The Love of My Life--for the month of October
There's this guy....
There's this guy who is serving it up at a hip new restaurant in town. I visited his workplace, Café Dada, after attending an excellent performance piece by Holly Hughes. My host and bartender was an attractive, bespectacled spikyblonde who, despite his considerable height, probably weighed eight pounds in a wet sheepskin parka. I gave my order to a pierced alterna-girl who was so indistinct that she appeared to be a different person each time she returned to the table; this young woman made me realize what Alzheimer's patients must suffer on a regular basis. Although I didn't have to turn my head, my peripheral vision told me that someone else was hovering about, some male-flavored someone in a baby blue baseball jacket with the kind of impressive proportions that could lead to my financial ruin. I tried to avoid enslavement by frantically searching for images in the sponging technique used on the tabletop. ("Oh, look a bird, and a clown. And there's a bunny.")
When my order was up, you can probably guess who brought my food. I had already placed my glasses on the table, but I could sense the change in barometric pressure that indicated an approaching torrent of gorgeous. By the time I could focus on the fingers that placed my plate on the table, I could sense the sparrow battering underneath my ribs. For some reason known only to those who torture professionally, he sat across from me at my booth and prattled on about a buffet of hot sauces just around the corner at the back of the restaurant (because "the wraps tend to be a little dry"). I felt like an old, tattered love letter blown against a chain link fence.
He was probably twenty-five and had that eclectic look appropriate to his age group (musician/ jock/ model/ artist/ slacker/ nouveau riche/ Euro-trash). His sideburns borrowed a portion of his beard in a peculiar but not uncommon configuration that established a tapering line toward his mouth.
From that mouth, a mouth full of perfect teeth, came a voice that was distinctive, almost odd, but not unpleasantly so. The sounds he made had a buffered softness indicative of the Southern gentleman without the stigmatic twang or drawl. His baritone improvisation on salsa had shades and tones that possessed a gentle sensual pull like the static electricity along the skin of a balloon. Something in his voice echoed the qualities of warm caramel over ice cream and sunlight on suede. Patchouli incense and buttered cinnamon toast. Old books and orange-flavored tea. Most importantly, the man who was heating up the vinyl-covered bench across from my table had a voice that reminded me of an old college friend named Ray. In fact, he favored him somewhat.
An angel in heat
I remember how Ray, suffered for being far too beautiful than his lower class upbringing could allow. His angelic looks and feline grace gave him a magnetism that he learned to use and abuse. His lips were well defined, his skin was smooth, and his ass was spectacular--especially when showcased in a dance belt and tights. In my admittedly limited history with men, I have never known anyone who was more adept at embracing his sexuality while simultaniously denying it with an equivalent frequency and enthusiasm. In between dates with other men, he had a revolving door relationship with an older man named Willie who was perfectly willing to treat him as badly as my misguided friend felt he deserved. Although he was discreet, almost prudish, around me, the stories I heard of his colorful indiscretions kept adding up. While I was in my studio space listening to Kim Carnes singing "Hurricane," Ray was naked in his Mustang on an isolated back road, making out with a drummer named Doug as hurricane strength winds moaned right along with him.
My favorite mental image of Ray came from one of the fall semester Drop/Add lines housed inside an ancient, cavernous gymnasium on the campus of ECU. Notebooks, cards and papers in the students hands and on the tables browned in the 450° August heat. I found Ray sitting on the floor near an open exit. He was changing majors from Dance to Urban Planning (don't expect me to explain...I don't even understand how he convinced his parents to pay for an education in dance). The summer had left him virtually monochromatic. His tanned face had a moist sheen that in a more comfortable environment would have been mistaken for a post-coital sweat. Scattered islands of a darker blue dalmationed the periwinkle polo shirt drawn tight across his mesomorphic chest. Under damp denim, the lump of his cock, notorious for spontaneous, ill-timed erections, did nothing to dispel the heat or my insidious crush.
He was an excellent distraction from my creative inertia, offering an escape from relentlessly blank canvases by proposing numerous meals together. He even set me up with a naïve, creative, and demanding high school senior with a hearty laugh, who fell fast and hard for my short-lived potential. (Breaking up with Scott is what I refer as Big Regret No. 2. I visited him in UNC-Greensboro right after his life opened up. Neither of us expected to see how the other had altered: Scott for the better, me for the worse. He became The Luckiest/Most Popular Man in GreensboroTM before a chance encounter would take him to Philadelphia in 1987. I, Bad News in a School Bus-Yellow Raglan OvercoatTM, could have hitched my wagon to that supernova, if I had not insisted in April of 1984 that we be "realistic." Who knew?)
The last time I saw him, approximately eight years after I shot the photo seen here, Ray had come to Charlotte to help a friend move. His hair was shorter and more flattering; his shoulders and chest were broader. My golden boy was hotter than ever before, as if he needed to be. We went to a bar later that evening, where, without warning, he fished for confirmation of his suspicions about the unrequited feelings I had for him in the past. Naturally I confessed everything, even though honesty wouldn't help me break the lock on his Levi's. What could one pathologically submissive black hole offer another?
Unfortunately, self-loathing pretty boys like Ray with high sex drives, perfect, accommodating asses, and lousy taste in men are not long for this world. The inevitable call came one December evening, during which Ray, sounding terribly, terribly small, revealed his HIV-positive status. After, "Oh, no..." I didn't know what to do or say. Instead of one of over six hundred better options, I just let him slip away, and never heard from him again.
The hunger versus the hung
The transfer of feeling, from carefully edited memories of Greenville, NC to the painstakingly maximized flesh seated less than a yard away, was effortless. I glanced at the chubby, phallic wrap on my plate and felt a desire for Mr. Eclectic so acutely that I had to struggle to remain conscious. I couldn't figure out what he was up to. Was he one of the owners protecting his investment by making sure I enjoyed my meal? Somehow I found the stamina to respond to his suggestions in a competent manner. Just before I could shout, "Personal space invasion! You don't know how long it's been! Use your masculine wiles on someone your own size, mister!" he walked toward the kitchen to fetch a pair of desserts for the two women behind me.
The baby blue typhoon had roared in, devastating everything in its path before dissipating as quickly as it came. A Teletubbie in me was jumping up and down begging, "Again! Again!" I can't wait to go back!
(Culinary note: Mr. Eclectic was right--the wrap was a little dry.)
Ranking (9.0-10): 9.4
(Bonus points for a straight male's ability
to take a profound lack of awareness about how to dress
and turn it into sex appeal)
Dollar value of an intimate encounter ($200.00-$1,000.00):
$600.00, but only because I'm feeling a little nostalgic
Dollar value of voice ($20.00 per hour spent reading to me): Unlimited, of course
Potential for domestic violence (0=make love, not war; 10=dial 911 now!): 7
(He's a bold, impressive wall of muscle,
but I confess that my generosity with his rank
is only wishful thinking.)
For additional observations about life in Charlotte for single gay men, see the One-Man Show.
The Love of My Life--for the month of June
The Love of My Life--for the month of July
No Love of My Life for the Month of August
The Love of My Life--for the month of September
Lobby/Permanent Collection/Temporary Exhibit
The Tim Kramer Memorial Auditorium/Topiary Maze
Wellbutrin Cafe/Gift Shop
Audio Guide