Sunday, June 7, 2015
It ends. As all things do. The awareness of its approach is bittersweet. It happened yet it can't continue. The place still exists but all you have are the memories. They'll remain intact for as long as you can recall them. Life's moments: some good, some bad, some funny, some disappointing. It's up to each of us what we do with our time. Until the moment we can return to the place of serenity and beauty our memory's eye must keep it alive. Hindsight working overtime. The waves crash. The water laps. The rocks grind down to sand. The beach erodes. The grass blows gently in the breeze. The sun warms all it touches. Either by driving away or by death, everyone must eventually leave their interlude in paradise. The melancholy will fade. Until next time.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Time is fleeting. Nothing is wasted: every sentence in every book you read, every flash of image you watch in the YouTube video special; important; relevant. Nothing is lost in the moment in which it occurs. How do you make every second count? Don’t be so hard on yourself. Take that walk. Ride that bike. Listen to the crashing waves. Enjoy the coffee, the peace, the quiet, the laughter. Enjoy. Live. Soak up the sun or dance in the rain. Don’t regret. Be present. Do what you want and don’t make your life more difficult by being so hard on yourself. Remember these words the next time you think you’ve squandered a heartbeat or wasted a breath. Remember to be happy. Time is fleeting. That instant is already gone.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
The sun sits high in the sky, beautiful yet misleading. A cool breeze wafts through the trees, a reminder that appearances can be deceiving. The 57 degrees of this 10am morning feels crisp on the skin but the direct sunlight chases away the goose flesh as it warms the hair on the arm. A bowl of cherries sits alone on the the picnic table basking in the rays, ripening in the splendor.
As I peer through the window at the water, disturbed only by the ferry slicing through its calm, I am excited. It's been 4 years since I last set foot on the pavement and sand the makes up Martha's Vineyard. It's easy to remember the things that excited me the last time I was there: the beach, the 24-mile bike ride, turning 40, the recognizable sites from Jaws (what can I say, I'm a fan)...the just being there and breathing the air.
As I float my way back to this magical place, I can see a lighthouse. It's not lighting the rocks and keeping me safe, but reminding me that this is a place that feeds my soul with its history, beauty, and stillness.
My arrival is eminent and my relaxation has begun.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
This piece originally appeared on HuffPost Gay Voices
Disclaimer: This post may contain NSFW images.
I’m was standing in his living room. I’m was wearing a long-sleeved, tangerine-colored button up shirt and nothing else. We were talking. I’m was standing there. I was exposed. That area between the last button and the bottom of my shirt was split open and my penis was exposed. The shirt did feel somewhat like a security blanket, but I was standing in his living room, having a conversation about the ups and downs of life and my mind kept reminding me that my penis was exposed. It was like an out of body experience (I’m imagining) where I was standing beside myself whispering in my own ear, He can see your penis. Let me tell you how I got there.
For years I’ve been wanting a drawing of a male nude. Anytime I find myself in an art gallery or antique shop that might cater to that style of art I look for something that might pique my interest. One random day my Facebook news feed exposed me to the drawings of an artist friend of mine. I knew that he was an artist, but I just took it for granted and never really thought about it. Drawing is something he does, like writing is something I do. But on this particular day the lightbulb lit up above my head (a Eureka! moment) and I thought to myself, I’ll ask Sean Baumgardner if he’ll draw a male nude for me. I sent him a Facebook message and much to my delight he responded, “I’ve been making male nudes since I hit puberty. Yes.” Then he posed the question, “What type of man would you like shaped on paper?” I didn’t know. I’d always assumed that I would see a finished piece of art in some gallery and know that I couldn’t live without it and that would be that. This was a commission. Should I Google hot nude men? My favorite porn stars? I had no idea. It was during a discussion about this predicament that a friend suggested I be the subject of the male nude. “If you’re commissioning an artist to draw a male nude, why not let the male be you?” That thought had never entered my mind. And it certainly threw me for a loop. Would it be narcissistic to hang a nude of myself in my apartment? Did I really want a nude of myself?
Then I heard Sex and the City’s own Samantha Jones in my head. In season 4, episode 2, Samantha decided to pose nude for a photo shoot so that she could look back one day and say, “Damn, I was hot.” I laughed to myself. That was the moment I genuinely began to entertain the idea of being the subject of the drawing. Sean is in California. I’m in NYC. The opportunity to sit for him was not an option, and I needed something better than a nude selfie from my iPhone. I asked a friend I trust if he would take photos of me. He said he would but suggested that I have a photographer take professional photos of me in a studio with lighting that neither he nor a selfie could reproduce.
Is this getting out of hand? First I wanted a drawing. Then the drawing is going to be of me. Now I’m thinking I’ll book an actual nude photo shoot so that I have a photo from which the artist can draw me. Who am I? What is going on? Immediately I questioned the expense of the photo shoot. Then the notion of me actually being comfortable as the subject of a nude photo shoot crept into my psyche. I don’t often find myself naked in front of someone who isn’t also naked in front of me. Usually there’s kissing, touching, erections, etc. I didn’t know if I could be that vulnerable. And I was damn curious if I might be embarrassed by my assets or by one particular asset’s reaction. A penis can be a delicate and sensitive member. When exposed it can shrivel up like it’s been in the pool or it can stand at attention at the mere thought of being seen.
I needed to be courageous. I needed to access my long laid dormant vulnerability. This could be fun, I thought to myself, if you’ll let it be. I reached out to the gorgeous and generously kind Seth Fornea on Twitter, explaining the situation and asking for recommendations. He responded quickly with the name Kevin Hoover. I was familiar with Kevin Hoover’s work as I follow him on Twitter. He takes beautiful male nude photographs. I was immediately apprehensive as I looked again at the hard, masculine, statuesque bodies in the images on his Twitter page. I gave my own body a disparaging glance in the mirror and thought I didn’t measure up. Then I thought, Fuck it! I emailed him and told him I was interested in a nude photo shoot. Pressing send on that email was the first step in what turned out to be a fantastic experience.
I had a mere 27 days to mentally and physically prepare. I had been working out for years, but time and age and laziness had allowed me to get softer than I wanted to be. I began to train very hard with my personal trainer and completely changed my eating habits. My body became leaner, my muscles more defined. The changes were visible within a week. While initially difficult, the process proved to be a challenge worth taking.
The day finally arrived. I was nervous — justifiably so. I was also excited. I had a somewhat distracted workout prior to heading to Brooklyn for my 2pm appointment. When I arrived at Kevin’s apartment, which comfortably transformed into his studio, I reached out to shake his hand. He gave me a big, good-natured smile and said, “We do hugs here.” I was immediately at ease. Kevin and I talked and laughed for two hours before we even started. I felt like I’d known him for years. He was so gracious that when I finally found myself standing there with my penis exposed in the split at the bottom of my shirt it didn’t really matter. I was aware, but it wasn’t awkward. I didn’t feel ashamed or the need for concealment. I wasn't shrinking from fear or getting erect from exposure. I was just there…vulnerable, seen. As the camera began to click, the posing became more fun, less tense, and the nudity became an afterthought; a state of being that was playful, celebratory, freeing.
Kevin was extremely generous with me. I was his willing victim and he the artist who listened to the ideas of the strongly opinionated man standing naked in front of him. Not every photo can be fabulous, but that’s to be expected. One never knows how many shots are taken to find the one that captures the essence of its subject. Through relaxing conversation and the courage of vulnerability, we created images that turned out to be beautiful, provocative, and fully exposed, while I met a fantastic man for whose camera I’d comfortably get naked again.
This piece originally appeared on HuffPost Gay Voices
My 44th birthday is approaching. I sense shadows in the distance. They’re looming; ominous. I question what they are. I squint into the rainbow-hued sunlight, my hand perched at my brow to block the sun from my eyes. It’s then that I can fully see them: buzzards. The shadows are buzzards. They’re circling, soaring in a loop, waiting for me. They’re anticipating the death of my relevance and desirability as a gay man. Wait, what? What’s going on here? I won’t star in this scenario. I will not accept this! This is not my story. Yet sometimes when I allow myself to just wallow in the loneliness and depression that inevitably affects all of us from time to time as we get older, those thoughts run through my mind.
We all get older. At least we better hope we get older. The alternative is death. The older I get the wiser I get. I’m still learning, growing, changing. I’m making better decisions these days. It’s become less about right and wrong and more about choices -- making the best ones in the moment with regard to the situation I'm in. As for me personally, I have a great job that I love. I’m saving money. I have a fantastic apartment to myself. I'm eating clean and working out with a personal trainer. Some of my favorite clothes actually fit me again. I've never looked better in my life. My salt 'n pepper beard has just the right amount of salt to look sexy. (I actually like all the white in it.) Why is it then that it frustrates me so much to not turn the head of some random 20 something that I don't even care about? It's a gut punch from karma. Yes, as the saying goes, karma is a bitch, and she’s having her bitchtastic way with me like you wouldn’t believe.
I turned 26 a mere week after moving to New York City. I felt the freedom to be myself — to be gloriously gay, to drink, to smoke, to live. I felt the city was my oyster and wanted to shuck it in as many ways as I chose as often as I chose. However, I couldn't be bothered to give a second glance to an older man (that would have been a man in his mid 30s early 40s) or return a smile with sincerity for that matter. Now I'm the older man and I'm receiving that very same treatment. Ah the evolution that continues to be the same.
I already mentioned that I’m wiser now, but in other ways I don’t really feel that much different from my 20 something self who moved to NYC in the late 90s. Sure, there are some aches and pains that weren’t present then. There are some lines that I wish time hadn’t left across my face. But even those elements of aging aren’t bad enough to make me feel old. I still love New York City and the energy that comes with it and that 20 something still lives inside me. There are traces of him in my youthful yet appropriate for my age clothing choices. There are traces of him in the nail polish that I wear on the index finger of my left hand. There are even traces of him in the reflection I see staring back at me in the mirror. I am older though and in a city thriving with youth — a city where young gay men are now even freer to express themselves and live life on their own terms than when I got here — all it takes is a rebuff from one 20 something to make me feel like an aging parent that can’t be carted off to Shady Pines fast enough.
Cue wallowing in loneliness and depression. You see, when things like that happen to me, my brain convinces me that no one wants me, that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life, that I should stop trying, that my time has past. But on this day, without warning, my iTunes playlist (on shuffle) started to play “Man in Motion” from St. Elmo’s Fire. First I started smiling and then I started to laugh. This was one of those moments where the universe gave me exactly what I needed and I am so thankful I was aware enough to hear it.
My mood shifted. Sure I’m getting older. Thank goodness. That means I’m not dead. I have to deal with aging in Gayville just like every gay man before and after me. As I mentioned above, I don’t even want the 20 something so why does he matter? What matters is that I can’t turn his head anymore. Or the head of any age man who is not interested in me. (#GayManProblems!) OK! So what! Here’s where I have to make a choice and the choice is clear: piquing someone’s interest, while exciting, isn’t really what matters most to me. Sure, I want to be found desirable (don’t we all?), but ultimately my What Matters Most list includes: being happy, being healthy, being financially stable, having good friends, and living my life as contentedly and openly as possible in the greatest city in the world.
In the song “Man in Motion,” John Parr sings, “Just once in his life a man has his time, and my time is now.” I’m here, I’m queer, and really, I’m sexier as a 40 something than I’ve ever been at any other age in my life. He also sings about new horizons, eagles flying high, climbing mountains, and crossing a wild sea. It’s a journey. Life is a journey. Getting older means I’m still on my journey and there’s so much more to it than turning the head of a 20 something. The fire burning in me might not be St. Elmo's, but there is a fire. It's the desire to live my life without regret and without wondering what could have been. There is no what could have been. There is only what was and what is. There's more sunshine to feel, more flowers to smell, more music to hear, more art to collect, more food to eat, more wine to drink, more laughter to laugh, more love to give and accept. And for that matter...more men to see. Maybe if I take a second look those shadows are actually eagles instead of buzzards.
Friday, January 30, 2015
I didn't get home from dinner last night until nearly midnight, but I couldn't go to bed until I'd watched the #January29th return of How To Get Away With Murder. I mean come on. I'd been waiting for the show to return since November. Do you think I could sleep? Not a chance!
I didn't want to cancel my plans last night, but it did cross my mind that I could ask my dinner companion if she might want to have dinner at my apartment and watch How To Get Away With Murder with me...live. I know what you're thinking: Who watches live television anymore? Well, watching live television is the old new thing. I mean with live tweeting and live blogging one is setting themselves up to be spoiled if they're not immediately (or shortly thereafter) in the know.
Suffice it to say, I did not cancel or change my dinner plans, but I couldn't even think about going to sleep until I saw how Annalise Keating and the "Keating Five" dealt with the immediate aftermath of Sam's death. I was not disappointed. Viola Davis is marvelously flawed and human leading a cast of characters I still love to watch divide, resolve, dissent, and compromise for their lives.
Last fall How To Get Away With Murder was a roller coaster ride that kept showing us the hill we were going to plunge down even while its initial climb was in the case-of-the-moment present. There was an over arching storyline--those lurches you feel as the chain is pulling you upward--and its murder mystery would eventually consume everyone. It was teased and taunted in flash forward images and dialogue that made one feel the need to watch the episode again because they were certain they'd missed something. I was one of those people. I watched every episode twice and savored every moment as the unravel took us to the November finale episode, which finally put all those flashes and pieces together and showed us exactly #WhoKilledSam.
We were left at the top of that hill last fall, just going over the edge. And now...now we're in the present, free falling at high speed without the bar across our laps. I'm dying to raise my arms in the air, but I'm afraid. I'm screaming and holding my breath. The anxiety, the fear the characters on my television are feeling is present in the lump in the my throat as I sit on my sofa, glued to their every breath, eyebrow arch, and explanation to the police of what they were doing on the night Sam went missing.
Most of the time when you're on a roller coaster that's plunging down the first big hill it's just a straight to the bottom plunge. This hill, while steep, is not straight to the bottom. It's got twists and curves. It's like we're skiing down a mountain avoiding all the trees and boulders in the way, but can't get out of the car and can't stop the dive. You might need to invest in a neck brace for all the I-didn't-see-that-coming whiplash.
There are only 3 episodes left before the first season finale. I don't see the tension letting up, and I doubt the pit of my stomach will feel anything less than sinking as the ground remains elusive during the hour of 10-11pm on Thursday nights.