The Single Person's Santa Claus

It's over.

Once again I have managed to date someone for a fairly long period of time, not have sex with them at all, and have the relationship turn into a friendship.

The thing is, I have enough friends. I have a fabulous social circle of casual acquaintances, some very dear close friends, and a wonderful family. I'm not looking to expand the fold. Eight is more than fucking enough. Any more and I'll be able to cast the all-gay version of Yours, Mine, and Ours.

I know I should be grateful. Some people have a really hard time making friends. In fact, from the ages of six to fifteen, I was one of those people. So, okay, I give - I'm grateful. It could be way worse. At least men are still showing interest in me. I could be making new enemies instead of friends. Or have men screaming on my doorstep screaming "why don't you love me?" and leaving me 35 voice mails in the span of a couple hours like my poor, beleagured friend Earl (as if becoming an irrational, crazed stalker is somehow going to make Earl go "oh, right, I was totally wrong and I'm being stupid - let's get back together.")

I presume this is exactly what dating is like: you meet someone, you hang out, you maybe have sex, things take their course, most of the time it doesn't go anywhere... wash, rinse, repeat. Only never having dated for any length of time until the past year or so, I didn't realize this was the score.


Part of me thinks I had the right idea - shack up young and stay put and avoid all these ups and downs. How come no one warned me dating is the grown-up version of Snakes and Ladders? A few unlucky turns and you find yourself back at square one. Then again, I've enjoyed the random hot sex, the sense of possibility when I walk onto a dance floor, the freedom of only having to worry about myself that singledom offers. I've learned a lot about myself in the process. But... well, I never considered this before, but what if I am single forever? Would I be okay with that?

I'm thinking, though there would be some major pangs of loneliness involved, that it wouldn't be better or worse than being with one person for the rest of my life. Each scenario has it's own pros and cons. When I started dating the Writer, I thought, I hope this is the guy. I'm ready to settle down, have a boyfriend, have a cozy little life. As things progressed, though, I thought about what I would miss about singledom, and there were a quite a number of them.

I can see why the term is "Mr. Right:" that person you meet where everything clicks so well for both parties that any "pros" of singledom suddenly become irrelevant, foolish. Insant past. And while he's certainly a mythical creation - the single person's Santa Claus - is it so wrong that I want to believe in him.

Call me a dreamer, a defiant optimist, but I've already given up the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and Santa. I'd like to hold on to this one a little bit longer.

If there's nothing to win in the game of Snakes and Ladders, why bother playing the game in the first place?

Love is But a Dream

I'm not sure what the hell happened. My love life seemed to be floating merrily along down a gentle stream. A slightly boring stream, perhaps, but at least it was gentle. Sun-dappled kisses and warm laughter. Now I've gone 'round the bend only to be greeted by rushing rapids and what may or may not be a waterfall misting up the distance. Do I jump out now and swim to shore while I can? Or ride out the bumps and pray that, instead of a sheer, hundred foot drop, the waterfall turns out to be a navigable fall of five feet or so?

Let me ditch the lame metaphor and explain.

The guy I've been dating - for the sake of convenience, I will call him the Writer - finally broached the idea of the two of us talking. We had still not had sex, and I was feeling like, after a strong start, we'd kind of hit a wall. So when he emailed me saying he'd "been thinking about us" and that we should "meet and talk" I was glad - and also terrified. The words "meet and talk" never bode well in my experience. Oddly, I decided I would approach this terror in a new, rather direct way: I replied to his email and told him flat out that what he had said immediately made me think the worst and that while he hadn't really done anything specific to make me think that, I found him very hard to read. I also told him that because he had told me he couldn't deal with pressure from boys, I had been very stand-offish, much more than I normally would, and that I hoped he hadn't mistaken this for non-interest.

I don't know why I thought being straight up about my insecurities and feelings was a good idea. While perhaps admirable in intent, it now seems stupid to me. Insecurity, unsureness - these are not appealing, sexy qualities. Once again I find myself asking "what was I thinking?"

I had finished my email reply with a jokey-but-serious "hey, if I'm freaking out for nothing you should call me as soon as you read this and put my mind at ease so I don't stew all day" comment. The email was sent quite late at night. He called me the next morning. We made a date to talk the following night, and I felt better.

This was on a Wednesday. I had a corporate dj gig that night, where I had a bit of a reunion with an old girlfriend, T. Our friendship had come to a halt when I broke up with the Ex, since she is the Ex's best friend. However, it's been a year and a half since the split, so on Wednesday the two of us reconnected and she told me she thinks it's time we try and rekindle/re-establish our friendship. After the gig finished, we hung out and caught up over a couple of beers at a downtown bar. Having taken full advantage of the open bar at the corporate gig, we were considerably drunk by the time we closed the place and made our way into the street.

Somehow, it's - surprise! - a bit hazy, T struck up a conversation with a nice looking Spanish man in the street outside the bar. Well, I assumed he was Spanish as he and T were prattling away in it, but it turned out he was a Mexican guy named Sergio. T invited him to join us back at her place. I didn't really think too much of it at the time as I was more concerned with how the Ex, who still lives at T's place (she's out of town most of the time for work), was going to react to the rekindling of our friendship.

It could've gone better. There were a few people back at T's hanging out, and everything was fine for a bit. But the Ex was pretty drunk and making nasty remarks. While normally this is his schtick, I detected a note of real hostility in his supposedly "funny" cutting comments and told him so. I wasn't trying to start a big scene or anything - I thought we could just talk it out - but T ended up playing mediator and before I knew it, things escalated and the Ex stormed off to hide out from the both of us in the bedroom. Except that the bedroom door was shut, and he didn't notice.

"Ow!"

He stormed right into the door. There was blood coming out of his forehead. T ran up to assist him. I stayed put (I hadn't actually seen the blood, so I didn't realize at the time he'd dinged himself pretty good.) Everyone had disappeared from the main room except me, a close friend of mine, and Sergio. The three of us were chatting, when Sergio suddenly asks my friend if it's okay if he kisses me. My friend says "sure, go for it."

What's happening???

Suddenly the Mexican is kissing me - very well, I might add. All I can imagine is the Ex returning to the room, which really could happen at any second, and how terrible the ensuing fracas would be. It's time to go home.
And Writer be damned, it's time I got some.

Somehow Sergio and I managed to leave together without anybody realizing (with the exception of my friend who saw us kiss) that we were leaving together. Once back at my place, we had torrid sex for hours. The following morning, hungover and very late for work, we did it again.

Once home from work a few hours later, I felt guilty as fuck. Sure, the Writer and I weren't necessarily exclusive, but it sort of felt implied even if it had never been said out loud. And more importantly, what did this new development mean? I thought I was pretty smitten, but how smitten with the Writer could I really be if I'd so easily go off and get it on with someone else? Was it simply a matter of wanting sex, or was there more to it

Well, I thought, let's see how the talk goes and we'll go from there.

Yeah - bad idea. It wasn't so much a talk as two intelligent but emotionally inarticulate people sitting across from each other for hours.

"I know I suggested this, but I don't really know what I want to talk about," he said.

Okay. Weird. There was some chat but most of it was stilted, unwieldy stuff that left me feeling more unresolved than when I walked in the door. He told me he did think it was odd we hadn't had sex yet, and bore the blame for that. He asked how I would feel if "this turned into a friendship" - which is a pretty obvious red flag, I know, but when I asked him how he'd feel about that, he said he did not want that to happen (I told him it would make me sad.)

Leaving his place that night I tried to make plans with him for Sunday, suggesting maybe we could make a little day of it: some brunch, followed by some Christmas shopping and then maybe a matinee movie.

"Can we just do the matinee?" he asked.

Ouch.

We agreed to touch base Sunday afternoon. This plan, unfortunately, got screwed up because on Saturday night, after hanging out with T and the Ex and some friends for the second time that week, I hooked up with Sergio again. The second time was even better than the first. And he didn't leave until 4pm on Sunday. I heard my cell ring around noon, and ignored it, but of course the call was from the Writer.

Yes, I basically blew off our date to enjoy the multitude of pleasures proferred by my Mexican lover. I'm sure anyone reading this could point out any number of problems with my behaviour and some disturbing patterns as well. I'm personally struck by the fact that my mishandling of the Writer dating situation coincides with me hanging out again with my old clique. It's like the past vs the future. Old Me vs New Me. Failing to Shed the Old Bad Habits vs Achieving Change.

But how rid of the past can one really be? Somehow, some way, it always seems to weasle it's way into the present. And though I've been trying (attempting to quit smoking, staying in more often, etc.) to re-invent myself, have been trying to become a smarter, improved version of myself, how much can one realistically change?

I find myself wondering: was I really smitten with the Writer? Or was I smitten with the things he seems to embody: a quiet, stable existence filled with books, the gym, and a healthy, alcohol-free diet? Maybe I wasn't smitten with him - I want to be him.

I just noticed I wrote "was" not "am" - which would seem to answer my question, wouldn't it?

Not being a total jerk, I called the Writer back as soon I'd seen the Mexican out. I apologized, told him I'd gotten quite drunk the night before with T and that I'd slept until 3pm. He said it was no big deal and that he'd gotten lots of stuff done around his place. We chatted for a bit, and made a date to watch Heroes together on Tuesday.

Actually, I think I am a total jerk, but anyway...

We hung up, I jumped in the shower, and when I got out I saw that he'd tried to call back. I called him right away.

He told me he hadn't been totally open with me when we'd spoken on Thursday, that he had held back, that making a date with me was probably not the best idea, and that he thought we should get together and talk.

"Okay," I said, slightly taken aback. "Where do you want to meet? Your house?" We hang at his place 90% of the time.

We're meeting at Starbucks at 7pm.

Yes, methinks I'm getting dumped. It's okay, though - we're meeting at the Starbucks I used to run, the one from which I was unceremoniously fired. I'm used to receiving shitty news there. I suppose there's a small chance I'm wrong, that maybe he has some secret confession or something, but I highly doubt it. Hell, didn't I write something in here a weeks or so ago about how my life only derails when I ingore my instincts? And didn't my instinct tell me, upon getting the Writers' original "meet and talk" email, that I was about to be sent packing?

Here we go again. I don't really feel upset or bummed out, oddly. But I feel like I've failed somehow.

No, that's not quite it. It's more this: I thought I wanted a boyfriend, that I wanted to settle down and have a quiet life with someone, that I was done with my old ways. And while "boyfriend" was never, as it turns out, on the table, I've realized in dating the Writer that I don't want to settle down that quietly just yet. And yet, I want to be done with the old ways. So I'm not sure where this leaves me...

I guess I'll grip the sides a little tighter, resist the urge to swim to shore, and ride these rapids out. If that waterfall turns out to be a long way down, hopefully the fall will at least be exhilarating.

What's the 2-1-1?

So colour me a copycat, but I saw this done elsewhere and decided to try it myself. We're all looking for answers in life, and despite what the billboard on the church lawn up the road said (some nonsense along the lines of "Google doesn't have all the answers." Really? Are you sure about that?), Google seems as good a place to search as anywhere else. I plugged in "Brad needs."

Here's what I learned:

Brad needs a pair of wrestling shoes.
Brad needs babies!
Brad needs to work on his self being.
Brad needs to perform on a raised platform.
Brad needs to get a little looser about scheduling stuff.
Brad needs transitional care in order to be trained to cope.
Brad needs botox.
Brad needs to be in a sorority because he’s a snippy little bitch.
BRAD NEEDS DISCIPLINE!
Brad needs to talk to someone knowledgable about his entire financial situation and then get recommendations that contain alternatives.
Brad needs his sleep but he helps when he can.
Brad needs a good Oscar winning role.
Brad needs to stay the hell out of her family business and worry about his own parents
Brad needs cheering up?
Brad needs to change his mantra from impeachment to prosecution.
Frankly, I think Brad needs his own show.
Brad needs to make more money.
Maybe Brad needs a little refresher course on the operating details of monetary policy in the last decade?
I think Brad needs to come to my house for a Final Fantasy showdown, that is if he isn't chicken.
Brad needs to stop thinking that he’s cool.
I think Brad needs a few more interests...or something...
Brad needs to get himself together and leave the vampire.
If you want to buy Brad alcohol, buy him a tall boy of 211. That is all Brad needs.
Brad needs some serious modifications to his educational setting.
Brad needs help.

I think the "tall boy" one is my favourite, although the one about the sorority is a close second. Other results are so terrifyingly true I can't even begin to comprehend it.

I think a lot about what I want (in fact, I believe as a Scorpio my 'purpose statement' or whatever you want to call it is 'I want' or 'I desire' - shocking, I know) but rarely think about what I need (which will henceforth be known to me as 'the 2-1-1') There was this song that I used to hear over and over back when I worked at Starbucks that I'm reminded of now. I can't remember what it's called or who sings it, but one of the lines was "all I want is everything." That sounds easier to me, since lately, if pressed for specifics, I don't fucking know what I want anymore. Except maybe being told what it is I need.

(Ever thorough, I also googled "I need" and hit the I'm Feeling Lucky button. I was brought to a weather site called DoINeedAJacket.com. If only there was a "DoINeed..." site for everything!)

I do know this much: I need my friends. I need my family. I need to stop overanalyzing and try to live in the moment. I need to improve my communication skills.

And the more I try to find it, the longer I wait for it to smack me upside the head and knock me senseless, the more I want it, the more I suspect that "all you need is love" is the truest statement ever uttered.

Yeah, pretty random, scatterbrained post, I know.

Inaction. Figures.

I've been reading Antonia Fraser's biography of Marie Antoinette. After seeing the movie, which I adored and couldn't get out of my head for days, I craved more of the story and finally picked up the book.

(The film ends with the King and Queen's departure from Versailles - while I know how the story ultimately ends, I'm curious as to what happened after they fled. Which is perhaps a bit dark of me, but I'm sure I'm not the only one who has picked up the book for this reason. Which I'm sure pleases Ms. Fraser - and, no doubt, her accountant.)

I've come to the part of the story where, after seven years of marriage, Louis XVI finally starts properly sticking it to Marie. The main reason for the marriage was for Marie to give birth to an heir. Louis XVI showed almost zero interest in spending time in the marriage bed trying to make it happen, however, and when he did try his deposits, apparently, landed mostly on the sheets. This was frustrating for many and humiliating for Marie, who took the brunt of the blame for the lack of matrimonial action. Teenagers when they were wed, it's surprising to me that it took so long. I remember being fifteen, and I would've stuck it in pretty much anyone if it meant even a small dose of hormonal relief. Even if I didn't really know what I was doing, I certainly would have been happy to have someone with whom to figure it all out.

Poor Marie Antoinette - she was pretty much openly mocked in the court at Versailles, falsely accused of all sorts of inappropriate behaviour - but despite her immense frustration, she showed a great deal of patience. And eventually the bedroom problems sorted themselves out.

Reading all of this has served to remind me of my current romantic situation. I've been seeing a man for just over a month now, and we've yet to get down to business. Oh sure, there's been some making out, a bit of groping - it's not all kittens and sunshine. But I'm a healthy, attractive young gay man, and I'm starting to get impatient. I mean, when the fuck are we gonna fuck? Let me state this clearly right now: this boy is not waiting seven years before things start to get going. I have needs. I have settled for a less-than-lustrous sex life in the name of love and companionship in the past and, frankly, I'm not prepared to do so again.

I can appreciate the old-fashioned novelty of taking it slow and getting to know each other. I won't lie - it's refreshing. And many would argue that a month is not really that long, and they would be right. But this hasn't been a date-once-or-twice-a-week deal, it's been three to four, with more or less daily communication. Perhaps, seeing as I've spent much of the past year being a slut and engaging in more one-night engagements than I care to count for fear I'll run out of digits, my sense of "normal" is out of whack. But to me that seems like an awful lot of dates to not be past the dry humping stage. Christ, I've yet to see him half-dressed, much less naked.

In an effort to see some skin I even suggested, under the guise of "fitness," that he come over to my building to use the sauna and pool. Cruelly, the day after he agreed that was a great idea, a notice went up in the lobby stating that the pool would be closed indefinitely for repairs and has yet to be removed.

It all started out innocently enough. After revealing to each other through a match-making friend that we find each other attractive (I believe he used the words "hot" and "foxy") the dates began. I was aware from the outset that in his 32 years he has never had a boyfriend. Worried there was something wrong with him, in an opportune moment I asked him point blank: "That's been by choice, right?" I was assured with a laugh that it was. Although if there was something wrong, would he really just come out and say so? Probably not.

Around the third or fourth date, there was some joking about "going all the way" which led to him telling me that he can handle pretty much anything "except pressure from boys." I told him "hey, no pressure, I don't believe in rushing into things." Which, when I later thought about it a little more carefully, is a bold-faced lie: I do like rushing into things. If I'm sure about someone or something, I tend to jump right in. (I operate mostly on instinct, and nearly every time I've stumbled in life it's because I've made the mistake of ignoring it.) That said, I think it's important to be open-minded and flexible - just because I usually jump doesn't mean I have to this time, right? The fact that I'd be willing to jump is the important factor here.

My instincts are still telling me to stick with him. This seems to be the start of a potentially really amazing thing (although I'm making a keen effort to not weigh things down with too much expectation, a mistake I've made time and time again). We're definitely into each other, and in terms of personality we complement each other in all the right ways - we have a great deal in common, with differences that counter each other just so.




But my instincts are also telling me that if I want some more action, I'm going to have to be the one to lead the way. Well... they're not 100% telling me that, but I'm sort of getting that vibe. Maybe it's more like, say... 82%? Regardless, I find myself in a precarious situation. He's told me he can't deal with pressure from boys, so I'm extremely hesitant to be pushy in any way. I feel like even bringing up the "when are we taking this further?" topic would potentially invite an elephant permanently into the room. Not exactly a threesome to which I aspire. At the same time, I feel like if I don't say anything at all, he might think I'm not interested. And to complicate things even further, I am not a leader in the bedroom department. Or rather, I am not generally the one who leads to the bedroom. My tendency is to let the other person do the leading. Once there, however, all bets are off. And once there once, I'll happily lead from that point on.

I think it's safe to say I may have some "control" issues.

I could, you may be thinking, just go out and find some sex (and indeed I did while in Montreal a few weeks ago) if it's so bloody important. And I could - there's been no talk of "exclusivity" or anything - but I don't really want to.

Like Marie Antoinette's, the general opinion in my court (read: my homo friends) seems to be that something is either wrong with me, or wrong with him:

"Sooo," Shawn asked me a couple weeks ago. "You banged him yet?"

"Um... no."

"What?!?" Pure shock. "Are you serious?"

"I never joke about sex." Well, at least not when I'm not having any.

"Dude, why not? What's the matter with him?"

"Nothing's wrong with him. We're just... taking things slow, that's all."

Silence, with a faint hint of... what's that? Derision?

"Did I mention he's never had a boyfriend?"

"So, anyway..." (insert random change of subject here)

This is not the only exchange like this I've had on this subject. In the spirit of Marie Antoinette, I smile, behave like everything is hunky-dory, and approach the subject, should it arise, with defiant optimism. Obviously I'm going to have to figure this one out on my own. And, hopefully, it will happen within seven weeks which is, based on everyone's reactions, roughly the gay equivalent of seven years. Which means I should see some head sometime before Christmas.

If not, it may be off with mine.

I Love Trouble

I'm in trouble again. I'm sitting here, trying not to freak out, because I haven't heard from the guy I'm seeing in two days. I can't help but think I've done something to make him mad at me. It's not like him to take more than a day to reply to one of my emails. But with the exception of a possible faux-pas on Friday night, I can't think of anything that I've done that would make him mad at me.

Or maybe that's just it: he's upset because there is something I'm supposed to have done that I haven't, only I don't know what it is and so therefore can't fix it.

See? I could run around my head like this all day. I'm definitely in trouble. This is beyond crush. I'm getting paranoid when I don't hear from him for a period of longer than a day, which, in sane people time, is not a terribly long time, which means I am beginning to fall, which, if recent history and the law of averages are anything to go by, means I am Fucked. Capital F, can't think, can't eat, can't sleep Fucked.

While the guy I'm dating seems to have nothing in common with my previous love interests on the surface - he rarely drinks, he has not tried (much to my frustration, now that we've been dating a month) to get me into his bed, he has never had a boyfriend, he seems genuinely nice - I have been checking below very carefully in case I've missed something. I'm wary of repeating previous mistakes, of falling into a pattern of falling for the same kind of guy over and over again only to end up bitchy and alone. While this guy seems generally pretty fantastic, I'm worried that I've overlooked something, some flaw that makes him similar to my past lovers that will come back to haunt me later. I mean, if I like him this much, there must be something wrong with him, right?

But other than some guardedness and a need to call the shots/be in control that reminds me of my last long-term boyfriend (qualities that, in this new guy, are tempered by self-awareness and a striking sense of humour - and besides, every relationship has an inevitable power struggle) I haven't really seen anything that could be indicative of a pattern. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's really into me, but wants to take it slow to ensure we don't fuck it up.

Real-time update: I just received a text message from him, wondering if I'm free tonight (which, dammit, I'm not.)

See? All in my head. I just need to chill out. Or I will fuck it up by creating problems where there aren't any.

Next time: how slow is too slow? Discuss.

Me and the Technicolour DreamPatch

Wow. I spent last night at a long, relaxing lakeside photo shoot with Justin Timberlake somwhere north of Temagami. Did you know his body is much more cut in person? It's especially obvious when he's been dipped in the cool waters of a northern Ontario lake, providing ample moisture for the bright sun overhead to shine off his rippled, golden abdominals.

We needed some designer pieces for the shoot, so I was sent off to Dior's Hedi Slimane to seek out the appropriate items. Not surprisingly, his studio was crammed with bolt after bolt of black fabric in every imaginable sheen and texture. That it looked like a junky, overcrowded used clothing store in Kensington Market with only Hedi running the show was, however, a tad unexpected. I found myself trying on a number of slim-cut dinner jackets while telling Hedi about the travails of quitting smoking.

"Yeah, so I'm on the Patch, but I haven't been leaving it on all day. The package said you can leave it on for 24 hours, but apparently leaving it on at night can give you crazy dreams, so I've been taking it off before bed. It's not like I ever smoked in my sleep anyway, right?"

I laughed gaily, but stopped when I noticed Hedi looking derisively at my feet.

Although I don't recall trying on any trousers, I somehow managed to misplace my shoes. I searched the dressing room and surrounding areas, and then ran out into the street barefoot. The bright summer day outside made me momentarily sun-blind after spending so long in the cramped, darkened studio.

Jump cut to New York, where I watched Boy George - or perhaps it was Alan Cumming? - hosting Saturday Night Live. Unfortunately, his tragic opening monologue failed to elicit a single laugh. First Taboo, then this. The poor thing. I was then whisked off to the post-monologue skit, in which I played one of Alec Baldwin's children. It was Christmas Eve, and me and my siblings were trying to convince our parents to open our presents right away instead of waiting until morning. Much hilarity ensued. The sketch concluded with me suggesting we simply smoke a joint instead of opening presents. Everyone agreed that this was a great idea so Mom, aka Amy Poehler, ran upstairs to get her stash. While looking for the rolling papers, I became distracted by one of those plastic tubes filled with icing that you use to write on birthday cakes. Seeing as it was filled with hot pink icing, I couldn't resist giving it a try on the nearest available surface and proceeded to write "Ho Ho Ho" on some wall panels next to the Christmas tree. I was concentrating very intently on getting the lettering just so when Amy returned from upstairs. She began reaming me out for suggesting she was a ho - never mind that I'd just frosted the walls in baker's graffiti - when I suddenly started awake. I look around in bewilderment for my cell phone to shut off the alarm, then realize there is no alarm.

Uh-oh.

I find my phone. 9:52am. Wonderful. I have eight minutes to get dressed and make the 15 minute journey by cab to work. I jump out of bed, throw on some clothes, and wait - what's this? I see something odd on my arm as I'm pulling on my shirt. It resembles a scratch-n-sniff sticker. Shit.

I fell asleep wearing the Patch.

I've never used the Patch before. I decided, rather impulsively, to quit smoking eleven days ago after seeing a British television programme called Honey We're Killing the Kids* at Shawn's place (I was visting him in Montreal for the weekend). Actually, the quitting was Shawn's suggestion. I sort of went along with it to be a good sport. Seeing as I'm kind of on a self-improvement kick anyway, the thinking was that it could help Shawn stick to quitting if he had a co-conspirator for support. And, you know, that for the same reason, I might really quit this time, too.

[*The television show, by the way, basically shows parents, with the aid of the lastest computer aging techniques, what their children, after participating in a battery of physical and psychological testing, will look like at age 40. After the "don't-fuck-with-me-this-is-for-your-own-good" reality-tv life advisor/bitch/doctor reveals these terrifying and monstrous images to them, the parents are given a four week plan they must implement in the hopes of getting their kids off the path of ugliness, malnutrition, and general despair onto one of health, success, and fulfillment. The parents, of course, are so ridden with guilt and self-loathing after seeing the ugliness they will be responsible for springing onto the world that they willingly submit to whatever suggestions the doctor lady makes. Usually this involves drastic things like: making sure the kids eat breakfast, monitoring their television watching, not letting them eat any sugary shit they can get their hands on anytime they feel like it, having dinner together at a dining table, making sure they go to bed on time, and spending time with them doing something other than watching television and eating crisps. After the plan is completed, the parents are shown the new, drastically improved, bright and shiny digital versions of their kids at 40, complete with smiles where there were once frowns, and the parents vow they will be better people and do right by their kids. I think they should show this programme to every single new parent everywhere. It was pretty eye-opening, not to mention scarier than The Exorcist.]

Typically, I am now on Day 12 of SmokeFree Living (with a brief lapse period at my birthday party last weekend consisting of about ten cigarettes) while Shawn had two cigarettes on Day 1 and resumed regular smoking habits on Day 2. So much for having a support buddy; I've been thrust into playing a role model, something, I've learned, I have far too much ego to do without filling up with gallons of hot air. Quick, someone find the understudy, I don't want to be here!

The Patch has proven to be very effective in making me not insane. Instead of a constant headache and hearing nattering voices in my head urging me to Kill, Kill Them All, I have been relatively bearable to be around. I do have occasional flashes of extreme irritability, but they pass fairly quickly, as do the cravings. And frankly, I had flashes of extreme irritability before I was a smoker, so it's hard to say which are the result of withdrawal and which are simply intrinsic to my effervescent personality.

On Day 9 I forgot to put on a patch in the morning and went to work. Around 1.30pm I was a hit with a craving that left me breathless. It was like being tossed off a mechanical bull into a pile of boulders. I popped a piece of gum into my mouth, tried to focus on all the work I had to do, and thought about how proud of me the non-smoking healthy guy I've been seeing for the past month will be if I get through this.

Not that I'm quitting for him (in fact, I'm not even sure the smoking bothered him enough to be a deal-breaker). But I'm going to grasp at any motivational straw I can find. As long as there's no coke around, it'll be helpful. I'm proud to say I made it through Day 9 untainted. Thinking of how god-awful the first one of the lapse tasted is also a useful tool.

But while the Patch may be keeping me sane during the day, after last night's Technicolor extravaganzas, I'm a little fearful of what havoc it may wreaking on my subconscious that I'm not aware of. And to think, that wasn't even the super-duper patch, but the 7mg, you're-almost-done baby patch (I ran out of the other ones and forgot to pick up more, okay?)

Or maybe the Patch has nothing to do with it. Maybe that's what SmokeFree Living dreams are always like, it's just been so bloody long since I've had one that I've forgotten. Really, there are worse things than lounging lakeside with a wet Justin Timberlake and parading about in Dior jackets. Maybe I should start wearing the patch to bed every night. Although for that I need a louder alarm clock.

Do you think there's such a thing as an alarm gong?

Since I've Been Gone

I'm back.

Think of this entry as the season premiere. I'm sure I haven't left anyone hanging off the edge of their seats, dying to know what happened next, but on the small chance I have, I apologize for running off on you without any prior warning.

I did not have a nervous breakdown, and I'm not, as far as I know, clinically depressed. I did not quit my job, nor did I end up living happily ever after with Shawn. On the surface, everything is just as it was before. Further down, however, the picture is considerably different. I came face to face with some of my demons over the past few months, and while they are ostensibly banished, the realizations about myself that came out of those encounters are definitely not.

As this past summer progressed, I found myself sinking further into an abyss of denial. I mentioned I was feeling angry for no reason. I think I was angry at myself. I was denying that the amount of partying I was doing was having a negative impact on my health, work life, and general well-being. I was denying to what extent I was in love with Shawn. I was denying that I missed the circle of friends I lost when I ended my relationship with the Ex. I was denying that I missed the Ex's family, which I now realize I do, as well as how much I miss seeing my own. I was in denial that I was beginning to do to myself all the things I hated that my Ex did to himself.

I was sleeping in a lot, showing up late for work, mostly as a result of staying out too late, getting too drunk, and ending up at someone's place doing cocaine. I'd go out, vowing to have a couple drinks and then head home, and end up crawling home at four or five in the morning. I was spending a lot of time with Shawn, who had been pestering me to move in with him and then take over his apartment in September while he went travelling - which I was, against my better judgment, strongly considering - when he suddenly announced he was moving to Montreal.

He asked me to go with him. I told him I would think about it. At this point, my wall of denial was firmly in place and our friendship was entirely manageable for me. Rewarding, even. We had a lot of great, intimate talks, and the chemistry we had from back when we dated seemed to be turning into a very close friendship.

And then he went and fucked with my head. After a few too many cosmos at his goodbye Toronto dinner, we went outside for a cigarette. I started telling him about a boy I liked that I'd met at Pride, and he suddenly went off. He told me he wasn't sure what I thought of him anymore, but he'd been thinking about me a lot, and how I just get him, and that he still found me attractive, and that he wants to settle down, but he needed time to get to the right mental place to be able to do so, and that this was why he was going to Montreal, to clear his head, and that the more he thought about it, the two of us just fit. So I could date this guy I met all I wanted, but that I'd better be prepared to give the guy up when the time came for us to be together.

The sheer arrogance of him basically asking me to wait for him was not lost on me, but at the same time I felt like I'd been read like a book: convinced someone is the one, I likely would wait for them. Of course, Shawn prefaced all this with "Brent told me not to talk about this with you because he thinks it would fuck with your head."

In my defense, I would just like to state that I then told him "Fine, then let's not have this conversation." Though "conversation" would imply that there was a dialogue, when really it was Shawn simply saying all this stuff to me - all this stuff that I've always wanted him to say to me but that I never thought in a million years he would - while I simply stood there listening, not quite believing what I was hearing.

The problem, of course, was that I should have known better than to believe what I heard. But the heart is foolish, and the heart wants to believe. As the next couple of weeks unfolded, with Shawn conveniently parked 500 kilometres away, my cleverly constructed dam of denial began to crack and spring leaks. The boy I'd met at Pride told me he just wanted to be friends (and now we are) which was a bit of a kick to the face of my self-esteem and left me feeling unwanted and vulnerable. Speaking to Shawn on the phone filled the void, since everytime we talked he begged me to move in with him in Montreal, which acted as a kind of Miracle-Gro for the bits of longing that had slipped through the cracks of my denial. Maybe, I thought, I should just do it. Throw caution to the wind and take a chance and just go there and see what happens. I concluded that I would wait until I went there for Montreal Pride and see how that went.

I don't what I expected to happen. I built it up in my mind that Pride would be the weekend that we would end up together. It would be so fitting. It would be exactly a year since we met, in the same city where we met, no less.

So of course it all went awry.

In the meantime, however, I went home to Timmins for a week, accompanied by one of my favourite people, my friend Earl. It was a good trip. We had a lot of fun: the weather was perfect, we did a lot of silly but fun touristy things, and hung out with my amazing parents. At the time, I thought the trip had cleared my head. Looking back, I think this is when I started to become aware of my demons, but instead of dealing with them I simply burrowed myself deeper into my various denials. When we returned, I got stupidly high and drunk the first night back.

Before I knew it, my friend Brent and I were off to Montreal. The first night started out with such promise. I had made a mixed cd for Shawn before he left, filled with "hidden" messages clearly stating my true feelings, and when a song from it came on while we were getting ready to go out for the night, he told me he loved the cd. We went out, had a great time, and before I knew it we were really drunk. We went back to his place with some cute guy we'd met while out. Brent promptly passed out. There was definitely some sexual tension in the air, and the remaining three of us got ready for bed. I fell into bed next to Brent, and was keenly aware of Shawn and the other boy fooling around on Shawn's bed a mere four feet away from me.

I wasn't so drunk as to not see that what I was thinking was probably a bad idea. I knew that it was certainly not a romantic idea. Why not just get up and get into bed with them and see what happens? So I did.

And just like that, I fucked it all up.

A few moments passed, and Shawn got up, left the bed, and went downstairs. I felt foolish. But this other hot boy was right there and all over me, and though I should have just gotten up and left immediately, obviously I wasn't really thinking in any kind of rational way, if at all. So I stayed put. Fucked him. In Shawn's bed. When it was done, the sun starting to creep in through the windows, the boy quickly threw on his clothes and hightailed it out of there with barely a word.

I laid there for a moment. I wanted sleep to take me immediately, to whisk me out of this, but I really needed a glass of water. I got up and went downstairs. My heart fell out onto the floor and shattered into a million pieces: Shawn was laid out on his living room floor with some blankets and a pillow. He looked up at me. Was that diappointment on his face? Annoyance? I couldn't tell.

I poured my glass of water and sat in the chair across from him, took a few quick sips, not making eye contact. I felt ashamed. What had I done? How could I have just undone all I'd hoped for in a matter of moments? The tension was palpable. I realized I had irreversibly changed in Shawn's eyes, had knocked myself clean off of whatever pedestal he might have had me on. I could feel his respect for me draining from the room. I put my head in my hands.

"I'm not mad," he said.

I looked up, looked at him. "I know," I said, waving off his redemption, "but..." I stood up, took a few steps towards the stairs. "I'm just... embarassed." Pause. "I'm sorry."

He told me that really, it was okay, and that he was actually kind of relieved, as "that boy was pretty aggressive."

Which one? I thought.

I went back up to bed. I tried to coax Shawn upstairs to his own bed, but he said he was fine where he was. This made me feel worse.

The next day on the way out for coffee we didn't talk about it. An attempt by Brent to make a joke about it that afternoon was met with dagger eyes by me and a very snappy "I don't want to talk about it, alright?" by Shawn. I busied myself with tying my sneakers and waited for the subject to change.

The rest of the weekend was fine. Great, actually, considering I dashed my dreams of true love like so much trash to the curb.

When I got back to Toronto, I felt empty inside. Stripped clean. However, the incident appeared to have been shelved. There was phone talk again of me moving to Montreal, to my surprise, but I tried to distance myself from the topic as fast I could. It made my head spin. What was I doing with my life, for fucks sake? I knew I needed a change, but was moving away the answer? Shawn was coming back to Toronto in a few weeks for his birthday and to pack up the rest of his apartment. Maybe something would happen then? Part of me was still clinging to this, but I know I was grasping at straws.

At work, my boss announced that he'd decided to give the business back to the original owners, so suddenly the stability of my employment was in question. He was pretty sure the owners would keep me on, but nothing was certain. This confused me more. If I were to leave my job and move, this would be the perfect time to do it, work-wise. What should I do?

I had a mini-meltdown. One day, after a night of partying yet again, I simply shut off my alarms and didn't go to work the next day. I didn't call them, didn't do anything. Co-workers tried to call me, left messages saying they were worried that someting bad had happened, and I was wracked with guilt. I felt paralyzed. What would I say if I called? Eventually I called and explained I had a panic attack. We had a long talk. I was honest and told my boss I simply freaked out.

This was when I realized I had to stop this madness. I had to cut back on my drinking. I was fucking up my job. That night I had to dj at the monthly I spin at. Afterwards, a bunch of us ended up my Ex's place for post-gig drinks. My Ex and his friends (some of whom are mine, but now distantly) were doing GHB and were supremely fucked up. I had done a couple of lines and was feeling alright, but I found myself looking around and not liking what I saw. There were some younger acquaintances there and I thought, you know what? You're not twenty anymore - what is there to be gained by sitting around getting fucked up with these people? I watched my G'd out former circle of friends and wondered: if I were still a part of this group, is this what I would be doing on a regular basis? Why are smart, incredibly successful people pumping themselves full of chemicals every weekend? Why, to a lesser but no less stupid extent, am I? I'm not even having fun.

It hit me that in five years time this was not where I wanted to find myself. Bored and being boring. I gathered my gear and went home.

Speaking of home, relations with my roommate were becoming strained. All I wanted to talk about was whether or not I should move, and it was not a topic I felt I could broach with her, considering I would essentially be fucking her over if I did move out. I grew distant: I would either go out and inevitably end up drunk, or would hole myself up in my bedroom and distract myself with the computer in order to avoid having to face up to the problems I knew she would point out to me.

And then the International Aids Conference rolled into town. I didn't attend, but it brought a man named Ivo into my life. He was a journalist from Switzerland covering the conference that I met while out one night with Brent. We hit it off and hung out all night. He asked me what gay boys got up to on a Thursday night, so I took him to Woody's for their infamous (but tedious) Best Chest contest. We had an okay time, but eventually grew bored, so I brought him home with me and we fooled around. He was sweet, there was no bullshit, and we had lively, interesting conversation. A few days later, on his last night in town, we met again and had a proper date: dinner, followed by a few beers on a quiet patio, and then we went back to my place again.

It hit me that this was the first time since I broke up with the Ex that I had slept with someone more than once.

I didn't fall in love with him or anything (though if he were around, I don't doubt it could happen - it didn't hurt matters that Ivo told me that he could fall in love with me if he were staying longer, which I know sounds like a total line but I'm confident it wasn't). Meeting him was important for me because it suddenly gave me a completely new perspective on everything. As we talked and got to know each other, I had to find new ways of explaining things that were commonplace for me but foreign to him. It's not that I was thinking in some kind of "global" context, but in speaking to him I found myself having to view things through the eyes of a cultural stranger. It took me outside the bubble I had unknowingly been living in and allowed me to examine my existence in a fresh way.

After Ivo left and returned to Switzerland (we've been emailing each other occasionally since) I began to feel better. The following week Shawn reappeared in town to finish his packing and move away for good. I had another gig that week and afterwards we went to Shawn and Brent's apartment, only Shawn was nowhere to be seen. Turns out he was out with his new boyfriend. I overheard one of our friends telling someone else that "Shawn is really happy, he's found his life partner."

On one hand, I felt like I'd been stabbed, but mostly I felt relieved. There would be no moving now. I wasn't uprooting my life to join forces with someone so indecisive. I know what I want with Shawn - why waste more time on him if I can't get some assurance in return?

I also felt angry. Life partner, my ass. Shawn hadn't even told me he'd gotten together with this boy. Why did he have to say all he said to me if nothing was ever going to come of it? Granted, I can't blame Shawn for moving on to someone else after my behaviour in Montreal. What would I think if the situation were reversed?

I realize now I was longing for a change and hoped some external occurrence would get the ball rolling: a change of city, a relationship, getting myself fired. I realize this has been a pattern in my life, and up to now I've been lucky - everything has always worked out. But the change I need must come from within. Somewhere I stopped respecting myself, stopped taking care of myself.

And gradually, one day at a time, I'm putting a stop to it. I've been staying at home a lot, reading more, spending more time with Shannon - remembering that I live with my best friend, not just a roommate. Now that I know I'm staying put in my place and genuinely want to stay put, I've been doing little projects around my pad again: painting, sprucing up the place, taking care of errands and tasks that I've been putting off for months. I'm teaching myself to assess social situations more carefully as well, to not let my insecurities drive my behaviour - am I doing something because I really want to, or because part of me feels I have to do so to fit in? I've realized that living downtown, it's been easy to behave like a party monster because it's all around me, all the time. My sense of perspective was completely out of whack. I've been re-evaluating what is important to me and re-shuffling my priorities.

I have a new found appreciation and energy for my job as well. While it's not necessarily where I saw myself at this age, or where I see myself in a few years, I realize my attitude was all wrong. I was vaguely embarrased at being a retail manager before. In my mind, it was a pointless job that didn't matter, and I treated it that way. I had no respect for the work I do and no appreciation of it's value. But I spend seven to eight hours there a day - if I don't respect what I do, how can I respect myself if I stay there?

I've realized I'm very good at what I do, and that it does take skill, and brains, and hard work, and that it's not something that just anyone can do. It certainly isn't changing the world for the better, but that doesn't mean I can't take pride in it anyway. So fuck embarassment. What I do isn't who I am. How I do it speaks a lot more to my character. I may be capable of much more, but for now, this is what I do for a living, and I'm going to do it with integrity for as long as I do it.

So there you have it: how I spent my summer vacation. Sorry if I was a bit long-winded about it. I guess the short and snappy Reader's Digest version would look something like this:

Since I've been gone, I decided to grow up.