The Single Rider

Whatever happened to Harry? is a series written as a follow up to My “cougar” days, part one

In the meantime, I’d also done what all women seem to do when such life questions arise – I took it to “mah sistas”. I am fortunate enough to be a member of not just one, but TWO private online communities of amazing women who gather daily to hold one another up in both joy and sorrow. The most resonating answer I got was from a wise woman who likened sexual preference to a bell curve. On the one end, you have your hard-core heterosexuals, and on the other end, your hardcore homosexuals. And then, there are those who can and do ride the curve, often but not always leaning discernibly toward one side or the other… how far can they go, where is the line, and how close to it can they dance?

I now understood it was not only possible that I had been genuinely loved – it was also very probable. There was once place left to turn in order to validate that – my diary from 10th grade.

I began keeping a diary when I was about 13, and did so with a very deliberate purpose in mind. I had the distinct impression that the adults in my life had forgotten what it’s like to be a kid, and I wanted to always remember. In those days, I had yet to arrive in the place where I’d challenged the validity of moving unquestioningly from childhood into the traditional wife/mother role. At that time, I had still believed that someday I would have children, and if I didn’t want to fuck them up and make them hate me, I’d better set about documenting everything. This way, I would never forget, never belittle their fears and aspirations, or disparage any of the other things that were important to them. As it turns out, I am childless by choice, and my nieces have been the primary beneficiaries of having an aunt who has remained close to the emotions of her inner teenager.

Fetching my 10th grade diary necessitated a foray into The Box. The last time I had visited The Box was sometime in April; spurred on by the rekindling of old acquaintances on Facebook, I actually removed the yellowed packing tape, opened the lid, and started reading for the first time in some 30+ years. My choice of reading material on that occasion had made me incredibly sad. I was hoping this wouldn’t be a repeat…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Whatever happened to Harry? is a series written as a follow up to My “cougar” days, part one

“First of all,” Spencer replied, “what do PEOPLE see in you?”, whereupon he rattled off a number of my finer attributes that would be appealing to anyone of any “cognizance, originality, coolness or forthrightness”. OK, this is good, I thought. He’s made me feel better already In typical Spencer fashion, he then proceeded to inject a little levity into the situation. He joked that every gay man wants to be associated with a “diva”, and reminded me how attractive he’d found my “Peggy Lipton hairdo” back in the 80s, when I was going through my long-and-screamingly-blonde phase.

Finally, he got down to brass tacks. He first pointed out that birds of a feather tend to flock together; that I’d been reared in a household with a very specific family dynamic that included a “very present, difficult, and perhaps even hostile mother” – as had he, and many other gay men he knew. He pointed out a commonality; gay men tend to grow up as “minorities” against whom discriminatory practices have been perpetrated, and hadn’t I grown up under similar conditions, as the only daughter in a very strict and traditional household that afforded the sons far more social freedom? He pointed out that even though he self-identifies as gay and has been in a long-term relationship with a male partner for quite some time, he is still occasionally sexually and romantically attracted to women possessing certain attributes. Finally, Spencer said, “TRUST ME, he still thinks about you from time to time,” and urged me to make contact.

After digesting his email, I came to understand what Spencer was trying to tell me; if empathy is compelling enough, then it can metamorphosize into an attraction that is not only agnostic of gender, but strong enough to transcend sexual orientation as well.

Spencer’s email gave me much fuel for thought, and I eventually realized that being gay was probably not the only thing Harry and Mark held in common. There was probably another similarity between them. I’ve joked in the past about “Peter Pan – he’s every man I’ve ever dated”, but it’s really no joke. There IS something about me, but it doesn’t attract gay men; it attracts the “motherless lost boys” of the world. As luck would have it, some of them happen to be gay. I’m still not sure WHY this is the type I attract; I’m playing with a theory, but it’s not well-formed just yet, so I’ll leave it for another time.

I was not at all sure that contact was appropriate. Harry had changed his name for a reason, maybe because he did not want to be found. I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted contact, either…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Whatever happened to Harry? is a series written as a follow up to My “cougar” days, part one

The question had haunted me way back then when I’d found out about Mark, but other boys had been waiting in the wings and I was soon distracted enough to put such thoughts aside. Now that I knew about Harry too, it seemed really important to find the answer.

It is very difficult to explain what it feels like to know that you have fallen for not one but two guys who, as it turns out, supposedly “don’t like girls” – at least not THAT way. When your understanding of the sexuality spectrum includes only black and white, you can walk away from such an experience feeling as though the person you fell in love with was someone you’d made up. You experience an uncomfortable epiphany – it’s possible that his declarations of love had been lies. You vaguely suspect that you’ve been used unwittingly as the implement of some sort of deception, but you’re not quite sure if that’s entirely accurate, or who it was supposed to fool – himself, you or the world. And finally – you hope this is not the case, but you sort of dread the thought that maybe this whole thing might be a commentary on your own feminine allure, or lack thereof. I’m not the girly-est of girls – all those brothers, you know, plus a sense of justice that does not allow for the notion of freezing to death in a skirt when the boys get to stay warm wearing pants. So, my fevered and panicked brain reasoned, maybe the straight guys don’t find any of that as appealing as the gay guys do? WTF?!?!?!!!

I needed an answer to this question. There were two places I could go to get some clues. One of them was my 10th grade diary. The other was Spencer.

I have known Spencer since we were both in our early 20s and he was still dating women. I don’t recall exactly when or how he came out, which may simply indicate that it was sort of a non-event among the people close to him. He didn’t make a big announcement or anything. He just kind of slid out. We had studied voice with the same teacher, and we did get to perform together once in a production of Cavalleria Rusticana, in which he took great and gleeful pleasure in flinging me to the ground during the lovers’ quarrel duet. Spencer now lives and performs in Europe.

I was convinced that he’d truly been crazy about some of the women he’d dated, even contemplating marriage and children with one of them. If anyone could help me to understand, it was Spencer. Shortly after my googling spree and subsequent discovery about Harry, I fired off an email to Spencer, which explained in brief about both Harry and Mark, and asked the $64,000 question…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Whatever happened to Harry? is a series written as a follow up to My “cougar” days, part one

Truthfully, my outer 49 year old wasn’t doing so well now, either. This was not the first time I’d discovered that a boy I’d loved and thought loved me was, in fact, gay. During my senior year in high school, I’d dated Mark, who was two years older (sorry, no cougar story there). Mark ran hot and cold about us to extremes. He was crazy in love with me one minute, but then he’d disappear for a couple of weeks. He would return all in love with me again, and kiss my ass to get back into my good graces, or else he’d pretend he’d never been gone and everything was fine. He swore to me that he was not seeing another girl; I guess I should have asked a less gender-specific question.

At one point, Mark had me so convinced that he loved me and that we were meant to be together forever, he became my “first” – a much more significant first than just kissing. But he just kept disappearing periodically, and I didn’t know why, or what I’d done to alienate him, or why he kept coming back. At some point, I was prepared to go to my senior prom with someone else, but then he swooped back into my life and declared that HE was taking me and no one else.

He broke up with me that night. He broke up with me forever and for good at my senior prom. That really sucked. I think the only people with prom memories worse than mine are the ones that inhabit Stephen King’s Carrie.

A couple of weeks later, I ran into a mutual friend who knew the truth and had the compassion to tell me. That’s how I found out Mark was gay, and that all those times he wasn’t with me, he’d been with some guy named Angel… he’d been confused, he couldn’t make up his mind which way to go, so he kept bouncing back and forth between the two of us until he wasn’t confused any more. (Excuse me? You were confused, so you decided to relieve me of my virginity? )

My inner 15 year old stood up at this point, yanked at my sleeve, and demanded to know, “What is it about me that attracts gay men?”

I had no idea what to tell her.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Whatever happened to Harry? is a series written as a follow up to My “cougar” days, part one

So, here’s what happened to Harry. Harry apparently grew up to become the owner of a talent agency… an adult entertainment talent agency… an all-male, adult entertainment talent agency.

Shocked, I sat quietly for a moment, allowing what I’d just learned to sink in. And then I laughed. And I laughed and laughed and laughed. Harry always was a little bit on the outrageous side. OK, a LOT on the outrageous side. My friends always said three things about him. Well, four, if you count, “You guys look great together!”. They said he was funny, they said he had beautiful baby blues, and they said, “But my GAWD, he’s totally OBNOXIOUS!”.

My 15 year old self agreed wholeheartedly that we looked good together; we were around the same height, so we just kind of fit together walking down the hallways at school, arms wrapped around each other. I also agreed that he was funny and that his eyes were a wondrous shade of blue (it is worth noting that I love the color blue so much, I coveted a blue suede sofa from Crate and Barrel for years, and finally bought it last spring). However, coming from a household with three brothers, I had a high tolerance for “obnoxious” and barely noticed it. I just took it in stride that when dealing with teenaged boys, a certain quantity of “obnoxious” comes with the territory. When we were one-on-one, Harry was just a funny, sweet boy with a wicked – but never mean – sense of humor. However, when a wider audience was available, that’s when he was “on”. I still wouldn’t call it “obnoxious” – more like “outrageous”. He didn’t just entertain, he “shockertained”; the more off-beat and out-there he could be, the better it delighted him. It was like he was testing us – how far could he go, where was the line, how close to it could he dance?

I broke myself out of the reverie of distant memories. I wanted to know more.

It wasn’t long before I’d amassed a fair amount of information regarding what Harry had been doing with himself for at least the last 5 years or so. He’d left a fairly easy-to-follow breadcrumb trail across the internet under his new name, and I soon came to understand that he was a fairly big shit deal in the gay community in his area, well-respected for his contributions to adult entertainment industry practices, and for his donations to charitable causes as well. As I continued to learn about him, I was startled to realize that my 49 year old self could look back in time, see the signs, and fully accept what everything I was reading about him implied – but my inner 15 year old was having a really rough time with it. She flat out would not accept mere “implications”, and kept pushing me to search for something concrete that spelled it out in no uncertain terms.

OK, here we go; MySpace. Harold A*****, age 40-something. Same logo from the business, instead of a head shot.

Status: In a relationship.

Orientation: Gay

My inner 15 year old deflated and crumbled into a crestfallen heap…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Whatever happened to Harry? is a series written as a follow up to My “cougar” days, part one

I hope you will all excuse me for taking a little breather. I needed some processing time. I’m going to interrupt my intended “cougar” series to tell you all about it. After you read what I’m about to tell you, I think you will forgive me; it was a little difficult to wrap my brain around it.

I ended my last post by recounting whatever became of the “engagement” ring and the tiny, perfect, silver cross. Not long after posting, I started to wonder whatever became of Harry. And so, I took my madd googling skillz to the interwebz and launched a quest to locate Harry, long-lost bestower of first kisses.

I started in the logical place – Facebook. It’s like the village green of the entire planet, or maybe more like Tevye’s dream in Fiddler On The Roof – eventually, everyone you ever knew is going to pass through there. Unfortunately, a search for “Harry M*** “ came up nil; likewise “Harold M***”. I googled around a bit but kept coming back to Facebook, looking for people we’d hung out with back then, to see if they knew how to contact him.

And then one morning over coffee, I remembered Harry’s sister Jennie. She and my older brother were in the same graduating class, and we’d had an elective together – History of the Occult, where the only thing I remember learning is that Dracula’s real name was Vlad the Impaler. I found her profile easily, and cruised through her friends list in search of her brother. The only “Harry” I found on her friend list was a “Harold A*****”. Disappointed, I abandoned the search and started my work day.

But something kept nibbling at my brain about this. It was not improbable that he just wasn’t on Facebook – after all, none of my own brothers had signed up. Still, something nagged at me about it. I could not get it off my mind, and then halfway through the work day, it dawned on me. I remembered teasing Harry about his initials, but being a theater geek, he was quite proud that they spelled H.A.M. …..

Before I knew it, I found myself wading through Jennie’s friend list again, clicking on Harold A*****, whereupon I was faced with the typical “Harold only shares certain information with everyone. To learn more about Harold, add him as a friend.” Well, I wasn’t about to do that until I was sure. His profile picture was no help. It was not actually a picture, but the logo of some dot com. I plugged the address into the URL bar, and…

Oh.

My.

GAWD

I hit the “back” button on the browser, fast.

TO BE CONTINUED…

“Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it – every, every minute?

- Emily Webb, Our Town

And how can we, when we are born knowing absolutely nothing? I think it’s one of the cruelest things about life – that we are born not knowing jack shit, and we have to make a bunch of serious mistakes before we learn and grow and start getting in right. I’m not really sure how we are supposed to appreciate what we have when we’re so young and inexperienced we’ve got nothing to which we can compare it.

I had to go through cancer to understand how precious a working body is. I had to go through years with the wrong man to understand how fragile relationships are, and how irrevocable heartbreak can be. You can learn things by the example of others, certainly, but there really is no substitute for experience. I look at my young nieces and I wonder what trials they are destined to endure in order to reach the place where they realize at least part of life, while they are living it. They have no idea. How could they?

Still, I refuse to believe that the essence of youth is “wasted” only on the young. Most of the time, I feel like I’m around 12. Most of the time, my inner adult gladly steps aside and yields to the fun, fun, fun of unencumbered singlehood. I think I’m making up for lost time. I think I’m doing all the things that were forbidden or at least frowned upon when I was young and controlled and repressed – and I didn’t know jack. Jack and I, we’re more than just acquaintances these days, and we both like to have fun. Jack definitely realizes life – every, every minute. Jack is my hero.

A friend directed me to some resources regarding “The Law Of Attraction”, and while I was reading there, I discovered that one of the authors had made use of a Ouija board to receive guidance. I have a healthy respect-from-a-distance for Ouija – meaning, I won’t play. No sireee bob, you cannot make me, and I will leave the premesis if a Ouija board makes an appearance.

See, I read The Exorcist when i was ten. Yes, you read that right. I was ten. I read lots of things I should not have read at that age, but The Exorcist is the story that left it’s mark on my psyche. I’m just never, ever going to stick around to watch what happens when someone pulls out a Ouija board.

I’m not at all sure that it’s true that “spirits” communicate via the Ouija board; I think it’s just as likely that the subconscious minds of the players are at work sending “messages”. But I reason that the Universe is all about balance, and *IF* there are good spirits, then there are also bad spirits. I’m pretty sure that if you open the door to the good ones, you cannot guarantee that the others won’t piggyback on in somehow, too.

Whether by Ouija or other means, if one should encounter a spirt…how would one know that it’s one of the “good guys”? How do you know it’s not an evil spirit who will take possession of your body, slap your grandma, kick the cat and burn down the neighborhood or something?

I am so bad at boyfriend radar (I have ZERO romantic radar), I shudder to think how profoundly bad I would be at spirit radar. I can just see myself going along, lah ti dah, thinking I’ve got a Seth or an Abraham communicating with or through me, and all along it’s, like, Hitler or Rasputin – or someone REALLY evil, like… nope, not going there.

I was driving home from a shopping expedition this afternoon, approaching the I-75 overpass up on Colonial, and I noticed a bunch of construction on the other side of the interstate. Looked like hotels – wanted to confirm that and tuck it away for future reference for when Bro No. 1 comes with the family. He likes to dump the kids here and take himself and wife off to the hotel. I’m ok with that!

Anyhow, I made a right after going under I-75. Fairly new-looking road. I did see three buildings back there. One was the office of a home builder – probably their design center (it was fairly large). Right next to it, a new Candlewood Suites; however it does not have a pool, so I don’t know how Bro would feel about that.

And at the end of the court, a tall, broad building that says “NOVA Southeastern University” on the side of it. Lots of construction vehicles sprinkled around the unfinished parking lot, but the building looks like it’s nearly completed.

So I quickly call my home phone and leave an answering machine message for myself, so I don’t forget to find out what this is all about. Turns out theres a BIG campus of this school in Fort Lauderdale, but there are all these “distance learning centers” sprinkled here in Florida, and as far flung as the Bahamas, Jamaica, and Las Vegas. This is apparently one of those “distance learning centers”.

I found the page where they tell what programs will be offered here; one of them is Mental Health Counseling.

I was seriously thinking I wasn’t going to do this. I loved school; it also damned near killed me, seeing as getting my BA in Psychology coincided with the most difficult years of my career at the Firm, AND with my “other career” singing with the opera company on Long Island. I look back at those days and shake my head. How did I cram it all in? Where did I find the time? AND, I was still an ABC Daytime and HBO Sunday Night junkie back then too – I watched HOURS of TV in addition to writing papers and memorizing performances in other languages! Why did I do that to my life? What was I thinking?

But, you know, the initial supposition that originally led to my going back to school in the first place is still valid. I am not going to be able to retire the way my parents did. I’m eventually going to become obsolete at the Firm. I’ve had a good run, but my years of service are starting to add up to the point where I’m going to be entering that category of folks who are candidates for “early retirement” (translation: here’s some cash, get thee gone).

I’m going to NEED a second career.

My other choice for second career would be horticulturist at Disney. However, I’d have to move to landlocked Orlando – ok, there are worse things, but I’m REALLY enjoying being near the beaches here. You might have noticed. LOL

Well, they aren’t done building it yet, even. I can make the same deal with myself that I made for the BA. Be back in school learning SOMETHING by time I was 40. I went back when I was 39, in fact. So now, I can say, “be back in school for 2nd career by time you are 50″. I’m 47. I have some time.