AXM Article for January 2006
As I curl up near my newest Mac, humming along with The Way We Were, cozy in my Mui Mui jeans and indigo V-neck purchased in Paris, left wrist light but sheathed by a super-slim, silver Tiffany timepiece, I wonder, why am I dressed so well? It’s a lazy day, my flatmate is on a farm in Norwich having her aura cleansed or flushed or whatever must be done to a dirty aura, and all I have to do is write, but my diamond-patterned, multi-colored cashmere socks cost about the same as a gram of cocaine. I’ve always dressed well, or, at least, slightly fashionably. I gave in to Channel long ago, when it was clear that, with my tall, angular frame, I’d always appear to be wearing a suit, even if in a Speedo.
In High School, hippy kids, like Tommy, the Jew boy with a round ass and curly hair which I loved, asked, “Why are you so dressed up?”
I’d ditch the cardigan and show up at class in a wrinkled t-shirt. Still, Tommy would query, “Are you applying for a job?”
I’d skip a shower, wear sneakers, and all I received was Tommy’s smirk. “Is there a prize giveaway today?” He’d giggle, quietly, the way stoners always do, looking down at his own sandaled feet, his shoulders bobbing up and down. He’d shake his head. “You look like a game show host.”
“It’s cuz I LOVE COCK!” I wanted to yell. Actually, I think I did yelp it, when we got stoned together. It was at a dance, and he’d arrived sweaty, on a skateboard. He was wearing off-white corduroy shorts and a red t-shirt so old it was see-through. He had hairless, freckly legs. I’m pretty sure he was born in Europe. I would’ve married him.
We’d been dancing with females, but soon found ourselves dancing together, just the two of us, to Olivia Newton John. We were doing the bump, our bony hips almost sparking as they banged against one another. When we left the auditorium to get high near the library, he took one look at my outfit – Yves Saint Laurent slacks, khaki, with a crisp yellow Polo dress shirt and a light blue and beige Pringle argyle draped over my shoulders – and said, “Man, you look so gay.”
“I am.” His pot was strong. “I mean I might be.” Not strong enough I guess.
“No problem dude, I’ve made out with guys.” At least, I think that’s what he said.
“You have? With who?” Of course I meant ‘whom’, but I was too excited for good grammar.
“My pot dealer. He gives me free stuff if I let him play with my dick. Sometimes I suck his, I mean I like cock, but it doesn’t mean I’m gay. That’s so old fashioned.”
“What? Loving cock?”
“Yeah.”
“But you do. You said you do.”
“No, I love souls.”
“Souls. With cocks.”
I know what you’re wondering, gentle reader, and no, I didn’t touch him, I admired him too much and anyway he floated away on his board and soon after he grew dreads. Yikes.
I start Barbra’s new CD, which is amazing by the way, and I catch myself, wondering, can I be any gayer? Reliving moments with a drug-addled closet case, while swooning over Streisand. Maybe Tommy was right. Maybe I’ve always been obsolete.
Sarcasm and caramel brogues aside, do I really have to vacation in Barcelona? Must I buy every piece of Poole pottery I can get my manicured hands on? And is it totally necessary that I go to art openings and theatre openings and film openings on an almost nightly basis, even if it means I skip dinner, which is of course the gayest thing of all: my desperate desire to stay skinny! Who cares how I look or live, why do I bother with Yoga and Ayurvedic massage oil and Swedish botanical hair conditioner and reupholstered 19th Century dining chairs from Paul Smith – the furniture, not the clothing, store – when all it takes to get laid is half a Viagra and a membership to the Sauna Bar in Covent Garden. Those faggots will suck anything hard, since most have been flaccid since the last time the Pope was in town!
Being addicted to a Jew boy is one thing. That makes sense, ask any Palestinian. But do I have to live the lifestyle with such intense dedication? I’m the new Autism. The socially tunnel-visioned, a gay man who fears he is only that, functioning in a very narrow corridor between London and San Francisco. Where is my 12-step program? Where can those who are hooked on being gay purge their addiction? Obviously analysis doesn’t work. Maybe I should volunteer. Or give up Babs.
Either way, I’m frightened of releasing my ego, painfully aware that I might not have a community after all, and disappointed that all I have left to bitch about is my own single solitude.