Violets in December

Pull up a sturdy chair as this post is shakily uncouth. Though I’m not quite certain what defines ‘couth’ nowadays. So there’s that. What I’m saying is this: I grabbed a $7.99 bottle of chardonnay, un-chilled, from the market, and now sit here relishing the onset haze whilst swirling around a sole ice cube in my non-company, basic wine glass. It’s the one where most of the gilt greek key is worn off from my obsession with Chap Stick. The remaining stemware is INSTA perfect, bitch.

Ahem. I’ve reached the social strata stage of being able to sweep into an event, air kiss half the room, Cheshire cat smile the requisite photo-ops, and stealth exit during opening remarks. It’s a gift. A dear colleague is retiring soon hence a passed apps and spiked punch office reception in his prestigious firm’s executive suite board room. The one with the faux English paneling to suggest old-world fortitude of family money and fortunes. The event, in a word –was divoon, even by world banking standards. Tons of pants suits on the women, though, because even today we can’t allow women in finance to remotely suggest a vajay between their pinstriped legs. But there were a lot of important gilt brooches and strands of family pearls and so perhaps that aspect alone deemed the security guard at the entrance.

I’ve always dreamed to be insanely rich. But not for that tired-ass dream that most workaday cubicle people wish for; no, I am not about to use sudden wealth as some sort of show-y payback for being called “queer fairy” in high school. Though the thought of groundbreaking the “Burt Weston Home of Transgender Youth and Labia Licking Lesbians” in my hillbilly hometown does have a ring to it. No. No sir. I want wealth for only one reason: isolation. Barriers. Borders. Walls.

I would take famous recluse Howard Hughes’ isolation penthouse freakdom and times it by one hundred. I would only have meals prepared by a trusted, blind chef. I would only have my toenails trimmed by Joon Sighe, a raped refugee from South Vietnam. She would embrace my pain intuitively and understand why my clippings must be burned in the onyx-faced fireplace the length of a football field.

Because today, somewhat poor/financially challenged (read ‘credit card debt’) — I have built walls. Hammered up hurdles. And keep most folks at arm’s length. Which brings me to my latest fresh hell predicament:

I have a twink interested in me.

I’m old enough to be his grandfather but we’ve been —to put it bluntly, NOT seeing one another for nearly a year. What we do is this: we exchange the occasional, but well-timed text message.

“Hey YOU! Long time! How are YOU! Can we have a cocktail when ur schedule clears?”

But our schedules never really seem to clear or align or heat up to warp factor nine thousand. Because as noted herein… I have mastered the art of keeping folks at arm’s length. What you need to know is this:

He’s breathtakingly handsome. He’s a professional dancer. So that fact right there should give you a rather robust image of his near chiseled perfection of a Michaelangelo-esque physique. I met him at an event last October; we’ve been tripping around our respective INSTA accounts for a year now.

Any man would be hashtag “blessed” to even consider a dinner date with the 29-yr old Greek god. But I stall. And I make excuses. Because we all know how this will look in the gay community. Sugar daddy; I’m paying his bills. He’s only sucking me off for my money. He’s a gold digger; I’m a cradle robber, et al. And I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanked while metaphysically tonguing his hot boi hole.

I recently asked a 30-something acquaintance about ‘May/December’ relationships. His response? “Oh, sweetie, ‘May/December’ is so cute of you. Nobody says that anymore. It’s more like “I need an iPhone 11 and help with my college loans” as to why young men date/fuck with older guys…”

It all has me very much in a tizzy. What to do. What to DO! I’m afraid of moving the interest too far forward because I’ve already played out the eventual breakup, my sick headache, and my shattered heart’s razor edges. My heart is still fragile. Twelve years, post-breakup…and there’s been no one. Not one single date. And folks wonder why I gaze and ponder the leap from my apartment window to the ground below. Maybe you only get one good love story. And my book is archived.

But maybe it’s time, now, for another leap. A leap of faith. Why do I need to care what other’s may say or think or brunch smirk about? Maybe it’s time for some new math on an old equation. Maybe. But here’s the thing: I’m no longer the pretty one. And this possible relationship has so many bad red flags I could hold May Day in Beijing with Mao’s face tattooed on my ass for good citizenship.

merry merry, Mary

I’ve spent most of the day hard rolling my eyes. Think Pee-wee Herman when he’s waiting for the tour guide to get to the basement feature of the Alamo. THAT kind of eye roll. I’m lucky my eyes aren’t permanently stuck. But then again this time of year brings out idiocy and I’m obliged to cluck my tongue and clutch my pearls as the minions go about preparing for stupid Christmas.

My tree is up. It has righteously been deemed “stunning” via my other social media channels. Having garnered a couple dozen ‘likes’ the thrill of the big reveal is now gone and, frankly– my Christmas spirit has flown the coop. I’m wagering my Christmas tree will come down Christmas day.

Let’s get real: Christmas is for kids. And it’s also a time for tatted twink muscle fuck types to flood INSTA with “…Justin got me the new iPhone 11 and two tickets to Ibiza!!! We’re off to the islands in January” hashtag ‘blessed.’ Here’s a new year note: go fuck yourself, home boy, who’s only real income is hand-woven ‘spirit bracelets’ on ETSY.

Yes, please do us all a delightful favor and go regally fuck yourself.

Ahem. How did I arrive here, so early in the season, at the apex of the curmudgeon zone you may ask. I was fine, really, until yesterday. And I think it was because my social channels began to flood with “our first Christmas tree” and “I love my boo..so thrilled to tour Paris!!!” bullshit posts. It took grave reserve and stoic fortitude not to comment “…enjoy your first Christmas together; 10-yrs from now you’ll be fighting over who gets those goddamn RADKO ornaments…”

Still, even at this ripe age, I drag out the Christmas trim bins and boxes and spend the better part of two weekends transforming this one-bedroom apartment into near Bergdorf Goodman holiday windows realism. I’m gay; I’m Catholic. You can bet your sweet ass Christmas lives large in my house. Too, while somewhat of a bother and fuss to trim and decorate, I loathe to turn into my bitter mother, who now– at 90, mutters in complete contempt “…it’s just any other day of the week here…” when I phone home to wish her ‘Merry Christmas’ come Christmas morning.

It’s for THAT reason. And THAT reason alone that I continue to drag out the glittery decorations and pray that the rickety step stool hangs in there one more year bearing the weight of my fat-ass adjusting my tree top star.

And speaking of ‘angels heard on high’… marijuana use is legal in this state come January. While I modestly partook back in my college halcyon days, I’m relishing the exploration of edibles; I’m the high strung type to begin with. (no pun surely intended) I think a natural mellowing could bring the new year, 2020, into a sharper focus for me. Why not? Clearly the road I’ve traveled post breakup with my EXbf is not serving me well. I hardly ever go out to engage the gay scene; I’m not actively surfing hook up apps. And basically I grab up my crinoline pantaloons and dash away if there’s even a suggestion of a furtive glance from a stranger. How did I get to this place? I used to be so confident. So adventurous. So young.

More kvetching later, sweeties. X O

 

you missed the swiss, miss

Ahhh, dear reader…has it been nearly a quarter year and some change since I last logged in? Why, yes. Yes it has.

And while all half-dozen of you who may still sweep by this site to see if I walk among the living have probably forgotten that I exist I am here to remind you that I do, in fact, remain upright and fairly well-groomed to embrace each day with a modicum of ‘are you fucking kidding me’ angst. It’s the times we live in. The outright hatred and intolerance for any opposing viewpoint nowadays is this decade’s defining moment.

As Charles Dickens penned: “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” Or whatever that goddamn quote is from ‘The Tale of Two Cities.’ I can’t be expected to remember it at this age. Plus it reminds me of my high school senior english class and the old dust bag goat of a teacher who painted on her eyebrows. She presented to the world a constant state of perplexed surprise and I still have nightmares that I’m being chased down a long hallway of lockers with a pointy black brow pencil. But I digress.

Today the deli girl left the swiss cheese off of my sandwich order; just a wee bit ago I felt like a bit of lite nosh and hence the visit to my corner deli. The missing sandwich cheese is inexcusable as– to be frank and blunt, it’s not like I asked her for a NASA launch equation. How fucking challenging is it to recall ‘smoked turkey with swiss?’ But alas, no swiss. And since I’m far too well known to tweet my grievances I’ve chosen to land here with the unbearable agony of it all, dear reader.

Because I know you would feel the same way about the absent swiss cheese. Naturally when I discovered the missing cheese my first insightful thought was a rousing personal affront: “Go back to where you came from you dumb whore bitch.” But, again– these times that we live in, are at best, so fraught with like-minded sentiment that my curmudgeon rage would surely not even register a blasé eye roll. I will do the next best thing: the next time I order a deli sandwich I will wear my ‘I don’t really care. Do you?’ first lady jacket and show her tatted ass a thing or two. Because this is America. Home of the bravado and land of the cheese.

on mother’s daze

Oh hai. Apologies for living under a rock since January. Let me bring you up to speed you wonderful handful of loyal readers.

In mid January I stepped onto my bathroom scale and the sheer, abject horror of seeing a digital display mockingly read “199.5” sent my delicate flower sensibilities into virtual meltdown. You see, I’d been avoiding the bathroom scale for months just like one does with folks that one owes money or that furry, bear dude who gave one the crabs.

I have never ever weighed almost 200lbs. The number played havoc with my mind as I still saw myself as, oh…somewhere around 185lbs even though I’d been buying larger sport coats just to cover off-site meetings, and the out of town business trips to the corporate office. I could no longer get into the tres expensive Burberry, Asaia, or HUGO BOSS suits that still, to this day, hang in sober judgement of my 44Short, fat-ass self.

It’s one thing to be old(er) in the gay community but it’s an entirely other matter to be old and fat. Invisible doesn’t even begin to describe the silent judgement of rail-thin office millennials who cluck their pink tongues should I even look at the Dunkin’ Donuts box in the employee lounge.

Oh, sure. There are exceptions to the ‘old and fat’ gay isolation rule: do you have a big cock? Do you have, say, a big cock and a summer house in Montauk, Long Island? These areas of visible wealth eradicate both years and pounds off virtually every fat ass queen I know. But I digress.

The very next day post-bathroom scale debacle I returned to EQUINOX. It’s important to mention the gym brand as you will appreciate that my stupid ass self has, monthly–since 2013, paid a growing membership fee to essentially perform a fairly robust elliptical/cardio routine as one of the club’s invisible gay guys. (insert ‘gay and old’ as reference point) January of this year my membership hovered somewhere between $143/month and a gazillion dollars. I do love me some Kiehl’s hand cream though so I keep going back. ahem –

Since that sub-zero day in January I’ve remained somewhat faithful to a gym routine, portion control at mealtime, and I’ve stopped swilling bottles of Chardonnay. I can definitely count on one hand the number of cocktails I’ve had since January. I’ve lost 11lbs. I’m out of the 44s size and back into the nebulous 42s arena. One can still look somewhat together as a 42s. The 44s basically communicates “here, look at my old man belly.” And not in a good way.

I searched online for that BMI measurement thang and at my height {5’9″} my ideal goal weight is 165lbs. That’s what I’m working towards but in all frankness I’d have to lick toilet seats at the airport and come down with a nasty case of ebola to get THAT skinny. One can hope. And hope remains eternal.

Today is Mother’s Day. It’s always a sad and meditative-type day for me. My mother is now framed as ‘the woman who brought me into this world.’

Her mothering days ended sometime in the late 70s when she wigged out and had a strangle-choke hold around my neck. I can type that nowadays and the hurt of having one’s mother try to kill them doesn’t sting nearly as much as it used to.

I left home that very day. I also suffer deal with panic/anxiety. A therapist told me that panic anxiety disorder stems from repressed anger. I’m proud of myself, really– to have compartmentalized a narcissistic mother. The past many, many years have been fine without her. I can’t say that I miss her. I can say that I miss “mothering” as there have been times in my life where only the support of a mother’s love could soothe. Oh. And a hefty slice of chocolate cake with inch thick frosting. That soothes as well.

the resolution will be televised

Oh joy. Another new year. Yet another opportunity to swim above or very near the line of utter complacency and mediocrity. I can say that as today my ‘pleather’ “COMPARE AT” belt ripped at one of the buckle holes. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I paid a solid $9.99 cash money and expect the damn belt {reversible for us versatile types} to last more than, say, two years. But the poor dear committed ‘belt suicide’ what with my fat gut pushing up against the sole constraining device that keeps the general public from silently muttering “probably glandular” versus “oh my freakin’ gawd what a fat fuck” at a cursory passing glance. But I digress.

On the top shelf of my closet I have Dolce & Gabbana, two Versace, two GUCCI, and one PRADA divoon belts that have mysteriously shrunk to fit someone with more style and chic élan than my current 20lb extra self. I hate that their smug lil’ duster bags and boutique ribbon handled shopping bags mock me whenever I glance upward. My first –and last waking thought, each and every day, is how did I gain this extra weight? And I know the painful truth which I quell with yet another chardonnay.

And while I’m quite certain I can round up enough men to bang my phat ass I just don’t feel sexy enough to do so. Pretty is as pretty does and I do not wish to enter the realm of someone’s fatty fetish worship. No sir, you do not get to jiggle the man boobs. My solo ring master private circus will remain in my bedroom with a lights out act until further notice.

New Year’s Eve was dullsville. I was in bed, out like a light, at 11pm. I didn’t hear a thing; it must have been a quiet night in the neighborhood as usually there’s at least one hi-rise balcony idiot with metal pot lids clanging in the New Year. The new year/first day was spent removing a bit of Christmas trim as one does. My tree is still up but it’s minus all the gold ornaments, the flickering flame lights, the tree top angel, and the fussy tree skirt. I purchased a new tree this year; it’s a winter wonderland flocked-type tree and minus any snow on the virtual ground I’m now guaranteed that proverbial white Christmas. At least in my living room.

This weekend I will bite the bullet and shove the rest of Christmas 2018 back into storage and memory. There were small moments of joy but a lot of sameness, too, as I traverse yet another year–post breakup, as a single man. I think it was Charlotte on ‘Sex and The City’ that noted the amount of time one needs to get over a relationship is exactly half the time of the relationship duration. So, lemme do some math: together for 25-years… looks like this summer will be the half-way point since the breakup. I sure hope there is someone waiting—wanting, and needing– my love on the other side of this chasm of dark despair.

happy nude rear

With the flip of the calendar we all enter clean slate/fresh start territory tomorrow. When I was younger, much — this notion filled me with the hope of new career challenges, jet-set vacation travel, and the promise that my youthful energies would carry me wherever I focused them. New year’s day at this age is pretty much ‘meh.’

I dislike my advancing curmudgeon ‘been there/done that’ mindset but in reality…I HAVE been there. And done that. I don’t entertain anymore; I’m rarely entertained, either, as the social circle I’m firmly trying to embrace probably views this evening as amateur night. Those folks are in black tie once a month; getting dressed up is called ‘Tuesday’ and thus this evening really doesn’t deliver unless one, of course, has traveled across the pond. Or has some illustrious theater person as a winter house guest in Palm Beach:

“Stop by around 11:00..we’re doing a light salmon buffet and Tom’s entertaining us all with his scenes from HAMILTON!!!”

Ahem. But that is not my evening here. Today is miserable. Cold, rainy; a metaphor for all my unfulfilled promise of the past year. I did not organize my life, let alone my closet. I did not lose 10lbs; in fact, I probably gained ten pounds. My love life is one long stretch of self-inflicted hand jobs with a rising penchant for kinkier porn because, well, who hasn’t seen a twink take a big cock? It’s 2019, people… that degree of smut is almost quaint in its predictability.

I don’t wish my last post of the year to be Debbie Downer. There are many blessings in my life; I’m not blind to that fact. But I digress; let’s focus on New Year’s Eve parties. Specifically NYC socialite Kitty Miller’s New Year’s Eve house party. The year is 1953. It all looks so picture-perfect. Elegant as shit. No doubt the most coveted invitation by the mere appearance of Reed and Diana Vreeland. Do come sit beneath the GOYA, sugar.

Happy New Year, bitches.

what child(ish) is this?

I think most everyone becomes a kid at Christmas, don’t you think? I mean, we all still have secret wishes and expectations regardless of rational, adult thought. I know there’s no jolly fat man in a red velvet suit swooshing down the chimney as my apartment fireplace is ‘faux’ and I alone control the ‘faux’ fire logs. But that fact did not diminish the hope and excitement of my two feet hitting the bedroom floor yesterday morn.

BW_nativity

The tree was the same though. A couple of festive, holiday-themed gift bags, a tin of Christmas shortbread, two bottles of wine, and a scattering of Christmas cards artfully arranged beneath flocked branches signaled no visit from Santa as the silent tableau was exactly the same as the day before. And the days before that. I guess my inner child needs adult therapy to believe ‘magical thinking’ will produce a Christmas day that doesn’t feel like the second Tuesday of, say, August.

The weather refused to cooperate with my magical thinking yesterday, too. I did not get the proverbial ‘white Christmas.’ I simply must have a white Christmas; I don’t care about snowfall on any other day of the year but for the love of the newborn Christ child can’t we have snow on damn Christmas day?! But it was a fairly mild day here in the midwest; the sun lazily poked through overcast clouds a few hours. I had my tree lit and my old-fashioned plastic ‘candleliers’ were plugged in, glowing orange flames, but you wouldn’t note either from the streets as it was too damn sunny to enjoy the lights. Meh.

In other “White Christmas” fails, I swiveled my desktop Mac to face the sofa. As is my annual tradition, I enjoy settling into a large slice of pie mounded with whipped cream to enjoy the timeless, ever-classic Irving Berlin “White Christmas.” It is THE quintessential Christmas film and while some of my youthful contemporaries roll their eyes and espouse the joys and LOLs of a more modern holiday movie like “ELF,” well, in all frankness — do fuck off with that nonsensical shit. I’m talking Bing Crosby crooning the movie’s namesake tune, talented Rosemary Clooney back when she had a waistline, and the tapping toes and weightless whirls of Vera Ellen. (Vera didn’t have a waistline, btw…she had a thorax)

But even that wee bit of joy was stripped as my DVD kept ejecting. I had no idea what the fuck was wrong and like any ‘i-can-fix-anything’ butch male I continued jamming the DVD into the tiny slot until it all got the best of me and I gave in to the karmic curse apparently placed on my Christmas day joys large and small.

I did phone out-of-state family and that’s always a feel good time as siblings recall childhood memories of Christmas past. It’s our collective memories that keep those distant holidays alive. Phoning mother, on the other hand, was chore-like and I wasn’t disappointed with her standard litany of “…it’s just another day…” She’s getting up there in years and has managed to isolate herself into certain dire circumstances; I know that hard decisions need to be made soon. And none of that business will go down easy. But I digress.

I’m on holiday for the remainder of the week; a much-needed break from the fast pace I’ve been managing in the workplace of late. Today I plan to visit a couple resale shops and knock about in search of the discarded silver serving pieces for a hidden treasure. I don’t need a thing but enjoy rescuing a blackened bit of silverplate that perhaps graced a holiday table long ago. Once home, the fervor of polishing brings not only a shine to the odd drinks tray but to my day as well. Keeping busy helps my mind stay focused on the here and now while keeping the ghost of Christmases past — partnered, a sparkling tree crowning wrapped gifts, and a dining table surrounded with the company of friends (now deceased or aged and apathetic to Christmas traditions) — well, firmly planted in the past.