Birthday Blog--My Harrowing 43rd Year

Plopped on the black and white checked floor of my bathroom, the late afternoon light plays on the plethora of imperfections of the aged plaster...patches, runs, deep orange peel...9 decades of change, earthquakes and settling, masked by my poppy red, aptly dubbed "Lipstick." My own addition is imperfect but doubtless an improvement over the flat greyish beige. Underneath, other people's dreams. Layers and layers of them. Who were they? What colors lifted their spirits? How many were simply workmen, processing the cube after each move-out, the cell hundreds of people have used for relief, release, primping and cleasing. And crying. And hiding. Doing drugs. A drunken hurl into the toilet. Coloring their hair. Luxuriating in a candle lit bath in the deep antique tub. They all used it, how many in 90+ years? Maybe someone scrubbed blood evidence from their body after a capital crime...my vivid imagination. As I clear the unwanted reddish-orange excess from the floor, trim and porcelain, I picture a beautiful woman, crying because she lost the man she loved. How many broken hearts landed here at the end of the hall? Or the cat lady. The bachelor who could care less what color the bathroom or the rest of the apartment was, yellowish nicotine stains permeating the walls and windows. The hermit. The clutterer. The artist. A family of five. New, young love. I'm merely a caretaker...a temporary occupant. Many before me and many after until the certain demise of this building, likely by earthquake or wrecking ball. And even now, few know its sordid history. I wonder how many others in Los Angeles have a "Lipstick" bathroom? 

At the stroke of midnight ringing in my 44^th year, I was enveloped in a calm, quiet energy. Damn that sounded corny, but it’s true. How do I feel about turning 44? I’m 100% fine with it. I have no desire to be younger. I don't want or need plastic surgery. I don't want to turn back time. The important part is the experience and maturity I’ve gained from living this long; I inherently know how to handle situations which used to baffle me. Yes, I bastardized that from the AA Promises. 

 My 43^rd year was quite an adventure including grief, loss, violation, interlopers, heartbreak and humiliation. My life, hopes and dreams were shredded. And good friends died. Three months ago today, I was on the proverbial tearstained floor, eviscerated, my heart in pieces. I experienced the cruelest possible form of ageism and was judged for having the same human emotions as thousands of other members of the mostly clandestine fraternity of which I was (am) a...reluctant member. My original birthday blog was a detailed account of this harrowing year, but I’ve decided this isn’t the right time in my life to release it. For now, I sit with this ball of pain that's with me every minute of every day, like a surreal parallel universe gone horribly wrong. Those around me don't see it, congratulating me on my recovery. But it's there from the moment I wake to the second I fall asleep, and I still cry almost every day. My therapist says I'm right on schedule.

22 years ago when I was 22, my life started as I hopped the sexuality fence and began my journey as a gay man. Something about the numbers 22 and 44 make this particular birthday significant. I desperately wanted the touch of another man but didn’t know how to go about making that happen. Cute guys at the El Camino College library would follow me into the bathroom. I’d duck into a stall and hide until they left. At the gym, I was the target of chicken hawks (predatory gay men who exclusively pursue much younger guys, consuming one after the next, their lack of self-worth and poor social skills preventing them from dating men their own age) who would follow me into the steam room or rub themselves against me under the bubbling water of the jacuzzi. I thought what the young guys wanting sex in the bathroom was slutty and was completely creeped out by the chicken hawks and their bland, Disney-manic smiles making for utterly forgettable personalities. I knew what I wanted. I eventually found it, but it took a while. 

I was a label whore. I remember spending $70 each on dress shirts at Robinsons department store. Work shirts. How much is that in 2012 dollars? The first guy I dated turned me onto Marshalls, which was like an out-of-body experience. As I grew into my new shoes, my new wardrobe expanded neck and neck with my new life until I had more than ample costumes for my two lives: quiet Redondo Beach surfer…and Hollywood velvet rope party boy. Jimmy Z velcro shorts during the day, Gibraud jeans and biker boots at night. My closet was divided neatly in half. I tanned, buffed and polished myself. I threw up dinner and worked out relentlessly, chasing the form of David.I ironed everything I wore, making sure the seams on my t-shirts were flat. I wanted desperately to be desired by all.

The wardrobe on the right side of my closet expanded as I became an overblown hedonistic egomaniac;  a bourbon guzzling, coke snorting whore (well, maybe not that much of a whore,) hell-bent on being on every “list” in Hollywood, roaring around town in his little silver sports car with a revolting sense of entitlement. How's that for a run-on sentence? By then, I had my “act” down: find out what a man wants and don’t give it to him. I got a lot of mileage out of that one. I loved being chased. My transformation took about a year and a half. 

My friend Belinda saved my life once. It was Christmas Eve 1996. I’d been sober 15 months and was in the exact same place I find myself today. I was heartbroken and the pain was more than I could bear. I made the conscious decision to end my sobriety. I cleaned up to get my boyfriend back and it hadn’t worked out that way...I lost him to addiction...and he was a chicken hawk. As I walked to the bar car, I heard “Jeremy!” The airline that was supposed to take her home for Christmas had gone out of business and she’d hopped the Amtrak at the last minute. And here she was on my train, groping me, showing me her tits, entertaining me with stories and baudy humor. She kept this up for 5 hours until the train stopped at San Luis Obispo. A week later, I called her, asking if she knew what I was about to do. “You were going to drink.” 

My train angel Belinda died tragically in a house fire on June 27, 2012. She was 45. Belinda was the person who showed me how to have fun in sobriety, one of the biggest issues for young people (I was 28.) She was a kind, generous woman who would give you her last dollar. She considered me her best friend. She was also the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met. She fostered my animals but ruined my credit. Had she not died, I'd be calling her every day. Her loss has left a huge empty space in my life.

My friend Heidi lost her long battle with breast cancer within a week of Belinda’s death. She was a fighter and held on as long as she could. Pete’s mother Connie unexpectedly passed earlier this year. She showed me what a mother’s love could look like, one of those people who you meet and immediately land at the top of your list of loved ones.

I’m not a person who believes everything is “meant to be.” People get ill, make wrong choices or just plain fuck up. And lovely addiction. Presently, I’m living day by day, in the process of adjusting my dreams to my present reality, no easy task after investing so much.

I'm just as desirable at 44, this has been abundantly proven to me. Funny thing...the kind of boys I used to chase in my 20's who didn't want me chase me today. I've dated the underwear model and the "everything" model you see on billboards. The latter was my "first" date, the most stunningly beautiful man I've ever...you know. As the night began, I thought there was a hidden camera somewhere in his old Hollywood dream of apartment, some sort of a practical joke. It wasn't. The stunning-from-every-angle creature practically worshiped me. That night he worked his magic, restoring my battered self-esteem. Being a Sapiosexual (someone who is aroused by intelligence) 20something models aren't at the top of my wish list. But hey, I'm a man. I'm not the "I prefer younger" type, it's just what's on the menu lately. What's my type? 25-99, any race, slim, athletic, stocky, smooth or hairy, please have brains, a sense of humor, sense of adventure and good personal hygene, clean-cut to the front of the line. The "type" of many gay guys seems to get narrower and narrower as they age. For me the opposite has happened. And I could care less about six-pack abs or a big penis.

 Guys my age who are single mostly have unrealistic "Prince Charming" fantasies with an impossible set of criteria, or they're bathhouse queens (who can't have normal sex), muscle queens (men who spend countless hours pursuing an exaggerated form of physical perfection, prized above all else) or chicken hawks seeking the Emperor's New Twink. I'm a magnet for super-young ones, 18-22 with bodies like 14 year-olds but I couldn't...I'd feel like a child molester. In speaking to them, I find they are almost always from broken homes, looking for daddy.

A successful playwright calls me almost every night. I must admit, at midnight I look to see if my ringer is on and then make sure my phone is close. He tells me I'm brilliant and is ga-ga over my writing. He asked me to write a play for him. He gets my Sapiosexual rock hard.

At 22, I sat on my terrace in Redondo Beach with dreams of the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. Now twice my age, I'm in Hollywood, gazing back from my fifth-floor window, thinking how nice it would be to go surfing. Today, I know who I am. The 22 year-old me was pretty. And I was 22. Very 22, but with an old soul and a head full of questions and other people's dreams. Despite what some might tell us, being 22 isn’t better than being 44. I was a pretty boy. Now I’m a beautiful man.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Wren, you showed up at ground zero and helped me move, providing moral and kleenex support to your freshly discarded buddy. I'll never, ever forget what you did for me. You went from "hey man" to real friend in 5 hrs. Robert, you kept tabs on me via text, phone and in person, sometimes literally checking on me every hour and hanging out regularly. Truly one of my guardians when I was at my weakest. Katie, your wisdom astonishes me and I don't know what I would have done without your emphatically popping up whenever I was about to do something insane. Tamie, in my darkest hours, there you were, imparting wisdom between my gut-wrenching sobs. A year and change ago, who knew I'd end up in your shoes? Carlos, I'll never forget you loading your little bicycle on the bus so I could cry on your shoulder. You're a REAL friend. Anthony, my beautiful young friend, thanks for all those hours you spent doing your best to help put me back together. You proved that in the friendship arena, age is just a number...you're wise beyond your years. Pete...you've stuck with me for a long, long time. Glad you're still here. Having you back in my life was one of the few bright spots in 2012.  Kimberly, you got the worst of me. Thank you for your love and support as we walked the same trail. You have to admit, we've had some comical moments and many unexpected parallels. Luis, thank you for making me laugh with your ugly face and dreadful sense of humor. J/K! Anna, you've listened to me for years, thanks again...you've ALWAYS been there. Quentin, thanks for making me feel wanted in a time when I desperately needed it. I still owe you a cuddle date. Charlie, thanks for keeping me company, eating vegan food with me and taking my Skype virginity. Wendy B, thanks for listening and for all your Texan-ness. Roy, thank you for coming into the lion's den and spending time with me when my eyes were red. Michael, I didn't forget the night you talked me out of doing something really stupid. Thank you for being the voice of reason. Thom, one of my oldest friends...thanks for listening to my tale of heartbreak...again. This must have been heavy deja vu for you.

I apologize to anyone I've forgotten. The last 3 months have been a blur. This concludes the summary of my horrific 43rd year, second only to my 25th when I was hooked on crystal meth (and all the fun that goes with it) and my grandmother (who was basically my mother) passed away. Ah, memories.