A friend for whom I
care very deeply, and who I'm fairly certain feels similarly about me told me
that he wishes I could see myself the way he does. "If you walked into a
room full of guys with a strut, just exuding confidence in yourself and showing
not the slightest hint of insecurity, it doesn't matter what those guys looked
like or how fit they were, they'd follow suit."
The concept of
walking into any room, much less one filled with a congregation of pretty gays,
with any measure of confidence in my own sex appeal is so foreign to me that
merely conjuring that image in my mind makes me laugh and squirm uncomfortably.
It's not within my makeup to be that person. There may be the odd subject or
situation about which I feel sufficiently adept to speak up with authority when
a chance presents itself, but to "strut" into a social setting
pretending I was free of anxiety and self-doubt, beaming with contentedness in
the way I looked, and confident that any guy in my line of sight would be lucky
to spend a few hours in my bed is just preposterous from my perspective.
I've tried to
explain to my friend how deeply, fundamentally programmed I am to
self-deprecate, belittle, and make myself humble before others as if getting in
front of the insults and judgement I anticipate everywhere I go will somehow
diminish them before they land. From the earliest memories I can invoke from
childhood, I was beaten and bloodied for not doing things right and not being
perfect - for calling attention to myself and then not providing enough
entertainment to excuse such a misstep. I learned never to try something new if
I couldn't first study it backward and forward until I felt certain that I
could attempt it without making a mistake. That early lesson has followed me
through my entire life right up to this day, the mid-point between 40 and 50,
causing me to have missed out on a host of experiences for fear of looking
stupid.
"But who cares
what guys like that think? Right? Who wants to hang around a bunch of shallow,
hateful people anyway?", he asked. "You've got the looks, whether you
believe it or not, the size and stature, the smarts, wit, and heart they only
wish they had. Don't let their pettiness stop you from having your own fun and
seeking out your own wants and needs."
That would make
total sense were it not also true that I am just as shallow and judgmental and
intolerant in some ways as the throngs of vapid queens you see wandering in
packs like loud, obnoxious hyenas sloshing drunkenly from bar to bar on the
weekends. I've been just as programmed by magazines and television as they have
to prefer certain looks and body types for sex. I'm as turned off by someone
who looks like me as they are, so pretending to be the better man would smack
too much of hypocrisy for me to endure.
When you factor in
the childhood abuse, both physical and psychological, that continued through
much of high school, and combine it with the choking stench of anti-HIV stigma
that accompanied my HIV diagnosis at the very doorstep of adulthood, you realize
that there has been no part of my adult life that I've been free of one kind of
shame or another. For decades I've been living my life as a sort of sexual
pariah, lucky to get whatever is given to him, but shot down more times in a
weekend than is normal. At no time have I felt myself worth the attention I so
crave.
"I hate seeing
a good friend continually get in his own way with a negative outlook and a
pessimistic demeanor.", he told me. "Even if you could just fake that
level of confidence and swagger for a few hours at a time, you'd eventually become
that confident guy with the kickass swagger, because if you pretend long enough
and consistently enough, eventually it stops being an act and just becomes who
you are."
"If there's one
thing I aspire to live as an example it's forthrightness. I have too great a
talent for deceit. It was one of many tools I honed to survive my childhood.
Now that I'm able to decide for myself what kind of man I want to be, I choose to
be one who speaks the truth, no matter how bitter the taste that comes with it.
I would prefer to suffer the taste than the incessant fear I'm being lied to,
which is why I won't subject others to that awful feeling either."
I know there is a
difference between being simply honest and well-mannered and being so much of
both that one sort of becomes a walking caution sign for information overload.
That is the zone I think I tend to inhabit most of the time. It's never my intention,
of course, to make anyone feel uncomfortable. In fact, learning that my
directness has indeed caused some men in the Pacific Northwest to feel awkward
and uncomfortable came as a complete shock to me. I'd have assumed they would
appreciate it as much as I do.
"I don't know,
man.", my sweet, well-meaning friend admitted. "I just hate to see
you so defeated all the time. I think you're amazing, and I want everyone else
- yourself included - to see that, too."
"It'd probably
be a lot easier for me to believe that about myself. . ." I paused,
struggling with the right words to convey my meaning without sounding
accusatory and pathetic. "I guess I just sometimes observe in you a kind
of 'torn' feeling, where your better nature wants so badly to show me that
perspective, but your more base nature has you scrolling through page after
page of other better choices on the apps, and I just have to assume you're
looking for something more fun to go do than to sit around listening to my
endless loop of uncomfortable truths about myself and my prospective chances of
having a happier life."
It's not the first
time I've alluded to the fact that often, when he halfheartedly rubs his hand
across my chest, his full focus appears to be zeroed in on the faceless torsos
of the very men who have made me feel impossibly small and insignificant. Or worse,
incredibly fat and unfuckable.
"I don't mean
to sound like I'm wagging my finger at you for being a slut.", I
backpedaled. "Gandalf knows I try to be a slut every chance I get, which
isn't all that often anymore." (See how self-deprecation is woven into my
vocabulary? I can't not do it!) "I'm just saying that for me to believe
any of what you're saying, you have to convince me that you're not just being
kind, that I'm enough to hold your attention by myself, without other guys in
the room to play with, and without your fucking phone always aglow in your
hand."
"No, no. Here's
what's up. It's not like I'm even actively looking at these guys. It's a habit,
almost. Like, a reflex. When the conversation gets close to being somewhat
uncomfortable, I shut down, check out, and scroll through my phone aimlessly with
some kind of muscle memory. Half the time I'm not even paying attention. It
could just as easily be my email inbox as it could be one of the hookup apps.
You know what I'm saying?"
"I think so.
Yes. You're saying that touching me and talking about having sex with me puts
you in such a state of unease that you retreat into a safe place deep inside
your mind and look for anything you can find to distract you from the
uncomfortable scene in which your body finds itself. Is that about right?"
He sighed in defeat,
waving his hand dismissively at the challenge I'd lain down before him. "I
know this game, and I'm not playing."
He wasn't wrong. And
he chose right. Without meaning to, I'd forced him into a corner where his only
choices were to offend the fuck out of me by agreeing with me or offend the
fuck out of me by lying to me. He did neither. (This time.) I guess I'll keep
him around as long as he'll stay while I try to break myself of this habitual
fuckery. Sometimes friends use friends. It's human nature. I let myself be used
so that I can feel something akin to being wanted or needed for a while. In a
way, I suppose, I'm using him to provide that feeling. It's a win win
situation. Maybe I'll roll with that as my mantra until I start to actually
believe it.
