If I had the opportunity to act upon my feelings for each Muscle of the Month, everyone I know would say that one should not evaluate a person solely by his exterior. I agree, but I still wouldn't call a concert pianist to move my piano. They would also say that I should focus my energy on realistic candidates and establish healthy relationships with them based on mutual respect and compatibility. Once again, I agree. Unfortunately, finding intelligent conversation with a man in Charlotte has traditionally been as likely as spotting a live panda in the women's shoe department of Dillard's.
The dating pool of single gay men doesn't make connection any easier. The frightened boys who believe they are passing reject anyone who exhibits the androgynous traits that they have learned to hate about themselves. They seem to be waiting for the disheveled white knight in an armor of hyper-masculinity. They have learned to abhor the vapor of sensitivity that softened our features and prevented us from passing through a junior high school gym unscathed.
I'm willing to admit that I'm no better than anyone else is at handling the allure of muscular butch boys who don't know how to dress. My head buzzes from proximity to the erotic interplay of their every curve, angle, and solid. Stripped of degrees, careers, or possessions, they still wield their power and playground savvy knotted across their chests, backs, and arms wherever they go. Genuinely straight men, however, want women or surrogate mothers.
Some of us build bigger bodies in an unconvincing emulation of the paradoxical object of desire-a straight man that has lots of sex with other men. With our firm but undefined pectoral muscles leading the way, we swagger about like butterflies in a china shop. Sadly, the queer assimilators still perceive each other and us as no less absurd in muscle drag than we would be lip-syncing to Diana Ross in a beaded dress. Our closeted, constipated peers condemn us on sight, as the reminders of damnation surface in the openness of our gaze, in the expressiveness of our hands, or perhaps the brittle, self-conscious navigation of our bodies. The entire "community" silently acquiesces to the repercussions of not only ubiquitous homophobia but also the misconception that "straight-acting" will ever be anything more than acting.
Those of us who believe we have been displaced from the richness of love and life search tirelessly for the perfect candlesticks or rush to another film, rejecting ourselves prematurely as mislaid pieces from different puzzles. Instead of embracing risk or cultivating relationships, we use our ample spare time to memorize the limits on our options. Our baritones bleat out our loneliness with escalating alarm in every syllable.
Outside the realm of imagination, my search for a witty, unconventional healer continues. Although my predilection for spectacular deltoids never fades, I have reprioritized my standards for my "co-conspirator." All I ask of a potential partner is that he stays reasonably fit, employed, and drug-free; and that he keeps the inanities flowing. I need his body and blather to distract me from the tape loop in my head that plays "GOTTA GET A BOYFRIEND!" non-stop and at top volume. I can sit in front of him, liberated at last from single status, feigning the cues of an improvisational interest as he yammers away. Basking under the heat of his voice, I am finally permitted to evaporate gradually until I drift imperceptibly into the pattern of the wallpaper.
Lobby/Permanent Collection/Temporary Exhibit
The Tim Kramer Memorial Auditorium/Topiary Maze
Wellbutrin Cafe/Gift Shop
Audio Guide