Bully in the Pulpit (Don't Fence Me In)

What kind of man stands in the pulpit of a sanctuary, in front on a church congregation and spouts such bile as, "I figured a way to get rid of all the lesbians and queers. Build a great, big, large fence--150 or 100 mile long--put all the lesbians in there... Do the same thing for the queers and the homosexuals and have that fence electrified so they can't get out… And you know what, in a few years, they'll die"? Pastor Charles L. Worley of Providence Road Baptist Church in Maiden, North Carolina. 

What a man. A holy man. Standing in front of his church talking about starving to death a group of people. Do you think Jesus intended that kind of nasty vitriol? This man is speaking of eradicating and entire collection of human beings based on his own fears and what he perceives as God’s law, written in the Bible by men, I might add, in a different time than that in which we now live.

Do you know why gays and lesbians are so prevalent, present and in-your-face these days? It’s because we’re tired of the bullshit. We are people. We are human beings. We deserve to live life just like Pastor Worley and his disgusting ideals deserve to live life. We’re all God’s children. ALL of us!!

You don’t see gay people wanting to round up all the hypocritical ministers and put them behind an electric fence and starve them to death. (At least we’re not saying so publicly) No. You don’t. What is it about being a so-called man of God that entitles someone to be so vicious? He’s a bully that’s what he is. He feeds off of the “Amens” that he gets back from his congregation. Just like a bully feeds off the laughter he gets from the crowd of onlookers as he belittles someone with words or shoves him into a locker.

Dear Pastor Worley,

Stop doing/saying things in the name of God. Those negative actions are in the name of your own thoughts and perversities; your own insecurities and lack of understanding.

There has to come a time when you step out from behind the words that you’re hiding behind and realize that the world is full of all kinds of people; different beliefs, backgrounds, sexual orientations, ethnicities. There has to come a time of acceptance and learning. Take a step into this century and try to understand the people that you have decided deserve nothing better than death.

Remember that story in the Bible where God provided the Israelites manna from Heaven when they were wondering around the desert? Well, I believe we just might find an instance of manna from heaven once again if the so-professed followers of God’s word decided it was their duty to lock all of us lesbian, queer and homosexual people behind that electric fence a la concentration camps provided by the Germans during Hitler’s reign of terror. You see, I believe we’re all God’s people. I believe God loves me for who I am. I believe that great power in the sky would take care of us. In fact, I believe that the gay men would glamorize that fenced in area to the nth degree. I think the lesbians would settle it down and nurture it. I think all the children born gay to straight parents that eventually get thrown behind the electrified chain link would be well taken care of. I believe you would find one hell of a party and a new utopia that all of you who would lock us away to die would be clamoring to get inside. Knowing the kind, loving people that many gays and lesbians are, we would oblige, as you d’lectrify the fence, granting you entrance to our new home. On one condition of course: you have to live in harmony with us instead of fighting against us. Acceptance. No take backs.

Sincerely,

Michael Rohrer

OUT gay man since 1993

Fah Who foraze, dah Who doraze, welcome, welcome 2012.

Return to Winthrop St. - Part 6

Atwood,

We just got off the phone. I’ve never seen that side of you. It’s a little scary. I don’t know what to say. You were so angry with me. I never meant to hurt you. I hope you know that. I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings. You’ve been my best friend for so long. Can’t we just go back to being friends? Is that even possible? I hate this so much. I should’ve never done what I did. I know that now. I guess I knew it before now, but your anger really made me realize how much what I did, what we did, hurt you. I guess I was thinking with my dick. I was just thinking about myself. I wasn’t thinking there would be any consequences because it was me and you. I was just curious. I thought I could see what it was like. I felt comfortable to explore with you. I’m sorry if what we did made you think I might want something more than friendship with you. I don’t. I don’t have those feelings. I do want to be friends though. Close friends like before. Is there a chance we can go back? I know you’re sensitive. I wish I had thought more about that instead of just keeping my distance. We had a Brokeback moment, but that's all it was, a moment. I don't want it to happen again. I'm not going to run into your arms and duck behind the house at Christmas to have a make out session.

Listen, I hope you know that it doesn’t bother me that you’re gay. I hope that you’re happy. I hope you find a boyfriend. I hope that there will be a special person for you. That person just can’t be me. Not now. Not ever. I hope that you’re not afraid now that you have admitted you’re gay. I hope that doesn’t sound insensitive. I’m trying here, Atwood. I’m going to try and get us back to before. Can you try, too? I was a jerk. Please write me back or call or text. Please be okay.

Will you be home for Christmas break? Can we talk then in person? 

Kinlin 

Kinlin was right; it had been nothing more than a Brokeback moment. But Kinlin was not Ennis and he was not going to be Jack, pining away for someone who wouldn't or couldn’t be with him. Knowing that Kinlin was writing the truth didn’t make the words any less hurtful. Atwood had to rid himself of his obsession with Kinlin. Kinlin had to no longer matter. Obsessions, like smoking, can't successfully be stopped cold turkey; one needs help. Atwood knew there was no patch for unrequited desire. 

He walked over to the bed and grabbed his phone. Now was as good a time as any to text Bobby and see if he could stop by and pick up his backpack.

Atwood: Hey. You home?

Bobby: Yep.

Atwood: What’s up?

He walked back to his desk and placed the phone face down to the right of his computer. He sat in the chair and stared at the email. He read through it again. He knew he should just erase it, but he was a glutton for punishment. He couldn’t. He minimized the email and created a folder on his desktop that read “Kinlin” and copied the email into a Word document then saved it into the folder. He knew he was being foolish, but the only way he could have the satisfaction of erasing the email, exerting his power over the situation, was to have a copy saved somewhere else so that he could read it again if he wanted to. His phone vibrated as he deleted the email from his inbox.

He picked up the phone expecting to read Bobby’s response. What he got was a visual answer to his question.

Bobby’s response was a picture of his erect penis. Atwood couldn’t resist laughing. Not at the penis, but that Bobby had been clever enough to send the photo as his answer to “What’s up.” He gazed fixedly on the picture. He had seen Bobby naked before, but it had been a while and Clancy had been part of the mix. This was the first time that he had no interference between himself and Bobby’s penis. He loved that it was perfectly curved toward Bobby’s belly button and that he kept everything nice and trimmed. He remembered how trimmed Bobby was from the first time they’d played around at the Delta Gamma house. It had prompted him to shave his balls—for the first time—the next time he was in the shower. He loved the way they felt, all smooth and hairless.

He realized that he had gotten an erection himself from ogling Bobby’s photo. It was a little fucked up, but he didn’t care.

Atwood: A visual answer. I like it! Now I’m up

Bobby: I thought you might be. Show me.

Atwood: No!

Bobby: Why not?

Atwood took a second to think about how he should respond. He was trying to be flirty, but didn’t really know how to do it.

Atwood: Some things are worth waiting for!

Bobby: Touché!!

Bobby’s response told him that his attempt at flirting was indeed working.

Atwood: So you’re just hanging out in your room?

Bobby: Yep and I’m all by myself. :-(

Atwood: Could I come by and get my backpack?

Bobby: You can cum. :-)

Atwood laughed again. He liked Bobby. Bobby made him feel good about himself. Bobby seemed interested in him unlike Kinlin. He needed the distraction. He needed to feel good. He wanted to feel good. He wanted to feel wanted.

Bobby: Don’t you have class today?

Atwood: Yeah, but I’m blowing it off.

Bobby: I know something else you can blow :-)

Atwood: I bet you do. 

Bobby: :-p

Atwood: I think I can be persuaded to use that when I get there. Let me shower then I’ll head over.

Bobby: cool!

Distraction was the best way to describe Bobby. He was a nice guy. He had a great body. He was handsome and he made Atwood feel safe. After the blow up with Kinlin, Atwood needed to feel safe. He needed to be around someone who wanted nothing more than to be in his presence. Bobby was that person. They had never asked anything of each other. They merely had fun together. There were no strings. As much as Atwood enjoyed Bobby though, he was afraid that he, himself, might want strings, and he might want those strings soon. For now he just wanted to forget and have a good time. He hoped that Bobby had a joint they could smoke. 

He walked down the hallway toward the shower, thoughts of Bobby’s naked body enveloped in the swirling smoke of exhaled marijuana. He was running before he could stop himself. That was probably the quickest shower he had ever taken. He was semi-erect the entire time. His thoughts and desires coupled with the hot, soapy water made the blood flow to his penis relentlessly.

After he had rinsed his hair and body clean he turned off the hot water and stood face forward into the stream of cold water letting it alternately pound his chest and face. His breath caught in the back of his throat. He moved back and forth from one target spot to the next until he felt his balls shriveling between his legs. He looked down at his shaking body to see that the blood had indeed left his penis. That should take care of that he thought to himself. It was then that he turned off the water, dried his shaking body, and ran back down the hallway to his room to get dressed.

When he arrived at Bobby’s they tore their clothes off while simultaneously closing the door and moving across the room to the bed all the while trying to keep their lips together and their hands on each other’s bodies. They were mad with passion; nothing could stop them. He let Bobby go all the way that day. He had been scared, but he trusted Bobby and Bobby had eased him into the intimacy.

∆∆∆

Atwood and Bobby had spent many mornings and afternoon’s together since then. Atwood had skipped a lot of classes over the past two weeks, but he felt content and happy, a little high—a lot high—but thoroughly at ease. As they lay in the spoon position (Atwood again the little spoon, wrapped in Bobby’s arms) the events of that day—the day of the email—played like a grainy pop up video in his mind: the email, the picture text, the shower, the cold water, the sex. The images were running through his memory like a tap that wouldn’t shut off. What should have been running through his mind at this moment of calm was the enormous step he had taken. He squeezed his eyes hard against this barrage of memory. He wouldn’t allow himself to entertain thoughts of all the classes he was missing or all the pot he was smoking. He only wanted the pleasantness of his time with Bobby to settle in his mind and take up residence. 

Bobby stirring from their afternoon nap post blunt and blow jobs, freed Atwood from his recall. Bobby inched closer and closer until there was nothing between his and Atwood’s bodies except the clothes they were wearing. Atwood felt Bobby’s hardness against him. He turned over onto his back and looked at Bobby. Bobby looked so hunky; so handsome. Atwood wanted to devour him. Bobby leaned down to Atwood and their lips met, their tongues immediately exploring each other’s mouths. Bobby grabbed Atwood by his shirt and pulled him on top of him.

They continued to kiss and feel each other, flipping positions in the process. Flashes of Kinlin burst behind Atwood’s eyes. He closed them tight, trying to send them into blackness. Why is Kinlin in my head now? he thought to himself. The “Kinlin” moment had made him stop returning Bobby’s kisses. He hadn’t even realized it until he opened his eyes. Bobby was staring at him.

“Are you okay?” Bobby asked, his genuine concern apparent in the gentleness of his voice.

Atwood didn’t answer. He smiled back at Bobby and pulled him down to his lips. Bobby pushed Atwood’s shirt up, revealing his naked torso. He sat straddling Atwood, staring at him, drinking in his teasing nakedness. He rubbed his hand up and down Atwood’s chest and stomach then found his way to Atwood’s hardened cock. He moved his hand over the jeans, stroking him with firm pressure. 

Atwood touched Bobby. He tweaked a nipple then rubbed his flat stomach. He couldn’t resist the bulge in Bobby’s jeans. Again, flashes of his night with Kinlin in the Ryland monument. The hardness behind the jeans. The uncontrollable touching. The inability to control the protrusion trying to burst from behind the zipper. He shut his eyes and held them closed as tightly as possible. He wanted the images to go away. 

This is not Kinlin. This is Bobby. This is different he repeated to himself mantra-like. He and Kinlin had been in a rush. The night of the three-way with Bobby and “the girl” had been slow to build, but fast-and-furious after the clothes came off. This was not then. He opened his eyes to be in his present—this moment. He met Bobby’s intense gaze. No words were spoken. Kinlin and “the girl” were held at bay. It was only Bobby; Bobby and Atwood.

They stared at each other touching and groping; their familiarity apparent. They kissed with more passion. They didn’t rush to get naked. There was more excitement in being clothed; a shirt unbuttoned, a zipper unzipped. Seeing parts of the body, but not the full nakedness made each of them drip with anticipation. They continued to touch and feel each other. They took each other’s full weight as they rolled over and over each other on the bed. Body heat and kisses, wet and hot.

Finally, it was more than Atwood could take. He used one hand to undo the button on Bobby’s jeans and pull down the zipper. He never took his eyes from Bobby’s own, but he could feel the freedom no longer contained behind its prison as his hand gripped the hard flesh. He tore his eyes from Bobby’s long enough to lust after what he’d seen before; what he was seeing again with whetted desire. He looked back up at Bobby and smiled. With his hands on Bobby’s butt, he pulled him toward his face. The smile was returned as he put his mouth on Bobby’s virility.

Bobby was so gentle with him. His body ached with his desire for Bobby to touch him, to be inside of him. He longed to feel that closeness again. It always hurt when Bobby penetrated him, but the more they fucked the more pleasurable it became; desire replacing pain. Their bodies were entwined and moving like waves. Their skin was hot and sweaty, nerve endings tingling with every touch. Their breathing was heavy as Bobby thrust harder than he had in the past. Atwood lay there wincing and gasping as he took all that Bobby could give him. Bobby smiled at him and leaned down to kiss him—passionately, completely, wholly Atwood’s—their bodies combined as one.

Bobby straightened back up and looked at Atwood. He ran his hand up and down Atwood’s chest. Atwood moaned. Bobby’s breathing was intensifying. He was thrusting faster. Atwood knew he was close. Bobby grabbed Atwood’s cock and started stroking it. Atwood moaned again.

“No,” he said as he removed Bobby’s hand. “Just keep fucking me,” he said through labored breaths. Bobby continued. Atwood lay back and couldn’t prevent the image of Kinlin from entering his mind. He couldn’t stop wishing Bobby’s dick was Kinlin’s. He didn’t want Bobby to stop. He didn’t want the image to go away. He was in the throws of ecstasy; more aroused than he knew possible. He started to cum without touching himself. Bobby continued to fuck him while he climaxed harder than ever before. Atwood moaned, loudly. Anyone walking by in the hallway was certain to hear it. He didn’t care. He’d never felt so intensely stimulated in his life. He was breathing like someone hyperventilating and his body was shuttering beneath Bobby’s thrusts.

“I’m gonna cum,” said Bobby.

Neither of them had heard the keys in the door or the lock being unlocked, but neither of them missed the screech that accompanied Bobby’s climax. As Bobby came on Atwood’s stomach, his yells of pleasure were mingled with the voice of someone standing behind them.

“What the fuck is going here?” 

Bobby jerked his head around and Atwood lifted his from the bed. Clancy stood in the doorway. She was seething with anger. Atwood felt like Eve when God had revealed her and Adam’s nakedness to them. He was covered by Bobby, but he was aware that he was exposed and he knocked Bobby off the top of him and grabbed his shirt from the floor to cover his vulnerability.

“Is anyone going to answer me? I said what the FUCK is going on here?”

“Clancy, calm down,” said Bobby. 

“Calm down. You want me to calm down? Okay, Bobby. Then explain to me why my boyfriend is fucking a guy in the bed where he fucked me last night.”

She was so angry. If Atwood’s moans had been loud, she was even louder. There would be no reason to tune into Bright Horizons today. The soap opera happening right there in Bobby’s dorm room was juicier and more unexpected than anything that drama could produce.

“Oh my God,” said Atwood. 

“Atwood,” said Bobby.

Atwood jumped up from the bed and found his jeans. He didn’t bother to clean himself off or find his underwear. He pulled on the jeans and then his shirt. He had never been more thankful to have remembered his shoes were sitting by the chair at Bobby’s desk.

“Atwood,” Bobby repeated.

“Don’t,” said Atwood. “You’re dating, Clancy? I feel like such a fool.”

“I’m sorry, Atwood.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Atwood asked. “What have we been doing?”

“I...” Bobby was clearly at a loss for words. He was caught between two worlds, and Atwood realized this mess was not his own to clean up. He was upset by the part he had played in it, but he had unknowingly participated.

“Clancy, I didn’t know,” he said as sincerely as possible.

“Get the fuck out.”

He grabbed his shoes and his backpack and walked into the hallway. She slammed the door the minute he was clear of it.

Atwood found himself running home again. Only this time he wasn’t running from Bobby’s toward home to talk to Kinlin, he was running from Bobby’s to get away from Bobby. 

When he had run far enough that his legs ached and he couldn’t breathe, he realized he was in the Sculpture Garden. He paused. His side ached worse than his legs. He wanted to vomit; from the running, from the fear, from the anger, from the sadness. He found a bench and sat down. His shirt was wet from running and sticking to him from the cum. He’d never felt more emotionally and physically unappealing. The anger he was feeling began to overtake him. He was angry with Bobby for lying to him and angry for letting himself be duped again. He was angry for opening his heart and for being vulnerable. Then, as if on cue, he remembered wishing it had been Kinlin who was fucking him. 

Days had passed with barely a passing thought of Kinlin. The reason: he had thrown himself into a love affair with Bobby. He felt wanted. He had replaced Kinlin with Bobby. That made him angry at himself and at Kinlin. He didn’t know why he was still angry at Kinlin though. He couldn’t let go of Kinlin. Kinlin had ahold of him. This was his, Atwood’s, problem. He wanted to chalk their night up to a teenage experience, a right of passage, a curiosity explored, but he couldn’t. Kinlin popping into his mind during sex with Bobby meant something. He hadn’t honestly dealt with his feelings. He had packed them away and refused to believe that he actually had feelings for Kinlin. He wanted to blame Kinlin for everything, but the truth was, he loved him and until he dealt with it no Bobby or anyone else would replace him.

He looked around the Sculpture Garden. It was peaceful, serene. He looked at the blank stares of the statues. It occurred to him that they didn’t register human emotion on their faces nor did they feel it in their hearts. They feel nothing. They are stone—cold, without a heart, objects to be gazed upon. They bring joy to the gazer but feel nothing in return. Atwood wished he was cold as stone. He felt the emotional pull of his feelings to Kinlin and to Bobby. He wished he could’t still feel Bobby’s lips on his. He wished he didn’t know what Kinlin’s touch felt like. He wished none of it penetrated his heart. He wasn’t stone though. He was real; flesh and blood and hurt feelings wrapped in confusion and frustration. 

He wanted to run home and lock himself inside. He wanted to be back in Ryland locked in his room. He wanted to be anywhere but inside his head. He didn’t want to deal with his life at all.

He wanted to drink or get high. Something. Anything that would dull the senses and keep the present from pulling him under its crashing wave of reality.

©Michael Rohrer 2012

Existence and Worthiness

Do I exist? Sometimes I honestly ask myself that question. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m real. What alternate universe do I live in? 

I don’t know if I know how to be honestly wall-free and real with people. As much as I try, I think the walls I’ve built around my life - and my heart - are ever present. When I think I’m breaking them down are they really crumbling? Maybe they’re just getting slightly transparent, therefore psyching me into believing they are coming down. 

Some days I get on a roll talking to people. I say, “Hello.” I smile. I really try to be personable and without fail I get nothing in return. I’m led to wonder if I’m setting up this lack of response in advance. I so often feel I get nothing in return that I’m just preparing for the nothing in return each time. That leads to a bout with sadness then anger then an I-don’t-care moment then loneliness sets in then I’m back to my normal again. Inevitably, the cycle will start over when I’m feeling like I want to try again. It’s vicious and I’m caught in it.

I want to matter to someone. That’s what I’ve been feeling a lot lately. I’m not feeling the love or the caring from anyone. Well, there are a few, but that’s just it, it’s only a few.

I surrounded myself for years with just a few close friends thinking I didn’t need scores of acquaintances in my life. Now I’m realizing that when those once closer-than-they-are-now friends don’t reach out, and I don’t see them - ever - then I feel truly alone. Alone in a City that allows one to be anonymous and swallowed up. A city where time never stops, footprints don’t last unless they’re carbon and no one visits your grave.

By this point in my life it shouldn’t shock me anymore that people are people and I don’t like a lot of them very much. It shouldn’t surprise me that NYC is full of pretentious gay men. Hell, I’m one of them. I’ll admit it. I’m one of the people whom I hate. What does that say about me?

I’ll tell you what it says: It says that I don’t like myself. That’s the truth. I don’t. I’m unhappy with who I am. Maybe that’s because I’m working on myself every day and there is so much coming up that I have to deal with that I feel like I’m drowning in the quagmire of my own shit. I can’t remember when I heard it, but the idea of having to love yourself before you can love someone else has been in my head for a very long time. I hate it. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to love someone. 

There are so many days that I feel unwanted, unloved, unworthy. It’s amazing. No amount of mantra-like chanting, “I’m happy, I’m loved, I’m worthy,” changes it. I guess that means I don’t really believe what I’m chanting. I guess I’m just saying the words and feeling them reverberate around my head, bouncing off the crowded walls of cynicism and disappointment.

I know that I’ve changed over the course of my life. I know that I’ve changed in the past four years. I know that I can’t rush it. Therapy seems more and more like the most viable option for change and growth and success. I’m not afraid of therapy. What I’m afraid of is where to start. There’s so much. 

I try to walk with confidence in my life and don’t often succeed. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust other people. Back to feeling unworthy I go.

Lets talk briefly of sex. I don’t know how to let someone in. For too many years I’ve only had hook ups; sexual encounters that mean nothing. I’ve lived my life this way for so long it’s all I know. I don’t know how to be friends with a man before trying to throw my body at him. I can’t imagine how I appear to someone who might like to get to know me, but is put off by my forwardness. When that person doesn’t respond in the affirmative for a bedroom romp then I take it as rejection. Yes! That’s me! Constantly feeling rejection. Rejection that I create. It makes me wonder if I’m happier rejected so that I can continue to wallow in the misery I create myself. Of course, all of this leads to people who are my friends NOT wanting to be around me because when my mood is affected by this I’m unpleasant. I know that. 

I get lonely. I want to be touched. I want to be wanted: as a friend, as a sex partner, as a person. I’m human, damn it! 

Forty years of self-learned behavior and self-loathing isn’t going to go away overnight. I realize that. No amount of retail therapy is going to help either. The new wears off and then there are just pretty possessions filling feng shui'd rooms. The emptiness inside is still there. Only I can change it. I know it’s up to me and no one else. That doesn’t stop me from wondering what would happen to me if another man, someone I was interested in, showed interest in me and reached out. Would I open up? Could I open up? Would I change my life? Would I tell the fearful and untrusting side of me to, “Get Lost!”?

The journey continues...

My Life on Delay

Picture it. Paducah, Kentucky. A small city airport. Instead of arriving two hours before my flight (as I’ve pretty much done since 9/11) I arrived just over an hour before take off. I expected people to already be going through security. I tried to stay calm and not let my later-than-usual-arrival bother me. Paducah airport employees are notorious for sending us through security early. I was already checked in and had paid for my bag so there was no reason to fear. Of course Paducah’s airport is so small that they aren’t equipped with the scanning equipment that would allow me to go green and scan my boarding pass on my iPhone. But I digress. I knew I was going to have to turn in the bag and get it tagged as well as get a boarding pass when we got there. Still, no real reason to worry. 

There was a severe thunderstorm heading into the area that evening, but I had checked the weather for my departure time out of Paducah, my departure time out of Chicago and my arrival time in NYC. Each flight seemed to be departing and arriving without major weather interference. Again, trying to maintain calm.

As I stood in the line to get my boarding pass and bag claim ticket, one of the TSA employees noticed my dad. She knew him. She came over to talk to us. Introductions were made. Blah, blah, blah. Then she asked me what flight I was on. A stupid question really considering Paducah was only connecting to Chicago. I told her I was flying to NYC through Chicago and she quickly blurted out, “It’s been delayed.” The words connected with my brain as I was looking at the smile on her face. It was almost as if she was finding some pleasure in this information. I know that she wasn’t, but I couldn’t let go of the feeling. I asked her why. She had no explanation to give me. I was standing there stunned and my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. Seriously, I could not believe that this flight was delayed. And not just delayed a few minutes. Delayed by a couple hours. 

When I finally made it to the front of the line the man I spoke to was very calm and reassuring. He was doing a great job at not letting the frustrations of the travelers get him down. Gold star! The reason for the delay: fog in Chicago. I had a connecting flight in Chicago that was to depart at 6pm. We were pushed from 2:49pm to 4:55pm for our departure. That meant I had no chance of making that connection. The 7pm out of Chicago was already sold out, but the 9pm still had seats. Great! I’m tentatively booked on the 9pm departing O’Hare at the time I was supposed to be arriving home in NYC. Beggars can’t be choosers. I wanted to get home. For no other reason than I just wanted to. 

So, at this point I was still on the 6pm flight in case the pilots decided when the plane arrived from Chicago that they were going to turn right around and fly back, but I was also tentatively booked on the 9pm in the event that we really were delayed. To delay or not to delay. That is the question. Give me some answers. 

As I sat in the airport with my parents I realized that I might be frustrated, but there was no reason to be angry. All of this was out of my control. There was nothing I could do but wait. If for some reason I couldn’t get out of Paducah that evening then I would go back to my parents’ house and spend the night. It really wasn’t that dire a situation. It was merely frustrating. I tried to let go.

Four fifteen and we’re going through security. I have to pause here for a moment of sincere tenderness. I bought my mom The Help before I had even read it myself based on recommendations of others. I then read it and of course loved it. She also loved it. We each saw the film version and I asked for it on DVD for Christmas. I have watched the DVD already, but wanted to take it with me to my parents’ house so that my mom and I could watch it together. I cried just like I have every time. Every time! I love it. Anyway, mom stood in front of me. We were facing each other with a light grip on each others upper arms. She said to me, “You is kind. You is smart. You is important.” When she started saying the words I joined her and we said them in unison. It reminded me of a time back in the late 90’s when I had taken a Greyhound Bus to Nashville, Tennessee for an extended stay at my parents’ house while I waited for the theatre where I worked to book a new show. At that point Wide Open Spaces by the Dixie Chicks was a hugely popular album; the title song a bonafide hit. When the time came for me to actually head back to NYC (two weeks later), she and dad drove me to Nashville. I went though the doors and started to climb the steps of the bus. Mom opened the door and said, “Check the oil,” a lyric from the song "Wide Open Spaces" about a girl getting ready to drive away and begin her own life. It puts a smile on my face any time I think about. The line from The Help now joins the ranks. I’m a sentimental fool. Any thoughts on where I get it?

So learning from each trip through security how to separate my belongings for the X-ray, I grabbed three tubs. One held my boots. One held my coat and scarf. One held my computer and iPhone. I sent my bag through by itself. At LaGuardia on the way to Kentucky they had to send it through a second time on its own, so I started there this time. Everything in its neat little line, feeding through the X-ray machine, I looked at the TSA agent and awaited her motion for me to walk through the metal detector. I beeped. I took off my bracelet and threw it into the tub with my boots which had yet to make it into the black box and the eye of the X-ray. I walked back through. I beeped. I removed my belt and threw it into the tub with my still waiting boots. I never beep. Ever. This was frustrating for me. The delay, the beeps, the frustration. I walked back through. No beep. Not this time. But something new. I got sent to the side for a pat down. A pat down! It was the woman who knew my dad. I’ve never had a pat down in my life. So there I was standing in my sock feet, jeans, no belt, no bracelet and my fading beeps in the air getting a pat down in Paducah, Kentucky. My parents stood just beyond the separating glass watching as I was checked for security issues.

Then the trouble I had taken to send everything through the X-ray so that it could all be examined easily hit a snag. For the second time in a row my Marc Jacobs bag had to be sent through again. The TSA agent asked if it was my bag. I answered affirmatively. She said she needed to open it. I nodded approval. She took out my coin purse, which had my Sugar lip moisturizer inside, and sent the bag through again. At that point I was thinking they might not let me take the Sugar on the plane. It is not inside a 1-quart bag and I guess it could be dangerous. I did get a pat down after all. I must look suspicious. The frustration continued to stew. Sugar lip moisturizer is not cheap. I was already thinking that I would have to control my anger if this Podunk airport wouldn’t let me take it on the plane when it got through security in NYC with no problem. 

Turns out it was the change purse and its contents that were throwing them off. I’m not sure what it looked like on the X-ray machine, but they deemed my bag okay after a second go through. They also didn’t take my Sugar. Crisis averted.

I waved a final goodbye to my parents, redressed myself then headed to the waiting area on that side of security. From one blue seat to another. Separated by glass walls. Sitting and waiting. 

Finally we started boarding the plane. Every one was onboard. The flight attendant had counted, people had changed seats, the flight attendant had counted again, seat belts had been fastened and the flight attendant spiel has been spieled. Then the door was closed and locked. It was at that point that our captain told us that Chicago has cleared us for a 5:30pm departure. Collective groans. See, we’re on the plane for a 5pm departure being told we’re going to be sitting in the closed plane for at least half-an-hour more before departure. In a codicil to the aforementioned announcement, we were told that our departure could be later. There was not only fog in Chicago, but due to the snow they’d received the day before they had limited runways in use. I was thinking that our small plane must be unimportant to the powers-that-be in the tower at O’Hare. 

As we sat their waiting to depart we were informed that due to the fog there was a chance we couldn’t land in Chicago. If this was the case we were going to divert our landing to Cleveland, Ohio. Another groan. Really? There we were trapped in this flying, tin tube, being told we might not even land where our connecting flights are departing. I started pondering why hadn’t the 5:30pm departure been told to us before the door locked us in? Why hadn’t the possibility of a Cleveland landing been disclosed to us? The frustration was building yet again, but then I remembered that all of this was out of my control. There was nothing I could do. I had to - HAD TO - roll with the punches. 

I pulled out my book and started to read. I already knew I was going to miss my 6pm connection to NYC in Chicago so I had been officially rebooked on the 9pm flight. I just had to sit and wait for the plane to roll and the wheels to lift off.

The flight was uneventful. We departed at 5:30pm and we landed in Chicago. No Cleveland. No Betty White. She’s hot in Cleveland, you know. Sigh of relief. Then we sat. On the plane. Waiting. Limited runways meant we landed far enough away from our gate to taxi for a while. Then we waited at the gate for the bags that were to be picked up curbside to be taken off the plane. The man next to me was frustrated. No, I would say angry. When the flight attendant announced the information about us waiting for the bags, my seat mate yelled, “Not everyone has a bag to pick up and some of us have tight connections.” His voice was as arched as my uplifted eyebrows. I’m not sure if it was his yelling or if the arrival of the bag cart coincided with it, but the doors opened almost immediately. We began to exit. I let him off in front of me. I had no where to be. My layover was now 2.5 hours. I was stuck. From one blue seat in a waiting area in Kentucky to a blue seat in a waiting area in Illinois. My ass was tired of those blue seats. I was tired. The waiting sucked.

Gate B8 was my departure gate out of O’Hare. I found its waiting area to be empty and inviting. The gate agents were nice enough. The man was a little snippy, but I’ve been that too at the end of a long day of work. I’m sure the weather knocking out flights didn’t help any agent’s disposition that day. The woman was funny with a sense of humor I recognized as my own. I asked her for an aisle and she obliged with one that put me closer to the front than my already assigned window seat. I thanked her. She told me my request had been an easy one. 

I chose a seat from all the empties and sat. I people watched. I smiled at cute guys. I bemoaned to myself how many of them were straight. I played Hanging With Friends on my iPhone and sent texts. Ah, the ways of passing time while waiting in an airport. 

Soon enough the female gate agent with the sense of humor made the announcement that our gate had changed. Not a big deal. We moved from B8 to B9. Neighboring gates. I made my way to B9 and sat in yet another chair. 

People started to filter into the gate area. I happened to look up at the television screen that was showing our flight number and indicating the names of people eligible for upgrades, etc., when I noticed it said we were delayed to 9:20pm. My heart sank. First flight delayed by 2.5 hours. Missed connection. Second flight delayed by 20 minutes. What could I do? Nothing but wait. I couldn’t allow myself anger. It would have been stupid. I was at the mercy of someone else and the weather. It was out of my control.

The television screen then changed from 9:20pm to a delay of 10pm. That now meant a 2am arrival in NYC. I rolled my eyes. I became droll as I passed on the information to asking passengers. The reason on the screen said: Operations. What did that mean? It didn’t say weather. It didn’t say fog. Operations? Is that mechanical? The arriving flight that would then be restocked and take us to NYC had not arrived yet. I heard a gate agent tell someone else that prized piece of information. Okay, so maybe that was what “Operations” meant. 

Finally the flight arrived. I watched the people deplane. They looked okay. No one looked thankful to just be on the ground. I always check for that as an indication that maybe the flight was turbulent or something. 

More people began arriving in the gate area for the 9pm departure. Reactions were mixed as they discovered the flight’s delay to 10pm. Most just sat to wait. Some wanted to rebook for the morning and go to a hotel. I’m not kidding. It was delayed an hour and a group of seven people contemplated going back to their hotel. Come on! I couldn’t keep the stupid thoughts about them from scrolling across my brain. 

There we were, the passengers and the flight crew, sitting, waiting for our moment to board. It came as a shock to all of us when the voice of the gate agent--the one I had overheard tell of the arriving plane’s lateness--boomed over the speaker that he was sorry to inform those of us on United flight 762 to LaGuardia that our flight had been cancelled. Cancelled! No explanation. Nothing. Just cancelled. Please go to Customer Service. I was defeated. People ran to the Customer Service desk. The line was ridiculously long. It seems more than one flight had been cancelled. I don’t understand what the delay of “Operations” meant and I don’t understand why they didn’t tell us the reason for the cancellation. The frustration was boiling up. I knew I would be doing nothing but hurting myself if I got angry though. I guess that’s growth.

I joined the line and began my wait. Waiting had been the theme of the day. I had packed at my parents’ house and waited to leave for the airport. I had waited for the delayed boarding and departure in Paducah. I had waited through the layover time in Chicago and those delays. Now I was waiting in a cancellation line. My life was existing on delay.

I overheard the man behind me in line talking to an agent on the phone. He was rebooking his flight without the need of talking to one of the very-much-in-the-distance Customer Service people. As his voiced silenced I turned to him. I asked him who he was speaking to. He had called his travel agent. He informed me that the 6am and 7am flights were already full, but there were seats still available on the 6:20am flight. I looked at my place in line and the number of people in front of me. I had no illusions that there would be seats left on that flight by the time I made it to the front of the line. 

I pulled out my iPhone and opened an email from United. I accessed the Contact Us section and called the number. Three minutes later I had an agent on the phone, happy and willing to help rebook me on a flight the next morning. The 6:20am still had seats and in less than five minutes I was on it. I exited the line and went straight to a kiosk where I checked in for that flight and printed my boarding pass. See ya later, suckers waiting for an agent. It’s funny how almost all of us had smartphones, but everyone wasn’t smart enough to use them. Glad my ears perked up to the man’s conversation behind me. Unintentional eaves dropping can pay off sometimes.

Now to get a room. The shittiest part of the entire delayed/cancelled flight day was the fact that it is United’s policy NOT to pay for hotel rooms when flights have been cancelled. I heard the United employee extolling this information to us mention that they do not pay for reasons of weather, but I didn’t hear him mention “Operations.” I would still like to know what the hell “Operations” meant. Anyway, he gave us vouchers for a discount. A discount.

I couldn’t help but think about the industry in which I work--theatre. When Hurricane Irene blew through NYC and shut down our subway system and caused the cancellation of all Broadway and off-Broadway shows for the weekend, the question of refunds was moot. A cancelled show equals automatic refund. That’s just how it is. The show didn’t go on; we can’t keep your money. In the case of a cancelled flight, they keep our money because they rebook us on another flight. I get that. However, United gave us nothing for the inconvenience. They got my money for the flight and then I had to pay extra to spend the night somewhere other than in the airport. I realize that no one can control the weather, but all the theatre owners the weekend of Irene lost money. United lost nothing and the Hilton made bank. There’s something to be said for being connected to the airport. That’s right, there’s a Hilton connected to the airport. Conspiracy theory. 

For $99 I got a room at the Hilton. It was connected by an underground tunnel to the airport. There was no shuttle, no waiting outside. I recognized many people from that cancellation line in the two lines at the Hilton. Yes, the Hilton made bank that night from all of us stranded flyers whom United wouldn’t pay for. I guess the Hilton was going to make bank no matter who paid for the room. I just wish their gain hadn’t been my bank account’s loss.

I was tired when I got to my cute little room on the third floor. I had been sitting and waiting and waiting and sitting and flying and waiting and sitting and standing and grabbing a Clif Bar to eat and waiting and sitting for hours. I mean the day was over. I didn’t even take the time to pick up something for dinner in the sports bar that I could clearly see from the elevator bank. No. I just wanted to get to the room. I called the front desk and requested a wake up call for 4:30am then got into bed with my book.

Thankfully the Hilton staff provided a tooth brush and tooth paste for me for the next morning. All of my toiletries, clean underwear and fresh clothes were packed in a bag that I had checked. I didn’t even know where that bag was other than somewhere inside O’Hare. I didn’t even know when it would get to NYC the next day as I was booked on the 9pm flight that had been cancelled. I was assured by the same man who told me United wouldn’t pay for my room that United had ways we didn’t even know about for getting people’s bags to their destination. Wow, United can’t pay for the rooms of stranded passengers, but they can do magic where your checked bags are concerned. They eased my mind. NOT!

The ringing phone at 4:30am the next morning was too jarring. It was too early. It was too much. I just wanted to get showered, get on that plane and get back home to my life and my routines.

I showered and redressed in the clothes I had chosen to travel home in the night before. I had no deodorant as it was in the checked bag. Thankfully, the shirt I was wearing for the second day in a row didn’t stink and I smelled fresh from the shower. I got dressed, put my iPhone and book back in my Marc Jacobs bag, did an eyeball sweep of the room and headed out the door by 5am. 

I found my terminal easily enough, but the line of people waiting for security that greeted me was something I hadn’t prepared for. I guess I should have had the forethought that there would be many people flying out that morning due to the cancellations from the night before. I was concerned. I wondered if I would make it to the security checkpoint before my flight was to start boarding at 5:50am. Thankfully, what I couldn’t see was that the line branched into several smaller lines once beyond the podiums where two women checked ID’s and boarding passes. 

I began to breathe easier. I could see my departure gate. It was directly through security. No left turn, no right turn, just a straight walk to plant my butt on another blue seat.

So I’d learned what I should do with all of my items that had to scan through X-ray. I used one tub for boots, belt and bracelet. I used one tub for coat and scarf. I used one tub for computer, iPhone and coin purse (removed from my Marc Jacobs bag in the hope that this time the bag would only be sent through once), and then I let the MJ ride flat by itself. Everything was moving forward. No hang-ups. I turned to the TSA agent who indicated I needed to remove my sweater. I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Seriously?” I knew I didn’t need to draw attention to myself to activate suspicion and another pat down. I was just confused. I had paid attention each time I had had to go through security on this trip. I had made mental notes and purposeful changes so that I could get it right and make my walk through security smooth and easy. The day before in Paducah, where they patted me down, I didn’t have to remove the sweater. I was wearing the exact outfit in the exact way. The sweater wasn’t even buttoned. It was fully open and would have blown in the wind had there been one. My frustration was rigid in my body language. I dropped my license and I nearly ripped my boarding pass in half, but I got the damn sweater off and threw it on the belt and let it go through X-ray.

When the TSA agent called my through I did not beep. I also did not make eye contact with her. She told me to have a nice day. A sentiment not lost on me when people wish me well when they know I’m irritated at them. Again, I made no eye contact. I redressed myself and walked to my gate.

Boarding started. I was in the fourth group of regular flyers. After all premium members and armed forces people and those traveling with children and those needing assistance and those who had not been last-minute-my-flight-was-cancelled-can-I-get-a-seat-on-this-one bookers. I got to my seat, a lovely aisle. I saw many familiar faces from the night before. It didn’t matter. We were all on the plane and our departure was 10 minutes away.

"Good morning from the flight deck, ladies and gentlemen. We're just waiting on a mechanic to come up and take a look at something..." That was not the way I had expected or wanted that flight to begin. There was an audible groan from the many around me who had experienced the cancellation the night before. I saw the mechanic enter the plane eventually. I don’t know how long we waited for him. The captain had told us in his earlier announcement that he thought it would be 15 minutes. There I was sitting again and waiting. I had to laugh. I sat there and smiled to myself as I shook my head. I don’t know what was going on in the Universe. All I know is that I didn’t let any of what it was throwing at me affect me like I would have even a year ago.

Our flight was cleared for take off. We didn’t have to wait in line for departure very long once we’d taxied. Our flight was relatively smooth. We landed without incident. I went straight to baggage claim. I explained about my cancelled flight from the previous night. I was pointed to the office where unclaimed luggage is kept. I could see my bag through the window. United had magicked it to NYC before I even arrived. I felt like Harry Potter when he arrives at Hogwarts each new term and his trunk found its way to his room without him having to take it there. The man with the voucher for my hotel discount was right. United had ways.

Outside in the taxi line, I couldn’t even worry about its length. I was on the ground back in my City. I was a taxi ride away from home. I wanted the line to move, but I was dealing with its turtle speed progression just fine.

When I finally got into my cab I gave the driver my address. He told me he had wanted a passenger bound for Manhattan and instead got one staying in Queens. I laughed and told him I’d been trying to get home since yesterday. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “Effie, we all got pain.”

The frustrations I’d been feeling and trying to keep at bay melted away when I walked into my house. I showered and sat my tired ass on my sofa to catch up on the television that was waiting for me on my DVR. When exhaustion finally took over around 8pm, I slept for 14 hours.

Then and Now

High school. Days filled with classes and tests and pop quiz’s. Coach Dreher, Mrs. Cates, Burley. Gossip shared in the hallway. Lunch breaks on the bleachers, or the stage, with a Coke, Mt. Dew or Sun Drop and a bag of some kind of chips. Laughter and tears. Bullies. Homecomings and Proms. Basketball games, national anthems. Senior play rehearsal. Pizza day. Sneaking off the the Pool Room for a Pool Room burger. Rides to and from school with friends, the cassette player blaring Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” George Michael’s “Faith,” or Lita Ford’s “Kiss Me Deadly.”

I’ve got a few shoe boxes in a closet at my parents’ house that contains high school memories. Sometimes when I go to Kentucky for a visit I open the boxes. I did so again recently. The picture to the left shows prom memorabilia. Stuff. Junk. Things. They were important to me at the time. That’s why I kept them. I have the prom tickets to all three of the proms I attended. There are framed pictures of me with my date from a couple of those proms. The bow tie's from both of the Homecomings where I was an escort are in there. One even has a partial boutonniere attached to it. I have my Junior and Senior prom books. I have the mugs that went with them. The colors and themes bring it all back. It makes me shake my head, the left corner of my lips curling into the slightest smile, that I still have this stuff. I just can’t bring myself to throw it away.

I’ve written about my high school days in tiny portions here and there. Most of it has been about the bad times, the bullied times, etc. There were good times though.

In recent years I have opened the door to let people back into my life. Let me explain. When I graduated and moved away to college I went as far as I could go. That was three hours away. I applied to two Universities and was accepted to both. I chose Western Kentucky University because it was where I really wanted to go and because it was the farthest of the two from my small town. I wanted to start fresh. I wanted to remove the possibility of coming home every weekend. I wanted to be far enough away that I could explore my life without the prying eyes of my parents, other relatives or family friends.

I was away at school for five years and, aside from holiday visits, I think I came home for a couple of summers to live once again. After that I started performing in summer stock or just staying in Bowling Green. I had no desire live in Arlington. Or as I like to call it - Population 600.

I’ve now been gone from Arlington for more than twenty years. I’ve been living in New York for almost fifteen. When you’ve been gone for that long, friendships and faces slip away. You may never fully forget them, but they don’t hover at the surface anymore. They’re hidden. Filed away. You have to click the spotlight in the upper right corner of your Mac and type a name and find out where you stored it.

With the advent of Facebook, I made the decision to accept friend requests from some of the people I went to high school with. It was a decision I had to weigh before making. You see, I have never hidden my sexual orientation on Facebook and I knew that by saying, “yes” to those particular friend requests I would be officially outing myself. That was a big decision for me to make. Small town gossip and all that Peyton Placeish behavior, you know. It didn’t matter that many of those people had assumed for my entire high school career that I was gay. This access to my information was confirmation of said assumption. I wasn’t sure I was ready, but I made the decision to start saying, “yes.”

Slowly I began letting former friends back into my life and in turn I got to be let back into theirs. My fears were not justified. I now have people back in my life who can say, “I knew you when” and who genuinely care about what’s happening with me now. How amazing is that? We can just accept each other as people and be comfortable and happy in each other’s presence.

I was scared of the opening up and letting in. That’s the truth. I started public school as a freshman. My classmates and I had to get to know each other even though we had lived in the same small county together our entire lives. I had not gone to school with them since kindergarten. I might has well have been a new resident from some alien planet. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted friends. I wanted to be popular (who doesn’t). Those things didn’t come easy. High school is a tough crowd. Breaking into years-formed cliques is difficult.

I was never popular, but I did make friends. I made some wonderful friends that I’m fortunate to have in my life again now as adults.

Fifteen months ago, I was in Kentucky visiting my family and gave in to a gathering of some of those friends. I was nervous; I’m not gonna lie. My nerves were quickly soothed when I got the house of the host. There was nothing but smiles and hugs to greet me. I set myself up for failure instead of embracing that reunion as an incredible possibility. Those nerves were stupid yet I didn’t learn from that experience fully.

I recently initiated another of those gatherings. I wanted to see these people, my high school comrades, again. This time I reached out to the friend who hosted us last time and she took it from there. More people were invited. Different people. My wall went up a little. I felt I had to protect myself. Why? Why did I need to do that? These people, like any others who are friends with me on Facebook, no about my life. They have the opportunity to read my status updates and my blog. They can see that I’m gay and where I stand politically. That didn’t stop any of them from coming to hang out with me and each other.

We’re not in high school anymore. We’re all 40-year-olds. There are marriages and divorces and remarriages and re-divorces and children and jobs and growth. We’re not the same people that we were in high school. It has been my great privilege to get reacquainted with these people from my years as a moody teenager. It has been my abundance to receive by opening my heart to them again.

High school memories can make us laugh, cringe, roll our eyes, maybe even cry, but sharing those things with the people who lived it with you is a major coup. There is still gossip. There are new stories mixed with the old. There is still laughter. There is a knowing that comes when you’re from the same small place. There is an excitement to hear about what’s been going on. We’re not walking down those high school hallways anymore. We’re walking down the road of life. We’re sometimes wiser for our choices. Sometimes not, but they’re ours and we can sit around the table and share the experience as adults with only the faint image of ourselves in our baggy sweatshirts and Eastland’s in the background.