcher. I should call my family. You can’t use your cell phone in the ER. I called my mother.

“Mom… hi.”
“Hi.”
“Okay, don’t get upset.”
“Why?! What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m okay.”
“Robert, what happened?!”
“I was hit by a car. An SUV.”
“I’m coming there. Where are you?”
“I’m under the car.”

The rest is very much a blur. Not just weeks. More than months. It was years.

The doctors. So many doctors. I needed an orthopedist, neurologist, physiatrist, neuroradiologist, physical therapist and eventually, an orthopedic surgeon. That was just my medical team; the ones responsible for my care. As it turns out, there were bone fragments in my right ankle as well as bulging and herniated discs in my neck and back. I suffered from something called impingement syndrome in my right shoulder. My knee injury was misdiagnosed by my own medical team; twice. A bone in my knee was fractured, the knee cap was dislocated and the surrounding tissue was torn. I walked around like that for almost two years. Finally, after finding a well recommended, high profile doctor, I had surgery. The torn tissue was removed and my knee cap put back where it belonged. The recovery was long. Hard. Painful. Unfortunately, it had been too long to do anything about the fracture. It had already healed into an abnormality that will eventually lead to the need for total knee replacement.

There were doctors other than my own. A lot of them. Around 30 of them. Appointments and paperwork consumed my life. I had to figure it out once, for the case; if I remember correctly there were more that 230 appointments in a 24 moth period. There were doctors for no fault insurance who poked and prodded me every week for almost two years to make sure that I wasn’t some loser trying to work the system. But the doctors for the defense; they were the worst of all. I don’t know how these animals sleep at night. I could barely walk. Sometimes I used crutches. Other times a cane. I couldn’t walk without my knee brace. I was hunched, sore, limited. You try dragging yourself up and down stairs in the New York City subway system on a knee that won’t hold your weight and a shoulder that snaps and clicks every time you reach for the hand rail. There were injuries from to head to toe. It was hard to function. The insurance company for the defense however, would send me miles out of the way to see their doctors. As far as two hours away. Once, it took me three hours on four subways, two railroads and a cab to get all the way out to an appointment on Long Island. They make it as hard for you as possible to keep your appointments. They want you to miss them; they want you to fail. It only strengthens the case for the defense. What’ worse is that you know all along that it’s a scam.

Let me break it down for you. Through absolutely no fault of my own, I, a pedestrian, in a crosswalk, with the right of way, get hit by an SUV. The driver is in his sixties, not wearing his glasses after having eye surgery that he never followed up on. You feel me? I’m swamped with medical costs; not to mention pain, suffering and injuries that will forever affect my quality of life. The out of pocket expense is too much. I’m broke. All I can do is borrow and borrow. I’m sinking fast and can’t afford all the medical attention I need. I sue. The defense, naturally, needs medical testimony disproving my claims. They send me miles and hours out my way, every week, for more than year, to see doctors they have hired. Every medical report that comes back from the defenses medical team stating that I am in the best of health weakens my case. The more these doctors fudge their findings in favor of the defense, the more patients the defense sends their way. See how that works. There were one or two who examined me and did the right thing. I acknowledge them. Most did not. You will rot in hell. And I, I will giggle when you do.

But then, the real trouble began.

Throughout all this something was happening to me. I didn’t know what it was. Something was wrong and it terrified me. Something was happening to my body… and to my mind. The first thing I noticed was increasing anxiety and irritability. It was overwhelming. I was nervous all the time; very often disoriented, unable to focus, confused and depressed. I obsessed about everything, my behaviors were compulsive. I was tired, so very tired. I would wake up in the morning and in within in hour I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore; I was so fatigued that I could barely stand. My heart was constantly racing; I had palpitations. I could feel it in my chest. Sometimes it was flutter. Sometimes it hurt. It didn’t matter how hot or cold it was, I was always warm. And if it was hot, it would hit me like a ton bricks. I couldn’t function in the sun or heat. If it was very hot, and I was out, I had to duck into stores sometimes for the cooler air just to keep from falling down. Some days I would sleep for 20 hours in a row. Others I suffered from insomnia. My eyes hurt; they felt gritty and swollen; and my hands trembled. Normal things became hard. The trash was too heavy to lift and take to the chute. The grocery bags were unmanageable. My skin turned red and thick. It was a constant chore to make myself look normal. I was allergic to my own sweat. Everywhere it ran down my face, I’d turn fire red. It burned. I couldn’t breathe. Multiple times a day I was short of breath and gasping for air. It felt like I was going to die. Do you know what that’s like? Having to ask yourself so many times a day if this is when I’m going to die? Every day, I would lose more weight. I was consistently down five or six pounds a week. I lied to everyone around me. More and more. I made excuses all the time. I had to. I told everyone that I was dieting and joked that I was focused on my girlish figure. I told them that physical therapy took a lot out of me, and that dragging this big old body around on crutches all the time was a hell of a work out. None of it was true. I avoided my friends and family whenever possible. Not only because I was tired of making excuses, and disoriented enough to keep forgetting the lies, but I had reached a physical point where there was unquestionably something wrong and I didn’t want to face it. Sometimes I lied and said I had other plans and couldn’t go out. I had work to do. I didn’t answer the phone or check email. I’m so sorry… I didn’t get your message! Sometimes I wasn’t physically or emotionally capable of leaving my apartment. Putting on a pair of pants or tying my shoe would exhaust me. When I did have to see people, I played an award winning role. Everything was just fine. I wouldn’t give anyone the chance to question me on how I looked or how I felt. I pelted them with insistent stories of good health and exercise. I never told them this. Until right now, I’ve never admitted all the times I lied. If you are reading, I’m sorry. I wish I would have been capable of telling you the truth. I wasn’t. It wasn’t really me.

I don’t know how to describe it. There was something wrong with me; terribly, awfully wrong. I knew it, but there was a part of that couldn’t face it; I was riddled with anxiety, sadness and fear. And, there was a part of me that honestly didn’t care. It’s a strange feeling; thinking that you may die but not having the emotional capacity to do anything to prevent it. I was stuck inside myself; trapped in this sick, withering body. But whatever it was that was eating me alive had a handle on my mind too. It was like heavy, sad, weighted feeling that came from inside me but was wrapped all around me. I couldn’t get out. Nothing was getting in. I was dying. And that seemed OK.

I remember the way some people used to look at me. The most obvious reaction came from Aunt Carol. It was my cousin Jennifer’s wedding. Black tie. I hadn’t seen my Aunt in about nine months. We arrived at the church and my Mom was socializing in the lot. I saw Aunt Carol by the front of the church; her dress was fabulous. I approached her from the side and told her how beautiful looked. She turned and looked at me. She gasped. She put her hands up to her mouth and said “Oh my God, Robert.” It was unmistakable. It wasn’t joy. It was horror. It was shock. No one, ever, had said my name that way. It was something I cannot even name. I never want to hear it again. By this time I was pro at denial charged rebuttals. I looked at her and twirled. I opened my tuxedo jacket and posed. “I clean up nice, right?” I said to her. I didn’t give her a chance to answer. I kissed her hello, told her she must have a million things to do and scurried away.

I don’t think she’ll ever read this. She’s not really all about blogs, you know. I should tell her about it though. I should thank her. She, her reaction, may very well have saved my life.

Not long after the wedding I went to my doctor; my long term doctor who had been treating me for 100 years. I don’t where the will came from. Throughout this whole process I had not seen him, partially because I was too busy with all the other doctors. But, mostly because I was terrified. He did a quick exam, I only told him about half of what was really going on. He ran a few blood tests. I’d come back in a week. All my blood work was normal. He was ready to send me on my way. I wanted scream. There were so many things that I wasn’t telling him. Dammit. I feel so trapped. So sad. So incompetent and unable. Why won’t someone stop me? Then, the nurse who had drawn my blood a week before looked at me and asked if I had lost weight. I hadn’t told them about the rapid weight loss. And they hadn’t seen in long enough that they wouldn’t know from visual inspection. She put me on the scale. Thirteen pounds. In seven days. She called for the doctor.

For the first time I was honest about what was going on. All of it. Every sign. Every symptom. Every ache, pain and pound. My Mom was with me. I’ve always been afraid of doctors. All this was my darkest fears brought to light. Ever hear Graves’ Disease and Hyperthyroidism. Not familiar? Neither was I. After a simple check of my thyroid function and multiple endocrinologists intervention I was diagnosed with the above.

What is it? How did I get it? Here it is, right from the AMA.

Trauma to the Thyroid -- Thyroid trauma can trigger hyperthyroidism. The types of trauma include vigorous manipulation or palpation of the thyroid; surgery to the thyroid, parathyroids, or the area surrounding the thyroid; injection to the thyroid; biopsy of the thyroid; and neck injury, i.e., whiplash, or from an automobile seat belt after a crash.

Major Stress -- Stress is a factor that appears to trigger the onset of Graves' disease in some patients. Researchers have documented a definite connection between major life stressors -- i.e., death of a spouse, divorce or separation, loss of a job, death of close family member, major accident/personal injury, moving, marriage -- and the onset of Graves' disease.

The presence of thyroid dysfunction may affect diabetes control. I was diagnosed with that too, as a result of the Graves’. My neck, back, shoulder, ankle and knee weren’t enough. Add internal injuries to list.

‘Aint all that a kick in the ass. You think the causes are interesting. You should read the complications and potential prognosis if left untreated. I was right. I was dying.

It’ll be five years next month since I was hit. I remember sitting in my deposition and listing all the things I’d never be able to do. I still can’t say that without starting to cry. Even though I had knee surgery, I shouldn’t expect to be 100% ever again. That’s what they told me. Remind me to tell you sometime about the day I couldn’t lift myself of the toilet and had to call for help. Things like running, dancing, hiking and even long walks were taken off my to-do list. I spent a fortune on cabs and a lot of time sitting at the bar instead of on the dance floor. There was a good chance that I would continue to limp. Stairs, both up and down, would remain a challenge. I should try to limit the use of my right arm, the impingement syndrome could eventually cause a torn rotator cuff. So, be careful if you try to use the hand rail to make it up and down the stairs with a bad knee. Fuck. It might be a good idea to get help with things like moving, installing an air conditioner, carrying my camera bags to a shoot or luggage when I travel. There are services that deliver the groceries I was told. I remember sitting in my deposition and listening to lawyers squabble about my capabilities and the lack thereof. I couldn’t open the windows in my apartment all the way. My arm wouldn’t go that high. I went to a march in DC for reproductive rights and couldn’t; march that is. I sat there and watched it pass me by. Make sure you stay out of the sun, that Graves’ Disease heat intolerance is a bitch. Don’t lift your nieces up, you’ll hurt your back. Maybe that boxing class isn’t a good idea for someone with your physical limitations. Hold tight. Don’t eat that. Don’t drink this. Don’t dance, run, jump, and climb.

Fuck you. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t tell me what I can’t do.

Modern medicine. I used to hate taking pills. Now I take a plethora of pills; ten to be exact. Everyday. I’ve worked so hard. Harder than I’ve ever, ever had to work before. Yes, had to. There’s a lot things I do to take care of myself. I got a personal trainer who’s not afraid to push me and knows how to work with my body. He’s hot too. That helps. I got doctors who get me. I eat right…a lot of the time. You’d be flabbergasted at the dietary restrictions. Food is a struggle. But I love food, so its worth the fight. There are lotions and potions and holistic pursuits that help. I read books. I learn what to do. I exercise. I reexamine my supposed limitations. I push myself just past my limits, pull back, and then try again. I build strength. It’s not easy. There are signs. There are symptoms. There are pains. Sometimes, if you see me breathe deep it’s because I’m short of breath; not a sigh of contentment. That still happens a lot. It still terrifies me. But I know what it is. And I keep it in its place. Sometimes if I need a snack it’s because my blood sugar is too low. Hypoglycemia sucks. If I don’t sit down next to you on the subway, it’s safe to assume that something hurts, and its better that I stand and stretch. It’ll help me when we have to go up the stairs. It’s usually, not always, something; and you learn to cope. One day, its not even like coping so much as it is, just life. The hardest thing is keeping out my own head. Sometimes it’s all too much. It’d be easy to retreat. But I can’t. I may go to gym and work it out. I may go to Times Square and sit in the middle of 42nd St. because it’s impossible to stay locked in your own head with so much happening around you. You find ways. I know that when it starts to take over that I have it to take it back; one way or other. Sometimes signs are every day. But most times there are symptoms only every week. You manage. You get by. You make progress. You learn how to take care of yourself. You challenge yourself.

When they told me all the things that I couldn’t do I was angry. I may not ever want to swing on a trapeze, but how dare you tell me that can’t. I pushed. Hard. I can hike now. I can play airplane with my nieces. I can build parade floats and march in protests. I ride a bike, I kick box, I weight train, I dance, I box. I open windows, and carry camera bags and luggage. I do all the things they told me that I couldn’t or might not ever again. Hell, I do things I couldn’t do before that cold day in February. Not too long ago I reached a weight training goal that my trainer and I never thought I’d realistically see. He was proud of me. He’s been training me for a few years now and it’s the first time I ever saw that look on his face. Felt good.

I don’t talk about this often. And never in public. I guess I’m a little ashamed. No. Ashamed isn’t the right word. I think that I don’t want people to see me as a project; damaged goods, too much to manage, high maintenance. I shouldn’t feel that way. I’ll work on that. I shouldn’t feel that way. Know why? About a month ago, I ran. Not just a silly jog, I really ran. Sometimes, I feel like I can do anything. Tito… bring me a tissue.

Solo is not necessarily alone.

Original Date: August 21, 2007

Earlier this week I returned from home after spending a few weeks in Southern Maine. Of course, I missed you all, tremendously. It was a marvelous time; I enjoyed some much needed down time, hiked, shopped, hot tubbed, filled up on seafood, partied as needed and frolicked on the beach. OK. It wasn't so much a frolic on the beach as it was a long nap slathered in sun block and a demure tip toe into the pounding surf. In addition to spending time with some long term local buddies and travel mates, I met some great new people too. As always, I stayed at Moon Over Maine. Moon is a great B&B right off the center of town; great rooms, reasonable rates, a big hot tub, private backyard and friendly staff. I’ve been staying there for years. After I checked in, I took a stroll into town, picked up an iced Guatemalan decaf coffee at Bread and Roses Bakery and checked the listings on Ogunquit Now to plan the evening ahead. With traffic, my trip was about a six hour drive from New York; I was tired. For my first night in town I was hoping for something low key to do. I called up to the office and spoke with my friend John, the owner of Moon, and made plans with him and another friend to see a movie. I still needed to throw back a few more iced coffees, unpack and get in a little hot tub time, John was on his way out to dinner, so we planned to meet at the theater at 7:45 for an 8 o'clock show. I arrived at the theater on time and by about five minutes to 8, John and company had not arrived. As I debated whether or not I should see the movie myself or just head out for a quiet cocktail at the Front Porch, a local acquaintance of mine happened by. Bear in mind that the town center is only about 4 blocks long; happen by’s happen all the time. We chatted briefly and I mentioned that I was just about to buy a ticket and see a movie. She was shocked, appalled even, at the idea of my attending a movie alone.

Seriously? How small town.

On another occasion, not long ago, I was out on Fire Island shooting a fundraiser. During my down time I went for lunch at one of my favorite cafes in the Pines and had a similar experience. There were a few folks in front of me waiting for tables. The pretty little twink that was seating people approached the lesbian couple in front of me and said, "Hi ladies, two for lunch?" Then he returned and addressed the group of over pumped Chelsea boys next in line, and in a flirty, bubbly voice said, "Hi boys, good weekend so far? Are we doing dinner or drinks?" As he sashayed back from seating the boys I dreamt of burgers and fries. It was finally my turn to be seated, and little Miss Guided approached me, gestured away from the dining area and into the bar and said, "Hi, cocktails at the bar." I ask you. What the fuck? The lesbians got dinner, the Chelsea boys got a choice, but I only get cocktails? Do people not dine alone? Someone once told me that if he is going to eat out alone he has to sit at the counter, like in a diner; a table alone made him sad and self conscious. I guess, if I think about it, when I do see people dining alone they tend to be filling up counter space versus occupying tables. Fuck that. I want a table for one, the good silver, quality china and hold the bread unless it's whole wheat. I really can’t afford the carbs.

Shockingly, I've noticed this kind of reaction a lot lately. Not just during the course of my travels, but even at home. Every so often someone will ask, "Hey, what are you doing this weekend?" And after I reply, whatever I am doing, I get a "who are you going with?" Now, on those occasions when I am attending the play, gallery opening, art show, musical event, street fair, lecture and the like on my own, I have noticed the increasing occurrence of an all too familiar "Oh." But it's not just a simple, acknowledging "Oh." It's different. It's a slightly longer, drawn out, higher pitched with low ending "Oooohhhh". It’s said with a slight sense of surprise and a smidgen of pity. Sometimes there is a question mark at the end. Get it? No? Seriously, call me and I can demonstrate the "Oh".

My favorite event to attend on my own is large scale family gatherings; weddings, momentous birthdays, significant anniversaries and the like. In my early twenties I always brought a friend to these events. It wasn't a date, it was friend. You remember, you just needed someone by your side that wasn't related to you and as soon as it was over you'd dash out the door for drinks. As I got older things changed. I grew up and started to value the time with my family more and they started to see me as something more than the loud mouthed, trouble making, militant, queer kid. It was OK to go alone now; or so I thought.

There’s always a small group of extended family who absolutely insists on finding some heartbreak in my being on my own. Oh, the drama. The conversation always seems to go something like this.

"Rob, (kiss, hug) how are you?"

"Very well, (muah, muah) and you?"

(While scanning the seats next to me and not answering my question) "Who did you bring? Are you here alone?"

(Twisting the linen napkin in my lap, smiling) "I'm not alone, I'm surrounded by friends and family."

(Sighs sadly, looking all too serious) "You know what I mean, aren't you dating?"

(Mangling the linen napkin in my lap, smiling) "I am yes, but no one seriously at the moment."

(Head thrown back, clutching a tit with one hand, other shaking wildly towards the heavens) "If I had one wish it'd be for you to find someone!"

(Insert false giggle and fake smile) "That's very sweet, thank you. Really, it’s all good. I’m happy, but I'll keep my eyes open."

(Frustrated huff and puff) "What I wouldn't give for you to be happy!"

OK, stop right there. I appreciate the concern really. But there's no need, and allow me to make a few simple points. If you had one wish, please, don't waste it on my getting a date. Go for world peace, put an end to global warming, wipe out hunger and homelessness or cure a disease. That's what wishes are for. What you wouldn’t give for me to be happy, you say? If you really want to give something for me to be happy, let me tell you, I'm spending a butt load of cash on social options like Urban Outings, Match.com and assorted social events to meet people. New York Sports Club and my personal trainer aren’t cheap; neither is the hair salon, facials, cute shoes, those jeans that make me look like I have an ass or anything else I do to market myself. Write me a check, trying to look cute is a monetary set back. I'm touched by the fact that my well being is so front and center considering that I haven't seen you since Aunt Mary Catherine turned 96 a year and half ago. But, when you start to question my happiness, you've gone too far, missy. I think that settling down would be stellar. I'd be thrilled to meet "the" guy. But, I'm happy now, too. If I do meet "the" guy, it is with the intention of adding to my life, not the need to complete it. Get me? Good.

People see a 40 year old guy on his own and auto assume that something is missing. Not true. Sometimes, its simply just a matter of lifestyle. I'm fortunate enough to have a career that affords me the opportunity to telecommute; I can work from anywhere that has a cell phone signal and an internet connection. None of my friends are in similar work related situations, so yes, often I travel alone because I can, not because my husband left me. I adore my friends, and we spend a good amount of time together, but they have careers, hobbies, families and lives in general; many of my friends are partnered. At times, there are places I want to go, food I want to try and things I'd like to do that don't interest my circle of friends. Or, that they don't have time for. Am I supposed to miss the event, order in and eat on a snack table in front of the TV or not take the trip if it's going to be a solo excursion? I think not.

The next time you want to see a movie that all your friends have already seen, go anyway; you won't have to share the popcorn. Need a vacation and none of your friends are free? Go alone. You may be amazed at what good company you are and what kind of experiences you can have when left to your own devices. Are you really the only one of your friends who wants PB&J for dinner? Not in the mood for a home made sandwich and Lifetime TV? Then go to Peanut Butter & Co by yourself baby! Eat, drink and flirt with that cute guy at the next table. At least you know you have peanut butter in common. Finally, always remember that it's better etiquette to twist and mangle the linen napkin instead of your extended family.

I came out in the mid 1980's...

I came out in the mid 1980's, in the very early days of AIDS the crisis. A few years before I came out, I recall watching a news report on this recently discovered illness. It was towards the end of dinner time on a weeknight. My brother was wolfing down the last few mouthfuls of his meal and my mother, winding down from a long day of work and single motherhood, was relaxing on the couch, on the phone. I always wished she’d buy another phone for the living room because the curly beige cord was stretched almost straight from the kitchen wall phone and into the living room. I wondered how long it would be ‘til that thing snapped and took an eye out. FYI, it never did.

I, reclined in a burnt orange, velour covered chair, also swallowing the last few bites of some microwaveable delicacy, was fixated on TV. I was never really one to watch the news. It was either too depressing, over my head or dreadfully boring. Somehow, this particular night, on screen, there was a woman with bottled blonde, Joan Collins, Dynasty hair doing a “health minute”. I can only guess that I landed on this station while flipping channels looking for a sitcom. She spoke of an unknown "cancer" affecting gay and bisexual white men, between 18 and 25 years of age, who smoked. She spoke of signs and symptoms, sexual transmission, bodily fluids and tests. They knew nothing at the time. And nothing of what would come.

As she spoke, no one around me seemed to react. Why would they? Gay and bisexual wasn’t really a part of the conversation just yet; I was not out. I remember doing my very best not to react. Again, why would I? Sure, I had an inkling, more than an inkling, of what I was, but instead of wading in the river of truth, I sailed along denial. Get me? Just the same, I felt that familiar flutter and clench of hypochondriacal anxiety in my chest. I took a deep breath and, like so many times for so many reasons before, I wished the words away. Gay. Disease. Bi. Smoker. 18. Cancer. 25. White. Unknown. Bodily. Men. Illness. Sex. Transmission. Make it go away. Please. Make it go away. And for now, it was. For now.

It was some years later, and not long after I had come out, that I found myself visiting a place called Badlands. It was located on the corner of Christopher and West Streets in the Village. It was a bar where men into S/M collected. The weekends, I had heard, were full out leather, bondage and discipline; a little extreme for my tastes at the time. The weeknights however, were rumored to be less about leather and more about hard core cruising and a variety of wild, but soft core, kinky fun. The latter is what intrigued me. I'd heard stories of sex parties, a variety of fetish and kink, men meeting men at the bar, leaving for sexual encounters and then coming back for more, rendezvous in dark alleys. and groping on dimly lit side streets around the bar. I'd heard it was the place to meet the kind of men that make all your dirty little fantasies come true. Oh, I had fantasies, and yeah, they were dirty.

I was excited. This would be a new experience for me. I had only recently come out and was living in suburbia. Aside from an assortment of bland and pedestrian bars and dance clubs in North Jersey, Westchester, Rockland and Connecticut, and the kinder, gentler NYC queer haunts like The Monster and Uncle Charlie’s, I didn’t have much experience. None really with anything hard core. I was bored of white crunch socks, pastel shirts, piano bars, penny loafers, fruity drinks and cologne after cologne. I wanted something with an edge; dark and seedy, different and a little bit dangerous.

I lied to my friends that night and told them that I was staying home. The possibilities presented by a night like this were something I wanted to explore by myself. I parked my car on West 10th Street and made my way down Weehawken. Weehawken, by the way, is that little, chewed up side street that runs between where the Dugout and the video joint, which was the Badlands, stand now. I didn’t know the name of that street until just now. I had to Mapquest it for the name. You learn something new every day.

I entered the bar through the creaky black doors and made my way through an ample crowd of horny men. Badlands smelled like cigarettes and sex; that same aroma that smacks you in the face when you reenter the bedroom fresh from a post trick shower. You know the one; after he’s left and you’ve hosed off, you emerge from the steamy bathroom, walk back into the bedroom and you can still sniff a concoction of lube, Marlboro Lights, sweat and spit. Badlands was feast for the eyes. There were men of all ages, shapes and sizes; all colors and kinds. Everyone's shirt was undone just enough to see who was smooth, who was hairy and which pecs you wanted to lick, which nipples to chew on. You could tell who was ready to go - right now - by who was standing around rubbing their already stiff pricks through their jeans and who sat back with their legs apart gesturing to their own crotch.

Craving a cold beer and a minute to take it all in, I made my way through the maze of men to the deeply scratched, dark wooden bar. At the risk of sounding like a bitch, I will say that at the time, as a tall, dark featured, slim and tone 20-something in an open shirt and tight football shorts, I didn’t have any trouble attracting men or getting what I wanted. I took advantage of my youthful station in life as I groped and rubbed along the myriad of men in my path. Part of the fun was trying to figure out who was into what. I bet the burly guy with the cut off sleeves and the big arms is a top. Maybe he can be my first. That slim guy who keeps flipping his wavy blonde hair off of his boyish face is for sure a great bottom. Yeah, I'd do him. And that guy, over there, the one who keeps slipping his big work boots on and off his feet and exposing his thick white sweat socks probably has a foot fetish. I want to try that one. Oh, and the guy with the yellow stripe up the side of his leather pants; totally into water sports. That one I know for sure. I don’t think I like that one. But hey, don't knock it... right? It was all there. A cornucopia of vanilla sex mixed with enough kink and fetish to bone me up and keep me up. Maybe, I could get a few lined up I thought, have them all at once, and then come back for round two. I mean, it was still early and somebody had to live close by.

Before beginning to collect my conquests for the night, I needed check how I looked and take a leak; the beer was running right through me and the adrenaline had my system stoked. The bathroom reeked and the mirror was filthy, yet, still reflective enough for me to fix my hair. As I worked my fingertips along my sweaty scalp I noticed the smell of, for lack of a more descriptive term, ass. I could hear, what was clearly the end of a great lay, coming from the stall. I listened to the series of loud grunts, soft whimpers and coinciding explosions. Hot. I got excited. One man emerged from the stall, presumably the top; he stuck his semi erect “business” into the sink and gave it a quick rinse before he bolted for the door. The other guy left the bathroom still pulling up his pants, and with a contented look upon his face.

Over by the urinal a well endowed man was getting what looked and sounded like a stellar blowjob. As much as I hated to interrupt, I had to piss. I sauntered up to the urinal furthest from the action, pulled it out and let loose. Between the Bud Light and all my ups and downs, it was a welcome release. It wasn’t long after that my urinal buddies finished doing business and were on their way. Again, hot. I was pretty satisfied with myself. In spite of the goings on around me I was cool and unaffected. Staring might make me look like a novice, a newbie. Upon emptying, I sighed in relief and tilted my head back a bit. I noticed a photo hanging on the wall behind the urinal. It was an ad of some sort in a tarnished, faux silver frame. I leaned slightly forward and squinted at the ad. I moved my head slightly to the side to see past the slight glare on the dirty plastic that covered it.

It was picture of men having anal sex. Both men were well built, smooth, pretty; very much sexy examples of the stereotype of their sexual role. There was one of those text bubbles over each of their heads. Over the bottoms head it said "He must be negative too, he didn’t use condom." And, in the bubble over the tops head, it said "He must be positive too, he didn’t ask me to use a condom." I was stunned. Really. Taken aback. I don’t know why. I don’t what it was about this public service announcement that pushed my buttons, but I was instantly frightened and hyper-aware of my surroundings. Almost, I'd go so far as to even say, distraught.

There are just some moments in life when everything changes. They are the moments you’ll always remember with distinct clarity and razor sharp detail. Even years later you’ll feel the same swell of emotion you did that very first time. You’ll stop to catch your breath. Call them realizations if you will. Call them an awakening or an epiphany. Call it the moment you woke the fuck up. But, whatever you call it, you have no other choice but to acknowledge it because that moment becomes a part of you; like it or not. I've spent a lot of time, and a good number of therapy sessions, trying to figure out what clicked that night. My best guess is what I call my cigarette commercial syndrome. You’ve seen those television commercials for quitting smoking; the really explicit ones. Like, the guy with the hole in his neck, the lady with her fingers and toes cut off, the cancerous lung biopsy and clogged arteries leaking out onto a stainless steel medical table, the photos of people that have passed away and the commercial “starring” those they left behind. I’d get so angry when they would air! They made me think. I knew they were right. They work. Add to those, anti smoking ads in print, “quit services” everywhere you turn, being surrounded by smoking bans and peer pressure and drama from nonsmokers and you have the recipe for a point that hits home, hard. I’m going on two and half years smoke free. I think that nigh in the Badlands was the same thing, that same recipe. It all just fell into place and the point hit home, hard. The guy on his knees at the urinal wasn’t sucking rubber. That top that came out of the stall rinsed his raw piece at the sink. I went to stall and pushed the door open with the tip of my shoe. There was no rubber in the bowl, and I never heard a flush; there was no condom in sight.

I stood there in the doorway of the stall for a moment with my member still protruding from my pants. I was flustered that I never bothered to put it away. Someone came from behind me, reached around and took hold of it. This was what I was there for, right? He lifted my shirt with one hand and pulled my body back against his. I could feel the soft, light hair on his upper body on my back. His other hand gently fumbled to yank down my pants. His lips landed on the back of my neck, and I panicked. I thrust backward and pushed him away. I pulled up my pants, shoved my balls back in my briefs and ran through the crowd to the door still disheveled and slightly exposed.

Exposed. Make it go away.