3 Weeks

The second man I slept with when I got back to Seattle was a dancer. He wore red underwear. His sheets and bedspread were red. Red was everything I saw whether my eyes were closed or open. We kissed for hours, still in our underwear beneath his sheets. I kissed each of his tattoos as he told me the story of how it came to be. He briefly fell asleep with his head resting on my chest, his blond beard tickling my pale skin. When he woke up, we made out again, until we were no longer in our underwear.

We’d had dinner first at a Thai restaurant. His sense of humor was so dry and so subtle that I had a hard time discerning whether he was telling a joke, or being completely serious. The Thai place was a converted old home with criss-crossing strings of white lights in the trees outside. The wait staff knew his name and his order without him having to tell them.

“Is this where you bring all your tricks?” I asked.

He didn’t laugh.

When we were done, he handed me a towel to clean off with. I looked for my underwear and socks. I padded awkwardly across the creaking hardwood floors of his studio apartment. I was afraid he was going to ask me to spend the night, then disappointed when he didn’t.

Walking back to the train afterward, all I could think about was C. For seven years he’d been the only man that I had even kissed. For seven years I’d learned the way he liked to be touched, and the things that brought him pleasure. Now I was confronted with the body of a stranger that had a different set of responses, an entirely alien list of turn ons that were unknown to me. I’d felt clumsy and out of my depth.

I walked back in the rain and missed the familiarity of the man that I had lived with, his taste and smell. Instead my lips and fingers smelled like someone else. Everything I saw and everything I experienced was followed quickly by the thought of what C would think if he was seeing and experiencing those things with me. The glistening wet streets. A sticker on a bicycle rack that said, “Sissies rule!” An orange construction paper sign in the window of a brick building that said, “Not my president!”

A hipster couple stopped to pet a dog, edging me off the sidewalk. I stepped ankle deep in a puddle. The cold water shook me out of my reverie. I walked the rest of the way to the train in wet, soggy socks.

Another night I walked in the rain to have dinner with my friend Gitai, his husband Jonathan, and their three year old son. I arrived early before Jonathan got home from work. While Gitai finished making the food, I sat in the floor entertaining, or being entertained by, the aforementioned toddler. I never thought I was a kid person, but I was immediately charmed by this adorable youngster, already so full of personality. He handed me cars to play with which we drove around and crashed into one another while an attention hungry Corgi planted himself between my legs insisting to be pet.

When it was time for him to go to bed, he held my hand and had me read him a bedtime story. I sat in a stuffed animal bedroom and read a children’s book that he’d clearly been read enough times to memorize completely. He laughed when I made funny voices, and as I closed the book there was a brief flash before my eyes of another life. One where I had a home, a child, where I read bedtime stories and worried about good schools and karate lessons. The sudden, unexpected ache of never experiencing fatherhood made me catch my breath.

After the toddler went to bed, the grown ups sat upstairs with glasses of wine and a home cooked meal. The house was warm and toy strewn. The food was delicious. We talked, or I chattered incessantly about my numerous sexual insecurities while they gently bickered, until Jonathan began to doze off on the couch, which I took as my cue to head back home.

Because he is a father now, Gitai sent me home with an aluminum pan full of leftovers. Walking back to the train, I stopped at a traffic light and waited to cross the street. While waiting, a white man with dreadlocks came up to me and said, “Hey man, are those brownies?”

“No.” I said.

“Can I have one?” He asked.

“No.” I said.

He started to mumble something about patriarchy and white privilege, and I was relieved when the light changed and I was able to cross the street. Because I used to live in New York City, I told him to fuck off. Because I now live in Seattle, I said it quietly beneath my breath so he couldn’t hear.

One afternoon, I sat in my friend Matt’s apartment and watched an episode of The Great British Bake Off. It was wonderful to see him again. We sat on opposite ends of his couch as two cats dashed across the room. We talked about books while I sized up his apartment. It was the type of place I might have lived in if I’d stayed in one place long enough to accumulate belongings. There was a wall of vinyl and another of books, and art on the walls. He baked us a delicious cookie in a skillet and served it with ice cream and a homemade butterscotch syrup, and we drank gin and tonics. When it was time to leave I got confused and walked into the bathroom.

Because I am homeless and unemployed, he also sent me home with leftovers.

The frist man I had sex with when I got back to Seattle was a handsome man with a graying, ginger beard. We’d been chatting for some time when he invited me out for brunch on my second day back. We met at Pike Market and walked through the maze of shops, and throngs of tourists, to a posh eatery with a wine list considerably longer than the menu. He had a glass of wine, and I had a diet coke. We sat beside one another with our knees occasionally, accidentally touching.

We chatted easily over breakfast food. Biscuits and gravy and a bowl of fruit for me. Eggs Benedict for him.

When the check came, he paid it.

“Want to go back to my place?” He asked.

I thought it was a terrible idea, but I said, “Yes,” anyway, because he was sweet and charming, and because I have trouble telling people, “No.” It wasn’t that I didn’t want to sleep with him. He was an attractive guy with a handsome face and nice body. I did want to sleep with him…eventually. But in that moment I felt that I just wasn’t ready. It had been so many years since I’d been with anyone but C that even the thought of touching another man made me feel uneasy.

We sat on his couch while things unfolded in the usual fashion. We kissed, our beards rubbing together. At first I was turned on by the strangeness, the newness of the sensation of another person’s lips touching my own. He took off his glasses and I took off mine. Eventually we moved from the living room to the bedroom. I couldn’t get an erection, but he didn’t seem to mind. He asked if he could fuck me, and I said, “Yes.”

So he did. It had been years since someone had done that, and it hurt. But, it felt good too. Still my mind had already fallen out of the moment and I couldn’t really experience the pleasure I might have under other, better, circumstances.

Afterward I took a shower in a pale green bathroom, shivering from more than the cold. His cat watched me towel off. I put my clothes back on, and he drove me to my gym so that I could workout before going home. I was upset, but tried to seem like I was fine.

“Lets do that again soon.” He said.

I smiled non-commitally. The truth is, in order for me to enjoy sex, there has to be a perfect alignment of factors, and if there isn’t, I just zone out, and suddenly find myself thinking about the price of apartments in Seattle, the job I don’t yet have, the novel I haven’t written. And C. Always C.

I hadn’t been unfaithful. Even if we weren’t living in different states, C and I had had an open relationship for years. I had just never acted on it before. I hadn’t wanted an open relationship, really. It was just another in a string of things I found myself agreeing to to try to make him happy. He argued that monogamy was just a heteronormative construct that gay people had adopted to assimilate, and that it wasn’t realistic for two men to not sleep with other people. Because he is smarter than me, I couldn’t disagree. I didn’t know whether it was realistic or not, I just knew that I didn’t want to sleep with anybody else. But I didn’t want to stand in the way of him doing the things he wanted. So when he was in the shower and a message flashed across his phone about a hook up that he’d had, or that was in the works, I pretended not to notice.

In three weeks in Seattle I had three job interviews.

The first was for a horrible, low paying job through a temp agency. I took the train across the city in my slate gray interview suit, the only suit I own. I was witty and charming. I explained the cross country moves on my partner’s job (which was more or less true) and assured them I was back in Seattle for good. They laughed at my jokes and seemed impressed with my knowledge and responses to those interview questions that I can now recite from memory. They shook my hand with promises to get back to me soon.

A few days later I got an email from the temp agency that they decided to go with another candidate.

The second interview was for a reputable company for a job that would be a fantastic opportunity for me, that pays well, and that I would be ideally suited for. I wore my same suit and my housemate was kind enough to drive me so I wouldn’t get caught in the rain. I handled all of the questions well until the very end when they asked some specific questions about Excel that I found impossible to answer. I’ve used this program in nearly every job I’ve ever had, but to sit, without looking at a computer, and explain how to make a spreadsheet and run reports tripped me up.

After giving me a tour of the department, the manager turned to me and said, “There was a lot of competition for this position, since we had so many internal candidates.”

I assumed this was her oblique way of telling me that they were going to go with an internal applicant, so I left the interview feeling defeated.

Two days later, while I was at the gym, they called me to ask me some additional questions. I was still huffing from the treadmill as I gave my best responses to the new barrage of inquiries. I felt that, under the circumstances, I’d answered the new questions fairly well. They promised that they’d reach a decision early the following week. A week passed, and I never heard from them again.

For my third interview, I didn’t wear a suit. I wore a shirt and tie and a sweater vest. Walking to the train, a police car was blocking the street with its lights flashing.

“Please return to your house, sir!” A police officer in a megaphone shouted at me.

I walked to the police car, and a handsome officer with a buzz cut rolled down the window and told me that a canine was searching the area for a burglary suspect.

“I have a job interview downtown.” I said.

“Walk straight to the train.” He said, and rolled the window back up.

Several blocks down on Rainier avenue, I stood, waiting for the light to change.

A white car slowly drove past, and a young, black woman leaned out and shouted, “Suck my dick!”

When I got to the interview, the receptionist turned out to be a former co-worker I only vaguely remembered, who seemed to have a keen recollection of me. I crossed my fingers that her memory of me was a positive one.

The HR rep who interviewed me first was very nervous and apologetic.

“The woman who was leaving the position you applied for has decided to stay.” He said.

“She just told us today,” he said, “So that position is no longer open. But we still wanted to have you come in to see if you might be interested in this other position.”

He went on to describe the other position which was a lower paying, entry level one.

Because this is how my life works, I was unsurprised by the revelation. I interviewed for the other position. A kindly woman who was there in person, and a kindly sounding man who joined via telephone conducted the interview. The job was something I’ve done before when I lived in Austin, and I felt that the interview went well.

As I left, my former co-worker wished me luck.

To date, I haven’t heard back from them.

The third man that I had sex with when I got back to Seattle was a sweet, cute guy with an affinity for rubber. We walked to his apartment which was across from the apartment that I used to live in.

“A friend of mine used to live in this building.” I said as we stood outside, a view of the Space Needle, the mountains and downtown spread out before us. Of course he immediately knew who I was talking about, since they’d also been acquaintances. Inside we talked about books and video games. His apartment was cluttered with books and electronics and packages from Amazon. He cleared off the couch, and we made out.

My sex life  has always been incredibly vanilla. Coffee with nice guys and bland small talk on beige couches, awkward connections and even more awkward departures. But I rationalized that since this was another new start for me, since I’m now middle aged, I felt like stepping out of my comfort zone and experiencing things I hadn’t previously tried.

Age 40 is as good an age as any for me to become comfortable with my own sexuality.

He led me to his bedroom and had me try on some of his gear. He zipped me into a sleeveless rubber shirt, and a rubber jockstrap. He put on a rubber outfit of his own, and our bodies squeaked together as we kissed. The rubber didn’t especially do anything for me. But the dressing up aspect was sexy, and his gentle persona put me at ease and made me feel comfortable enough to dip my toes into unfamiliar territory.

He peeled me out of the underwear and shirt and had me slide into a rubber suit that was sort of a cross between Johnny Depp’s outfit in Edward Scissorhands, and a straightjacket. I lay on his bed with a hood covering my eyes. He had to smear my entire body with lubrication to slip me into the suit.

The tight suit prevented me from moving, but unzipped to allow him access to areas of interest. These areas were explored by him as I lay, letting the sensations happen, completely in the moment. I lay with my senses deprived, feeling restrained, yet oddly safe and at ease. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I could feel as he slid a condom on me and straddled me. As he did so, I rose to meet him. There was only a moment when I felt ridiculous and wanted to laugh, but I managed to stifle it.

When we were done he had to help peel me out of the rubber suit. I smelled like rubber the rest of the day, at the gym and on the train, in a coffee shop, and back at home.

That night I got an upset stomach. For days I lay in bed with the flu. I had fever and the chills. I lay beneath a blanket simultaneously burning up and shivering. I binge watched TV shows, and avoided looking at my bank account, the bills that were due, or looking for other jobs. I canceled plans for drinks, for coffee with other men in other coffee shops, for brunch with friends. It felt good to have nowhere to be and nothing to do but lay in bed alone. I was exhausted and stressed from so much unaccustomed stimulation.

I thought about the other experiences that I’d like to have, sexual and otherwise. And some things that will likely remain fantasy. Of threesomes, groups, of other kinks, of other cities, of the perfect job, the perfect partner, or no partner, of the lives I might have lived if I’d made other decisions, and the life I can still live. Right now, in the present.

Occasionally I get texts from the dancer, asking me what I’m wearing. He sends me a picture of himself lying in bed on his side in a pair of pajama bottoms and no shirt, arms outstretched, holding the camera, his bearded jaw and muscular chest taking up the bulk of the frame.

“Hope you feel better soon.” He texts.

I text, “I hope so too.”

It’s Okay to Talk About Leaving

I drove back up to the Pacific Northwest alone. I drove up the 101 with the mountains to one side and the deep, blue expanse of the pacific ocean on the other. Then I headed inland in northern California through the Shasta mountain range and pine forests. From then on the drive was harrowing. I wound through narrow mountain roads with sharp curves and steep cliffs beside eighteen wheelers and signs warning of rockslides and precipitous inclines. I leaned forward in my seat, gripping the steering wheel, certain I’d go careening off the side of a mountain to meet my end in a deep ravine at any moment.

“Just let me get over this mountain.” I prayed to no god in particular. But as soon as I was past the mountain….THERE WAS ANOTHER FREAKING MOUNTAIN!

Things didn’t level out until Eugene, Oregon. By then I was shell shocked and just ready for the trip to be over. An indicator that one or more of my tires was low kept blinking on my car’s dashboard. I don’t know how to put air in a tire, or how to change a flat, so in addition to all of the other things that deeply concerned me, I was also afraid of being stuck on the side of a mountain with a flat tire, waiting for AAA to come.

I spent two nights in cheap motels. One in Fairfield, California and the other in Cresswell, Oregon. In Fairfield, the room was nice, and I watched cable television while some terrible children above me yelled for no reason until their terrible parents yelled at them to “shut the fuck up.” In Cresswell the only room available was a smoking room which smelled like stale cigarettes and misery, and the room was shabby and outdated. I lay in a lumpy bed with lumpy pillows, worried that someone was going to break into my car and steal my meager belongings, or that I’d wake up to a flat tire or both. At 3 am I listened to a man and woman have sex. The way the woman was screaming, I’d have been concerned that she was being murdered rather than made love to, had she not kept yelling, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

The weeks leading up to the move were hard. I was unhappy, and my unhappiness was a gray cloud that covered the whole house. Santa Barbara felt like a prison, and I felt guilty that I wasn’t happy, that I wanted to leave. We were no closer to getting a place of our own and still sleeping on couches in his parents’ living room. He was frustrated that I wasn’t trying harder to fit in and I was daunted by the prospect of spending $1600 a month on an apartment in a town where I had no friends, where there were no coffeehouses and bookstores, where everyone was tan and smiled toothpaste commercial smiles.

“You should go back to Seattle.” He said one evening. “You talk about it all the time. You miss it.”

It had become clear as time passed that we didn’t want the same things, or to live in the same places. I’d already been thinking of escape before he suggested it. Seattle was the last place I was really happy before we’d begun our haphazard, cross-country odyssey. Once the words were said aloud, it became fact. I was leaving.

We spent the last couple of weeks taking pictures of beaches and streets lined with palm trees. Of red-tiled rooftops and ocean sunsets. We sat in the garage watching the same shows or playing the same video games as if nothing was changing, but a distance was already growing. The invisible miles that separated his heart from mine.

His family had one last dinner for me before I left. C deep fried tortillas, and we had tacos. We drank wine from the glasses his mother had given us for Christmas.

“I really appreciate how well your family treated me,” I said.

“They’re your family too.” He said.

I didn’t cry until the morning I drove away. Then I sobbed, hard, wracking sobs onto his shoulder. He cried too, and we just stood in his driveway holding one another.

It’s very hard to leave someone you still love.

When I got back to Seattle, it rained. I drove up hills lined with wooden houses with rosebush front yards sporting “Black Lives Matter” signs, “No One is Illegal,” “Love is Love,” and I knew that I was back.

My friend Bill had been kind enough to allow me the use of his guest room. I unpacked my few things, my computer, a handful of books, and my clothes, and got settled in. After months without, such simple things as a closet and a bed that I’d taken for granted became precious. To have a room and privacy again was a gift I can never repay.

I couldn’t help but think about C still living with his parents. Still on a couch, still having no privacy or space of his own. Without me, he can’t afford to move out, and without my car, he has to rely on them or buses to get to and from school. He makes plans to transfer to a school in Northern California where the rent is cheaper. We talk about me going to visit at the end of the month, to see if that’s a place I might want to live for the next three years until he’s finished school. But I don’t know that either of us really believes that’s going to happen.

Being back in Seattle is strange. The city I used to live in has been replaced by a newer, more expensive one. I walk down gray, rain slicked streets, past the new restaurants and bars that have taken the place of my old haunts. The old city and the new city are superimposed over one another, so I see both at once. I feel like I’ve fallen out of linear time, and the past and present exist at once, giving me a never ending sense of deja vu.

I sit in a coffeehouse that I used to sit in when I lived here before. The barista is the same barista that I dated 10 years ago. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. “How’s life?”

“Interesting.” I say.

Suddenly I’m overwhelmed by joblessness, the temporary room, the drastic change and stark absence of him beside me, sharing this with me. I weep a little as it rains outside and hipsters in wet jackets walk inside shaking umbrellas. I wonder if coming back was the right decision, or if this will be another in a string of decisions that I regret. I wonder if I’ll ever live the settled life of people with families and houses who have made better choices than me.

I sit in coffeehouses and walk to bookstores. Already I’ve reconnected with friends I haven’t seen in years. I’ve had brunch and drinks, I’ve made plans for dinners and happy hours. Piecemeal I try to reassemble the life I used to live. I sit in the same corner of the same cafe I used to sit in, and for a moment it’s as if I never left, as if the last 7 years never happened. But they did happen. The weight of them creases the corners of my eyes in wrinkles that weren’t present the first time around. The cities and the people I’ve encountered have left their mark inside me, invisible maybe, but present like scar tissue criss-crossing my heart. I look for jobs while folk music plays in speakers overheard, while people younger than me sit illuminated by smartphones and laptops, hoping that this time, I’ll make good decisions. That the second time around I’ll be able to do everything right, and that everything will finally work out….despite historical precedent.

For now the sky is heavy with dreams and the future unfolds like a map, clouded with uncertainty, but, for the moment, full of promise.