My hot, 30-something gay neighbor sleeps fifty feet away in the adjoining apartment. Youth at rest; untroubled by concerns and worries so permanent nowadays they should split my rent. It’s the witching hour. Or the bitching hour more likely.  Generally I make coffee and stream NPR around 3am to begin another day. I used to just get home at this hour back in the halcyon days of disco. Actually, no; 3am was last call. We would leave the clubs at 4am and land in a Greek diner. The night manager had a huge crush on my 23-year-old ass and would comp scrambled eggs and vanilla sundaes. Not simultaneously but separate depending on the season and just how shit faced I was.

“We” is defined here as ‘deceased.’ All of my disco era posse is gone. They were on the front lines of the onset of AIDS. At my 50th birthday bash there were at least eight men who should have been there celebrating with me but they were long gone by that big zero birthday. I don’t think I have ‘survivor’s guilt’ but sometimes — not often, I think they left the party early; at its zenith — before the crushing demise of everything that was lyrical, beautiful, and young. I’m the one who now ages. Turns gray. Gets a dad body. And waits. While yet another big zero birthday looms on the horizon of the new year, I’m thinking how little time is left to find some semblance of happiness before whatever ailment lurking inside me in silence and oozing in destiny’s gene pool is born to define the inevitable downside of aging.

Author Andrew Holleran wrote — I think, in his novel ‘The Beauty of Men’ about how one should never grow old in a town they were once young in. I’m paraphrasing his sentiment but it is solidly true. Sometimes when I’m full of myself — or maybe just full of a half Xanax, I’ll be sauntering the city streets with purposeful stride thinking that I’m still quite fetch. Then I’ll glance into the night blue glass reflection of a SAKS window and see a stranger gazing back. Who is THIS man? I’m invisible nowadays.

Because there is no template for this. Anyone who could have been a trusted mentor on how to grow old gracefully is gone. It is up to me to define what lies ahead and how to steer towards some degree of happiness. I don’t want to live alone anymore. I miss the companionship and the Sunday afternoon sex.

I wonder if my hot, gay neighbor sleeps in the nude.



Two former high school classmates have ‘found’ me online and tracked me to my place of employment. One has phoned one of our boutique locations; the store manager passed her message on to me via email: “…this woman said they’ve been looking for you for 40-years. Here’s her cell and email…”

I did not reach out. A few weeks later they discovered my company’s website ‘customer question’ portal and sent an inquiry regarding “…he was a classmate and we’re trying to  contact him, please pass along this phone…” And I’ve not done anything with that communication either. I knew I might confront this situation some day once I launched my public Twitter account with my real name. I did so not to share the details of my private life but as a public mouthpiece for my company’s brand. I shared the link with a past coworker and she said “…but I don’t read YOU in any of it; be careful or will sound too corporate and you’ll lose followers. Put your personality into it…”  Meh. Oh hai gurl; that is not going to happen. Ahem.

While these two 60-year-old women may have warm fun memories of our camaraderie that we can briefly revel in the fog of nostalgic recall most of my high school memories are hellish and hurtful. I was the new kid in town when I entered 7th grade. Those circle of friends cliques had already formed. Besides, I was the new skinny queer in town. It was the early 70s and my fashion sense and fey manners were about to get trampled.

More to follow on this topic.



Hello. I won’t even begin my apologizing for the agonizingly brutal lack of posts here. The muse, she has left the building. Plus I’m too busy being a society bitch gansta’. So there’s that.

Today I woke and vividly recalled how mother slapped me so hard across the face when I was around age four that she packed us off to grandma’s for the weekend. I wonder how she explained that to my hot-headed Italian father. She hated her mother; she kept grandma at a distance. Safely tucked away some 50-miles from my childhood home. Anyway. So, yeah. She slapped me so hard it left a handprint on my cheek. And so many years later I still recall standing on the HI-C juice can ottoman (padded with cotton batting and slip covered with a groovy crocheted cover) and peering at that angry handprint redness in the bathroom mirror. Which was a very grownup and brave thing to do at that age. We lived in the country and the bathroom sink was notorious for those creepy crawly centipedes that old houses get in the summer. The seed of my anger issues was spawned that day. 

And today I’m angry. Well maybe not angry so much. Maybe more like confused and miffed. Last week I learned a bit of info regarding my failed early spring romance I’d hoped would be full-out monkey butt-slammin’ sexcapades right about now. Early August? Hmmm…I would have had Thanksgiving dinner china already picked out. But let’s not tarry on phantom holiday dinners surrounded by extended family. Ahem.

So a coworker casually tossed “yeah, so-and-so couldn’t come because he’s back with his ex again; they both hate crowds…so anyway…”  but I did not hear the rest of his running weekend recap as I was stunned brain dead. Wasn’t THAT ex the very same bat shit cray who called the cops on my young lover boi? That’s what he shared with me; he told me all the bad, gay nastiness that his ex put him through that eventually created a riff wide enough for my young love interest to move out. 

That’s all I’ve really got now. Just a memory of his sparsely filled apartment and how I would have redecorated, piece by piece, as we shopped WEST ELM on the weekends between gourmet wine and cheese shopping as the gays do. Those fading memories and the raging boners we shared the night he kissed me so deep my toes curled and the hair on my head tingled.

I want to slap him so hard.


diamdsHello darlings. Yes, again– my honest apologies for the lag in posts. I’ve been far too busy social-climbing my way onto the A-LIST GAYS party roster. So far so good; Next week I’m invited to one of this town’s parties of the year at the classiest of classy hotels. Any socialite in this city worth their five inch Louboutins and Rent The Runway size zero cocktail dress will be there. Which leads me to that Groucho Marx quote: I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member…” I feel lucky to be invited. Actually I feel like the smudge nosed, peddler girl in My Fair Lady when she sells her handful of violets. Lucky. I feel fucking lucky.


Earlier this week I attended a charity gala; my name was even printed in the gala program as I was part of the planning committee seated among the ladies-who-lunch, media interns, and junior league beauties; I was one of three gay guys. It was not a black tie type shindig; it was a bit more casual. Some of the old guard probably recycled something from the dark recesses of their en suite adjacent walk-in closets. C H A N E L really doesn’t have a bridge line that suggests we get fashionably busy to find the cure for mesothelioma; get on that Karl. Nonetheless all the posh ones were present and accounted for last week in their tight, shiny face jobs, firm boob jobs, and luxe hair extensions. Though I question the need for big firm hooters on a 70-year old. Maybe I’ll understand once I reach that age. Which is nearing closer than my lifelong mandate not to lie about my age. Maybe next year’s big zero birthday is the time to start lying. 

Oh. I celebrated a recent birthday on the coast. I’ll let you dream about which coast for the sake of my anonymity and to protect the innocent. When I returned from my trip I spiraled into a shit show via social media where my lazy decision to not contact an acquaintance in aforementioned coast town was equated to the ‘ho bitch slap heard ’round the world. I don’t understand people; we haven’t communicated in years. I didn’t see the need to reconnect as I’m still nursing wounds from a perceived slight. Gay drama. It’s maddening. I mean, I will own my part in the rift but at this age, can’t we all just get along? “Bitch, what you did was shitty. I forgive you; now– do you want vodka or gin for that martini?” Life is too short. I keep saying this nowadays. No one is hearing my warning shot.



, ,


And I’m back.

Recall the scene in the classic Bette Davis film ‘Now Voyager’ where she’s left standing at the train station in that gorgeous fur coat with the wilted camellia corsage, tears streaming down her face? You do? Yasss. That is how I feel. Not really but I’m a drama queen and trying to make a point about the demise of my ‘trying to date someone half your age’ scenario. It’s over. Actually it never got a good start. But that’s not what I’m sharing here tonight.

cell_phoneHe stopped returning my text messages. Cold turkey. One day I’m getting text messages the next day zip, nada. Zero. Done. I won’t venture to phone him for a real conversation because that would simply be (a) not answered and (b) far too real. If my life were a reality show this is the reunion segment where I’m all dolled up with triple false eyelashes and curse him for the dumb bitch whore that he is.

But he’s not. I think he’s simply young. And we forget what young people do. And what young people do not do. As in ‘fuck an old(er) guy.’ Ahem.

I could share the tragic details but we’re all adults here who’ve no doubt had our hearts broken a time or two. Just when I lowered my guard; just when I was getting comfortable with the idea that this summer quite possibly could become the summer of “we” instead of the life sentence of ‘me.’ It’s done. And I don’t even know what I did to create the riff. Maybe I was too transparent with my feelings.

Because at this age I don’t play games. I don’t have all that much time left for a window of happiness. Hiding my thoughts and true feelings doesn’t serve my agenda nowadays. Well, at least in this space and with a select few trusted confidantes.

It’s all so maudlin now. I sometimes check my phone for his text. And with enough chardonnay I think maybe he’s been in a horrible car accident and laid up in a coma while doctors and specialists try to grasp why he’s moaning my name.

But that shit only happens in the movies. I guess that’s all I’ve got for now. Besides, my camellias are wilting.





Yes. It has been ages since I took up the keyboard and banged out a post. My apologies to all six of you who still bounce here on occasion. Let’s catch up. Christmas sucked. In January I ran into my former Equinox personal trainer who looked at me and said “What’s going on here?” while scanning me up and down. After fat shaming me with calipers, body mass percentages, and that sliding scale generally encountered at live stock auctions,  I jump started my fitness and diet regimen. February was so cold. I received one Valentine. From my ex boyfriend only because he probably will need another check from me soon. And that brings us to March.

March is good. I’ve lost 14lbs since January. And while not fit as fuck my mood and attractiveness are at elevated levels. Also there’s this: I am sort of in a new dating thang with a man 30-years younger. Ahem.

He text me around 11:15pm in mid February. Who texts someone at 11:15pm that isn’t looking for cock or black heroin? But I digress. We set up a cocktail date and the rest is, well, moving somewhat slower than I’d prefer. It’s like hiking the woods and coming upon a doe-eyed fawn. One must approach slowly, on kitten feet, or they’ll dart off into the next daddy’s lap, I mean –woods.

Here’s what you need to know at this juncture. He’s tall; he’s attractive. He’s a kind-hearted man. He dresses well; he smells good. He’s got beautiful brown eyes and a pretty smile. He’s rail thin. He’s smart and has a strong work ethic. I know that bit because he used to work at my present employer. I was smitten with him from our first meeting in the workplace but at that time he was legally partnered. Fast forward: that relationship dissolved and he jumped into a hi-rise condo with someone even younger than his young age. It got nasty. Like ‘move your shit out before I call the police’ gay nasty.

So we’ve cocktailed. We’ve dined. We’ve attended the theater together. I’ve been to his place and had a serious make out session that left us giggling over my tent poled jeans. Nonetheless his words ‘I want to take this slow’ has left very little wiggle room and by “wiggle room” I need you to envision me dry humping my mattress while hugging my pillow because we’ve not done the deed yet.

Too, there’s this: he is making me bat shit crazy. Everything is a text message. Doesn’t anyone call anybody nowadays? Some of my texts are not answered promptly and that causes my insecurities to rage out of control. “He’s found someone younger” is the jumping off point in that regard. He’s still hanging around though. And I’ve forgotten what age 29 is about. The uncertainties of the future sort of become the young mind’s sea kelp that clogs the engine from time to time. My life experience will help him in that regard. I’ve already managed the gay glass ceiling and countless other career barriers. Today I will cut a bitch in the workplace. That’s the only gay agenda I have.

BW_bedThis is not a sugar daddy scenario. He’s the one buying theater tickets so far. I’ve paid for a few dinners just because I felt that I should not because I wanted to flash cash. I don’t think that’s why he’s interested in me anyway. I really don’t know why he’s interested in me actually. What I do know is this: I feel good around him. He makes me laugh. We have French kissed so passionately my underwear had damp spots. In a 25-year relationship with my ex we NEVER French kissed. So this detail is telling. Very telling with regard to the smoldering passion that is ripe for lift off.

Naturally I have anxiety about where all of this is going. Or what kind of future we could possibly carve out together. I’ve expressed my reservations repeatedly to the point that I could easily scare him off with such insecure gibberish. A well-meaning friend states that I’m using his age to create my out — the barrier, to sabotage my own happiness. I see her point; it’s valid. And then there’s this: a business colleague’s spouse committed suicide recently. Out of the blue. It was tragic as those types of situations are but it also flipped a switch in my head: this life is uncertain and can turn on a dime. I don’t want to miss this new moment, this twinkling of happiness on my horizon, by dragging old baggage and bitterness into the equation. I want to desperately enjoy the now. That’s really the only truth any of us really has. This moment. Now.

God I want him in my bed.




Done. Over. Fini. I really need to enclose a letter to myself as I tape the Christmas trim boxes for storage. Something along the lines of “don’t bother.” Christmas 2014 has come. And gone. It was not a ‘white Christmas’ here. Which only adds to my crankiness with the season. I don’t know how folks in warmer climates manage Santa and all the fake pine, red & green shit, and glittery snowflakes when its 90 degrees and sunny outside.

HO-HOI need a white Christmas. Which is making me chuckle a bit right now as I just finished myself off watching some Afro-haired young, rail thin twenty-something pound some chub daddy ass. It was entertaining as I sipped Earl Grey like Lady Mary at Downton Abbey. But I digress.

Christmas sucked. I sort of figured it would as I had last year as a template. And the year before that. Depression sucks the joy out of everything. There is a mindset of ‘why bother’ that is at the core of just about every process. Oh, don’t misunderstand; by outward appearances it was another grand tree and trimmings. I can’t say I plugged it in every night though; I liked punishing the residents across the way that populate a major hi-rise here in the neighborhood. As if “See; yes…I have a gorgeous tree lit tonight for your viewing pleasure” and then leave it dark three nights out of seven. Meh. Who is punishing who?

I ate a filet mignon, shrimp cocktail, and a massive baked potato heaped with sour cream Christmas eve. In bed. Watching a rerun with knowledge of how it would all end.

Most of the Christmas trim is packed; that was this weekend’s project. Though the tree is still up. While Christmas has come and gone there’s something optimistic about the bare tree skirt waiting for gifts that won’t come. The waiting; the glittering branches of winged birds; jeweled ornaments, and all that shine. Such delicious sadness.


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