Wanted

In my quest of self-discovery, I've managed to finally define one of the core drivers of my behavior. It's not just a lack of love or companionship that make me feel lonely. In fact, loneliness is probably the wrong word to describe what it is I'm really feeling most of the time. A more accurate description of my resting state would be "unwanted". That's what's missing, and it's what is lifted for a few minutes during and after really good sex. During those fleeting moments, I feel completely and utterly wanted. It's amazing. It feels like everything about me, all the flaws and frustrations, it all adds up to something that's actually cared about and desired. And then in a flash, it's gone.

I am always the first to admit that, in a lot of ways, I'm still very emotionally immature. Strange, considering how many emotions I feel at any given moment, right? But the fact of the matter is that I never learned much about those emotions that are directly tied to sex and intimacy. I spent too much time avoiding sex or if having it, retreating into myself to observe and judge how poorly at it I performed. I never just let myself be in the moment and enjoy it. So on those rare occasions when I do feel like an equal partner in the act of having sex, it always comes as a bit of a shock to me when those kinds of unique emotions bubble up to the surface. I don't even think I have words for them, much less the ability to categorize them or explain how they feel compared to other emotions I'm more accustomed to having.

The closest I can come to describing them would be "contentedness" and "belonging". Feeling both of those things at once is so rare in my life that the combination of them at once is like a drug, one that I never want to come clean from. When those emotions take center stage, I can do anything. My inhibitions are gone. My self-doubt is eradicated. For a few minutes, I'm all Shannon, bold and unafraid. I'm like the me I could be if I hadn't been so badly damaged and made to feel so unsure of everything I say or do. That guy is hot. I want to be him when I grow up.

This year, for my birthday, I got to be him for a brief moment, after hours of circling and dodging and evading and questioning. My submissive nature is going to be the death of my sex life if I'm not careful. But that's a rant for a different day. Today I'm gloating, because for my birthday, I was given the feeling that I was wanted, and it's the best gift I ever got.

Fearing A Friendship Lost

Okay, whoever might be on the other end of this blog, soaking up the depressive stories I'm forever writing here without ever making your presence known, I have a challenge for you. I want you to imagine, for just a moment, that there is a guy (or a girl, if that's what you're into <shudder>) with whom you've become somewhat smitten over several months' time spent really getting to know one another. You have incredible sex with him, but not often. You have in depth conversations about everything under the sun with him. You and he share enough common interests in music, movies, books, and art to be kindred, and have just enough differences of opinion in each of those categories to create that necessary spark for debate. For all intents and purposes, you're as close as two people can be without it having to crumble under the weight of some confining, hetero-normative label that wouldn't accurately describe it anyway.

Now imagine that every time things reach a high point, he says that he has to be careful not to allow himself to get carried away or too drawn in for fear that he'll immediately start to resent himself for allowing such a relationship to have formed, and that such self-resentment will soon thereafter translate into resentment of you, which will only serve to create deep chasms and secrecy and distrust between you, ruining the perfectly happy and functional friendship that you started out with. When you try to press for clarity as to why there would be so much resentment right out of the gate, he tells you in a crisscrossing stream of words and sentiments that this hypothetical romance could only be defined as a rebound, which he has allowed himself to indulge in on more than one occasion in the past, only to destroy the friendship he once had with the object of said romantic rebound, and in most cases, erase them from his life altogether.

Well, that doesn't sound at all like what you want to happen, does it? As much as you care for him and enjoy being with him, the last thing you want is to feel resented by him much less risk him removing himself from your life completely! No, that wouldn't do at all. So you settle for calling what you have a friendship and leave the semantics out of it. I mean, that's what he's so hung up on after all, isn't it? The words that other people would use to define you? If all it takes to keep this guy in your life is to call him one thing while he's portraying something else, then call that apple and orange and keep quiet, right?

That's what I thought, too. But then the thought occurred to me as he told me once again how easily he could find himself loving me for all the wrong reasons, that this recital of his completely removes my feelings and my agency from the equation. Nowhere in this rhetoric of his do I have a say in matters. At no point does he ask how easy or difficult it would be for me to openly express the love I feel for him, with or without a label to classify it under. What if I prove to be someone he is incapable of resenting? What about the magic I bring to the table? Couldn't I somehow sway this ill ending prophecy of his through some minor redirection or some major cathartic endeavor? Doesn't my involvement in this cautionary tale afford me a say in how doomed we are or are not?

What say you, phantom reader? Would you accept an end before your beginning, where this conundrum yours to unravel? Or would you insist the next time he brings up how easily he could anything that he put up or shut up and leave the future to be written the way futures tend to be written -- not by the hands of those wrapped up in it, but mysteriously and with no clear path or plan or promises?

I'm not giving him such an easy way out next time. I plan to put a stop to the senseless soothsaying he uses to write us off, and instead write myself into this theme as an equal partner whose feelings have just as much a chance of making things work as his do of making them not. I'm not giving away the chance laid before me simply because he's too afraid of taking a chance on me. Where he's been afraid I will have to be more brave, and in this way we weave our wonders and our woes.

Give Till It Hurts

How Being Raised in the Old Homesteader Traditions Has Failed Me in a World Without Values.

I've always had a special appreciation for the old saying, "Give until it hurts." For some reason, it evokes a welcome memory of my grandmother when she was in her early 50's buzzing around her house preparing for one of many backwoods social calls from some great great uncle or third cousins or step-grand-niece and her new husband. That woman knew how to put out a spread. She cooked so well and so often that people came from miles around to share Sunday supper or a mid-week cup of coffee with home baked bread or biscuits or cookies. I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that to her food was love, but she definitely loved feeding people, and I absolutely loved eating all of it.

My grandmother had a huge influence on me during the years after my parents divorced and I went to live with her and my grandfather for about 4 years of grade school. She worked full-time for the Department of Wildlife and Fisheries in Pineville, LA as a secretary, and there wasn't a day that woman didn't dress to the nines for work. She thrived on the attention her designer suits and high heels won her from the men at the office, though, like a dutiful wife many years beyond the expiration date of love, she came home at 6:00 on the dot five days a week and had dinner on the table by 7:00.

She taught me much about how people ought to behave and how they should treat others, whether they were family, neighbors, or strangers off the street. Everyone deserved a friendly smile, a kind word, and a hot meal if one was ready. While our little rural town wasn't much for diversity among its population nor its congregation, to those who stopped by or passed through, my grandmother was known high and low as a great gal who could cook like the devil. I wanted to be as well liked and appreciated as she was by those men and women in that community. I watched everything she did from the hours long night time ritual of her bath, moisturizers, and expert level upkeep regimen, to the precise and perfect way she ironed and folded load after load of laundry. Everything she touched was a perfection worthy of a fancy Southern magazine.

We were a poor family, I learned much later on. We didn't have much, and what we did have, we plucked from the earth or pulled from the streams. I treasure my childhood experience of growing up on a farm that fed my grandparents and me along with neighbors and extended family anytime they decided to drop by around supper time. In exchange for a free meal now and then, our family and neighbors would repay the kindness in great little ways like an evening of live fiddle and guitar right there in our living room, or a weekend's worth of babysitting to give my grandparents some time off from me while I got free swimming lessons. Even when the crops were light thanks to bugs or frost or when the fish weren't biting and the chickens weren't laying, we made due, and not a person who needed anything was ever turned away from my grandmother's doorstep. She literally gave until it hurt, and then a bit more on top of that.

I like to think I've made her proud while she was living. I hope she saw how much of her there is in me, and that she was flattered by my unwavering generosity to those around me in my life or just passing through it. I definitely feel the hurty part of giving more often than she ever had to endure, but regardless of the lack of reciprocation these days, I can't seem to stop giving of myself in whatever capacity I can when someone is in need of help. Even after being taken advantage of by ungrateful guys that survive by taking and taking, my heart won't let me not provide comfort or shelter or support however I can to those people again and again.

Sometimes I wonder if she would have continued had she ever been so unfortunate as to have encountered young gay junkies who are dope sick, gay for pay homeless hustlers trying to swindle a few bucks for diapers for their babies, and myriad other varieties of ne'er-do-well and miscreant out to take whatever they can from anyone who's kind enough, dumb enough, or weak enough to provide it in some form or another. Something tells me she would, though not without the wagging of a finger and a stern life lesson to go along with whatever generosity she bestowed upon them. Wisdom would be a part of that gift, and they'd be fools not to take and cherish it. Yet I would warn her how disrespectful and opportunistic the world has become hoping to shield her from the kind of treatment I've received myself while emulating her good spirit and kind heart.

It's a shame to see how different the world is today from the simple, friendly, neighborly one I remember growing up in for those few short years with my grandparents. Nowadays, folks don't have the same kind of understanding that goes without saying about how to repay kindness with kindness or how respect is always afforded to everyone until perhaps they prove themselves not deserving of it. A smile and a nod at a passerby on the sidewalk these days could just as easily win you a middle finger as it could a smile and a "Mornin'!". People have lost their kindness. They don't connect with one another in the same ways, and they are suspicious of those throwbacks like myself who insist on carrying on such antiquated traditions. My forthright conversation and my hospitable nature puts people ill at ease when all I want is to look after their comfort and make sure their time in my company is as pleasant and memorable as I can make it.

I don't know how to live in this world. Too often turned away, and almost never sought out for company, I have given till it hurts and have gotten more hurt as repayment. At some point, of course, it's got to become a case of "Shame on me.", because it doesn't make sense to keep on emptying my reserves of time, money, patience, and care on people who don't want it, don't like it, don't respect it, and won't appreciate it. I think I'd almost rather have a crafty hustler pull the wool over my eyes and feign some attraction and intimacy for an hour than to have my kindness repaid with name-calling or willful silence and utter ignorance of my person. At least if they lie to me, it perhaps costs them something in doing so. That's sort of a barter I suppose. It hurts, nonetheless. So I guess it's worth giving.

It's Not Him, It's Me

Lately I've had a rotten string of luck with guys flaking on me, cancelling dates at the last minute, or just flat out ghosting me. It's beginning to feel like I'm cursed or afflicted with some kind of reverse dick magnetism. It's weighing heavily on my feels to be honest. 

I try not to let the behavior of others dictate how I am feeling about myself or what I will or won't do with my evening, but when the disappointments come at me one after the other for several days in a row, it's hard not to take it personally. Luckily, I have made a good friend recently with whom I've been able to share the news of each heavy hit as it rolls in, and that has made it somewhat bearable because he encourages and consoles me when I am ready to throw in the towel. 

We have been hanging out quite a bit, this friend and I, and there have been some awkward conversations between us as we figure out what kind of friendship each of us wants from the other. I won't lie -- those talks give me great relief, because as awkward as they may feel, he's pretty receptive to what I'm feeling and always tries to be forthcoming about how he's feeling as well. I dig it. 

The sex we have, when we have it*, is fantastic. From the first time we met, we seem to have found a pretty great rhythm that curls my toes and empties his balls very effectively. For the most part, he's been accepting of the fact that we are serodiscordant, choosing to wear condoms in addition to my taking antiretroviral therapy medication to maintain an undetectable viral load. 

We've talked several times about it, as I am wont to do so that I'm certain there isn't any confusion or misunderstandings whatsoever about my HIV status. He's got a pretty good attitude about it, though he could benefit from a bit more education and discussion on the subject, so I try not to let his choice to use barrier protection with me make me feel like he's afraid or judgmental of me.

When asked if he always uses condoms with the (many) other guys he sleeps with, he says that for the most part he does, admitting that on occasion he's foregone a rubber if he knows the person well or if things get too heated to stop and there are none available. And that's both fine with me and also absolutely none of my business. His choices about protecting himself are his, and I completely respect that. 

He's been trying for a couple of weeks now to get me out more, nudging me a little harder each time to loosen up some and enjoy a more adventurous sex life like his. He's asked me to accompany him to the bath house multiple times, but I always decline. He convinced me a couple of weeks ago to go with him to be with 2 guys, 1 of whom he has been flirting with on the apps for a while, and the whole thing went sideways from the moment we walked into the place and found that 2 people were actually 4, none of whom seemed very impressed that he had brought me along to their orgy. We left, pseudo-gracefully.

Last night, after I'd faced yet another heart-twisting cancellation (this one after getting on the bus and travelling up to Seattle to meet a guy who cancelled on me the moment I arrived), my friend came to my rescue and collected me from the stoop of a friend's place after he got off work. I was pretty down and deflated as I stood outside waiting for him to arrive so I could just get home, let out some of the feels that were stabby and scratchy in the sensitive chest place, and call it a night.

Despite my obvious woe, he was very animated and clearly motivated when he asked me if I wanted to go with him to one of his friends' dungeon parties, telling me his buddy had at least two versatile guys over there right then, and that they would not be the same kind of guys who had only recently made me feel so ugly and out of place. He explained that he'd told his friend he would like to go, but that he had a friend with him, and that it would be up to me - no pressure there. 

I didn't. I mean, I ended up going, yes, but not because I wanted to. I just couldn't bring myself to tell him no, because that would be the second time he was cock blocked from a big group scene because of me. I swallowed down a Molly capsule along with some of my still hurty feelers to make room for the ones that came next.

We arrived. It was as strange as I'd imagined. There was a young guy getting fisted in a sling by another young guy and an older bear walking around in a leather jockstrap bringing them bigger and bigger things to shove into each other. I took a deep breath and undressed, making my way onto the bed while everyone else gravitated toward the sling. And that's where I stayed most of the night, watching from across the room while my friend dove in and barebacked both boys over the course of a few hours.

I get it. He doesn't want to hurt my feelings by telling me the truth about his fear regarding HIV. He's certainly not alone in that. And I know that it didn't even occur to him that seeing that would flip a switch in me that might one way or another change the course of our friendship going forward, but that's what he did. 

I'm so torn up that I can't stand it. It opened the oldest, most hurtful scar I've tried to stitch back up over and over for 26 years. I'm a veritable pool of pure sadness, and I can't fucking show it to him because I'll crack into a million tears, and I won't be able to stop myself from lashing out. 

So I'm trying my best to focus on the facts, which are these:

1. He had never met either of those boys before we walked into that basement.
2. He didn't ask either of those boys about their sexual health.
3. Neither of those boys disclosed any information about their sexual health.
4. He fucked them both long and hard and he came in both of their sloppy, stretched out assholes.
5. I watched my friend reveal his lie in stunned silence.

I'm gonna crack soon. There's no more room in me for this kind of shit. I'm broken, yes, but a man can keep breaking or break again after being partially repaired, right? That's what's happening right now. I'm breaking so hard that I can't see a way past the hurt. Not addressing it is going to lead to a bigger, more eruptive episode down the road for sure. But doing it now, or at least as soon after the event took place as possible, requires my being able to hold my shit together long enough to have a conversation with him that isn't accusatory or filled with weaponized emotions made lethal by the sense of betrayal I feel at this moment. 

Wish me luck. He's probably coming back here tonight. I suppose I'll play it by ear. But there won't ever be another last night. Not ever. There may never been any us time again after we talk. I guess we'll find out. 

UPDATE: Per usual, I'm a drama queen, and the world didn't end just because I had an uncomfortable conversation. We're as close as we have always been, and the more we talk about these bits of discomfort the closer we become. I need to remember that the next time my heart is breaking and I think the worst will come of it. I should really remember to give him a little credit for his part of our relationship. Will I ever move beyond an 8th Grade level of sexual maturity?

*He's been afraid that we're approaching something more than friends, perhaps on both sides, and he has been intentionally withdrawing from my advances or ignoring them in an effort to stop that from happening. He says he doesn't want to ruin our relationship by allowing it to morph into a rebound thing, and I have to agree. But now I also have to ask myself, in light of this newest development, how much of his hesitance is from that, and how much might be more honestly attributable to his fear of catching the virus from me. It's valid, to be sure. 

I don't remember what it feels like to live in fear of HIV because I've pretty much always had HIV, but I imagine it's pretty consuming of the faculties when approaching a situation where you are forced to confront it head on. I just wish it didn't make me feel like a tainted piece of undeserving trash who could kill anyone who sleeps with me.