"Come out, come out, whereever you are. . ."

So today, after the funeral of a very good friend, I was standing with two people who (whom?) I have loved dearly for a very long time. One of them I still see regularly and communicate with often. The other, I only see maybe once or twice a year in social settings, and always feel like "We're still friends." And then regret that we don't see each other more often.

So something got us to telling stories, and I was telling one that she had heard before, but was still quite funny, and he had not. And I was doing that "gay thing" in my head where I'm trying to plan each sentence and make the pronouns non-gender-specific so that I'm not lieing, but I'm not using "he."

And then I told myself to stop it. I looked at Sissy, then looked at Ro and said, "This story will be a lot more funny if I use the right pronouns." Then I took Ro's hands and held it while I told a hugely funny story from my . . . more rambunctious days. . . with a gentleman we'll call Parker.

And by using Parker's name and the gender correct pronouns, I went ahead and came out to a friend I've had since 1980 something. Now, he didn't gasp in surprise or say, "I always wondered" or "I always knew." He never flinched while holding my hand. He did, however, laugh to the point of crying with this true life story.

I've wanted him to know for quite a while. I'm not even sure why, no more than I see him. But it seemed important that he know. And now he does.

And he also knows I was once a slut who slept with someone just because they had electricity, and air conditioning, when I did not.

Kirstie,

I have so missed you. It rocks to have you back.

Kurt Hummel

For my birthday, MyFella totally surprised me with tickets to see Wicked. Bought, paid for, done. Just got to wait a month. I was in shock. I felt inside completely like Kurt Hummel.

Melody Pond

I wish I could tell you that you'll be loved, and safe and cared for and protected. But

This isn't the time for lies.
What you are going to be, Melody, is very, very brave.
But not as brave as they'll have to be.
Because there's someone coming.
I don't know where he is, or what he's doing
But trust me, he's on his way.
There's the man whose never going to let us down.
And not even an army can get in the way.
He's the last of his kind.
He looks young, but he's lived for hundreds and hundreds of years.
And where ever they take you, Melody
However scared you are, I promise you,
You won't ever be alone.
Because this man is your father.
He has a name, but the people of our world know him better
as The Last Centurion.

"Almost like old times."

"It was good to see you out last night. Almost like old times" her text said.

If by "almost like old times" she meant me spending $20 in one dollar bills on tipping drag queens and eyeing the shirtless guys like hunks of meat in front of a wolf, then yes, almost like old times.

And I'd had that same thought as the night went on.

It was a birthday party for a friend, a beautiful young lady who has matured quite nicely from a skinny, irreverent, wild, unsettled child-woman into a curvacious, irreverent, wild, one-woman-woman. The past few years have been good to her, filling out both her body and her relationship, but unable to take the "it's my birthday, let's party" attitude away.

They chose a fairly new gay nightclub in town to which I had not been before. MyFella and I discussed it, as we had planned on having Jamie with us, and decided that since the couple came to my big 40th 2 years ago, one of us should go to hers. Or as he put it the next morning, "I said 'One of us' and you certainly volunteered."

Why, yes. Yes, I did.

I put on clothes that I thought made me look good. I was pleased when the cashier gave me back ones to use. And I marveled at my good luck to being going on a night for not just a drag show, but a pageant. A true pageant on the gay pageant circuit. Beautiful drag queens from all over the South, as far away as Dallas. And that's a fair drive from here. Heck, as big as Texas is, that's a fair drive from anywhere.

Drag queens in costume changes, or rip-off skirts revealing under-skirts that completely change the look of the costume, big wigs, short wigs, colored wigs. One drag queen sang live, not just lip syncing, very well from Indi Arie.

And then here was the birthday party complete with body shots and dirty dancing. And at least one shirtless (not as cute as he thought he was, but cute just the same) guy in the crowd.

Yes, it was a fantastic two hours. I admit it. I love a gay bar. I love a gay environment and a gay atmosphere. I love gay guys and gay girls and dance music and mixed drinks and drag queens.

And I love friends hosting birthday parties. I just wonder if I have to worry about any of me showing up on Facebook later today.

Demons Run

"Demons run when a good man goes to war.
Night will fall and drown the sun when a good man goes to war.
Friendship dies and true love lies,night will fall and the dark will rise
when a good man goes to war.

Demons run but count the cost.
The battle's won but the child is lost."


~ River Song

Gay Again, Gay Again. . .

Last night I went out to meet a friend for dinner. Near leaving, he asked if I would mind meeting two of his friends at a trendy little place I hadn't been to in years. It seemed like a good idea to me, and since he and I aren't especially close, I thought meeting his friends would definitely help with the conversation flow, plus give me a little insight into him.

The whole evening, the entire experience, turned into the funnest little mind-cation for me. An hour and a half of the experiences of the more carefree gays with foppish talk and cold drinks in pretty colors with the taste of vodka.

I told myself in my head, "Enjoy this." It was just a little bit of time, with talk and pictures of ex's and ex's currents, and words like "drama" and "tragic" and "girl." Funny how the passage of time hasn't changed the vocabulary of younger gays on a night out.

My cosmopolitans were over priced. My food was delicious. The two guys I met were darling. And my friend, . . . turns out he's a real person with real life stuff going on.

Now, for the next time out, I just need to find my "dressy" flip flops.

The Hitchhiker

So today on my lunch break, I picked up a hitch hiker.

I had taken my lunch to work, but didn't have any utensils with which to eat it, and was getting too hungry. Decided to just go ahead and go buy some fast food instead of microwaving a frozen meal without utensils.

I'm not a half a mile down the road when I come up on this guy walking down the road with a backpack and a rolling duffel bag. It seemed odd, out of place, on this stretch of road that's really sort of an industrial park. And honestly, yes, he was cute. Looked to be about 21, and he looked clean. And I just couldn't imagine why a guy was walking on that stretch of road with a backpack and a rolling duffel bag. He looked like he was struggling with it all.

So I turned around and rolled down my window, "Where are you going?" He said, "The interstate." The interstate is probably not 100 feet from the fast food place to which I was headed, so I told him to get in.

And on the way I asked him where he was headed and he said, "To the Rocky Mountains." So he really was hitch hiking. I asked where he was coming from and he said - - - - - - get this now - - - - - - the town we were in!

So I picked up a hitch hiker who was still in his hometown.

I asked him what kind of people usually pick up hitch hikers (except for guys in four door red Sedans) and he said, "They say people who hitch hiked in their past and truckers."

Then he said it was his first time to hitchhike.

So do you get what I'm telling you? This kid was on his very first hitchhike across country to the Rocky Mountains. And I was the first guy to pick him up, while he was still in his hometown.

So I took him to the interstate and he got out and I wished him luck. I hope his early start on getting picked up is a good omen for the rest of his trip.

Niece

So about a week ago, I was invited to the birthday dinner of my niece, who is going into the sixth grade. “Neice” is someone I adore, and have been close friends with her mother since about ’95.

Today I was having lunch, a rare treat, with her mother, who said, “Niece asked me if you knew that she knew that you’re gay. I told her I wasn’t sure, but she could talk to you about it the next time she sees you.”

Jump back a week to her birthday dinner when I took a look at her hair and said, “Niece. Have you been swimming?” and of course she’s been swimming all summer. And I had to tell her, “You are not a little white girl. You have to take care of your hair. You need to wear a swim cap and put some conditioner on your hair. I know them little white girls don’t, but you need to.”

Jump back to today. Her mother tells me, “She said “He doesn’t act gay until he says, “Girl, you need to do something with your hair!””

As I dropped the Mom back off at her work place for lunch, she said, “I’ll tell Niece that you know she knows you’re gay.” I retorted, “Tell her I’m more worried about whether or not she’s put conditioner in her hair!”

It’s entirely possible I’ve been put on this earth just to help little black girls know they need to condition their hair different than little white girls.

Iris

Songs have a universal power to evoke feelings and memories. And sometimes, the oddest memories can finally turn fun, in such a sarcastic way.

Let's call him Tony, just for the purpose of this blog. A friend called me and suggested I meet him, and we did, and seemed to hit it off. A few dates and he even came to my home in my little hometown. I remember once taking him to my Mamaw's house.

I remember going one night after work to the great metropolitan city to see the duplex into which he was moving. Turns out it's about 2 miles from where I live now, and I sometimes see it from the parking lot of a store, and it evokes a quirky memory.

At the time I collected light houses, and he gave me as a gift a beautiful resin light house. And one night he got a beep from work (supposedly) as he was an airline attendant. He drove off, and I never saw him again.

It was an odd passage of time, like 4, 6 or 8 weeks later that a letter came in the mail, delivered in some prepaid envelope marked "over night." The irony of waiting to weeks to send a letter "over night" was not lost on me. He told me he had taken a job in Alaska.

Alaska? I didn't really buy it. And it didn't matter. No return address. No response to any of my calls.

Some years later the friend who introduced us told me that she had run into him on a flight. He had never moved to Alaska. Oh, the shock.

Somewhere in storage is the first card he gave me, that last letter he sent, and the light house. I would throw it all away if it weren't for the trouble it would take to find it.

Alaska. . . geeze.