#TheAgeOfNotSoInnocent

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.

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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.

#NowVoyagerF*ckOff

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Neely

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.

https://youtu.be/vf6PZfksmfg

#EnjoyTheNow

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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.

#ChristmasSucked

 

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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.

#NoPoinsettiaForMum

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I phoned mother, as a good son does, on Thanksgiving. And per usual I got the same, boo-fuckin’-hoo litany, that –if I had more creative talent, I could turn into a one-man stage show titled “All My Friends Are Dead.” Mother loves to play martyr most of the year but she really amps her game come holiday season.

“Everyone I knew is dead.” Which is somewhat true. But she’s 83 and I’m, well…over the big five zero and can somewhat say the same. I have many acquaintances but in the trusted friend category I am lacking of late. My bad. Still it did sort of sting when mother asked what I was doing for Thanksgiving and I said ‘no plans; just doing laundry’ which was met with “well, you and me are in the same boat…alone on a holiday.” Wow. Way harsh Cher. (I’m quoting the film CLUELESS with that line, btw) She also told me to skip sending her the annual Christmas poinsettia because “I can go buy one for $5.99 up at the WAL•MART…” She says that every year and I’ve always ignored it and sent the big, glittery bowed plant from my hometown florist. But this year she’s getting her wish. Fuck it. Let’s both sit and be miserable on Christmas day.

smokin_jesusThanksgiving was indeed sad. And when I sit down to examine the ‘why’ it really circles back to my inability to make it not sad. It’s the depression thing. Nothing stopped me from reaching out to a couple orphan coworkers to share a turkey dinner but I spiraled into that ‘why bother/been there/done that’ mindset that rules my days out of the office. I’m fine Monday thru Friday because I have a routine and a pattern; it’s like a stage show and I know my cues and entrances. It’s the weekends where my wheels fall off and I careen out of control and sometimes out of my mind with stupid suicide thoughts and lost time spent rehashing shit from all the shoulda/woulda/coulda years of my life.

BW_PARTAYMy 30-something neighbor (not the Greek God one) whose living room shares my bedroom wall had a Christmas party last night. He plays keyboard; from time to time I can hear him practicing. I don’t mind because he’s pretty good and, too, he’s got some sort of Hispanic/Asian ethnicity vibe going on that makes me want to see him naked on all fours erotically grinding for my man pole of jizz joy.

Where was I? Oh. So he had a party last night and I could hear them all singing “White Christmas” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” It sounded so uninhibited joyful, so holiday fun; I imagined Tupperware bowls of chip & dip, iced imported beer in tubs, and endless smiling selfies. Then I thought ‘fuck this’ and moved to the living room sofa and quiet solitude as Mr. Grinch tip-toed into my apartment on soft green feet.

 

#WorldPeace&AHandJob

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All I want for Christmas is world peace and a hand job. Is that asking for too much? It’s not like I’m asking for matching Louis Vuitton luggage and shit. Sigh. Ever notice how many ‘jobs’ there are in sex parlance? Hand job, rim job, blow job; so many jobs and not enough skilled laborers, I say. But I digress.

I’ve spent the early a.m. hours combing through a society page photo album of a charity fund-raising gala at such-and-such museum for their costume wing. I did not attend but note several acquaintances who have their gay mugs beaming above tux bow ties and I’m wondering how the hell they all came up with the $850 gala ticket price. Wondering if their tickets were comped and who I would have to blow to get on THAT list. Social climbing is hard work and one misstep will have it all come tumbling down like those ‘pick up sticks’ that my mother swore I would lose an eye to.

I recently attended a black tie gala and found myself in a small circle of guests being introduced to the gala’s host committee. Those bitches rocked, from left to right, a  Versace fishtail gown, a Roberto Cavalli body hugging gown, and some other A-list designer frock whose name escapes me at this early hour. Needless to say I had literally just met one of these women three nights prior at a magazine cover launch party and yet within seconds of ‘yes, nice to see you; thank you for coming’ I was effortlessly and elegantly dismissed from any further conversation engagement. It happened so quickly I didn’t see it coming; I was anticipating some polite conversation. In the space of a nano second I was sized up with regard to my social standing and relegated to gala road kill. A photo-op with me would not improve the group’s social cred so the bitches herd moved on to graze better A-listers leaving me solo and swirling a buttery chardonnay in my Ralph Lauren BLACK LABEL.

BW_JBKThere’s a black & white archival film clip of Jackie Kennedy standing gowned and gloved in some diplomatic receiving line as folks greet the President and First Lady. There’s one bit that intrigues me. Jackie, in true 60s form, carries a small envelope-style, evening clutch and while reaching to shake a guest’s extended hand her purse holding arm smoothly sails backward and a military corps man in full dress uniform relieves her of the bag. She never looks back; there is no sideways glance for assurance. She didn’t have to. It befit her status that someone was nearby, waiting in the shadows, to anticipate her every move. I’ve always pondered how that must have felt to know someone was always there.

 

 

#HoHoNo

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Hello. As you can clearly observe I’ve gussied up the blog space with a holiday theme. It was something to do while I waited for the coffee to brew. I am in full-tilt Christmas mode; the tree is up. The mantel is trimmed. It all looks pretty gorgeous as you know it would. I really don’t think anyone will see all of this effort other than my EXbf who will come over Christmas day for our annual ‘here’s what you asked for’ gift exchange.

santa-chimneyAs much as I love Christmas (and what good catholic gay boy doesn’t) it’s challenging. The season, I mean. I’m surrounded by happy families shopping, smiling, hand-holding couples peppered my recent trip through a holiday flower show. Every year I try my level best not to punch Christmas in its vagina.

I’ll be back. I got shit to do.

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