X-Men

My parents were sending my brother, sister-in-law, niece and I to see Jersey Boys. Finally.
We had gotten them House Seats for Christmas, and they were returning the favor.
I spent the week trying to secure an extra ticket for the Mormon but it was not possible. JB was at the height of its success and all I could find was a premium, $450 seat.

"Your father can afford it," came the unusually candid reply.

Well, yes. Yes, he probably can. But you can't. And nor can I.

We were on very shaky ground.

As always happens when you're standing on shaky ground, something happens to rock it even more. The morning of the day my parents were arriving I received a text from Arkansas. Arkansas and I had...well, we never really dated but if you were to describe our relationship history on Facebook you would have to put it in the "It's complicated" section. We talked infrequently and saw each other less than that.

So Arkansas sends me a text asking if I'm around and want to get breakfast. Yes. I am. And I do. We meet up very early at downtrodden Kellogg's Diner on Metropolitan and eat dried omelets and burnt toast and catch up. I notice during the meal how nonchalantly I speak of the Mormon. It's as if, in my head, the relationship is over already. Am I doing this because I hope Arkansas will provide me with another opportunity? Or am I speaking from my head for once, not my heart? Because, in my heart, I want things with the Mormon to work out. But in my head the signs are becoming too obviously clear.

Arkansas is single and not really interested in anything serious. Our time together is relaxed and easy considering the dramatic history we shared. I provided the drama. It was breathtaking at times. The fact that he's still even civil to me is spectacular. But I enjoy his company and he makes me laugh. I take things less seriously with him than I tend to with others, especially the Mormon. We part ways and I feel just a little bit lighter from the experience. Talking honestly about my relationship has felt good.

The show is wonderful. The Mormon chooses not to join us for a bbq dinner at Virgil's post-performance. He also informs me that he's "staying in" that night and prefers to be alone. I tell him that I'm in auditions all day Sunday (Gay Pride) and won't be able to see him until later in the day, if at all.

"Auditions for what?"

I sigh. I've told him about the play I'm directing in Texas about fifteen times. There's one role we haven't been able to cast: the leading man. So I tell him again.

"Why aren't I auditioning?" he asks.

My gut reaction is to say, Because you're not an actor. Wanting isn't enough. You haven't trained. You haven't studied. You haven't ever even really acted. And when you sing or perform, you take on this other voice. A voice totally disconnected from who you are as a person; your "performance" voice. It's off-putting. You wouldn't have the skills to take on a role so physically and emotionally demanding.

But I say, Because I won't direct someone I'm dating.

Which is also true.

"Why not?"

Because it's a bad idea. It confuses things. And it's a rule I'm sticking too. So what about later tomorrow?

"I'm having some friends over for a little Pride dinner at my place. Maybe I can see you after that."

Oh. Ok. Bye.

Weird that he never mentioned that before. Weird that I wasn't invited. Weird everything.

We're quickly approaching our six-month mark and he's asked me numerous time about acting opportunities. Every time I point him in a direction, he seems unwilling to take it. He, like many other people in this city, doesn't really want to work for it. He wants it to find him. Actually, I think he EXPECTS it to find him. Like Lana Turner in Schwabs Drugstore, the Mormon is waiting to be discovered sipping a latte in Starbucks. I guess it happens every so often but not nearly as much as people want it too. I wonder where this expectation, this sense of entitlement comes from. He has certainly had to work at most things his entire life. He's in his mid-30s now. He's an....ex-Mormon? I don't know. He talks about it all the time. Maybe it's a Mormon thing, this sense of entitlement. He walks with a strut like the king cock in a room full of hens. It's somehow ingrained in him. I find it infuriating because I don't expect anything. And I've had to work for most all things I've achieved. And I've told him a thousand times I wouldn't cast him in my show. And...and...and...I'm getting angrier and angrier.

I don't particularly care about celebrating Gay Pride so I'm happy to be in auditions all day. It's also nice to finally hear the play (Icarus by Edwin Sanchez) out loud. I've been working on it for months but all the rest of the actors have been cast through offers and the role of Beau, the most difficult in the show, has been a rough road. As I sit through one auditioner after the other thoughts of the Mormon cross my mind. He could never do this. First of all, he's about 30lbs overweight. I find him attractive but he can't play the leading man (named BEAU, for God's sake) looking like that. And he doesn't have the discipline or awareness to lose that weight in two months time.

Harsh. But true.

We meet up a few nights later to see the X-Men sequel. I enjoy the film enough. On the subway ride home we get into a debate about whether or not he would take a pill to make him not gay if it were offered. (Many had speculated that this was the message behind the sequel and I brought this up on the ride home.) Without pause, he said "Yes."

I was stunned. Literally.

But I was not stunned to silence. I was on fire. I kept firing questions at him and he would answer and I would fire back more. To the point where he had to say, "Lower your voice." I couldn't and wouldn't. This was the most interesting and provocative conversation we had ever had. I wasn't going to let it go and I certainly wasn't going to back off because it was making him uncomfortable. I was finding my voice in our relationship, finally, on the L train between Union Square and Lorimer Street thanks to the sequel to the X-Men.

The Mormon asked me, "Wouldn't you take it." And I, unhesitatingly, said "No. Of course not." Why? Why would I need to be straight? I loved being gay. And, when it got down to it, I loved my life and who I was. Gay doesn't define me but it influences me and my art and my relationships and how I deal with the world. And yes, it hasn't always been easy but if it had been I wouldn't be where I was now.

The Mormon looked shocked. I realized, he wanted things the easy way. He wanted a "normal" life. Being gay was an unwanted burden on him. It was his cross. It was one more thing that separated him from his unsupportive Mormon family in Utah. It made him stand out in a way that he didn't want. And then I realized that he wasn't as strong as I had always thought he was. I, in fact, was a stronger man than he was.

I never would have thought X-Men to be so cathartic.

As we walked with the crowd down the platform to where he would catch the G train and I would walk home, I realized that I didn't want to spend the night with him. I needed some space. I needed to be in my own bed, with my dog and my thoughts and a book and some quiet. We stopped in front of the turnstiles the crowd pouring around us and the florescent lights beating down over our heads. I looked up at him and he down at me. He grabbed the collar of my jacket and pulled me into him and said "I love you."

That was the first time he'd ever said it unprovoked. I had said it. He had responded, oftentimes in a whisper or a mutter depending on his mood. Often with a mixture of fear and love and expectation in his eyes.

No, this time it was unflinching, direct and loud. It took me by surprise. I answered back simply, I love you too.

And I kissed him and I walked through the turnstiles, up the dirty stairs and into the cool night air.

I did love him. But how do you love someone who doesn't love himself? A cliched question if ever there was one to be on the table. And what could I do about it?

As I crossed under the BQE I thought about Sally Bowles in the movie version of Cabaret standing under the train tracks and waiting for the trains to go by overhead so that she could scream and let everything out without anyone hearing her. As a truck rumbled by noisily overhead I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I was too afraid. Too afraid of looking stupid. Too afraid of my own voice.

I continued walking not wanting to go home any longer but knowing any other choice. As I unlocked the front door of the former funeral parlor I heard the howl of Ripley upstairs, awoken from a dream and happy to have me home to him. And expecting a walk. Everything, it appeared, had expectations.

What were mine?