How long has it been
since you last lay in bed with someone holding you? The kind of holding that is
unscripted. Not requested or verbalized in any way, but done simply because the
person lying next to you wanted to hold you? For me, it's been seventeen years.
Oh, there have been
many nights when I've held someone I cared about close to me while they slept. I've
been, as I too often am, that loving and generous giver of comfort and
security, making them feel loved and wanted as they snored contentedly against
my chest for hours. But the reverse doesn't seem to be in the cards for me
anymore, or at least it hasn't been since shortly after the World Trade Towers
fell.
Thinking back to the
last time I felt that particular brand of intimacy, I'm shaken almost to tears
by how alien the remembered sensation feels to me. In my mind, it's a memory
not unlike the ones I have of my being small enough yet to still be picked up
by my mom. It's that kind of wordless closeness I miss so badly now.
When I feel the
absence of it most keenly, as I do in this moment, I am forced to accept more
of those cruel truths in life that are less palatable than one would like them
to be.
- It's unlikely I'll ever feel that kind of reciprocal closeness with another man again in my life.
- There's more life left ahead of me than I'm equipped to endure without it.
I've found that when
the ache reaches an emotional boiling point, it's possible for me to coax it
temporarily back down by fooling myself with a bit of paid-for intimacy. If the
hurt gets bad enough, I will myself to believe for a few fleeting hours that
some escort I've hired and given a short, simple list of things that I need
from him actually cares for me, wants me, and isn't just giving a command
performance that's been scripted and staged.
You might think that
sounds pitiful; that I am a pitiable shell of a man whose circumstances are out
of proportion to the generosity he displays, and there are plenty of nights
when I, too, believe that to be the case. But pity isn't the same as caring, and
being cared for is all that I want.
Let me find out that
you pity me, and I'm wounded beyond measure. I'll withdraw, toughen up, and
pull my raw hurt back inside just to spite you for your worthless pity. I'll
retreat from emotion and harden my heart
to convince myself I'm not pitiable in the least - that I'm strong, and
more stable, and completely immune to the kind of feelings I've confessed to
here already. I'll recant. I'll deny it, and in doing so I'll become all the
more fully a masterful study in sadness. Please don't pity me, my friend.
Rather, help me hold
up that veil of delusion that helps me fill up that void for a time. Conspire
with me to make believable the farces I purchase out of desperation. If you
care, prop me up when you see reality begin once more to flood my eyes and push
out the clouded illusion put there by some talented hooker at my request.
That's more valuable than wasting pity on a truth that is too jagged to
swallow.
I've often said that
a sex worker saved my life. The truth is that sex workers save my life
regularly. The first time was due to a professional lack of stigma against me
for being HIV positive which brought to an end more than a decade of
self-imposed celibacy save for one tragic attempt each year on my birthday. Now
it's because they provide me with those illusory moments of feeling wanted, or
conversely, treating me as poorly as I think I deserve and abusing me
physically until one pain replaces another.
I'll work till the
day I die just to fund those lifesaving nights, letting my mind give those
gifts to my heart for the rest of my days. Being unable to do so -- well that
would be a pity.
