Alyssa Milbert can suck my balls - RECAP of part 1

DEAR GENTLE READERS:

I truly apologize for my long absence from blogging, and especially for starting these serials and then dropping the ball. I have decided I'm no longer doing that. If I start a series, I'm not posting ANY of it until I have all the installments written - at which point I will schedule them to self publish over a period of days, one installment per day.

Several of you had expressed a keen interest in this story and had been wondering how it would end up - and how I would eventually be inviting Alissa Milbert to suck my balls. So I am now replaying the earlier episodes, one per day, so that you can get yourself back up to speed on the story.

For each episode I replay I will provide a brief recap to save you reading time.

Love & coasters,
CP

Recap of Part 1: CP recalls his years living in West Hollywood and owns up to being a star-crazy geek.

I have long been a fan of famous people. At least I've been a fan of people who are famous for the right reasons. I don't like people who are famous because they lock people in their basements and eat them. As a simple illustration, Shirley Booth = good. John Wayne Gacy = bad.

Actually, I realize John Wayne Gacy didn't eat his victims. It just sounded better that way.

When I moved to Los Angeles in 1992, I was giddy with excitement each time I saw a famous person. One of my favorite things was to go to El Coyote for trashy Mexican food because it was such a great place for star sightings, especially to view stars of the "B" variety. (Washed up TV actors being my absolute favorite genre, if you hadn't figured that out from the Shirley Booth example.)

The first time I went to El Coyote I was with my new boss, who mentioned casually that he sat next to Carol Burnett the last time he'd been there.

"Carol Burnett?? Are you kidding me with this??" I demanded to know.

"Yes, I did," Michael replied. "You see a lot of stars here. Perfect restaurant if you're into that sort of thing."

And was I ever! Seeing stars was fun!

....to be continued.....

Can you help a brother please?

I think minorities and women should help each other out at work. I am not saying that minorities or women should be promoted unfairly, especially when our work is not up to par. But I see it as the duty of minority people (and women) to help other minorities (and women) to make sure everyone has all the help and mentoring they need in a straight-white-male dominated environment.

Let me be clear that I have nothing at all against straight white males, and I’m not suggesting they move to the back of the bus. There should be plenty of room for all talented individuals, no matter their race, gender or orientation, at the head of the table. But the reality is, especially in older circles, that there are still a lot of straight white guys sticking to their own kind and keeping all the fun to themselves. So there are situations in which minorities and women need to be mindful.

So why am I writing this? I have seen and experienced, numerous times, instances of gay guys not helping each other in the workplace. And that gets my goat.

It irritates me when a gay guy at work doesn’t want to be my friend. Yes, I understand that not everyone in the world is going to like me ---- but in the grand scheme of the general population, anyone who knows me will admit I’m pretty inoffensive. I’m not overbearing or loud (not usually, anyway.) I’m not an asshole. I’m not stupid, I’m not lazy and I’m not incompetent. (Or, at least I know how to hide my stupidity, laziness and incompetence when I’m at work.)

So when I work for a gay guy who seems to distance himself from me, I usually assume it’s because I’m gay and he a) doesn’t want anyone to think he’s doing me any special favors, or b) he’s uncomfortable in his own skin, and my smiling face just reminds him that he should be ashamed to be a big ole’ queer and that he’d better not attract too much attention. So bye-bye to Tom.

This has happened to me several times, either with people I’ve reported to or people who have been in the same organization but slightly senior to me. (For the record, I’ve also had more than one gay friend at work, so this problem is far from universal.)

But Poor George has had this problem in at least one severe situation. He worked for this bitter queen who was a total self-hater and as such, could not stand to see Poor George’s happy face every morning. He never said or did one nice thing to George, and eventually even got George fired.

Yes, PG had a few problems with the job and was slightly – just slightly – in over his head. But it was certainly nothing that could not have been fixed with hard work and some friendly mentoring. And who better to mentor a queer at work than another queer?

But it was not to be. This happened about six months ago and I’ve been meaning to vent about it for a while now. So here it is.

Listen up, my non-white friends, my gay friends, and my female friends. Don’t undercut your brothers and sisters at work. You may not like every one of them, and you certainly don’t have to be best friends with someone you don’t feel some sort of bond with. But I’m here to tell you that it is your duty to try to help move your brothers and sisters along in their careers. Someone probably helped you --- and it’s time to return the favor.

So unless your minority friend is incompetent or just plain bad, get with the program and lend a helping hand.

CP's not so dirty Secret

At some point I need to let you all know that I’ve been changing my life for the better using The Secret. I’ve decided that now is that time.

Getting on board with The Secret is easily the most culty thing I’ve ever done, and Poor George has warned me that if I ever do anything like suggest he attend Landmark Education (formerly known as EST) courses he will leave me. I upped the ante on him and said that if I ever attend Landmark Education he is not only to leave me, but he must also kill me and make it as painful as possible.

(Oh no, negative energy! Negative energy!)

Anyway, I don’t think The Secret is very culty – it’s just a new way of looking at life and to attract the good things in life by thinking good and doing good. Pretty basic really, but the real proponents of The Secret (Secreteers? Secretons?) advise that the Law of Attraction is much more powerful than we realize.

The gist is that if you spend your time being a whiny bitch and thinking whiny bitch thoughts, all you’re doing is attracting more whiny bitchiness into your life. Which is pretty useful when you’re trying to write for a blog in a way that amuses people in that whiny bitchy sort of way.

But not so useful if you’re trying to have a happy life.

So I’ve decided to start living my life from a “half full” perspective. And I have to say I am a lot happier as a result. The only negative, as far as I can tell, is that Mindy June and others (including me) have described me as “doughy” and “non-descript” when I’m nice. I don’t yet know how to entertain others without my acerbic, sarcastic approach to everything. If you have any ideas, let me know.

Flash Fiction Friday : An Open Letter to Brad Allen of Los Angeles

This week's Flash Fiction Friday assignment is to write a letter of unrequited love. Or a Dear John letter. Feel free to read my letter below and decide for yourself in which category it falls. Oh, and Brad Allen is not his real name.





Dear Brad,

This letter will be difficult to write because at your core I believe you are a pretty nice guy and I don’t want to hurt you. But truth be told, I cannot see you anymore because you kind of make me sick.

You’re probably wondering why I’m dumping you now when it was I who asked you out in the first place. I mean, why did I even bother if this is what it comes to in the end? Well Brad, I actually thought you were kind of cute and charming when I first met you. I really had no idea you were kind of a douche with personal manners not unlike that one guy in “Dances With Wolves,” you know, the one with rotted teeth who says “Ya cain’t figger them buffalo, ya cain’t!” before spitting the remnants of a pickled egg all over his chin. Next to you, Brad, that guy looks like Cary Grant.

Let’s review a few of our dating experiences, shall we Brad? I am afraid this will only be the tip of the iceberg, but I need to keep this to under 1,500 words.


Experience #1: You had explained during our first coffee date that the only three things in life you truly cared about were baseball, opera and sex.

“Opera?” I asked. “How did you develop a taste for opera?”

You gave ma a long winded explanation that involved quitting drugs and choosing opera as your new “habit” to latch onto. Or something like that. And we’ll come back to the drugs thing in a minute Brad, trust me.

At first I thought it was really sweet of you to invite me to see “Madame Butterfly” with you, especially since I learned later that your salary was around $17,000 a year. But the warning bells should have started ringing for me when you got into a near shouting match with the woman in front of you who, you thought, was leaning a bit too far forward in her seat for you to see. I thought it was a little weird that you were so vehement with her, considering that we were in the nosebleed section and we could barely see the characters on stage even without a partially obstructed view.


Experience #2: When we woke up in the morning after our first “sleepover” date at my place, you got out of my bed, buck naked, and went to the front door to get the paper. Setting aside for a moment the fact that you felt comfortable enough to walk nude around my apartment in front of all the wide open windows, you returned to my bedroom and proceeded to squat down on your haunches as you read the newspaper headlines.

And let out a really loud fart.

Brad, you hardly even knew me. What makes you think there would be anything remotely charming about that, let alone attractive? Gross. And you didn’t even say “excuse me” or try to act like it was a total accident.

I jumped up out of bed and told you I needed to take a quick shower. The truth was, I just wanted out of that room before I had to smell anything.

And then, Brad, you actually got into the shower with me. Without asking.

You know Brad, if I can give you one piece of advice, let it be this: If you are dating someone you don’t know very well, or if you are an overnight guest in someone’s home for the first time, do not make any potentially offensive invasions into your host’s personal space at any time, let alone first thing in the morning.


So after only one sleepover I was pretty iffy about you, Brad. But I wasn’t fully committed one way or the other, so I just decided to let the chips fall where they may. Yes, it was a bad decision --- a really bad one. Because about two weeks later we had the earthquake.


Experience #3: The Northridge Earthquake of 1994. January 17. 4:00 am. I will not soon forget it, because that earthquake nearly ruined my life, and not just because I lost all my glassware.

I remember waking up in a panic at the sound of breaking glass. I thought someone was breaking into my apartment to kill me, or at least rob me and beat me to a pulp. So it’s rather amusing than when I came to my senses and realized it was an earthquake, I thought to myself “oh, thank God it’s only an earthquake!” I held onto my bedroom door frame and hoped for the best.

When the jolting stopped I stepped over all the broken glass and went downstairs to Lex’s apartment to make sure he was ok. He was, and his place was not nearly as damaged as mine --- so I just sat there in his living room with him, talking for about half an hour or so.

And then I heard footsteps coming from my apartment upstairs. That really freaked me out. So I went up the stairs, and there you were, Brad.

“Oh, thank God that you are ok, CP!” you said. “I know you’re not a native Californian, so when this happened I was really worried about how scared you would be. I just had to come over to make sure you were all right.”

Wow, I thought, that was so sweet! You actually risked your life to come see me---because every Californian knows the rules about post-earthquake safety: it is a very, very bad idea to get into your car and drive right after a quake. You don’t know what kind of damage lies ahead. You might drive into a gaping hole in the earth; a power line or building might fall on you; etc. But you were willing to take that risk for me, Brad, and I appreciate it.

Even if you are the world’s biggest dumbfuck.

Anyway, since you were already there I told you to come down to Lex’s apartment with me. We had tested Lex’s gas stove, and all seemed in order so Lex had decided to fry up some eggs for an early breakfast.

Now Lex was my best friend in L.A., and this was the first time that you got to meet him. You are a gay man, Brad, and I know that you know meeting your boyfriend’s friends is akin to meeting the family for a straight person. I know you know this. And when meeting your significant other’s family for the first time, you should know to be on your best behavior.

Which is why I must ask you this, Brad. Why oh why, Brad, did you feel it was appropriate for you to take your fork, with which you had been eating runny, yolky eggs, and stick it directly into Lex’s jar of gourmet marionberry jam? Why on earth would you do this in front of anyone, let alone in front of someone you were newly dating? Or in front of anyone who is having you in his home for the first time? Were you attempting to prove to Lex that I had absolutely no filter or judgment in people?

I should have dumped your disgusting ass right then and there. You revolted me then, Brad, and you still revolt me today. What's worse is that your apartment was so devastated in the quake that I had no choice but to LET YOU MOVE IN WITH ME. FOR THREE WEEKS.

But oh, it gets even better.


Experience #4: There is so much more I could tell about you, Brad, but as I said I need to keep this to a certain length. So I’ll have to end with this coup de grace.

Remember the night I was over at your apartment and I was talking about having to go up to the courts for work? And I asked you if you had ever been to the courts? And you haltingly said “oh…yes…”? As if there were a story behind that?

So of course I had to ask you what the story was, Brad. You acted like you didn’t want to say anything, and I remained respectful but curious.

And then you decided to tell me. You blurted out the following sentence:

“Okay….I’m a child molester.”




Wow.




A child molester, Brad. That is a statement that packs quite a punch, I must say. I think I remained quiet for a few minutes until I got up the urge to ask you what the fuck you were talking about.

You then told me the story about how you were messed up on drugs and alcohol for a number of years, and that you didn’t know what to do about your homosexual feelings. So you used to hang out at a park and watch these twelve year old boys playing basketball. You struck up a conversation with one of them, one thing led to another, and soon you were in the bushes letting him perform oral sex on you.

This carried on for a number of weeks until you had a sudden, brilliant revelation that maybe, just maybe something was wrong in your life and that you needed counseling.

And I do feel bad about what happened next, Brad, but I must confess to you that this is all a little hard to take. You went to see a shrink and told her everything --- about your drug use, and your sex with the twelve year old.

It is unfortunate that the counselor hadn’t warned you ahead of time that she would be required to call the police on you, Brad. I do feel bad because you were obviously trying to do the right thing by getting help, and I can understand the mortification you must have experienced when the police arrived at your parents’ house to haul you away right in front of a large family gathering.

But still Brad, how much of a dumbfuck can you be? Not to mention the fact you wanted to do what you did in the bushes with a grimy twelve year old kid.

The only thing that kept your ass out of prison is the fact that this kid testified that you did not coerce him, and that he blew you willingly. I’m glad that kid was brave enough to tell the truth. It’s unfortunate, but because of this, you now have to live out the rest of your days as a registered sex offender. I know that must be hard Brad, but I don’t like how you tried to justify it to me and other friends. You said you did it because you were confused about your sexuality.

Gee Brad, I didn’t know we needed to hand our enemies even more reasons to compare gay men to child molesters and sex predators. Just exactly what I want to be associated with as a gay man. Thanks for that.



I’m sorry Brad, but it’s just not going to work out between us. As nice as you may appear to be on first meeting, the fact is that you’re uncouth, lacking in any discernible taste or judgment, and just downright gross.

Sincerely,
CP

CPW Series: Ways in which I'm kind of retarded

Gentle Readers, Ways in Which I’m Kind of Retarded is a new CPW series wherein I will describe to you, well, ways in which I’m kind of retarded.

Retarded is a word I was never allowed to use as a youngster. Aside from it not being very nice, my mom’s youngest sister was mentally retarded, and that was back in the days when retarded was still used as a clinical term to describe retards.

Now we just call them “mentally challenged” or “special” or "Sarah Palin." Since retarded is no longer used by medical professionals, I am reclaiming it as an OK word to use in describing someone who is stupid or otherwise just kind of a spaz. If you disagree, just haze me in the comments, after which I will laugh at you, call you a retard and move on with my life.

Note to self: Remember that thing I wrote recently about changing my life by being nice? Maybe not so much.

Anyway, today’s version of Ways in Which I’m Kind of Retarded involves Poor George, although honestly, any ex-boyfriends who find their way to this blog may also recognize these symptoms.

Poor George and I have a repertoire of about twenty or thirty different retarded things we say to each other, and even to ourselves, that are simply random pieces of noise we’ve picked up from the universe, or things we have dreamt up in our own sick heads. Things to say that serve absolutely no purpose other than, possibly, to satisfy my Tourette’s like cravings, or just to remind each other that we are both retarded.

Let me set the scene: I used to have a client that I visited weekly. My usual contact was a department head in the area of the company I used to visit. But when this person went out on maternity leave, she left me in the semi-capable hands of this large woman named Alaina Boodaya who can only be described as looking somewhat like a female Lurch from The Addams Family.

Whenever I would arrive at reception, Alaina would lumber out into the lobby to greet me and bring me back to the office. She spoke to me as little as possible and would merely grunt here and there as necessary to communicate with me as needed.

It’s been many years since I’ve seen Alaina Boodaya, but I miss her and her lunkishness. So, at random intervals I will just lean over to Poor George and say “I miss Alaina Boodaya.”



The best part is, he totally understands.



Georges rock. Everyone should get a Poor George.

Awkward College Romance -THE FINALE!

I fear that the key to your hearts, Gentle Readers, will lie in the fact that I am finally done with this story.

My friendship with Jeff largely returned to its pre-disclosure condition, albeit with a bit more intensity. We were spending so much of our free time together --- and again, only with each other and never with other people --- until my roommates started asking who this new guy was that I’d been hanging out with so much.

Jeff and I did not discuss any of the issues that had come up between us earlier. It was killing me, but as I explained earlier, I had already disclosed my feelings and I considered the ball to be in his court.

As the end of the year approached and finals loomed, we started spending late nights together, hanging out, drinking beer, smoking pot and ignoring our hormones.

Several times things got a little weird --- as in, we were just one drink away from one of us making a move, a move that neither of us dared make. I distinctly remember him sitting in my room one day, sitting in the same chair where he had first confessed his sometimes-feelings-for-guys. I was prattling on about some nonsense or other, when Jeff just stopped.

“Tom, where is this conversation going?”

Where is this conversation going? Well, where do you want it to go, you maddening little tease?

At least that’s what I felt like saying.

Instead, unfortunately, I made some lame joke and changed the subject.



And then, a few weeks later, came the night I most regret. The night I really could have made something happen if I had wanted.

We had gone over to Carleton for the day to study, just to have a change of scenery. Jeff had ridden his bike and I hitched a ride with another student since I had a stack of books to carry and only one working arm. We chose different parts of the library to study in so as not to distract each other, but met up regularly for meals, snacks and any other diversion we could dream up to avoid studying. (Well, maybe not every possible diversion….)

Mid-evening we decided to call it quits for the night and head back to campus. Luckily I ran into a friend with a car who offered to drive me and my books back to our campus. I had the brilliant idea to offer to carry Jeff’s rather heavy book bag for him, so that he wouldn't have to lug it up the hill to St. Olaf.

When I got back to my room with Jeff’s bag in tow, I called him.

“Hey Jeff, I’m back in my room so you can come pick up your books whenever you want.”

“Thanks Tom --- what are you doing?”

“I don’t know Jeff. Hey, I’ve got some beers in my fridge. If you’re in the mood, you can meet me out on the hill behind the Old Main. I love hanging out there. Unless you just want to go to sleep.”

“No Tom, I want to meet you. Very much.”


My heart skipped a beat.





I remember my roommates looking at me strangely as I loaded up my book bag with a six pack from our mini fridge. “Where are you going with beers at this hour, Tom?”

“Oh, Jeff and I are just going to hang outside. See you guys later.” I tried as hard as I could to talk to them as little as possible those days because I didn’t want them suspecting anything.




When I arrived at the Old Main, Jeff was waiting for me and it was all I could do not to wrap my arms around him completely. We went out behind the old building and settled down on the grassy hill, bathed in soft moonlight. As we lounged on the grass drinking beer and enjoying the night air, we both stretched out and laid down side by side, propped up on our elbows, about six inches away from each other. We barely talked at all.

I totally could have reached over and kissed him.

But I could not bring myself to do it. And neither could Jeff, apparently.

After about an hour under the moonlight, we finished our beers and retreated back to our respective rooms.



As the days of the school year drew to a close, Jeff and I started finding every excuse we could to be together. One day in the middle of the afternoon we decided, for some reason, to duck into a little stairway outside the college chapel. Again, just inches from each other with no one else around, even if it was in broad daylight.

“Wow Jeff, so I guess we won’t be seeing each other for a while.” Summer break was upon us. I was going home to my parents’ house in Chicago, while Jeff was headed back to work a job in his home state. Worse yet, I would not be at St. Olaf the following semester because I was planning to study abroad in the USSR.

“I know,” Jeff replied. “I’m going to miss you.” He said it so quietly it sounded like he might cry.



The last time I saw Jeff during those magical days, I was in my dorm room packing up my belongings to go home for the summer. I had seriously pissed off my mom and my aunt who had driven to campus, prepared to load up the car and take me home. I hadn’t even begun to pack because I had been so distracted with my school work and pathetic non-love life. Not to mention a gimped arm which made every task take three times longer than normal.

Jeff came into my room and was immediately made to feel uncomfortable by my relatives because they were so irritated with me. So Jeff and I just said our goodbyes quietly at my door, and that was that.




Jeff and I never had another meaningful conversation again. We corresponded over the summer, but the magic disappeared and Jeff lost whatever feelings he had seemed to develop for me --- probably because I had written something rather mean and sarcastic in one of my letters.

I saw him sporadically on campus when I returned from Russia for my final semester at St. Olaf, but Jeff no longer seemed to have any interest in being my friend, and we barely saw or spoke to each other at all, despite my attempts here and there.



A few months after we graduated, I wrote Jeff a long letter and told him everything I wish I had told him during our magical time together, when we had seemed inches away from expressing our romantic feelings for one another. I told him I was confused about how he felt for me. That I missed his friendship, and that I wished I could understand what had happened.


Jeff never replied.






Several years later, both Jeff and I were living in the Twin Cities and ran into each other occasionally at parties of mutual friends. Our conversations were polite but distant. At times I detected a seeming thaw in Jeff's attitude toward me, but I was done taking any further chances with him. Been there, done that.

(Or wish I had done that, anyway.)





I recently heard from one of my friends in Minnesota that Jeff is now openly gay, partially bald, partnered with a nice man and raising kids in the Cities. I’m happy that everything seems to have turned out well for him. And who knows --- if I lived there, maybe we would even be friends. But for now, Jeff Henderson lives only in the dark recesses of my memories, alone with me in that private place where we guard the vestiges of our first loves.

And of course, he will now live forever on the pages of Coaster Punchman's World.

Thank you all for listening.
CP

Awkward College Romance - NEW INSTALLMENT - Part 11

“Are you kidding me with this Jeff?” I didn’t mean to sound incredulous, but this was big news.

“No, Tom, I am not kidding. I do have those feelings --- and I don’t know what to do with them.”

“Well I wish I had the answers, Jeff.” And boy, did I wish I had a few very specific answers. But being both Scandinavian and Midwestern, I was unable to come right out and ask if I could kiss him or something. Plus, so much had happened by that point that it would have been wrong.

“Jeff, it’s getting really stuffy in here. Do you want to go out an take a short walk with me?" I desperately wanted to change our environment, in hopes that in a different room everything wouldn’t seem weird and surreal.

“Sure Tom, let’s go. “



We went out into the night with no particular destination in mind. I needed to walk slowly so as not to jiggle my arm, which was nicely outfitted in a full arm plaster cast. I went into automatic chatter mode, which I’ve been well known for in times of crisis. For a man who is normally short on words, if you put enough stress on me I can prattle on about absolutely nothing for hours on end.

At one point we came to an athletic field of some sort and just walked around the perimeter several times in a row.

“So Jeff….what’s up for you next, then? What are you going to do?” (As in, what are you going to do….WITH ME?)

“I don’t know Tom…." He stopped and looked right at me. “What ARE we supposed to do about these feelings?”

I froze. No idea what to say. I had already laid out for him how I felt so I didn’t feel it was my place to go any further with that idea.

So I just continued walking, and Jeff followed.




Eventually we ended up back at my dorm. He walked me back to the room, but I didn’t intend to invite him in --- so I stopped outside the door, turned around and said “thanks for coming over tonight, Jeff. It was really nice to talk to you.”

“You too, Tom. See you tomorrow?”


-------to be continued----------

Awkward College Romance - NEW INSTALLMENT! - part 10

I returned from the hospital after midnight, in major amounts of pain but armed with narcotic pain relievers. Part of me was glad for the distraction – finally I would have something beside Jeff to think and talk about.

“Hi Jeff, it’s Tom.” I called Jeff the following morning to break our date for later that day. “I broke my arm last night and it’s really throbbing so I’m going to need to cancel and stay in my room.”

“You broke your arm? What happened?” I explained the whole (stupid) story and was grateful for the sound of concern in Jeff's voice. “Wow Tom, that’s really too bad – I was looking forward to hanging out with you.”

“Well, if you don’t have your heart set on going downtown you can come hang out with me here. I don’t have any plans other than to do some reading and maybe smoke a bowl. I couldn’t have a better excuse!”

“Are you sure?”

What --- sure I don’t want a cute guy to come nurse me in my dorm room? Yeah, right.

“Yeah Jeff, come on over if you want. It would be nice to see you.”

“Ok Tom, see you later.”



Jeff came over in the early evening and made himself comfortable in one of our lounge chairs. I grabbed my mini water pipe and prepared to light up. Before the flame hit the weed, Jeff said “I’m not having any of that if that’s ok with you, Tom.”

“Oh, well ok….” I put the pipe down. I wasn’t going to blaze up alone, at least not right then. I wanted my full wits about me if Jeff was going to retain his.

“So Jeff, I’ve been wondering something. I’ve never told a straight guy about my feelings for other guys, because I always figured they would freak out. I’m so glad you haven’t done that with me. What’s up with that?” I asked, just trying to make conversation and bridge the awkwardness of our previous encounter.

“Well….actually Tom, I guess I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“Um…..ok…..what do you mean?”

Jeff then proceeded to tell me that maybe, just maybe he’s had feelings like that before. And had even acted on them a few times, mainly at the college he attended prior to his transfer to St. Olaf.

I was dumbfounded. Numb. I didn’t even know what to say. I don’t actually recall saying much at all because I was so confused. Here I was, in pain with a busted arm, sitting with a guy I had obsessed over for months, a guy for whom I had risked everything, a guy who had told me he was straight. A guy who had inadvertently broken my heart. And now he’s telling me he likes guys.

What did this mean? When he said he couldn’t return my feelings did it mean he didn’t have feelings for guys, or did it mean he just didn’t have feelings for me? And now had he changed his mind?

It would take a while for me to figure this out.


------- to be continued ------------

Flash Fiction Friday : Guitar

Note: We're taking a short (ONE DAY!) break from my "Awkward College Romance" story - tune in tomorrow for the next installment of that. Today we're doing something a little different here at CPW.

Following in the brave footsteps of bloggers Cormac Brown and Flannery Alden, I've decided to up the ante with my writing and join the community of Flash Fiction Friday.

Every Friday you are given something to write about, and you must publish by mid-week the following week.

Here is my first attempt. Our friend Dale might categorize this as one of my "give til it hurts" postings. Enjoy.





****************************************







“Hummingbird, hummingbird, sing me your song….” Mama’s voice crackled as she strummed the wooden acoustic guitar we had found in the house the day she and Pops closed on it so many years before. She had such a strange manner of playing; instead of tucking the guitar under her right arm like most people did, she laid it flat on her lap and used one of those cylindrical steel bars across the strings to help her form the chords she needed. She strummed slowly, mechanically with her right hand and squeaked out the lyrics in a girly tone pitched at least two octaves above her normal speaking voice.

“Don’t sing, Mama!” I said as a joke, referring to the story she loved to tell of me as a toddler. Apparently I had not been as receptive to her sad attempts at lullabies as her first three children had been, and regularly reproached her for her nightly attempts --- thankfully, or so it seemed by her propensity to share the story, somewhat amusingly. Something about Mama’s singing always embarrassed me, and I remembered, cringily, my own fourth birthday party when I cried actual tears at my family’s tableside performance of “Happy Birthday.” Maybe it was because of my own inborn musical talent that I disdained any pitchy attempts at making melody. Or maybe it just hurt my ears; I can never really know.

Mama stopped playing and smiled thinly. “Your father always made fun of me too. I’m not sure I ever told you that. At first it hurt my feelings, but when I realized the bastard was seeing his diva girlfriend behind my back, I decided he was never going to control the way I felt about anything, ever again.” Her gray eyes turned to stone.

I felt my back stiffen as she brought up the topic of Pops’ affair with “the Diva,” as Mama referred to her. Pops was never great at hiding the evidence of his infidelity, and while his four kids knew about his dalliance with the bitch pianist we all hated long before our mother allowed herself to become aware, Mama eventually put two and two together and subsequently threw the equivalent of five grand mal seizures, in a dramatic style only befitting her severe alcoholism. Mama’s discovery had provided for quite the afternoon, just after my graduation from college, when she fairly entertained every neighbor within a three block radius, hurling obscenities at full voice while careening drunk about the front yard. It was a near perfect performance, diminished only by her inability to roll back her eyes and foam at the mouth.

“I thought we agreed not to talk about that any more, Mama,” I said, referring to my recent pronouncement that I would no longer serve as her marriage counselor. “You need to find a neutral third party to hash all that out.”

“What is there to hash out? He left me for that bitch and you all took his side. Seems pretty simple to me.” She put down the guitar, exchanging the steel cylinder for her nearly depleted glass of Tab and vodka. “I figured out a long time ago that it doesn’t matter what I say or don’t say; the end result will be the same either way. Everyone will always be against me.”

It drove me insane when she got like this, and I regretted making the joke about her bad singing. Though I quickly forgave myself, knowing Mama would have taken any subject I offered and found a way to tie it to whatever was currently upsetting her. It’s funny how she always complained about this trait in her own mother.

Mama always painted Grandma out to be such a bitch, though in fairness I never got that impression during the small amount of time I got to spend with her before she died. I remember the time during college when I drove down to Iowa to visit Grandma in her assisted-living apartment building because I wanted to take her to lunch. As we were eating, I said “Grandma, can I ask you a question about Mama?”

“Of course,” she replied, looking slightly wary.

“Was Mama always so quick to fly off the handle, even as a kid? Did she always go into hysterics the way she does now?” Grandma just sat there and stared at me. She put her fork down, glanced away for a second and then turned back to look me right in the eye. And nodded, slowly. In a manner suggesting I put the rest of my questions back in the vault, pending any future invitation to revisit the subject.

“Mama, I wish you would stop saying that. We’re not against you and we’re not for Pops. You two are adults, and your marriage is your own business. We just want both of you to be happy.” Against my better judgment, I added, not bothering to disguise the irritation in my voice, “And anyway, I thought I told you to leave me out of it. I’ve got my own life to figure out.” I wondered for a second whether I could grow to enjoy the flavor of Tab and vodka. Tastes for certain things have to be genetic.

“Well that’s certainly some fine talk coming from you, Mr. Fancy-I’m-too-good-for-my-own-family.” She jiggled the half melted ice in the bottom of her glass before jerking back her head to slurp the remnants of the drink, spilling drops of watery diet cola on her blouse in the process.

“GOD DAMN IT ALL TO HELL!” she cried, catapulting off the sofa to hurl toward the kitchen. I lowered my now-throbbing forehead to cradle it in my hands, wondering simultaneously whether I would throw up and what excuse I could invent to leave early this time.

Awkward college romance - NEW INSTALLMENT! -- part 9

Really, this story will conclude soon - I promise!

“Hello?” Jeff said, in a voice indicating I had obviously woken him up.

“Uh, hi Jeff, it’s Tom. I’m just returning your call. Sorry it’s so late…”

“Um, yeah, well that’s ok.”

Note to self: if you’re trying to woo someone, it might be a good idea not to
call them in the middle of the night.

“So I guess we need to talk, huh?” was all I could say.

“Yeah.”

We made plans to meet the following morning, and we did. What follows is an approximate recap of our conversation.

“Well Tom, here’s your note back like you requested. Thanks for writing it.”

“Thanks, Jeff. I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Well Tom, the only thing I can say is that I feel sad because I may have lost a friend.”

OUCH. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch.

“What do you mean by that, Jeff?”

“I mean that you may not want to be friends with me if I can’t return your feelings.”

Ouch.

“Well Jeff, I guess you’ve answered my question --- but I definitely still want to be friends with you. Nothing has to change between us. I just don’t want you to be freaked out or grossed out by me.”

“You don’t gross me out, Tom.”

“That’s good to hear, Jeff.”


So that’s where we left it. I had been chasing after a straight boy. We proceeded to talk about him and his ex-girlfriend for a few more minutes, and then we parted ways because really, it was all very awkward.

I called Jeff the following Tuesday afternoon to make plans to go out for drinks together on Wednesday night; I was going to need some alcohol to celebrate finishing a mid-term history exam that would take place on Wednesday afternoon.

I poked around my dorm room for a while that Tuesday afternoon, feeling sorry for myself and not knowing what to do --- until finally, the adult part of me forced me to pack up my book bag and head to the library to study for the exam. As I bounded down the stairs I magically came to the realization that I just needed to pony up and be happy that Jeff was still my friend after my revelation.

I was so happy with this sudden shift in thinking that I positively flew out the front doors of the dormitory onto the cold stone steps.

Where I tripped on my coat tail and flew headfirst down the small staircase, breaking my arm in the process.

----------------to be continued----------------------

Awkward College Romance - NEW INSTALLMENT! Part 8

(We're getting near the end, I promise you!)

Chuck and I walked down to the Rueb and enjoyed several of their famous Long Island Iced Teas before going upstairs to join many of our drunken classmates on the semi-decrepit dance floor.

I wouldn’t be able to tell you how much alcohol I consumed that night, but I’m fairly certain it was enough so that a doctor would have been able to cut me open to perform an emergency appendectomy without my feeling a thing. Thanks to God for my Scandinavian roots.

At one point near the end of our evening I found myself in a car packed with other students on the way up the hill back to the college. And speaking of Scandinavians, among my car mates was a Norwegian guy named Åge upon whom I had nurtured a quite obvious crush earlier in the year. Since I was drunk out of my mind, I thought it would be a good idea to make fun of his name for the entirety of the ride. “ÅGE, BOGEY, SKOGEY!!” I repeated at intervals, not really making any sense but just being really annoying. Poor Åge took it in stride and merely informed the rest of the car that I was just bitter because I was homosexual and Åge was straight. Touché! Luckily I was drunk enough not to be horrified at his altogether accurate assessment.

When we arrived back on campus I stumbled into my dorm and up the stairs to my room --- where, on the message board was a note from one of my roommates: “Tom, Jeff called.”

Tom, Jeff called. Such beautiful words had never before been written in the English language, at least not that I was aware of.

I looked at the clock on my dresser and it was 1:15 am. Naturally I decided to give Jeff a call right then and there.

-------to be continued-------

Awkward College Romance - NEW INSTALLMENT! - part 7

When I arrived back at my dorm I was out of breath from my frantic sprint, but I knew it was important to get up to my room on the 3rd floor as soon as possible because I wanted to be there if and when Jeff called. Thankfully, my roommates were not around when I got to the room. I didn’t want to subject them to my pending emotional crisis, especially since I would not be able to explain my anxiety.

I paced around the room for about half an hour, periodically picking up the phone receiver to ensure we had a dial tone. I did nothing more productive than walk in quick, small circles and wring my hands. At one point I went to borrow the neighbors’ phone so that I could call my room to make sure the ringer still worked. I was a complete mess.

After a few hours it became clear that Jeff was not going to call me, at least not that night. I don’t even remember what went through my head, but I’m sure I was full of different ideas and theories, each more neurotic than the last. “Maybe he really likes me but he just doesn’t know how to come out and say it. Or maybe he could have liked me but I weirded him out by not giving him enough time. Actually he probably doesn’t like me at all and he just wanted to hang out. Now he’ll probably never speak to me again. Oh, why did I bother?” And so forth.

I have no idea how I did it, but I finally resolved to lie down and go to sleep.


The next morning things were no better. Jeff still hadn’t called, I had no one to talk to and had a buttload of schoolwork to think about. Realizing there was no point in pretending to be able to eat something, I went to the library with my books. Where I sat in a study carrel for all of ten minutes before getting up to pace because I was freaking out.

Then I realized that maybe Jeff could have written me a note of his own and left it in my student PO box. So off I went to the student center to check it.

No note.

I considered the possibility that Jeff could have called my room and left a message with one of my roommates, who had returned the night before as I was trying to fall asleep.

No message on the phone message board.

So I went back to the library and pretended to try to study for another ten minutes. At which point I repeated the entire process.

In short, I spent the entire day shuffling nervously between my three posts: library study carrel, student PO box and dorm room.

Somewhere near the end of the afternoon I realized I was going to drive myself insane –literally- and therefore resolved so call Lulu. Which resulted in one of the most memorable phone conversations of our friendship.


“Hello?”

“Lu? It’s me.”

“Hi CP. How’s it going?”

“Terrible. Awful. I am having the worst day of my life.”

“Ok, what is it this time?”

“Here’s the deal, Lu. I am totally freaking out. I mean F-R-E-A-K-I-N-G out. You remember that time you called me in a panic because your roommate tried to saw open her wrist veins with a butter knife, and you were so scared you were hyperventilating and I told you to stop because it sounded like you were beating off?”

“Yes CP, I vaguely recollect that night. Have you worked on your bedside manner as I suggested?

“Ok Lu, it’s really, really important that you forgive me for that now and not judge me because I am FREAKING OUT! I don’t know what to do. I may have to throw myself down the stairs or something because I am FREAKING OUT!”

“Honey, it’s OK, I already forgave you. Now tell me, what is wrong?”

“I CAN’T EVEN TELL YOU WHAT IS WRONG – I AM FREAKING OUT!” At which point Lulu lowered her voice to barely a whisper and said “I need you to take a deep breath and repeat after me: It’s going to be OK. It’s going to be OK. It’s going to be OK. It’s going to be OK. It’s going to be….”

It must have worked after a few minutes, because by the end of the call I had told her the story of writing Jeff the letter, my awkward hand delivery to him, my mad race back to the dorm, and my incessant cross-campus shuttling in search of a response from Jeff which was, as yet, nowhere to be found.

“CP, what you need is to go have fun tonight. Just try and forget Jeff for at least twenty minutes. You must have friends you are neglecting because you spend all your time either with Jeff, obsessing about Jeff or worse yet, talking to me about Jeff. When is the last time you saw Chuck, for example?”

“Chuck? I don’t know, I think I had lunch with him last week.”

“Yeah, well it’s time for you to see Chuck. He’s an alcoholic, right? I want you to call him right now - and I mean the second we hang up – and make plans for him to get you drunk tonight. Can you do that for me?”

“Ok.”

“Ok then. So are you going to be all right?”

“No. I’m still considering hurling my body over the edge of the stairwell. That’s starting to feel like the most reasonable solution.”

“Please don’t do that CP –although if you do, can you leave me something in your will? I’ve been wanting that Ole Store sweatshirt you used to wear. But please, just call Chuck. Right now. And it’s going to be ok. Really, it is. Just keep saying that.”

“Ok.”


I hung up from Lu, immediately dialed Chuck who was, thankfully, in his room. We made plans to go down to the Reub, our local bar, later that evening.


*********** TO BE CONTINUED *******************

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 6

Recap: CP writes Jeff a letter to confess his feelings and then runs like a little girl.

Dear Jeff,

This is going to be very awkward for me to write. If you don’t mind, please do me a favor and return this note to me when you are done reading it because I do not want it to fall into the wrong hands.

Ok, the truth is I don’t actually remember what I wrote verbatim, except of course for the most salient parts of my letter to Jeff. But I can paraphrase — so just work with me for a few minutes. After all, this was over twenty years ago.

I have enjoyed getting to know you and hanging out with you this semester. The problem is, sometimes I think maybe I like you more than I should. Sorry if it is awkward or uncomfortable for you to hear this, but I thought I should tell you what I’ve been thinking.

Nothing has to change between us at all as far as I’m concerned, but if you feel uncomfortable being around me after I’ve told you this I will totally understand. I guess I just wanted to say something to you because sometimes I think maybe you could feel the same way, but maybe I’m totally off base.

Anyway, I hope to talk to you more about this soon. If you would like to, that is.

Sincerely,

Tom

I let the letter sit in an unsealed envelope in my top dresser drawer for a few days while I worked up the nerve to give it to Jeff. I already knew I would have to hand deliver the letter rather than leave it in his student P.O. box, since in those days the boxes were not private at all – no locks, and multiple students sharing one box. And since there were well more than one Henderson on campus, it would have been easy for the wrong person to intercept and open the letter.

So I waited until the following Friday when, as usual, I could drop by the snack bar toward the end of Jeff’s shift as per my weekly custom.

“Hey Jeff, how’s it going?” I said as I approached the snack counter on that fateful Friday, trying to act as if I were not about to reach down into my stomach with my bare hands and rip out my intestines.

“Hey Tom, not much, what’s up with you? Want to hang out when I get off?”

“Yeah Jeff, that sounds great!” I’ve always been good with the fake enthusiasm in times of crisis. So I stood next to the snack counter while Jeff closed up, and probably talked his ear off about God-knows-what until he had his coat on. When we exited the building into the cold night, Jeff turned to me and asked what the plan was.

“Actually Jeff, now that I think about it, I’m kind of tired and I think I might need to go back to my room and crash. Is that ok?”

“Yeah, sure Tom, whatever you want.”

“Great. Oh, Jeff, here is something I wrote that I want you to read if you don’t mind. Can you read this and not show anyone else?”

“Um.yeah, Tom…is something the matter?”

“No, everything’s cool. So just read it and don’t show it to anyone, ok? Talk to you later!” I couldn’t bear to say another word so I quickly turned and walked away, not looking back for a second. When I turned the corner around the building and became sure I was no longer in Jeff’s line of vision, I started to run as fast as I could toward my dorm.

“I CANNOT BELIEVE I JUST DID THAT” was all I could think. My mind raced ten times as fast as my legs, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

————————to be continued——————————

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 5

CP spazzing out

Recap: CP confesses his crush to Lulu, who encourages him to put on his big-boy pants about it and grow up.

In those days Lulu was my telephonic confidante about all things romantic, and on several occasions I bent her ear to the point that it just about broke. To be fair to myself, I reciprocated for Lu on more than one occasion, though I’ll have to let her share that as part of her own story. In any event, I called her the morning after my romantic walk in the rain with Jeff for a dose of her usual counseling.

“I’m doomed,” I told her. “He’s not into guys after all.”

“What makes you say that?” Lulu asked, trying to pretend she wasn’t already sick to death of hearing about my obsession with Jeff.

“He wants to get married.”

“Yeah, and….?”

“Married. As in, to a woman. He wants to have kids.”

“So what? A lot of people want to have kids. I’d like to have kids some day. Wouldn’t you?”

“I have no idea. How can I ever have kids if I can’t even get a date?”

“Don’t get all technical on me, CP.” Lulu could actually be reasonable in those days. And that was years before she would do the most reasonable thing anyone has ever heard of, which is to move to Bangladesh. “You asked the guy a simple question: would he like to get married. A lot of people think they want to get married. Plus, you were sitting there smoking pot – what was he supposed to say? You’re putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think?”

Despite the fact that I never even understood what it means to “put the cart before the horse,” I agreed with her. Primarily because my non-stop fretting was probably about to drive her away, and I needed her sympathetic ear.

“Well, I don’t know what to do.”

“How about just being a friend? Is it the worst thing in the world to find a guy you like and be friends with him? Look at you and me!”

“Are you saying I should listen to him babble on incessantly about whatever his latest romantic crush is? No thanks, I’d rather be alone.”

“Yeah well CP, speaking of babbling incessantly about crushes, have you thought about maybe doing some schoolwork? Speaking of which, I need to get busy with some of mine. Talk to you later.”

Although I would generally never admit it in those days, Lulu had a point. I decided to try to calm down and just be a friend to Jeff. That was what I was pretending to do with him anyway – I may as well just stay true to my word, I decided.

Jeff and I got together regularly from that point on – we had meals together after choir practice, we would take study breaks together, and I got into the habit of stopping by the snack bar near the end of his shifts on Friday nights. We never involved other people in our get-togethers – it was always just the two of us. And although I had resolved in my mind that Jeff and I were just friends, something about our friendship felt different. I never invited him to go along to meals or anything with other people, and neither did he. We were always a two-some, and I felt confused.

“I still feel like there is more going on here,” I told Lulu one day. “It’s like we’re friends, but it almost feels like we’re dating. We never do anything with other people when we’re together.”

“Well CP,” Lulu said, almost sounding exasperated, “if you want to know how he feels about you, have you ever considered just asking him? Or maybe telling him how you feel?”

“Are you crazy???” I replied. The concept of telling a “straight” guy about my gay feelings was something I had never allowed myself to consider, not even for a second. It was just too risky, or at least that’s how it felt. “How could I ever do that? Don’t you realize what could happen?”

“Yes, and what could also happen is that I will have to listen to you go on and on about this for the rest of my life — and I would occasionally like to talk about something other than Jeff. I think it’s time to stop torturing everyone and just have it out with him. Ask him what’s going on.”

I agreed that I would think about it, but still thought she was nuts. Nevertheless, I was tired of the constant wondering, and the drama. I sat down at my desk and composed a letter to Jeff.

—– to be continued —–

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 4

Last night I walked in the rain with you

Recap: CP finally spends some private time with Jeff and gets all dramatic about it.

I was lucky to have three very nice guys as my college roommates that year, even if I would have been terrified to come out to them. Although they are still good friends of mine today, heaven knows what they might have felt compelled to do or say back in 1987 if they had found out they were living in such intimate quarters with a gay guy. The four of us shared one large room containing bunk beds, other assorted furniture and a marked lack of privacy. I think (or hope) that today, at least in major metropolitan areas and/or non-Kristian colleges, a gay roommate would no longer be such an issue. But back then my friends would have had cause to have me removed from their midst. Retelling this story reminds me that I want to ask them what they think they would have done had they found out.

The gay-straight conundrum notwithstanding, my roommates and I were lucky to have such a large room because we were able to use at least half of the space as a living area with a carpet, large armchairs, a stereo, television and extra bookcases. It was a charming and cozy spot, perfect for hanging out in and pontificating as 20 year olds are wont to do.

When we entered my deserted lair, Jeff sat down and made himself comfortable while I fetched my stoner bag from wherever it was that I used to hide it. I filled my mini water pipe and lit up, offering the first toke to Jeff. He accepted, much to my pleasure.

“I don’t do this often,” he sputtered, obviously trying to hold his breath and not cough.

“Me neither, “ I lied. I smoked far too much pot that year, my junior year of college. I had experienced an emotional summer before, having been fired from an elite on-campus job, a trauma that rocked my good-boy image of myself to the very core. I responded to the situation by enrolling in two visual art classes, giving myself a strangely lopsided haircut and dressing primarily in oversized sweaters, rolled up pants and moccasins. It all made pot smoking seem that much more sensible, and at times I even secretly reveled in my new artsy-mischief-maker self image.

Once I got our heads swimming with the pot, Jeff and I began conversing. I don’t remember the topic of most of our conversation, because that night I had only one item on my true agenda: to figure out whether Jeff were gay, or at least curious, and if so whether he were in a mindset to admit it. Because unless any of the former were true, I knew that I would probably be screwed. And not in the good way.

“So Jeff,” I said through the fog of my high, “what do you see yourself doing in the future? Are you going to try to make a lot of money? Or save the world? Get married? Have a family?” Of course I could not have cared less about the answer to the first two questions; they were just there to help me hide my true mission, which was to calculate my chances with Jeff.

“I’m not sure what I’ll do as a career,” he replied. “I’ve thought about dentistry maybe.”

“Oh, dentistry would be cool!” I replied with as much fake enthusiasm as I could muster in this tense moment. “So are you planning on getting married?” He was killing me, forcing me to ask a second time. What was he trying to do, blow my cover?

“Yeah, I guess I’ll probably get married. Maybe have kids.”

My heart sank that very instant.

It’s interesting how far we’ve come in the twenty-plus years since the night of this conversation I had with Jeff. Not only am I now legally married to a man (in a few states at least); many gay people get “married” to each other and have children, either by adoption or, in the case of those lucky womb-bearing lesbians , the old-fashioned way.

But for a closeted guy living in gay-hostile territory in 1987, the only way to reach out and break the isolation was through code. “No, I don’t plan on getting married” was code for “yeah, maybe I’ll make out with you and we’ll see where it goes from there.” By stating that he would probably get married, Jeff was clearly not offering to make out with me, despite my quarter-ounce bag of fresh weed and deserted dorm room. Double-triple rats. I hoped I wouldn’t cry.

We talked for a while longer until one of us claimed sleepiness as a reason to end the evening. I didn’t bother inviting him to crash in my room rather than schlepping to his dorm on the other side of campus, a 10 to 15 minute walk. I needed Jeff out of there so that I could have some time alone to process this devastating conversation.

But when I looked outside, I saw that it was raining. Jeff had on a polo shirt, jeans and a light jacket. Nothing warmer and no umbrella. So I did the gentlemanly thing, even though I was stoned: I offered him my grandfather’s black & white checkered hunting coat and an umbrella so that he could get himself back to his own room without getting soaked and/or freezing.

“But it might rain this weekend some more, Tom. Do you have an extra umbrella or is this your only one?” What a thoughtful guy. I could have murdered him for giving me the wrong answer to my earlier question.

“Well, it is my only umbrella,” I admitted. “But you know what? I’m actually in the mood to go for a little walk, so why don’t I walk you back to your dorm and then I can return with the umbrella. That way we’ll both stay dry.”

I guess I may have possibly been a catch too, huh?

Out we went into the rain together, Jeff in my grandpa’s wool jacket and I holding an umbrella over the two of us. I nearly swooned at how romantic it felt. I almost didn’t care that Jeff and I were never going to make out because just walking with him like that was such a beautiful experience.

When I got back to my room I didn’t break down or anything as I had feared I might. Instead, I stayed true to my art-fag form and got out my typewriter (remember those?) and composed a heartbreakingly dramatic poem called “Last Night I Walked in the Rain With You.” I wonder if I still have it somewhere.

Now, you might think that my story with Jeff comes to an end here. But you would be wrong if that were your thought, because there is more yet to come.

……to be continued………

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 3

This is where I lured my date

Recap: CP being stalking Jeff at his workplace and lures him back to his dorm room to enjoy a little Mary Jane...

I don't remember much about my first dinner with Jeff Henderson, except the fact that I was too nervous to pay attention to anything he said. I also ate like a bird in those days, and even more so when I was wound up (which I was about something or other, most of the time.)


Jeff and I would enjoy many more dinners together, and one time he commented on the paltriness of my food tray, which consisted of a bare dinner plate with one thin slice of ham accompanied by a side dish of about three lettuce leaves and a glass of milk.


“Is that all you’re having, Tom?” he asked. I didn’t even understand the question. How could ANYONE eat at a time like this? Of course it was usually a “time like this” for no one but me.

Returning to the topic of our first dinner date, although I barely listened to most of what Jeff said because I couldn’t focus, I did manage to keep my ears perked up for clues to such relevant items as “does he like girls?” and “where does he spend his evening hours?”

While his like or dislike for females remained frustratingly obscure to me, I did manage to remember that he worked in a small student-run snack bar on campus every Friday night.
And so of course, the Friday after I learned this precious gem of a tidbit, I suddenly became hungry for a snack at about 8:30 – or a half hour before the snack bar was to close.

“Hey, Tom! How’s it going?” Jeff called out from behind the counter when I entered the all but deserted snack bar.

“Hey Jeff, not too much, how about you? Working much longer?”

“Nah, I’m just about to close this place down. Want something to eat?”

Of course I wasn’t able to eat a thing, but I did stand next to the counter, making small talk about God-knows-what for the next 20 minutes. I’m actually quite proud of my ability to become social upon demand. Normally, given the choice, I keep my nose in a book or glued to the TV set or in the face of someone who’s known me for 20 years. I’ve never felt comfortable talking to new people.

But when you’re paying me a salary, or scaring me to death because I like you and really want you to like me, I can become quite the empty conversationalist. Comes in handy in my sales-related work. And it used to come in handy when I was still dating. Or trying to date.

I rambled on at Jeff about miscellaneous topics until he had his coat on and was shutting off the lights. I simply walked with him to the exit and out into the night, as if we had planned it all along.

“What are you up to now, Jeff?” I asked.

“I don’t know, really, what about you?” he replied, proving to me that God did in fact exist.

“Well, my roommates are away and I was thinking of lighting up a joint and chilling out…want to come?”

I was just a little bit of a pothead in those days, which is odd, considering what a bundle of nerves I usually was. It makes me afraid to think of what the world could have been like for me without the wacky tobacky to even out the rough edges.

And although I don’t remember doing so specifically, I must have vetted Jeff beforehand for his position on marijuana, or else I never would have asked a question like that.

“Sure, that sounds good!”

Off I went with Jeff to my dorm room, happy yet beside myself in the knowledge that my roommates were out of town for the weekend.

…. to be continued …….

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 2

This is not the old caf at St. Olaf. But it conjures up the cold, Lutheran ambiance of which I speak. I mean, write.

Recap of this episode: CP, who is normally unable to converse with strangers, mans up, talks to Jeff and invites him to dinner.

Just figuring out Jeff’s name seemed like such an important feat that I hadn’t even thought of what I might do with the information once I acquired it. I was always a fairly shy person and had never, at least in my own memory, manipulated a situation so that I would have a chance to talk to someone in particular. I was used to letting things happen and unfold as they may, which would probably explain the many disastrous events of my life up to that point.

I decided it was time to take control.


A few days later as I was walking toward choir rehearsal I saw him about twenty yards ahead of me. I knew I needed to get his attention and slow him down right then before he reached the choir room, depriving me of a chance to walk with him and chat him up for a few minutes.

“Jeff!” I called out. He stopped and turned around.

“Oh, hey Tom! What’s going on?” I quickened my pace to catch up to him.

“Not a lot.” (Yeah, right Tom.) “So how are classes?”

I was so nervous that I had absolutely no idea what he said in response. I had always been like that; it was so unusual for me just to start talking to someone I barely knew that my self-consciousness overrode anything else about the situation, including the ability to listen to the other person. Most of us shy folk can compensate by developing an ability to recognize the cadences of typical small-talk, and are able to imitate having an actual conversation with all the perquisite give-and-take.

It’s remarkable how many people in life have told me I’m a “good listener.” If they only knew.

I could not have repeated even five minutes later what either of us said to the other. There was just one very important part of the conversation that had to, and did take place: setting the stage so that I could run into him again and casually suggest having a meal together.

Over the next several weeks I took note of the various directions from which he approached the music building before choir practice, which was three afternoons a week, and made sure to be in the general vicinity each day so that I would be in place to chat him up. It worked.

One day, as we were approaching our rehearsal I said “So are you doing anything for dinner after choir? Want to go to the caf afterward?”

He he, the caf. It still makes me laugh today when I think about the caf, as we called the dining room at St. Olaf. Having a companion at meal times was crucial in the caf because it was this large room with two separate entrances, filled with long rectangular tables spaced out in perfect symmetry. It was a cold, glaringly lit stark room with a decorative motif that would be best described as “church basement pot-luck industrial.”

No one ever wanted to sit alone in the caf, especially not at dinner time, because there were no safe corners in which a lone diner could tuck him or herself away to hide. If you went to the caf alone, there you were for the entire student body to see, pathetic and friendless under the glare of the unwaveringly Lutheran interrogation lamps—I mean, white lights.

In other words, asking someone to eat with you was a foolproof way of getting face time with the object of your interest. No one in modern history has ever turned down an invitation to have a dining companion in the St. Olaf caf, at least not until the college upgraded its facilities long after I graduated.

“Yeah Tom, that sounds great! I’ll meet you at the door after choir?”

SCORE!! An actual dinner date!!! I thought. And I even had the rest of choir rehearsal to think up things to say to him!

…..to be continued…….

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 1

I have no idea who these people are. I needed a picture, so I Googled "cute college boys." Theirs is the first fully-clothed photo that appeared.

Before I finish up this series, I'm going to repost the prior installments --- with pithy recaps added for the convenience of those of you who read it the first time.

Summary: Our winsome protagonist, CP, agonizes over being a 21 year old gay college kid in homophobic 1987. He meets a cute guy on campus who, for some odd reason, just starts talking to CP. CP returns the favor by stalking him.

The whole story, part 1:


Quite a while back on this very blog I wrote about my more significant childhood crushes and in doing so promised to tell you a certain story from my college days. No one can ever accuse CP of not keeping a promise, even if it takes me three or more years to deliver.

Well Gentle Readers, today is your lucky day because I’m going to tell you a story that has kept many a friend on the verge of his or her seat when I’ve told it in person. A story of early 20-something romantical suspense, one that is sure to melt your heart. Or melt something.

In college I was just barely out of the closet – I had only told three or four people about my feelings for other guys, and most of these friends didn’t live anywhere near me. My friend Lulu was one of the lucky ones who knew, partly because I considered her “safe”: she lived far away and didn’t know any of my other friends, so there was almost no chance of her being able to rat me out inadvertently.

The year was 1987, and I was especially touchy about anyone at my college knowing about me because, above all, I feared scandal in my dormitory: I had three male roommates, not to mention a whole floor of guys I had to share a shower with.

Although I’m sure it still happens today in some parts of the country, back in those days it was par for the course that if a straight person found out their roommate was gay, they would raise a stink, go to the housing director and demand that the gay person be removed. This chain of events would result not only in the serious upheaval of one’s routine, but also public shaming and involuntary outing. And trust me, being outed involuntarily as a gay person in 1987 was not what you wanted.

It distresses me to this day that so many of us had to live in that kind of fear during our most formative years, years that are supposed to be filled with the magic of youthful self discovery, first kisses, heavy petting (and, if you were a girl, seat-wetting).

Oh, well.

So to summarize our story thus far, we’ve set the scene with a 21 year old gay boy living with a bunch of straight guys, afraid to be discovered yet starved for affection and also in possession of the normal 21 year old boy hormones. In other words, quite the dilemma.

My 21 year old boy hormones led me to take an acute interest in a certain guy who sang in the same choir I did. I didn’t remember where I had met him, but I must have met him somewhere because several different times he walked by me and said “Hi Tom!”

“Hi Tom!” Wow! What on earth could this MEAN????

I had no idea who he was or even what his name was. But I kept a close eye on him for weeks, until one day I noticed him wearing a monogrammed crew neck sweater. (Parenthetically, should I actually have been wondering if this guy in my choir with a monogrammed sweater was gay?)

So that day, after memorizing the initials on his sweater, I went up to the music rack where each choir member was given a shelf to store his or her music, and scanned all the names on the rack until I found one that matched his initials. This uncannily brilliant detective work on my part led me to the irrefutable conclusion that name of the object of my interest was Jeff Henderson.

(For the record, Jeff Henderson is not this person’s real name. But I hope you can sense in this story the first stirrings of a first-rate cyberstalker in the making!)

to be continued……..

Okay!! Okay!!

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm writing about. It's just me and my family on a sleigh ride on Christmas Eve in Vermont. Ain't it pretty?

Okay everyone, I know I promised I was going to write more on the blog this year --- and already I've let nearly a month go by. I'm just going to have to sit down and do this, to see what happens. Who knows ---- maybe the Great American Novel will just come flowing out of my fingertips like 'tude flowing out of Tonya Harding. (I always think of old Tonya when I hear mention of the word "fingertips" ---- some dumb thing she said in an interview once. You know me, CP, mind like a steel trap.)

I have two series I need to wrap up --- one about Alyssa Milbert sucking my balls --- and one about a romance I had in college. I think I may start by paraphrasing what I've written about so far so that it won't be so painful for you to catch up with me.

It also helps that it's 3:12 am PST and I have insomnia. And I'm getting on a plane in three hours. Huzzah!

CP