Shades of Gray

The Color of Envy

They say grass is always greener on the other side. Greener when you're single, greener when you're married. Thing is, no one tells you how much work it takes to get it that green, not to mention the stench of the manure needed to keep it that way.

After five long, entirely inexplicable years of bachelorhood, all i can say is, there’s nothing enviable about being single. Not the meaningless sex, not the deafening quiet of an empty house or the constant worry of catching something, even when using extra-strength condoms. Beige should be the color of envy, not green.

But every once in a while comes a moment that reminds you of why colors like fuchsia exist. When you realize it's nice where you are, on your side of the fence, having no one to answer to but your conscience. A moment of fun that lingers in your mind like a teenager outside a liquor store.

He was sitting at one of the tables not more than a few feet away. I'd seen him before. Not in person, a porn flick. Not really into porn. The few movies I've seen never did much for me. This one did.

Something about this kid. He had those squinty far-away eyes that suggested mischief, dark buzzed hair, the velvety kind, and fiery tattoos that crept up from under his T-shirt and onto his neck. He was a good ol’ bad boy. Even his dimples were more naughty than naïve. But his most prominent feature wasn’t his face or even his tight little body. It was his flawlessly round, incredibly plump bubble butt.

He was there with his friends, talking, having fun. Not sure how it started. A word here, a smile there. Then, his hand grazed mine ever so slightly. A touch felt in two places at once.

We ordered drinks. Did very little talking. Not sure there was much to say. Besides, there were men all around him trying to get his attention. I watched him, amused by all the commotion. He was confident, outright cocky at times, beautiful.

It went on for a while. He wasn’t ignoring me, yet seemed too busy for anything to happen. I was tired, a bit tipsy, it was late. Just as I was about to go home, an offer. Would I like to join him? He’s got a suite at the Waldorf.

"You're staying at the Waldorf?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's the best."

A room bigger than my apartment, a shower bigger than my room. His bed, white, big, like it was made for four people not two. Clothes on the floor, condoms, lube everywhere, next to the bed, on the coffee table, in the bathroom. I can't help but think I'm not the first one here, not the second either.

He rips off his clothes, fast, like he's late for an appointment. His skin's tight, shiny, the way only a 20 year old can shine. He hops on the bed, within seconds I'm naked too. This is not about intimacy. This is sex. Aggressive, fast, impulsive, like tearing the wrapper off a Snicker's bar when you're really hungry. Empty calories, the good kind. His beautiful butt, his disproportionately big dick, the alcohol, the sweat, all one big blur. Then a sigh, two sighs. Then it’s over.

The both of us collapse, heavy breathing all around, echoes of sex bouncing off the walls. I look at him, he's all sweaty, still beautiful, miles away though are bodies are still touching.

I get dressed, give him a kiss on his moist forehead, head out. As I hail a cab, a smirk on my face, a notch on my belt. Something to remember when I’m old and wrinkled. Grandpa was handsome once. And shallow. So shallow.

Almost everything in life has a color. Red's for warning, fear is yellow. Death, black and white's pure. Why is envy green, I don’t know. Maybe it’s ‘cause they say the grass is always greener on the other side. Maybe it's 'cause beige sometimes don't work. Maybe it’s ‘cause hot pink is just too gay.

The Man and the Butterfly

I sent my mom a copy of the last post. She’s never read my blog before. Come to think of it, she’s never seen any of my writing. It’s not that she doesn’t want to, she does. She’s asked more than once. I always say no. Too personal, I reckon.

But I thought she’d enjoy seeing what people thought of her writing. Maybe make up for the lack of emotion I showed when she first handed me the story. I copied the post and the 40-some comments and sent them her way. Should have been more careful. Nestled between all the heartfelt reactions, one line, her biggest fear.

“Your mother wrote over and over again that she already knew you were gay, but she placed so much importance on the ridiculous act of "coming out" that she ended up causing years of pain.”

“Should I have asked?” came her voice on the other end of the line. Sad, full of pain.

Could have kicked myself for being so careless.

“No, you did the right thing.”

“But maybe that reader is right. Maybe I should have just said the words?”

“I don’t think that would have been a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t speak for anyone else but I’m glad it happened the way it did. I’m happy it came from me. My decision. My coming out. There’s comfort in that.”

“You know why I waited right?”

“I think so.”

“There’s a story…” She paused. “Can I tell you a story?”

I smile. My mother, her storytelling voice. For a minute I’m eight years old again.

“A man was strolling through a garden when he came across a tiny cocoon. He carefully placed it in his hand and took it home with him. He wanted to see it as it turned into a butterfly. He wanted to witness the beautiful transformation.

For days nothing happened. Then, a tiny quiver. He could see a small opening, not bigger than a dot at first. Then it grew wider. The man watched as the young butterfly tried to find its way out, pushing its weight against the surface in an effort to break free.

He watched for hours, mesmerized by nature. He imagined the moment the butterfly would finally break loose, spread its wings, fly. He wanted to be there when its wings, kissed by the sun, first reflected light with all the colors of the rainbow.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. The butterfly wouldn’t move. It was as though it was unable to go on, as if it had gone as far as it could. The man then took a pair of scissors and cut the cocoon open, helped the young butterfly out.

He waited for it to spread its wings, fly into the horizon, but that never happened. He looked closely at the little creature. Its wings were disheveled, its body bloated.

What the man didn’t realize is that in an effort to help the young butterfly it had condemned it to a life of sickness. Because nature had designed the process so that when the young butterfly squeezed out of the cocoon, fluid would rush from the body into its undernourished wings.

What the man didn’t understand is that flight would only come after struggle. Without it, the butterfly was sentenced to a life without purpose, without health.”

My mother ends her story, her voice going back to normal.

“You did the right thing,” I tell her again. Then made up and excuse and hung up. Tears in my eyes. A mother can sense that, even thousands of miles away. Even through a phone line.

My Mother, Her Son

He was born with his eyes wide open. A beautiful, inquisitive, baby. Ten fingers, ten toes, a healthy smile. She can still remember that moment, the indescribable love she felt shooting out of her the second she laid eyes on him. From the moment she scooped him in her arms and looked into his deep blue eyes she saw it, felt it even. A certain spirituality she’d never witnessed before in any of her other children. She knew it in her gut. This boy was special.

The kid grew up to be smart, assertive, kind. He was full of tenderness, as though all the love she showered on him throughout the years had been absorbed inside. The two were attached, an invisible thread connecting his heart to hers. When her boy would stray even a little, the love string would tug at her chest, a pain so strong she thought she would die.

Yes, all mothers think their boys are special. But it wasn’t just her. Everyone who came in contact with the kid felt it, an overwhelming joy, an all-enveloping feeling of warmth. Magic.

She raised him without fear or anxieties. For the first time in her life it was easy, uncomplicated. Mother, son, and the natural course of nature.

He was her youngest, her baby. He wasn’t the biggest, or the strongest but he could hold his own. She liked watching him fight for his place in the world. At times it wasn’t easy. There were constant battles with his older siblings, especially the middle one. But he was smart, and quick and savvy which compensated his for his younger age and smaller size.

He was also a good student. She remembered how proud she felt during PTA meetings listening to his teacher talk about him. Her kid seemed to have it all. Beauty, brains, ambition.

It wasn’t until much later when she started noticing signs. Nothing big at first. Little things, small hard-to-read clues left for her to see. Some name calling in school, a comment from a perceptive teacher, and the fact that all his friendships were with girls.

Then the anger came. Not hers, his. She watched as her sunny, luminous kid was becoming burdened with dark silence, afflicted with rage. She could feel the blinds coming down on the windows of his soul.

She tried to talk to him but it was no use, he pushed her away. Ironic. She who made a living by making people open up, she who could unlock any heart with a simple word found herself helpless when it came to her own son. She didn’t have the key. She couldn’t even find the lock.

So she prayed. She prayed that she was wrong, that this was just a phase. But deep inside her awareness was slowly cooking. The truth was boiling. The timer on her consciousness was about to go off.

She tried to fight it. She refused to give it a name, a title. She wouldn’t admit that her boy wasn’t special, he was different.

She hoped he would talk to her, share what’s on his troubled mind. She wanted to help, ease his pain, but she realized he chose to go through it on his own.

He finished high-school with honors, but instead of happiness, sadness in his eyes. He was exceptionally beautiful, a handsome young man. There were muscles on his firm body, the features of an adult.

A short-lived romance with a beautiful girl had for a moment lightened up her world. She hoped against hope that maybe, just maybe this boy was simply a late bloomer. Just one of so many explanations she had stored in her arsenal. But when that relationship ended she sadly acknowledged that she could not think of one significant connection he’d made with a girl over the years. All his relationships were of a friendly nature.

Years went by and her boy was growing more melancholic. His sadness hovering above his head like a rain cloud in a Hannah-Barbara cartoon. She tried to get closer but couldn’t. It was during that time that her suspicion was taking form, becoming deeper, until even she couldn’t escape it. But even then she waved away the thoughts, as though they were a pesky fly.

Then one day he brought home a friend. A male friend. She studied the intruder carefully and cringed at the intimacy she sensed between them. There was nothing overt, but it was enough that she couldn’t ignore it. For a moment she was mad at her son for bringing this man into her home. For not allowing her to continue in her illusion. She wanted to cling to it forever. But she knew the price you pay for denial is distance.

One day she dared do what she had never done before. She said the word out loud during dinner with her husband. For a moment she was terrified, worried his father might not understand. But she had to talk to someone. She couldn’t hold it in anymore. The secret, it was suffocating her.

“I don’t care,” he told her. “He’s my son and if he’s gay, that’s okay. I love him no matter what.”

She looked at her husband with admiration. He had been able to say what she couldn’t acknowledge for so many years. She was surprised at how the word “gay” which had stood there in the middle of the room didn’t seem so frightening all of a sudden. She looked at the man who she’d been married to for more than three decades and couldn’t help love him just a little more.

But even then she didn’t confront her son. She waited. She waited because the truth wasn’t yet ready to be told, not by him, not to her. A friend had told her, “Go ahead! Ask him!” But she knew better than to push him. She knew he was getting ready. She knew she was too.

She thought about what would happen when he finally came out. Would she have to come out too? Who would she tell? What kind of mother would she would be?

Then one sunny summer afternoon as she was drying off some dishes at the sink she could feel tension in the air. It was palpable. Is this when all hell breaks loose? She heard him say the words.

“I have something to tell you.”

He was nervous, she had never seen him this way. His voice was cracking, the weight of the world clearly visible on his shoulders.

“We’ve been waiting a long time for you to say those words,” said her daughter who was also in the room.

Her daughter, the sensitive one had made it so easy. She had already known. She looked at her son, looked at her daughter and felt nothing but love and respect.

Then it was over. Relief on her son’s face. His forehead for the first time in years was smooth. And at that moment she felt only one regret. The energy wasted all these years. Wasted on hiding something irrelevant.

They sat down and talked. They talked all night. She wanted to know. When did he realize? Was this man or that man a friend or a boyfriend? She asked every question that’s been stubbornly nagging her in the back of her mind for the past decade. And she was happy to see him talk about it with such ease. Her son wasn’t different. He was special.

Years later she would get an e-mail from him. A long thank you note for the way they all handled that moment. He had told her in so many words that to this day when he tells the story of that night, his gay friends cry.

These words you just read, not mine. My mother’s. Years after my coming out she handed me a short story written in third person. I wasn’t ready for it back then. I remember reading it, then tucking it away. Never thought about it again. I think I may have been embarrassed by it. Or maybe I was just tired of talking about my sexuality. Yesterday I was cleaning out one of my drawers when I found her short story. I read it again. And this time, I cried.

A Blogging Myth

It's one of life's little secrets. When confronted with an uncomfortable question don't get bent all out of shape. Instead, pause, smile, then deflect it with another question. Works every time.

"Are you hung?"
Pause, smile.
"Why? Are you a size-queen?"

Then watch them squirm as they try to backtrack.

"Um... No! Of course not... I was just, you know... Kidding around."

Last night at the gym, a former trick. A question. One hundred ways to never answer.

"So is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"I heard you have a secret blog."

"You did?"

"That's what everyone says, but no one knows if it actually exists or if it's just an urban myth."

Smile. Pause.

"Who's everybody?"

"I don't remember. Everybody. I hear you rate all your dates, give them a review."

"Is that right?"

"Well do you?"

"Nope, but it sounds fascinating."

I didn't lie. I don't rate them and I hardly ever give a review. Per se.

"I heard that you really go into details. That you have like hundreds of hits a week. You can tell me, is it true?"

"No."

It's not hundreds. More like thousands.

"Come on. Tell me!"

"Tell you what?"

"Just say yes or no?"

"Yes or no?"

"That means you do have a blog."

"It does?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"No, I don't."

"So how did I rate? What was my review like?"

"So is this what this is all about? You want to know how good you are in bed?"

"Um...no I was just... you know... I'm just kidding."

"Of course you are."

"You suck."

I smile, then walk away. Works every time.