Great Unexpectations

I want to write about what's been happening, but I can't just yet. I'm overwhelmed. I'm haven't fully absorbed it all. My relationship with Shawn has taken some unexpected turns. Sometimes you meet someone and you know they're going to change your life.

I think Shawn is one of those people.

Crush in Stasis

I am still struggling to define what exactly the deal is with me and Shawn.

I ran into the Waiter's friend Mike on the dancefloor last night. After witnessing me grinding a bit with Shawn, Mike asked me point blank:

"Do you have a crush on him or something?"

Ouch.

I opted to be honest. "Yeah, pretty much. Sort of. For awhile now." Damn tongue-loosening shooters. "Is it that obvious?"

Mike shot me a concerned look, and leaned in closer. "No, no. Not at all. But... you should stay away from that guy."

No kidding.

"You don't know what you're getting into, there's stuff you should know - "

I vehemently cut him off. "Trust me, Mike. I know all there is to know about that guy." My tone was the verbal equivalent of a slap across the face. He looked startled, then incredulous.

I looked him straight in the eye with what I hoped was a meaningful look. "Really, you don't need to worry it. I know the score here."

I knew what he was going to tell me. Shawn is HIV positive. This was unexpected and upsetting news when we were dating last August, but it has since become just another detail, like "he has blond hair." Not that I'm insensitive - obviously it's a life-changing thing. All I mean is that, in a way, it's not a big deal. It simply is.

I'll never forget the night he told me. It was towards the end of our first date. We had ended up at Buddies and got quite drunk (mental note: stop getting bombed on first dates) and he sort of blurted it out to me at a random moment. I could sense he was worried about my reaction, but I handled it okay, hiding my initial response of terror behind a facade of understanding. He said something about me potentially being worried that I had kissed him. I told him not to be ridiculous, and kissed him again, full on the mouth, lingering there and savouring it, so that he would know I wasn't some fool who would be worried about a mere kiss. In my head I wanted to kill all the people who had ever made him feel horrible because they kissed him and were worried about it.

The music stopped. We headed outside, schmoozed some more, and then went to the store and purchased cigarettes and bottled water. I was trying not to cry, but didn't quite realize that yet. I remember holding on, containing it, so that he wouldn't know I wouldn't be able to handle it. We walked to the corner. He told me we'd talk next week, that he wanted to give me time to absorb it, and that we'd go from there. We kissed again, and he headed down the street away from me. I walked for a little bit until I was able to get a cab. In the car, I was short with the cabbie, providing only the necessary directions and nothing more. I felt like I would burst into tears at any moment.

When I arrived home and got inside my door, I did. Real tears, big fat rolling snivelling drops. Uncontrollable sobbing, total grief. It was a powerful and overwhelming reaction. I had never cried like that before, and I haven't since. My head still reels when I think of it.

What was weird was that I wasn't surprised. It had crossed my mind that he might be positive before we had ever gone out. It's not something I've ever spent a great deal of time thinking about, so at the time I brushed the thought away, not really wondering where it came from. It was as if, on some gut level, I kind of knew.

After some thought, it occurred to me it didn't really matter. I wasn't going to refuse to pursue a relationship with someone I was completely into just because they were positive. It seemed like that would just be stupid. I ended up calling him the very next day, and we dated for a couple of weeks. It was amazing. I was completely smitten. I'd honestly thought I'd found the one.

And then it was over. He just ended it. I'll spare you anymore details, but he just didn't know what he wanted. I can't say I blame him, either. I don't know how I'd react if I ran smack up against my mortality on a daily basis. But the ending was abrupt, and unexpected, and I was heartbroken.

We hung out a few times after, but mostly I stayed away. But gradually we've been more in touch, and now we're hanging out fairly regularly. My crush is still there, but not really. It's like it's deep in the shadows, in stasis, and it will only be allowed to move and come into the light again if it becomes completely safe to do so.

I suspect it will remain there forever.

As I thought, that guy Philip from a couple weeks ago was interested in Shawn. Rather to my horror, last night Shawn started telling me about the date they went on last week. And then went on about what a loser and a cokehead Philip turned out to be (apparently he visited the powder room every ten minutes during their date, which I have to agree is pretty tacky).

"That's too bad," I said, trying not to visibly squirm. "He seemed nice." And was pretty good in bed, too.

About an hour and a half later, Shawn turned to me and asked me point blank: "Did you and Philip do anything that night?"

I considered lying, but only briefly. "Yeah," I said, "totally."

A small part of me was hoping to witness a small display of jealousy. And then it occurred to me I may have slipped a notch in his eyes for sleeping with someone he'd deemed a cokehead loser.

Instead, he sort of jumped up and down and grinned. "I knew it! I fucking knew it!" He seemed pleased, not that I had fooled around with his bad date, but that his feeling that something had happened was correct.

I told him about Philip asking me not to tell him and how I'd thought it was weird, but that considering the opinion Shawn had voiced earlier, my urge to confess had faded pretty quickly.

Shawn didn't care. "I knew it! I could just tell."

I thought about telling him how these "I knew it!" type-moments happen to me about him all the time. That this chemistry we have seems to be shaping into a most interesting relationship - certainly not boyfriends, but somehow more connected than friends usually are, or at least more than most who have only known each other for mere months. But I didn't.

I have a feeling he already knows.

Objects in Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

Something strange is happening. Men I thought were lost to me forever, who seemed to have disappeared into space never to be seen again, have somehow returned to my orbit.

First there was Shawn, who, after breaking my heart and making a few random appearances afterward, I lost contact with for a good long while. In the past two weeks, we've hung out, strictly as friends - or so I keep insisting - three times. Last week there was Jonathan, who magically appeared at Woody's last week after I hadn't seen or heard from him in months. Even my good friend Brent is suddenly in my life on a more frequent basis. He wasn't really lost to me but it often felt like it - he was simply busy with his soul-destroying relationship, which took up every ounce of his existence. Even when we were simply going out for a casual drink, he was talking about his boyfriend, complaining about his boyfriend, on the phone fighting with his boyfriend, and would have to leave early - to be home for his boyfriend.

As of Saturday night, he no longer had a boyfriend. He has been returned to me, though right now he's a little broken, the poor guy. On Monday night, while waiting for Brent to come over to my place to cry and spend the night on my couch, my phone rang. It was the Personality, asking me if I would be around later. I run into him all the time, and I assumed our one night together would remain just that. The last thing I ever expected was for him to call me.

So Brent and I ended up out for a few beers and the Personality joined us. We talked, we flirted, and it was pretty obvious he was hoping to come home with me again. It would have happened were Brent not staying at my place, which, probably foolishly, I told the Personality later that night via text message (which incidentally appears to have become my favourite mode of communication.)

His response was "I know, sweetie."

Yesterday, the dancer and I tried to make a date - once again via texting. Our schedules clash horribly, so I offered to drop by his work to chat him up at the bar tomorrow night while he's on the job. Which is a bit weird, but I feel if I'm going to keep seeing him I should make some sort of effort. He seemed delighted. Or at least as delighted you can seem on a digital display without actually writing "I'm delighted."

As I was walking in the door on my home from work last night, my phone rang. It was the Waiter, calling at long last. Despite the urge to ignore him, I answered. He wondered if I was free to meet him for a half-hour or so?

We met at a local patio, where we drank green tea and he told me he was nine days sober and planning on staying so until Pride. (Why does everything always revolve around Pride? Everyone's always working out to get buff for Pride, staying single until Pride, quitting smoking, but not until after Pride. It's not a celebration of gay liberation anymore - it's Gay New Year. Next thing you know we'll have our own fucking zodiac system and a giant disco ball that drops on the stroke of midnight). He apologized for "dealing with our situation by not dealing with it" and then talked completely about himself for the rest of our meeting.

This was a conversation I would have been quite happy to have via text messages for all the good it did me. And stupid nice me - we walked together up the street and, before parting ways, we kissed goodbye. Nothing crazy, it was all very chaste, but still... And I told him to give me a buzz sometime! I hope I said it dismissively, but I doubt it. I'm only truly rude when I'm not really trying.

Oh well. I can just blow him off should he call. Sober or not, I need more than he could ever give me. Or rather, what I need is not something he can give me.

Fell asleep last night wondering about Shawn, who I called a couple of times on the weekend but never heard back from. He had friends from Ottawa visiting last week, so I had a feeling he must have gone back with them for the weekend, which I told him on one of the voice mails I left him.

During the night, I had a dream about him. We were in a cute little farmhouse or cottage in the woods, in bed together. I remember us kissing, and my hands on his face, caressing it, the two of us looking into each other's eyes. I remember us snuggling, sleeping in together, taking our time to get out of bed and begin the day. I remember feeling happy, and peaceful. Content.

I woke up feeling... well, I guess annoyed is the best way to put it. Annoyed at myself for having such a dream. Annoyed at myself for enjoying it so much. Annoyed that, when the alarm went off, disturbing my reverie, and the dream came back to me, washing over me in waves, my bed had never seemed so empty.

It was one of those dreams that stays with you all day, coming back to kick you in the face at inopportune moments, drawing me in with it's false promises of what will never be. At work I'd find myself staring at paperwork, lost in thought, forgetting what I had been working on in the first place.

McDreamy status notwithstanding, at least I am realistic about Shawn. My subconcious may be harbouring false hope and slipping romantic notions into my REM time, but the reality of the situation is decidely different. We're friends. That's all it will ever be. And that's okay.

Of course, reality being the twisted bitch it is, Shawn called me tonight. Turns out I was right, he was in Ottawa. And when I said that, sure, I would go out with him tonight, he sounded pleasantly surprised. Happy, even.

I'm not going to make anything of it. He's told me I'm one of his favourite people, so it would follow that seeing me would make him happy. And the fact I knew on some gut level he was in Ottawa, and that I thought about him all day after having a romantic dream about him and then he called me, that I, in fact, kind of knew he would call.... I'm not going to make anything of those things either. It's not some weird connection or coincidence, it's just a reasonably likely occurrence.

Right?

Right.

Swiffer Surrender

My apartment won't stay clean. Yesterday everything looked fine. There wasn't much dust, the standard-issue boring parquet floor gleamed, and the kitchen counter, with the exception of a couple of used glasses, was spotless.

A day later, all I can see is filth. The sink is filled with dirty dishes, and there's a trail of sticky spots just outside the kitchen entrance where a few drops of liquid have splashed and taken up collection of black specks of dirt. A single Sweet and Low packet lays on the counter, a lone pink glacier in the middle of a white Formica sea. Some stray crumbs of toast have washed up against the base of my stainless steel napkin holder. A thin veneer of dust covers the tv and stereo.

I clean. A lot. Though I have somewhat let go of my inate zeal for a pristine home environment in the past year - it was that, or never leave the house - I remain that strange, fussy creature commonly known as the "neat freak." I am constantly tidying, straightening, wiping, organizing, and sweeping. I'm the kind of guy who wanders the house with the cordless phone in one hand, Swiffer sheet in the other, and wipes down every ledge, surface, and corner while my mother tells me about wallpapering her bathroom and updates me on the results of my Alzheimer-stricken grandmother's latest doctor's appointment. I have been known to do the dishes three times in a day.

But I'm losing the battle. The tide of dust, debris, and detritus is growing too powerful to fight. It's as if my apartment is trying to suck me into a vortex of never-ending cleaning, accelerating it's dirt-creating capabilities to stay one filthy step ahead of my ever-increasing efforts. One day I will simply collapse on to my dust-bunny breeding red shag area rug in exhaustion, weakly waving a Swiffer sheet like a white flag of surrender, screaming "Fine, house! You win! You win, dammit!!!"

Sigh. What's a neat freak to do? Despite all the stuff I want to do today, I know I will get sucked in. I am incapable of doing anything unless the house is clean. I often use cleaning as a way to procrastinate. How can I file my income tax return when there are pink fluffy dust bunnies eyeing me from every corner? I also use cleaning as a means of escape. When my life gets messy and filled with emotional turmoil, cleaning is a welcome excursion, a way to let my subconscious whittle away at my problems while the rest of my mind fixates on removing every last streak from my patio doors. I might not be able to solve my financial problems or fix my love life, but I can always restore order and organization to my immediate surroundings.

Problem is, right now I don't really have any major or pressing problems (which of course will change in a matter of days, just because I've tempted the cosmos by foolishly writing that statement down). Life is pretty good. I don't want to be cleaning constantly. I actually have stuff I want to be doing, but it's like the apartment doesn't want to let me go.

Oh well. Things could certainly be worse. I guess I should be grateful. With this in mind, I am now going to collect my laundry from the dryer, do the dishes, and hopefully there will be some time left over for me to do something that feels like it has some value.

A Black Hole of Lust

Why do I even bother to pretend that I want to have a quiet evening out anymore? I have about as much willpower as Liza Minnelli in a pharmacy. With a speed that is quickly becoming all too typical and perhaps even alarming, what was supposed to be a sedate evening quickly turned into yet another night of debauchery.

You heard it here first: Monday is the new Thursday.

I spent the afternoon basking in the sun and drinking pints at the Artful Dodger with my lovely roommate and a friend of ours. What can I say? When the idea of drinks was tabled, cold beer suddenly regained its appeal. As we were preparing to leave around six, I ran into my two dj buddies who were seeking out a patio to talk about our gig this Friday. Off I went, of course.

I explained to my friends how this "running into people purely by chance and ending up hanging out with them thing" had been constantly happening to me lately (forgive me that god-awful sentence). We all agreed these unplanned encounters usually result in some of the best times out.

"I know!" I exclaimed. "It's like... organic socializing."

Seven jugs and a few chicken wings later we were rather pissed and before I knew it, it was time for my Monday date with Daniel. No tete-a-tetes this week - I brought along five friends. In my defence, it was a group of people who are interesting and creative and with whom I rarely hang out, so I didn't want to waste an opportunity to spend time with them. Woody's was partly under construction, and much to our disappointment they weren't playing the pop videos Daniel and I usually watch every week with sing-a-long gay glee. Boo.

One by one our friends trickled out, and others trickled in. I was talking with someone when I look up and see a strange but familiar face. It was Jonathan, a guy I'd danced and exchanged numbers with quite a few months ago. I'm surprised I recognized him so quickly, seeing as it had been so long (and let's be real, I've been letting men in and out like a revolving door of late - the turnstile I ordered should be here next week sometime) but I blurted out "Jonathan?!" immediately.

He was cuter than I remembered. That never happens.

He remembered me, too. I asked him why he had never called me again, and apologised for not calling him instead. I explained I didn't have his number.

"Well, you said to give you a ring if I got up to anything interesting." He shrugged. "I didn't."

I laughed. I had said that, but I didn't think he would take it so literally. At the time I'd wondered for a couple of days if he'd call again, and then I'd kind of forgotten about him. Our one phone conversation had been extremely interesting. He talked my ear off about how insane his family is, how crazy the bar/restaurant he works at is, and all about his other job as a physical therapist of sorts (he's a trained dancer). In fact, I remember that I didn't say much other than "wow," "no way," and "really?" I wasn't sure what to make of him exactly. I'm not used to encountering people who are so, well, real. He seemed to lack any kind of pretense whatsoever. Which was refreshing and unsettling.

Anyway, we ended up hanging out for the rest of the night, talking and holding hands. It was all very comfortable and boyfriendy. Naturally I brought him home with me. We made fun of Toronto Life magazine and then made out on my couch. When we came up for air, there was a lot of staring into each other's eyes and smiling at each other like grinning fools. We went into my bedroom, where I realized I'd forgotten I hadn't remade my bed after doing laundry. He flipped through a book while I laid down fresh sheets. It was very comfortable and casual. And then we had ourselves some fun.

He knew I had to work today, so he didn't spend the night. As I let him and his bicycle out, I said "talk to you soon?"

I liked his reply. "I hope so!"

I made sure that, this time, I got his phone number.

So we'll see what happens.

It occurred to me on the way home today that I'm not necessarily a slut. Easy, yes, I won't deny that, but not necessarily a slut. I was thinking about all I'd been up to of late, and my mind for some reason drifted into shopping fantasies. My roommate just got a brand new computer, full of bells and whistles, and I can't help but be a little jealous. It's pretty, and fast, and has lots of storage. Even thought my computer is perfectly fine, I couldn't help but fantasize about getting something better.

When I bought my iPod a year ago, an upgraded version of what I had purchased came out about a month later. It was lighter and smaller, and had the capacity to play videos. I felt a bit robbed - you blink, and suddenly there is a new and improved, more appealing version of anything you can imagine. But it's all a trick - the only way to keep making money is to convince everyone they need to upgrade, that what they already have isn't quite good enough. When really there's nothing wrong with what you have already, but we are so bombarded with this "more more more" mentality we can sometimes lose perspective. Phones, computers, shoes - it's a black hole of lust, a void that can never be filled: there's always going to be something hotter than what you just brought home.

As I checked out some guy walking past me, I realized I was looking at him in a way that was not dissimilar to eyeing up the latest gadget at Best Buy, weighing this feature against that feature, wondering what I could live with and what I could not. I realized - I'm not a slut at all. I'm a consumer.

That's not to say, necessarily, that I objectify men. At least, I never used to - but the parallels to shopping are there, and it kind of grosses me out. What a horrible way to treat a person. And here I though I had my consumerism in check. I'm keenly aware of the way it's running rampant in our culture, and I try to avoid getting sucked in. Turns out I've been treating men like products.

Sometimes it's important to be satisfied with what you have and appreciate it. I know this. Now I just need to find the willpower.

Sex and Serendipity

I'm definitely feeling a little rough today. Being a drunken tramp for a week and a half has been fun and entertaining, but boy, it is tiring. I am currently drinking vast quantities of orange juice and have popped a few ColdFX to boost the old immune system. All the boozing and lack of quality sleep has left me feeling vulnerable to a cold, and the last thing I need this week is to get sick.

Thursday morning, I wandered my store like a zombie and reflected on my promiscuity. My world felt turned upside down. I've had fun here and there over the years, but usually I'm the one who got jealous of other people's crazy sex tales, not the guy who tells them. Was I going too far? Was this feeling of a liberated sense of playfulness unhealthy? Hell, I'd even been the bottom these past few times and really enjoyed it, something that had only happened once before in my entire sexual life. Is it wrong that I find this exciting? Wrong to feel like I'm enjoying a new era of uninhibited confidence? Was I giving it up too easily? I decided I needed an outsider's opinion. I text messaged my sister and put forth the question: if I told you I'd slept with three different guys this past week, would you think that makes me a slut?

I didn't get much of an answer. My sister's only response was that as long as it was safe and I was having fun, it didn't matter to her. Which pretty much sums up how I feel about it. I suppose the only real worry I have is that I'm placing too much emphasis on my desirability, relying on it as some sort of measure of acceptance. I have to admit it gives me a bit of an ego boost. But I don't think I'm relying on getting laid as a means of gaining confidence or as a way to feel like I "belong." Mostly I just find it funny. I mean, this can't be my life, can it?

Caught up as I was in all this hedonism, I discovered I had forgotten to charge my cell phone, so it had died by the time I got home from work Thursday night. After watching some tv, I plugged it in and then crashed hard. When I awoke on Friday and checked voice mail, I discovered a message from Steve.

He apologized for not calling me sooner but that he had been really busy. He also told me that he'd been really confused about his life - and that my conclusions regarding his intentions were wrong. I had told him via text message that if he'd decided we were through, that's fine, I'm sure he had his reasons, but at least have the balls to explain it to me instead of ignoring me until I went away. He concluded with saying, yet again, that we should get together and talk, and "the ball was now in my court."

He sounded a bit hurt, and a bit sad. I hung up after hearing it and felt a little guilty - had I been too quick to write him off? And then I thought, no, fuck that noise. Why should I feel guilty? I gave him every chance to explain himself. It's not unreasonable to expect some communication.

I texted him another message. I was nicer than I should have been. I told him we could talk, that I was sorry if I jumped to wrong conclusions but that he hadn't exactly given me encouraging signs, and to give me a ring sometime. Basically I lobbed the ball back into his court. And as I suspected, I didn't hear back from him.

That night, after a bit of a patio crawl involving a fair amount of beer and some tequila mashers, I was on the College streetcar heading west to visit my friend. The last time I'd been on that street was when I went to see Steve at his work, and I found myself staring out the window thinking about how it was too bad that something that began with such promise could fizzle out so unspectacularly. Was it just a matter of mixed signals and bad communication? If we talked and sorted through the mire, would I be willing to try again, despite all the obvious reasons not to?

And then the strangest thing happened. The streetcar ground to a halt to let some people off. Through the window I noticed three people walking eastward on the sidewalk, and one of them was him. Though I'd like to say it didn't happen, my heart caught in my throat. Time seemed to stop for a moment. The light was red. I could jump off the streetcar right now. Run up to him. Tell him... well, tell him what exactly? I was just thinking about you and suddenly you appeared and it seemed too serendipitous to not seize the moment and run out and see you? Please. That doesn't happen in real life. It would just seem crazy.

The light changed and the streetcar started moving. I watched him fade from view. I turned away from the window and looked straight ahead in my seat. Back to moving forward. Whatever that chance had been, I had missed it.

The rest of the night was a lot of fun - I got to see a lot of amazing people I hadn't hung out with in a long while. Unfortunately it was so fun that I didn't get home until about 5 in the morning.

Ridiculous! I'm totally ridiculous. How on earth I managed to work 46 hours last week while indulging in so much insanity is beyond me. It frightens me to think of what amazing things I might be able to accomplish if I actually put my energy into something useful.

Saturday night I hung out with Shawn again. He expressed frustration with Toronto and told me he'd almost picked up and moved to Ottawa last week, until his friend told him that perhaps he'd be happier here if he hung out with nicer people more often. i.e. Me. Then he told me, not for the first time, that I am one of his favourite people, and we have to start doing more together.

I'm not sure what to make of this. I know we'll never date again - well, never say never, I suppose, but I think it's highly unlikely I would go down that road with him again - but we have a very weird connection, a strange chemistry. I have friends that I am very intimate with, but it's not the same kind of intimacy as those friendships. And it's not that I'm in love with him, because I'm not, not like that. I don't know. I've tried to figure out how to describe this before, and I always fail. The best I've come up with is that we were related in a past life. There's that feeling that I would do anything for him, without question, to protect him, and in his presence I feel protected, too.

Weird.

After spending the evening dancing at Buddies, the rest of the evening gets hazy for me. Keep in mind I had three hours sleep the night before and only a brief nap after work. Me, Shawn, some guy Shawn had dated, and three other boys all ended up back at my place. We had a few drinks and listened to some music. One of three was extremely cute and I had my eye on him the whole time. Another one put his arm around my waist and his hand started creeping down the back of my jeans. Shawn and his ex said goodnight and left. Next thing I know creeping hand guy is all over me and extremely cute guy (I'm not using names, not to protect anyone's anonymity, but because I shamefully have no recollection of what they are) and the three of us are going at it hot and heavy on my couch. The fourth guy watched us briefly, and then quickly gathered his coat and slipped out the door.

Not wanting my roommate to find a gaggle of naked boys sprawled in the living room come morning, not that she would necessarily mind, I eventually managed to get us all up and into my bedroom where the action continued.

I don't remember passing out. I awoke wondering why my eyes felt so gummy and realized I'd left my contact lenses in. Which I was grateful for as I rolled over and got a good look at the two very fine men passed out next to me.

I was too embarassed to ask them their names, but as we lounged about in my bed for half an hour and confessed to each other that none of us remembered when we fell asleep, I noticed they didn't use mine either. It's too bad - I really like that cute one. Hopefully our paths will cross again. I did manage to find out where he works on Sundays, on the off chance I feel like doing some casual stalking one weekend.

I am thankful I did not have to go to work yesterday or today. As I finish writing this, I'm feeling considerably more recovered. And sated. I'll have a lot to tell my friend Daniel on our weekly date tonight, though the prospect of drinking this evening holds little appeal.

Now I think I'll call my sister and see how she feels about five guys in ten days. It's a new record for me and, while it's not something to brag about, she's known me my whole life - she'll appreciate the ridiculousness of it like no other. And unlike my conscience, it's likely she won't call me a slut.

Cock and Confluence

I'm not sure what's been happening in the cosmos this past week, but I'm sure the word "confluence" is being tossed around by those in the know. Various aspects of my life seem to be merging everywhere I look.

Recently, I hired one of my roommate's best friends at my store. I have known him a long time, and though we've hung out on occasion and he worked at my store, very briefly, once before, we've never really been friends. More like a really familiar acquaintance. Now, however, we see each other at least five times a week. Instead of overhearing conversations he has with my roommate from home, I overhear them from work. My roommate will now hear details about me from him, or she'll hear about things he hasn't yet told her from me. Last Friday, I joined my roommate at my co-worker's place for their weekly card game-slash-drinkfest. Suddenly three seperate worlds have begun to overlap.

It's not a messy or gossipy situation - we're all friends. It just feels a little odd, as if a popular television show and it's spin-off suddenly merged into one program. You know all the elements and all the characters, but there are suddenly so many new dimensions to the thing that it takes a few episodes to wrap your head around it.

Last Saturday, I was itching to go out and have some fun. The weather had been beautiful all day, and I had just begun a six-day on run of long shifts at work and this would be the only night that didn't hold an early rise on the other side. The roommate and I hung out at home, listened to music, and I had a few beers. I sent out some text messages, but everyone I knew seemed to be gone for the weekend or were staying inside. I could have, but did not feel like, hittin' the streets alone.

What's a boy to do?

I called Shawn. You may recall this was the guy I fell hard and fast for last August. We had a brief dating period of intense mutual attraction, and then the whole thing imploded in my face and I found myself trying to put the shattered pieces of my heart back together. To this day if his name comes up, my friend's gazes immediately get more intense, searching mine fearfully for signs that I'm being led down the garden path to heartbreak once more.

I won't lie, though it pains me to admit this: he's my McDreamy (to those of you who don't watch Grey's Anatomy, I apologize for a reference you probably don't understand - I could say he's my Mr. Big, but it doesn't fit nearly as well). It is potentially emotionally hazardous for me to hang out with him. But Shawn and I have hung out a few times of late, as friends, and so far it's been fine.

So I called him. I met him and his friend Jared downtown and we went out. It was a crazy night full of dancing and drinking and we had a great time. Jared was cute and friendly. I was sort of hitting on him (I say sort-of as I'm not very good at that sort of thing - I'm pretty sure I lack both finesse and subtlety, but I'll never learn if I don't practice, right?) but it was clear I was getting nowhere, so I gave up before going too far and making the night weird for all.

On the dancefloor we were joined by Danielle, who seemed to know Shawn really well. I met Danielle a couple of weeks ago - through Steve. Here we go agian, I thought. Next thing I know, we're all back at Shawn's place to keep the party going, a whole slew of people from the bar in tow - one of whom is Mike, Steve's best friend.

Weird. What was weirder were the little tete-a-tete moments I had with both Danielle and Mike in the course of the evening where they both asked for a Brad-and-Steve status report and then proceeded to tell me I could do much better and to forget about him.

Yeah, I had, actually, I felt like saying. So could you both maybe stop bringing him up?

I ended up making out with Shawn's adorable little dog and flirting with some impossibly cute boy named Salvatore. Shawn popped Mean Girls on, and eventually everyone began to trickle out. Jared and Shawn started canoodling behind me on the couch, to which I was oddly indifferent. My only thought was "'so that's why I didn't get anywhere with Jared." Mike showed back up with some very bad cocaine. The movie ended. Shawn asked me if I was sleeping over.

"Oh, god no," I said. "I work tomorrow. I have to go home to bed." I left, Mike in tow, who walked me halfway home, rambling on about god knows what.

It didn't occur to me until I woke up for work a few hours later that Shawn may not have been offering up a spot to crash, but something else entirely. Right over my head. That's so like me. I agonize over details that inevitably mean nothing and completely miss the obvious.

I guess I'll never really know what he meant. He might have just been hinting that it was it was time to get the fuck out. It's hard to say.

Sunday, of course, was a write-off, considering I didn't crawl home until 9am and arrived at work at noon Monday night found me on my weekly old-videos-and-beer date with my friend Daniel. What is usually a fairly uneventful night with one of my dearest friends somehow spiralled into madness. He ran into an ex whom I discovered is basically his McDreamy. I ran into a gay scene Personality who I see around a lot but don't really know that well. It turns out he lives down the street from Steve (I knew Steve knew this person because Steve once told me how much he absolutely hates him) and I was informed once again that I could do much better and that I'm pretty special and deserve same.

Okay, I get the picture already!

The three of us ended up at another bar watching what can only be described as an insane drag show complete with bikinis and a swan dress. Daniel and I both got way too drunk. Things got strangely awkward when the Personality asked Daniel and I why we had never slept together, a reaction of which I'm not sure what to make. (Are we friends or should we be dating? is a question that always seems to be hanging over the heads of any two gay men who are just friends, though I won't deny that I haven't asked it myself).

Daniel got in a cab and went home to bed. I ended up hanging out at a drag queen's apartment and making out with the Personality, who I eventually dragged home to my bed for absolutely amazing sex.

As I dragged myself to work yet again, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of my life, and failing, I realized with a start that Monday had been my Ex's birthday and I hadn't acknowledged it in any way. What's worse is that I don't really feel bad about it. What's worse than that is I kind of take pleasure in the fact that I got fucked right good, in ways we certainly never did, on his birthday.

Hey, if he can be bitter and be a dick to me, I feel entitled to do so on occasion as well. I've tried to be nice and mature about it all, but I'm tired of it.

Tuesday, or course, was a write-off.

Wednesday night was supposed to be a quiet night in listening to music and having a few beers with one of my best friends at his place. Shawn called and suggested we join him at a nightclub for some dancing, so after a few shooters, we did. Somehow we ended up running into this woman we know who worked security at a club I used to spin at and a whack of us ended up at her place. Nothing too exciting was happening there - her roommate was sleeping and we had to be quiet. Shawn had brought some hot guy named Philip along with him - it seems that Shawn is constantly surrounded by hot men - whose chest I couldn't stop staring at.

Shawn seemed to notice my interest, dropping some comment about how "he's pretty handsome, eh?" and then saying something about how, okay, he would "let me" have him. It seemed like an odd comment (not to mention a bit arrogant, with just a hint of condescension, but that's Shawn for you) so there's obviously more to their story - what, I don't know.

Still, I didn't really think anything of it. When we all split off to go our seperate ways at four in the morning, however, Philip started walking with me instead of going off with Shawn. He invited me back to his place for a drink. Shawn's comment lurked in the back of my mind. Something seemed fishy. Had he somehow set this up or something? Had he told Philip I was easy or something?

Well, no matter, I thought, I am. And maybe I would get to see that chest.

I did. And to my surprise it was a really nice time. Instead of a whole wham-bam-gotta-go-now type thing, we actually shot the shit and got to know each other. I gave him my number, but I'm fairly certain he won't use it. As I was leaving, he asked me not to mention to Shawn that I had been there. I suddenly felt like the runner-up in a beauty pageant who'd been called in for an event because the winner had fallen ill.

"Sure, don't worry about it," I said. "I don't kiss and tell."

Keep Away From Children

Children make me uneasy. I've never really taken to them. I know they're just little people, but they make me nervous. Kids have this way of seeing through bullshit that, though I admire it, terrifies me. They make me feel phony and exposed. The Ex had a lot of nieces and nephews and it took me about a year before I was comfortable enough to even make eye contact with them. I was fine with the two who arrived in the world during that relationship, since seeing as I was around from the get-go my presence would never seem odd to them. Having them in my life for a period helped me become more comfortable around kids, but I definitely won't be signing up to run a daycare anytime soon.

I'm most wary of the children of strangers. To some extent it's because, as a gay man, I'm all too aware that there are people out there who equate "gay" with "pedophile." As a result I'm paranoid that some perfectly normal adult/child interaction will be misconstrued as abnormal and I'll suddenly find myself accused of horrible, unfathomable deeds.

It's like being in a store where one of the staff is eyeing you up as if you're obviously a shoplifter. Even though I haven't lifted anything in about a decade, this would make me nervous. I'd get klutzy, my palms would sweat, and I would keep looking up to see if the staff were still watching me. Pretty much giving them every reason to believe I am a shoplifter. A really bad shoplifter. Unable to handle the pressure, I would hastily make my way to the exit, praying that I wouldn't randomly set off the anti-theft alarm on the way out (which happens to me with alarming frequency, though thankfully it's always been upon entering a store, which doesn't garner quite as accusing a look but does result in a lot of amusing confusion.)

I manage a high-end furniture store for a living. We're located in a very white, upper-middle class neighbourhood: the stroller-filled Starbucks down the street is always hopping, there are at least five beamers parked nearby at any given moment, and should you happen to spot any non-whites, 90% of the time you would be right if you assumed that they work in one of the thirty-plus local restaurants or as a nanny. It's a very family 'hood, so it goes without saying that a lot of children come through here (thank god for the nannies, or there would be even more). Most of the time I can get away with ignoring them. Hell, most of the time their parents are ignoring them, so I really don't feel bad about it. I treat them as I would any person browsing my store who obviously has no intention of purchasing anything: I say hello and don't engage in further interaction unless it becomes absolutely unavoidable.

Last week a woman came in with her young daughter, a friend, and a couple of other children. They stuck together while wandering the store, with the exception of the young daughter, who was perhaps four or five and adorably surveying items on her own. This was followed by her loudly voicing her opinions of them.

"Mom! You should buy this one. It's very comf-da-ta-bull."

I'm not sure why kids imitating the rampant consumerism of their parents is cute - it's sort of terrifying when you think about it - but it is. Unlike, say, having your child record your voice mail greeting, which has got to be one of the most annoying things ever.

Next, she wandered over towards the sales desk, which I was standing behind, to check out some silk tulips we have displayed in a large teak boat-style bowl. This bowl sits on a low shelf under a glass countertop that juts out from the front of the desk. I noticed her coming but wasn't really watching her closely as I was actually doing work at that moment. That is, until she stood up and, with a loud ding! cracked her head on the underside of the glass.

"Oh my god!" I exclaimed, expecting to see a geyser of blood pour forth at any moment. Her mother and company's heads all turned our way immediately. "Are you okay?"

The child stared at me, eyes wide, seemingly stunned, saying nothing. Her mother rushed over and knelt down beside her. As soon as her mother touched her, the girl immediately burst into tears.

"She hit her head on the glass," I said stupidly.

I felt like I should say something more, or do something. I could already see the goose egg beginning to form near her temple. But Mommy was talking to daughter and being light hearted about the injury (a technique used, I presume, to instill a sense of calm) and I just stood there with what I hope was a sympathetic expression. Mom seemed to have the situation under control, and I didn't really think it was my place to stick my nose in. Just like I wouldn't fuck around with a momma bear and her cubs, it seemed best to mind my own business. In less than two minutes, daughter had stopped crying, was gathered up in Mommy's arms, and their entourage had left the store. I inwardly cursed the glass counter - this wasn't the first time someone had hit their head on it - and then went on with my day.

I didn't think of it again until yesterday, when a co-worker informed me that Mommy had been back in the store. I must have been getting lunch or something at the time. She had told him what happened and asked him what was wrong with me.

"The more I thought about it when I got home," she said, "the more steamed I got. I mean, he didn't even offer us ice or anything. He didn't do anything."

Thankfully, my co-worker defended my integrity, informing her that that "doesn't sound like Brad to me."

What the hell? She whisked that kid out of there so fast I didn't even have a chance to offer ice. Which, I'd like to point out, is not something furniture shops generally keep on hand. She's the one who let her child roam a store unattended. When I was a kid, I had to shut up, not touch anything, and stay within sight of my parents until they were finished their business and it was time to go. This woman has the nerve to be pissed at me? It's unfortunate her cute little daughter sustained a mild head injury, but there was nothing I could have done, even if she'd given me any time to do so.

There's nothing I can do about this now either. It bothers me, though, that this woman now thinks I'm some kind of monster when I really was quite concerned. How many of her neighbourhood forty-year-old mommy friends is she slagging me off to on a daily basis? Is this her way of ridding herself of guilt for not keeping a closer eye on her child? Tosses the blame on me? Kids hurt themselves. Cuts and bruises, scrapes and bumps - even a nelly, relatively inactive child like me managed to garner a few over the years. In fact, given enough to drink, I can still manage to. It happens. You learn from it. You move on. I'm pretty sure that little girl isn't sitting at home plotting her revenge on me or her mother.

Now I realize that it's never really been children that make me uneasy. Turns out it's been the parents all along.