Thursday, March 01, 2007

A Public Display of Affliction

Not ten minutes after my contretemps in London Drugs, with half a Blenz medium sliding nicely into my gullet as a consolation, I was about to cross the street when out of the corner of my eye I saw Terry. I turned quickly and hoped he hadn't seen me. I remember thinking, 'With any luck he'll think it's someone who looks like me rather than me and I'll be safe'.

Then I remembered: that kind of logic doesn't even work in sitcoms. Shit! I was gonna have to steel myself up to talking to him. I heard him call "Hey!" and ignored it. I mounted a last-ditch escape attempt and in my zeal to get away from him I nearly ran in front of a number 9 bus. That's where he caught me.

Terry is a very cute guy I've known casually for about five years. I see him about five times a year; three or four of those I manage to avoid him. The last time was nearly a year ago now.

If you were to describe my type, you'd come close to describing Terry. In addition to the hotness (honestly - so much it really should be continued on a second guy, preferably me) he's smart and he's inexplicably friendly to me. I say inexplicably partly because of the whole Gay Men Hate Me thing, but partly because he came from such an unfriendly crowd. Yet here he is again.

Terry: Haven't seen you in a long time.

Me: Yeah. Keeping a low profile. I almost didn't see you today, either, the way that bus was driving.

Terry: Yeah, I woulda had to leap in front of it to save you. (He paused for a beat, then said:) You're looking well. Really good.

Me: You look just as good as ever.

Terry: Thanks. (He smiled with his mouth closed. I knew I'd better be careful now, because if his teeth make an appearance I'm a goner.)

Me: What are you doing over here anyway? (Terry lives in the West End, and West End gays never leave their precious ghetto even when they most ought to.) You crossed a bridge and everything. Pretty gutsy for a West End guy.

I was teasing and he took it as such. He smiled at me again; this time it was like someone made a copy with the lid open. A tiny piece of me (although definitely a bad piece) died when he did.

Terry: Yeah, I do lots of things I'm not supposed to do.

Me: So, are you working around here?

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the hospital.

It was about a block from where he caught me to where we'd have to go our separate ways; all this walking and dialogue took less than thirty seconds, but felt like thirty minutes, and probably took 30 months off my life.

At the corner of W.10th and Heather we parted. I watched him walk away, his slender figure spryly crossing away from me. I wanted to vomit, that's how nice it was to see him.

For the next couple of hours I played the scene over and over in my head, kicking myself for letting him see me, for not mentioning my blog so we could stay in better touch, for all the stupid things I do, and did. Of course, if I'd have ignored him and run away I'd have been sick about that too, and the same if I'd told him about the blog.

Just about the only decision I made today with regards to Terry that I wouldn't have regretted was stepping in front of that bus, although I deeply regret admitting that. So you see my quandary. 99.99% of the gay men I meet treat me like dog shit, so that when the .01% who are super nice to me come around it takes everything I have to even orchestrate the awkward conversation we did have.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm not a well man.
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michael sean morris said...


Good. Now that I've got your attention:

You sir are the biggest loser on the planet. Your best moments would depress the fleas on a buffalo's ass.

A hot guy that you like chases you through a busy street, falls into pace with you as you walk, asks enquiring questions, compliments you, flirts - he even offered to RESCUE you... And you run away!

What? You thought I didn't see? I saw the whole fucking mess, buddy. Wherever you go I go. And I seen you do some shitty stuff, but this is beyond shitty.

You got most of the facts right in yer li'l story there, and then you dribble on about your struggle through most of it, but then you don't even bother to DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT! And such a good writer, too, but squandering that with this drivel. Oh well, I guess it's better than not writing at all. But only just.

Huh! Sorry about that. No, y'know what? I'm not sorry. The problem seems to be that I, your conscience, haven't been lecturing you enough lately. Well, that's about to change.

I shouldn't be mad at you; I should be laughing my ass off right now over the scene I witnessed this afternoon. A gorgeous sunny day, Terry's smiling at you in a golden glow, and he has those squinty wrinkles when he smiles. Seriously, he could smile at a pigeon and make it come. Chestnut hair, greying like the first scattering of snow over loam, lean all over, smiles easily, reads books... I'd probably know more about him to love but you STUPID FUCK , you keep running away from him!

I say this as your conscience and as your friend: just end it. You said you wouldn't have regretted stepping in front of that bus, so go do it. Go up to the roof of that building where you work and take a tumble. You don't have to do it from the roof, the stairs would do it. Plus it would be more dramatic, you fucking queen!

I'd call you a faggot, but a faggot would have taken that guy into the nearest rhododendron and sucked his cock, even in broad daylight. Especially in broad daylight! And there's a bloody great park right there, half a fucking block of it, most of it as overgrown as Margaret Thatcher's vagina!

He's a compulsive cleaner. You need that. You know because he told you that he has an upward curving cock. Who tells THAT to someone they're not into?

Well, I say Fuck You. The next time you see Terry I'm taking over. In fact, I'm taking over now. I know where he works, and I am marching you down to that coffee shop and you are going to sit there and read until you "accidentally" run into him again. Then yer gonna look him in the eye and be charming and I just hope I don't rupture your aorta in the process.

Not that it would matter, with all the bleeding it's done to this point. It's just that I would hate to have to spend all those years with you sobbing about what a pussy you are and then lose you just as I'm about to get me some.

Although, with you dead I'd be a free agent again, maybe float around Heaven, see what Monty Clift is doing and what he's doing it with, maybe even get him to do it to me.

Eh, either way, I'm good. Do whatever you want.

michael sean morris said...

Uh... Good title though.