Obsession is Nine-tenths of the Law

I often wonder if the word obsess were not in the dictionary would my life have any meaning?  For as long as I can remember obsessing has been the nature of my existence.  My obsessions have literally spanned the globe encompassing penises, parties, flying, and even dressing in drag.  There have been sleepless nights spent over a conversation gone wrong.  "Did I say something to offend him?" Or worse, a conversation that hadn’t even occurred yet. "What will I say that might offend her?"  Pant colors, shirt sizes, too many plantings in the garden, too few plantings in the garden, going to the gym, even underwear, boxer versus brief. The list is endless.

 When a hurricane is in the Atlantic moving slowly toward land, the Weather Channel carefully tracks its path as it builds momentum, rises in category, and ultimately makes landfall.  Approaching an intersection we spot the traffic light ahead.  Green changes to yellow, then in the blink of an eye makes its final turn to red-- Stop.  My obsessive behavior follows a similar warning sysytem. 

When I turned twenty my mother, in her infinite wisdom, gave me a gift. It was a small hardcovered book, a children’s story, called “Mr. Worry”.  Apparently she thought it was a cute summation of my soul.  It was indeed cute and we laughed as I opened the package revealing the illustration of the little abstract character who worried about all that life had to offer. I couldn't help but wonder if my mentor knew she was in fact “Mrs. Worry”.

In the dawn of my teen years I had my first encounter with a penis other than my own or my brother's, which I had regularly seen in the bathtub as children.  While scrubbing off the usual "kid dirt" we would get erections and pretend they were the masts of our ships sailing along the wide open sea. Anyway, this new penis wasn't a big deal but I couldn’t help noticing the way it curved downward even when erect.  Mine, on the other hand, was shaped much differently with a distinct elevation away from the gravitational pull. With little exposure to the male body at this point I began to convince myself that mine was probably misshapen. Truthfully at the time I felt God had somehow created my penis from the “seconds” group. Turmoil was erupting within. I began to obsess over the fact that mine was different. “Green light”

Everyday I would put my penis to the test.  We would do exercises together in an attempt to curve it downward; a very painful experience.  Pointing it toward the floor, away from the sky, I would force it into an unnatural position but the damn thing always rebelled.  My penis had become a rebel with a cause. When packed away in my briefs I would be certain to “tuck it down” so if it decided to grow during the day it would follow the “right” path and head south. One day it did.  Unless you are man there is no imagining how uncomfortable this situation can be. 

In the middle of a U.S. History class, for no apparent reason, my penis decided to rise up in revolution. Unfortunately it was misaligned and the sensation was more than uncomfortable. There was no apparent stimulation that I could decipher but it was determined to rebel. As it pushed against my pants, downward, in a straight path, apparently it became confused. Like a convict in a prison it managed to tunnel it's way out through the side leg opening of my underwear.  It had become unleashed and was reveling in its new found freedom. I couldn't stand up for there was a distinctly visible problem, a thick line heading southwest. There was no escape.  “Yellow light” 

The loud tone of the bell, signaling the end of class, was going off and my fellow classmates rose to exit except one, me, two if you count my penis. I shifted and squirmed as I lingered behind attempting to get the wild beast to subside. It was to no avail. The sensation of my brushed corduroy pants was like a hand stroking a puppy's fur. My "puppy" was loving it. Gazing at the front of the room I noticed the look of bewilderment on my teacher, Mrs. Bixby's face.  “Keith, is there a problem?  Do you need a hand?” As she rose from her chair my mind convulsed.  God no, I thought-- maybe our handsome and impeccably well dressed guidance counselor, Mr. Jennson, but not you. I simply shook my head back and forth fiercely. “No. No thank you.” 

Miraculously, like a turtle, my penis began to retreat with the thought of the teacher lending a helping hand.  I rose slowly and positioning my books in front of my crotch in case of another revolution left the classroom.  “This is bullshit.” In the boy's lavatory I reached deep within my pants and with a firm grasp adjusted my penis and my thinking.  I have learned every penis is its own man. “Red light”

My obsessions have little choice but to follow me for the remainder of my life. They are who I am.  Luckily I have developed an astute sense for seeing the yellow light and slowing down. 

When I had to dress in drag for a fundraiser and turn myself into Diana Ross the obsession chronometer in my head was off the charts. Every day I would listen to her sing, pretend to be on stage and spin like a Supreme while wearing 4 inch crystal heels. "Green light."  The woman behind the M*A*C cosmetics counter at Macy's and I were on a first name basis. She understood the coloration of my skin and was invaluable in aiding me so I could create a lovely, rich mocha skin tone. "Yellow light."

 The final straw came when I hunted down a saleswoman to ask her if she thought a crystal belt worn over my red shimmering dress would be too much. She simply stared at me, perhaps contemplated calling security and said, "Yes." Realizing the degree of my lunacy I placed the beaded belt down, thanked her for listening and walked away with my head between my legs. What had become of me? "Red light." My familiar behavior had taken over.  As I left the store I wondered, "Could it be time to re-examine the law of my obsession?"  Thankfully I am, with the help of my therapist and 10 milligrams of Paxil daily, learning to manage and detour my counterpart. Obsession had apparently become nine-tenths of me.  

Through the Mirror of my Mind

At times we unknowingly peer into a looking glass and notice not only our past but what quite possibly could have been our future.  “There but for the grace of God go I”, an adage I valiantly cling to and try to live by.  Today, peering beyond the looking glass, my heart awakened itself to the reality of how fortunate a man I am.

    The date is Thursday December 7, 2006. My appointment for a physical is scheduled at 3:00 p.m. Leaving work I realize my time is limited and quite valuable but never the less so too is my health.

 Sitting in the waiting room of the doctor’s office I watch the television as Judge Maria Lopez hands down a verdict in small claims cases written and played out for the general public to view. A crack addict is on the screen suing her landlord because he allegedly destroyed several of her “church” hats.  How ridiculous that I’m wasting my time with this.

    The heavy metal door which guards the examining rooms opens and through it walks a gaunt man.  He seems familiar but I can’t recall from where. It could have been anywhere, around town or perhaps in a bar. I know not his name and it makes no difference for I am looking at a ghost; perhaps the ghost of Christmas past, perhaps the ghost of Christmas future.

He is waiting for the receptionist to return from a brief departure so she can schedule another appointment for him.  My eyes remain fixated on the television screen to my right; I don’t want to look to my left toward the emaciated being. Perhaps I am uncomfortable with facing illness. Perhaps I have simply seen too much of it in my lifetime.  To my horror perhaps I think I am better than the man before me. He begins to speak to anyone who will listen.

“Did she leave?” No one bothered to answer.  I couldn’t remain silent.

“She said to leave your return visit paper on the desk and she’ll call to schedule appointments.”

“I need to check an appointment. I need to come back in twelve days. I just got out of the hospital.” In his voice could be detected a southern drawl, faint but discernible.

I can’t help but notice the missing teeth in his mouth. There are practically none from molar to molar with the exception of one sitting off to the left side of center. That one is, at best, decayed.  His hair lies straggly upon his head, like he’d gone through a round of chemotherapy and lost the majority of it.  From behind his glasses it is evident there’s been a problem with his vision, perhaps he lost the sight in one, the other strains to focus. Still, his features dictate that he must have been good looking before fate intervened.

We are distinctly different and yet one in the same. I sit with my freshly laundered Armani shirt and blue Armani pinstriped pants with their crisp crease.  On my feet are polished Kenneth Cole black shoes.  He is wearing a pair of dated Sergio Valente jeans and a wrinkled baggy shirt.  On his feet are sneakers, worn and tattered.  Yes, we are distinctly different.

“It’s good to be alive,” he says while smiling, the hollowness where teeth should be shining through, “Yes, it’s good to be alive.”

“You bet it is,” I respond while attempting the same verve this man has but failing horribly. Suddenly it no longer bothers me to look this stranger in the face.  He is reaching out, excited to be breathing in life no matter his physical appearance.

“I’ve been HIV positive for over twenty years,” Bingo, I am privy to why he looks so familiar. “I was nearly dead, no T-cells, then came back to life and was in the hospital for a month.  I lost twenty pounds but gained twelve back.” His hand caresses the small protruding belly behind his shirt proudly as if he were rubbing a precious gift.

I couldn’t help but think of all my bitching over the small amount of excess weight located at my waistline and how I frantically exercise to lose it. I think of how desperately I avoid the homemade chocolate chip cookies that are my love and how I berate myself after giving in to them. 

“That’s fantastic,” I say while keeping my gaze focused in his eyes, never looking away. “Are you taking your meds?”  I want him to know someone cares; the rest of the room continues to stare at the television.

“I am, yes I am.”  The receptionist appears, opens her window and interrupts our conversation.  Moments later he is ready to leave.

“I wish you a happy holiday.”  The gaunt shadow of a man speaks through the void of his teeth as he holds out his hand to me.  He is seeking acceptance and friendship; I understand how he feels. I take his hand in mine. It is warm and filled with love.

“Keep up the good work; it’s important that you do.”

His mouth widens happily and I see the beauty in his smile. I can’t remember the last time a smile was so beautiful.  As he walks away my realization becomes apparent-- I am lucky. This was the most powerful moment I’d had in a long time. Still, I know not his name.

I can’t stop thinking of the man who is the shadow of someone I’d once known. In this stranger I saw my past, my late partner, Dean, as he struggled with his disease while becoming skeletal but never losing faith before his defeat. I saw the valiant and brave man who refused to give in to his nemesis.

 In this man I saw the frightening future I thought could be my own as a gay man who’d lived through the early days of infection, a future I fought intently and with determined resolve to never allow.  My own reflection was vastly different yet bore a similarity. 

I am healthy and alive.  Through the looking glass I see the reflection of a life, my life, and the way it might have been.  Through the looking glass I see the good I have achieved, not materially but physically and spiritually; there is a pride and thankfulness for it. 

Yes, Thursday December 7, 2006 was indeed a very special day. At times I lose my spirit and the sense to place in perspective the silliness which sometimes clouds my vision. I worry about choices, silly choices and fret over their outcome. A man whose name I will never know, a better man than I, allowed me to look through the mirror of my mind and see the reflection of the way life used to be, the way life ought to be.  Through the mirror of my mind I see the reflection of a love given to me; the love of life.

The Ex-Box

Exactly when is a relationship over?  Experience has taught me to pay heed to the exact moment when I would walk away and refer to my former love interest as my “ex”.  It had been so easy in the younger days of my relationships. There had been issues of trust, drug addiction, painful tears and nights of betrayal.  When I lost my first partner to illness there were days, seemingly endless days, of unbearable sorrow. The breaking of my heart was audible even to those who were deaf.

Now, in the wake of a mutual dissolution and after many tearful sessions with a relationship therapist, property requires division. Love requires division. In the basement of our house the multitudes of photographs and possessions sat in boxes, waiting, hoping for a new home. There are “custodial” issues about the dog.  On the walls our artwork, collections from three homes, need to be divided.  I want the pen and ink originals, he wants the original photographs. The piano is mine, anything Carly Simon is his.

There are sofas, tables and chests. There is the wrought iron bed we picked out together and shared a life in. It sat regally adorned with custom made bed linens, all but a memory now. How do we go about dividing the collection of movies, the kitchenware and the music?  In the cabinets, ever so organized, are the recipes, a collection of laborious hours of care that brought an entire family to the table for holidays, dinner parties and poolside gatherings.  It is all in the past.

Not visible are the emotions. Which get packed away carefully and which thrown out?  Do you cling to resentment or discard it? Is friendship neatly wrapped and tucked away for the future?  Is hope, packed in newsprint, carefully placed in a small box and labeled with a marking pen never to be opened again?  There are multitudes of divisions that must be tended to.

How, in an amicable breakup, do you go from partner to “ex”?  How do you go from living outside of the box to suddenly being placed in the box, the “Ex -Box”, and like the photographs in my basement, a fragment of time, prepare to be shipped off to a new location?

Loss; I’ve grown to detest the word; it has been in my vocabulary for decades.  I’ve lost my grandparents, my parents, my partners, my pets, my newly found family and my sense of child- like wonder at the world.

In balance, however, I have gained. I am a man who is becoming independent, challenging my inner soul, seeking new paths, making new friends and accepting fate. I am attempting to live in the moment when the moment seems difficult to hold onto. The loss goes hand in hand with the gain.

As the “ex-partner” I am now the ex “son- in- law”, the ex “brother-in-law”, the former friend. My world, filled with parties and Sunday dinners, has been stripped away. The life I once knew is now bare, like the tree branches of the winter. 

I think of my life often and mourn my loss. It is no different than any other. It hurts. The pain is embedded, sometimes surfacing when least expected.  There is loss. Yes, once more the word stares me down. I have lost my familiar world.

As I am packed away in the “ex-box” I surround myself in bubble wrap. It cushions me.  My soul is insulated like the china, the fragile glass, which sits in my basement, protected so if it is jarred during the move it will survive.   It is packed, sealed with heavy cellophane tape, ready for shipment to a new location; the “ex-box” is loaded on the truck that will carry it to its new home.  There will, in time, be a new home, a new life; it is inevitable.

We are all placed in boxes.  We are all the containers which seal together our emotions.  For some it is easy to open the lid and let themselves out; for others it is a challenge.  For me it has taken numerous life experiences to tear through that cellophane and push back the cardboard, the rigid material, which keeps me in the dark.  This time, while no one was looking, I brought with me a box cutter; my determination. 

From within the “ex-box” I push the blade of my determination out, slicing through the tape. The air has begun to enter; it is fresh, full of oxygen and therefore full of life.  As I glide the blade along the cardboard there is light coming through. I can see outside the box as the light warms me.  With both hands the cardboard comes undone as it pushes back, away from my being. 

Stepping out of confinement and into the light, the clear plastic bubble wrap that surrounded me during my journey begins to loosen. I am freeing myself from the final constraints of the “ex-box”.  Looking forward with child-like wonder the world is returning to me. It is less than it had been in my youth but more than it had been recently.

As far as the eye can see there is the marvel of friendship, the depth of family and a new understanding of my hearts’ frailties as well as its’ strengths.  I shall never be simply the “ex” but the friend who once was and always is. There shall always be a place at a table with my name on it, a warm feeling, like summer, when my name is spoken.   I have learned a valuable lesson while spending time placed in the box; it is not simply about forever but about here, about now.  I have recovered from where the journey began. I have survived being me in the “ex-box”.  

Beach Blanket Bingo

Ah, you’ve got to love the single life and you’ve got to love it all the more when you travel with a friend who has men clamoring at his feet.  I should think it would get tiresome carrying around all that dead weight attached at the ankles but perhaps it’s like a leg extension exercise and it helps build muscle. Oh sure, I’ve been told on occasion that I resemble a pop singer (who hangs out in public restrooms) by slightly older men and a few wearing thick lens glasses, but my friend Michael has men dropping on their knees faster than a church on a Sunday morning.

I’d been coming out of my shell, no longer feeling I was simply a shadow. Life was on the upswing and I was getting noticed; that is until Michael came with me on vacation to Fort Lauderdale.  It boggles the mind how quickly a person can run down the stairs they have strived to climb and fall flat on their face.

We were spending a lot of time together and it was grand. There is a bond between us that somehow grew over the years and it feels good. Mike is easy to be with even if time eludes us.  As we shopped we found ourselves in a trendy boutique on Las Olas Boulevard.  The walls were cluttered with fashionable accessories such as crystal and turquoise studded belts, Ed hardy ball caps and the latest and greatest jeans and shirts.  Shirts, my addiction, upholstered the walls like Scalamandre fabric.  I adore trends. Trend and I go together like Old and Spice, pimps and prostitutes, hot fudge and vanilla ice cream.  It’s a match made in heaven; you can’t have one without the other.

Anyway, we were on a spending spree when before me was the essence of the man I’d been searching for.  He was handsome, like Greg Louganis, wonderful facial structure and a backside that simply would not quit, perfectly round buttocks that were orchestrated when he walked like a symphonic melody.  It made no difference what he wanted to sell me I would take it. I had turned into a salesman’s dream, rack up the items and tally the bill. I have an American Express card, money is no object. Fine wine, the perfect piece of fish, luscious chocolate. They are all the same; they satiate the appetite and make you feel whole. There are moments when you see a piece of jewelry and say, “I’ve got to have it” or “That’s exactly what I’m looking for”.  My salesman, Ricky, was that perfect piece of jewelry.

As Michael was trying on his jeans I was trying on Ricky.  Putting my best foot forward I hoped I didn’t trip.  If I could walk in 4 inch heels I certainly could walk in unison with this man. After perusing numerous boldly printed Robert Graham shirts, Ben Sherman blazers, and 575 jeans, my salesman was beginning to make conversation unrelated to clothing.

“Are you guys a couple?” I sensed there was some interest. 

“No, we’re not.” I was clinging to his next question. I clung to hope. 

“Good,” he softly whispered, “He’s really hot. Where are you guys going to be tonight?”

I recoiled and with a straight face mentioned a bar known for beefy strippers and the “daddy” type. You know, those big burly men with a bit of weight piled on either by the gym or beer. Screw it.

“Oh, he likes that kind of guy?” Ricky’s disappointment was palpable. Knowing full well Michael is into more athletic types I slowly shook my head up and down.

“Yes, too bad for you.” No one was the wiser.

After much fun it was time for my beloved friend to leave and return back to winter in Connecticut.  We said our goodbyes at the airport and I left him with bag in hand making his way into the terminal.  I was saddened to know my counterpart was leaving but determined, with his encouragement, to meet people on my own.  Michael has always been extremely supportive of me. Leaving the airport I made my way down to the beach at Sebastian Street where the gay crowd clusters together, dates are made, friendships forged and we bask in the warmth of the sun’s glorious rays.

 The landscape was strewn with colorful towels and colorful characters.  Lying to my left were two young (and I mean young) Cuban boys. To my right were three “daddies” tipping the scale with their beer bellies and obviously unashamed by virtue of the bikini bathing suits they were wearing. I touched my own stomach with my hand after seeing theirs hanging over the skimpy lime green spandex suits.

    I laid out my multicolored striped beach towel and stripped off my tank top revealing the upper portion of my body.  As I undid my zipper and slowly lowered my pants the more handsome of the two young Cubans loudly exclaimed, “Caliente!”

    I turned and scanned the beach. With no idea he was speaking of me I pointed toward myself with my index finger and with a look of bewilderment questioned the young man.

“Who? Me? Have you seen the people on this beach?  If you’d said that to me with ten really hot guys around me I’d be impressed.”  Alas, I was “caliente” by default.

    Tipping his head he looked puzzled. Then, with his heavy Spanish accent said, “Choo’re crazy.” What the hell, I decided to take the compliment.

    The next day, Christmas Eve, proved to be far more interesting.  There were multitudes of men and women, vibrant towels and more vibrant bathing suits lined up upon the soft sand taking in the sun.  Where the waters of the Atlantic meet the shores of Florida, against the backdrop of the ocean, muscular gay men, tattooed, tossed balls back and forth as I read a book on writing. It was a picture perfect setting for a very different Christmas Eve in the south.

Many were handsome, some far too aware of their beauty.  I glanced and took a sip of Poland Spring bottled water. One more perusing of the crowd was needed before I went back to my reading. To the left before me was what I hoped Santa would wrap and place under my tree. I involuntarily and deeply inhaled.

 He must have been slightly older than I, perhaps 50, with the most well disciplined body I’d seen in years on someone his age.  The Gucci sunglasses fit his aristocratic face with chiseled features and a light unshaven scruffiness. My ears perked up as he spoke to a couple who passed by.  It was obvious he was well educated; his confidence was incredibly appealing.

My “present” stood and walked the beach with charisma.  His stature afforded him an air of elegance which when juxtaposed against his manhood defined who he was.  I wanted to summon up my courage and make conversation but could not seem to stir.  I was in awe of the celestial being and unsure if my soul was indeed “caliente” enough to approach him. I sat, fixated on his every move.

 Where was all my newly acquired learning and why was this challenge for me so difficult?  Why, when the “pickings” are slim, I rise to the occasion, but when there is fierce competition I retreat?  Where is the hunter in me? It’s in there somewhere I know it is. He looked at no one as he closed his eyes and reveled in the days’ glory, his muscles bronzing as he lay in the sand on that small strip of land. As I looked around at the multitudes of men lying on their colorful towels I could only think that the beach was indeed a game of Bingo.  All the pretty little numbers had been called out and were positioned ever so carefully, but when one number, the one I needed to win had arrived my card was almost complete. 

 I was involved in a game usually reserved for socials on a Saturday evening. Today it was being played out on a very public beach in a very non-traditional setting.  As I stood he glanced over and nodding in an approving way said, "Hello there, “I’m Dante DiPuccio.” The remainder of the afternoon shall remain in the library of my mind as a huge leap of faith, but be assured, I shouted from every fiber of my being, “Bingo”.   

The Dating Game

After leaving my home and beginning the single life post Robert, it seemed everywhere I turned and around every corner I heard the all too familiar music from the television show “The Dating Game.  Fresh in my mind the painful prospect of being single touched a tender, exposed nerve. Could I really date at this stage of my life?

 At the gym I peruse men, sizing up their potential while wondering if they would be all that I imagine them to be. From experience I have learned the fantasy is usually better than the reality. At one of my favorite restaurants in New Haven is a beautiful waiter, Juno.  I long to exchange phone numbers and conversation with him and ensure when making a reservation he is working that evening. In the grocery store as I pass a man I wonder, “Is he gay? Would he have an interest in me?”  Even at work some of the men who enter the door appear to have potential. But you know the old saying, “Don’t shit where you eat.”

   “Bachelor One, if you could have one night with Keith what would you do?” 

 “Bachelor Two, what would it take to ask Keith out on a date and how would you go about doing it?”

   “Bachelor Three, if you could change one thing on your body to entice Keith, what would it be?” 

   Somehow, and I’m not sure why, the answers never seem to arrive in the proper form.  In my solitude there have been many lessons learned but one thing shouts from the highest peak-- I am a man and have needs.  It’s no secret that Keith, and Tiger Woods, share a common denominator.  Seriously, it would have been nice to get comfortable with someone and begin a relationship. Well intentioned friends have set me up on a few dates but none proved to be what I’d hoped for. Having not dated in fourteen years the prospect did not enthrall me.

   I remember one night that I was feeling particularly good about my looks. After a great workout at the gym, and a luscious shave and shower, it was time to rally my courage and have a night out on the town. Slipping into my jeans and a tight little tee I felt confident.  I adorned my wrist with a touch of leather and was ready to head out to the heart of New Haven to see what may be on the horizon. 

      With the window of my car open the summer breeze billowed through my hair. Luckily it had been cropped short enough so the wind did no damage.  The warm sensation of the evening combined with the touch of coolness of the air was an aphrodisiac.  Madonna’s voice, in a sultry tone, guided the car along the streets as I lost myself in her lyrics. I approached the neighborhood which twenty years ago had once been my domain. 

   The scores of cars parked curbside indicated the town and the bars were hopping. Searching for a parking space, I was pleased to find a spot equidistant between two “hot spots”. Suddenly the music from “The Dating Game” seemed to overtake Madonna with it’s trumpet like tones.  Opening the door of the car I became crippled. A quick glance in the mirror was needed for validation. Was this indeed the right thing to do? Staring back was a frightened deer in the headlights. Within a moment I was behind the wheel heading for home realizing I was not ready to take the plunge. 

     Though the soft breeze was still enveloping me my needs had changed.  I was looking for something that would not be found in the bars.  I was looking for friendship on a higher level than a night in the bedroom.  I was looking for healing from the end of my relationship and realized that until such a healing occurs there is nothing I want from the bar scene.

   As I lay in bed I berate myself. You fool. Have you no backbone? Am I simply a forty something year old loser who is afraid of his own shadow?  In the morning, as the sun rose and peered affectionately through my bedroom window a new understanding was in my view. No, I am not a fool.  I had begun the process of divorcing myself from my former relationship and needed every fiber of my being to come to terms with that revelation.

   Shortly thereafter I had the distinct honor of dating someone I’d known for years-- myself.  I was not actually on a date with myself but with someone who I had been introduced to on a blind date.  As we sat across from one another I listened as he spewed a stream of neuroses. I was looking across the table at my own reflection and what I saw was not enticing.

   The image was one of a hypochondriac tinged with desperation in his voice.  He had a plethora of excuses for why his life was not as he’d hoped. He blamed his mother for making him anxiety riddled. “She made me this way.”  Though ridiculously wealthy and successful he blamed his ex- wife for his current financial status. “My wife is being a bitch, she’s killing me financially.” And he blamed the salad he had just ordered because it was going to ruin our date. “This salad is going to run right through me”. I wanted to get up and run. If I could have shed my skin I would have run from myself as well.

   It takes time. My time would come and eventually I'd change my perspective.  At least that was the plan.  If I could have looked into the future I’d have seen that I could meet someone new, perhaps by chance or through a friend. Isn't the prospect exciting?  The key is to be certain that it is the person I want to share my life with.  I don’t need wealth nor do I need complete and all encompassing companionship.  I simply need someone who will understand me and I them.

    Growing together need not be asphyxiating.  In my years of solitude I discovered that it is wonderful to come home and reflect on Keith. The real Keith. The deep and intricate and yes, sometimes neurotic Keith.  The "ball breaking Keith. Some of my best writing has occurred because of that solitude.  Timing is everything and I can rise to the occasion.  The the all too familiar music from “The Dating Game” may have played on as I interviewed bachelors one, two and three. For the time being l simply date the bachelor best suited to someone in my position-- “Bachelor Me”.

Stop in the Name of Love

It had been a long, long time since I’d been out on a date.  Oh sure, there were the occasional meetings with “the Stripper” or “the Tooth Fairy”, a dentist who I’d seen for a few weeks, but this was official; I was on a date.  My friend Shawn had thought long and hard about whom to leave me to when he packed up and left Connecticut in pursuit of a new adventure in the Land of Oz, no not Oz but Fargo, North Dakota.

Shawn and I have grown like seedlings into close friends.  We enjoy each other’s company immensely, share a lot of humor, and I find multitudes of material for my writing when we are together.  He has helped me to understand the good in myself and shared my journey of expression with great support.  Off to Fargo, the winter wonderland, Shawn went and I was left to my own devices.

Apparently I’d made an impression on one of Shawn’s friends while we were gathered at our Sunday evening “watering hole”, 168 York Street Cafe, sharing a good time. On the barstool next to me sat a cliche.  Oh he was handsome enough, probably more so ten years earlier, but made quite a lasting impression in my mind.  His shoes, as he pointedly told me, were crafted from pony and his jacket was awash with decorative embellishment that made most of my clothes pale by comparison.  He wouldn't stop talking, bending my ear until I thought it would fold up into a small package and retreat within itself. My only choice was to simply stop listening.

I noticed Shawn's friend Rob glancing in my direction but he was engaged in conversation with his own friends. Oddly enough I’d been introduced to his friend on more than several occasions but it seemed he never quite remembered who I was.   I simply chalked it up to my extraordinary talent for being invisible in a crowd.  My cell phone rang the next day.

“Guess who’s very interested in you?”

 I couldn’t imagine but was thinking it may have been the pompous guy I’d been speaking to with the beautiful shoes who claimed to have danced with Madonna.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess, Madonna’s friend?”

“Oh honey, no,  it’s Rob.  He was asking a lot of questions about you.”

I was puzzled.  Here was a man I’d met on multiple occasions who didn’t exude even the slightest inkling of interest and now he was asking questions about me.  I was unsure about the situation, not to mention he bore the same first name as my ‘ex’.

“Really? He’s met me like a dozen times and never knows who I am.”

“I know, I told him that.  Something about you made an impression.” Knowing Shawn I could see the signature raising of his hands and shrugging of his shoulders in a “who knew” kind of manner. Again, I was curious about what made me stand out on that particular night.

“Give him my number." We'll see if that call comes down the pike.

Days passed without a call and I decided my impression had not been as powerful as Shawn had led me to believe.  Mental note: My self esteem wasn’t up to making the call myself. It was a poignant moment.  I also knew deep down what my getting to know someone else equated. My relationship with Robert was truly coming to a turning point.

I found myself in Rob, the “new” Rob’s, company one night and he came toward me to say hello.  It was not a chance meeting, Shawn had orchestrated it.  I looked my potential date up and down sizing up what I saw.  He was tall, attractive and very lanky, with closely cropped dark hair and a goatee.  His eyes were particularly expressive. His looks vaguely reminded me of a former love. It frightened me to think of the similarity.

With an air of respect he asked if he could call me for a date.   “Yes, you may.”  We set the time and the place. He was considerate of my preference and made a point to reserve enough time for me to relax after work without having to run out the door.  There was a strong positive in this man’s actions. There too is a strong positive in me. We would discuss that at a later date.

“What to wear?”  I stared into my closet and it seemed to stare back at me.  I didn’t want to appear too sensual, but conservative is not my middle name.  There was only one thing to do.

“Jeans or dress pants?”  I put the question to Shawn.

“Honey, jeans of course, and make them the new ones you bought that make your ass look so good.”  You can always count on Shawn for a lift, even a butt lift.

I packed myself into my jeans and opened my shirt just far enough to show a little "cleavage.”  Hell, I work hard for whatever I may have and my surgeon did too.  I made sure to time it so tardiness, which is my middle name, would not be an issue. There is nothing worse than being ‘first date late’.

He arrived promptly and was impressed with my punctuality. I’ll have to work on that point in the future.  Our conversation began and went smoothly along.  I learned that he and I had much in common.  Oddly, the common denominators were powerful. Our humor, tinged with a perverse quality was in simpatico. Here was a man who was at a point in his life where he understood my thoughts; it was refreshing.

I noted, with subtle awareness, that my date had a little stutter when he spoke.  As I listened to him I was enchanted. I wanted to give him a hug each time it happened but instead he got a smile.  Across from me was someone with a minor imperfection which to me was extraordinarily endearing.

“I was the Jewish kid with the big curly hair, buck teeth and stuttered in school.  I guess you never lose what you grow up with.”  He was comfortable enough to confide in me.

“I think your stutter is cute.” I wasn’t lying. 

  I found this man warm and adorable.  He reminds me of the kid who may have been picked on in school, as was I, but has grown away from that fact and rolls with it.  He reminds me how very aware of I am of my own imperfections and cautious to not let them surface.  But Shawn started me thinking about another point.

“Isn’t it funny that what we see as imperfections in ourselves others find attractive?”

  It’s true, I can’t lie. I am attracted to that little stutter that makes Rob an imperfect man. It makes me curious to think that in striving for perfection we overlook the simplest of points; perfection is in the eye of the beholder. What is unattractive to us may be very attractive to others.

To my horror I stumble when in a group of unfamiliar people.  Maybe to someone, who is looking for a quiet, caring man, my shyness is an attractive quality. I am learning what my strengths and weaknesses are while embracing what is longing in my soul and what bears no interest to me.

Perfection can be one of the greatest factors that make relationships fail. True, all relationships have many factors which may rock their foundation but perfection in particular took a strong toll on my former partner and me. It had to be the perfect house, set in the perfect neighborhood with the most perfect landscape as far as the eye could see.  It had to be decorated with a Gay man's point of view of course. If a single object was out of place he would put it where it belonged only to have me following close at heel and adjusting it ever so slightly. He would look back quizically.  I had to fix it, right? It wasn't comfortable to the eye where it was positioned.

Without question I don’t want to spend my life going to bars.  I don’t want to “do drugs” or “hook up”.  I simply want to share my life and thoughts, the highs and the lows, with someone who cares. Verbally I may not stutter but inwardly I do. It would be a lie to say that most of us don’t in some way.  It doesn’t matter if you stammer, are shy or are whatever you may deem as a flaw, someone will find your imperfection attractive.  So when you become self conscious remember to “st-st-stop in the name of love”. You’ll be delighted to know your imperfection may well be quite enchanting.

Wonder

 I run. I run and run. I run from home to the gym. From the gym back home. From home to work and then back again.  I run so much I could well be an Olympian. I cook. I clean. I eat. I sleep. I awake and then start the game over again.  But why? Where do I run to?  Where does it lead me? And how valuable, at the end of the day, is all the accomplishment worth?  Today, in the midst of running I slowed down. I came to a halt. Just for a minute, not for long, and took a deep breath.
For the past two days, three if you count Friday evening, I have been struggling.  Somewhere between work and home my equilibrium played a trick on me.  The ground, solid and stable, shook beneath my feet.  Slightly tilted to the left I walked, tapping against the walls of my house and at times seeing what appeared to be double. I ran. I ran as fast as I could to my computer.
"Health". Hmm...I will enter dizziness. Self diagnosis is such a blessing.  Where would I be without it? Dizziness:Symptom of vertigo, Meniere's Disease, Poor Circulation, Multiple Sclerosis." There it is.  M.S. It had to be.  There was no more logical explanation than M.S. for what was now debilitating me and keeping me locked away on my sofa for the evening. "Hypochondriac: n. A person who has hypochondriasis, a disorder characterized by a preoccupation with body functions and the interpretation of normal body sensations or abnormalities (such as minor aches and pains) as portending problems of a major medical moment. Synonym:Keith Proto
I should be ashamed.  Eight months ago a sassy, energetic woman sat in my chair as I cut her hair. Normally Mario would have done it but he was out on sick leave, the result of a shoulder surgery. Mimi had the sense of style I longed to have when I was her age.  She grew older gracefully, no, more than that, she grew older stunningly.  With hip hugger jeans, flared at the shoe line and well executed makeup she drew a second look. It would be remiss for anyone not to have noticed her eyes; those big, brown expressive, inquisitive eyes. Bette Davis.That says it all. Short, cropped hair spiked the top of her head flowed into a sweeping bang across her forehead. Sprinkled with streams of white natural highlights it was the icing on a cupcake made in heaven.
Luckily I had the pleasure, during Mario's recuperation, of "coiffing" Mimi's hair. Some people can fill a room with light.  You can see a tiny bit of mischief in them like a leprechaun. "I run every day along the beach," she'd say and it was apparent. Friends would see her and comment on the stamina. No one could keep such a figure without some form of exercise.  During our last session together she didn't seem herself. "The bottom of my foot hurts. I hope it doesn't keep me away from running."
"Just watch it, you probably strained a tendon." There might be a marathon in the future and it would be a lesser challenge if Mimi were not in the running. Months passed and Mario returned to work.  Life went on and I continued my own version of running, though not as beneficial to the body as Mimi's. I noticed her name was back in Mario's book for a haircut and when she arrived her smile walked through the door first.  Ah, she was radiant as always and filled with style as she lay back in the shampoo bowl awaiting a hair wash.
 On my way back I noticed the radiance was not quite as effervescent. I gave her a quick hello.  "Hey, how did you make out with your foot? Is it better?" The shaking of her head indicated it was not. "It's A.L.S." I didn't quite catch that. "What?" She repeated it softly. I stopped running. As a matter of fact I think my breathing stopped all together. The ground shook, off balance, as though an earthquake had occurred. "Oh Mimi, I don't believe it." Of course I did. I took hold of her tiny hand and squeezed. I wanted to squeeze all of the disease from it.  I wanted to squeeze all of her fear away. I wanted to squeeze any light I could into her body. I went into the bathroom and began to tremble.
Months passed and Mimi would make her way in for haircuts. Driving was no longer an option.  Her bubbly walk was sluggish with a foot trailing behind. Then a leg. Then a body. Then, without warning the door opened and Mimi came bounding in seated behind the controls of an electric wheelchair. Still she captivated me in her usual manner. Time was moving far too rapidly.  She wasn't running. She wasn't being given the opportunity to win that marathon or live to a ripe old age and watch her grandchildren grow. I hoped against all odds she would have a few years of reprieve, that perhaps somehow God or at least life would be good to her and the disease would not progress so rapidly.
Today, with my head off balance I was running.  I ran to have my blood drawn for a check up and called the doctor's office for an appointment to have my whirling head examined.  "Can you make it between 10 and 11?" The receptionist must have known I was in New Haven through some extrasensory perception. "I'll be there." I waited. They called me in. "Tell me what's going on," the doctor said.
"Well..." I went into all of the details and openly told of my quest on the computer for self diagnosis. "We've talked about that, Keith. Leave it to me." I was rightfully reprimanded.  "I'm going to give you a round of an antibiotic and some Antivert for the dizzy spells. It will take about ten days to go away and then you should feel better."
Thank you, thank you dear doctor.  In my car I was pleasantly surprised to think that my suffering would end in a few short days.  The road before me led back to my home where I would collect my grocery list and muddle through the market even with my imbalance. Back in the car, as I pulled from my driveway, there was a ring, "Bing bong". A text message came in.  It was Stephanie. "Mario just had a phone call. Mimi has died." Had I been driving I would have soared off the road. It hit like a ton of bricks. It slowed me down like a jet who'd just engaged it's brakes after reversing it's engines upon touching down on the runway. I sat. I prayed for Mimi. I prayed for us all. I stopped running. I stopped thinking of myself as I tried to catch my breath. Where is the justice? I wondered if she had run all the way to heaven.
I suppose life just happens. It goes on, rolling majestically up toward the sky with it's infinite possibilities and dives into deep caverns with dampness and a lack of fresh air. I suppose I will stop running for the moment and try to catch up with myself. I say it time and again and yet I just don't. I suppose I will reach for the stars and try to lasso the moon.  I suppose I will soak in the sun, drenching myself with it's warmth and lightness and dream on a cloud. And still, I suppose I will run to the computer when health warrants it and diagnose my impending condition. And I will run. I will run from here to there and back again.
I wonder if that is life. I wonder if we are incapable of changing, effectively changing, no matter how hard we try. Had my doctor returned with a different diagnosis I wonder, would it have made a difference? How does one slow down? How does one touch the sun and unlock the dreams deep within? I wonder if dear Mimi knows what a lasting impression she's left in many hearts and a mindfulness about life. Though she lost the battle in another way she won. I wonder if she realized that for an all too short period of time a stunning, stylish woman, not simply physically beautiful but genuinely beautiful, brought a brightness to our lives. I wonder...