2000-12-16 - 01:03:19
Queerness Is Karma

Queerness Is Karma

As I wrote out my chagrin yesterday at how several men disappeared on me this past year, Morrie kept coming to mind.

Morrie is a young gay man I disappeared on.

In August 1999, I'd only been in town here a few months when I encountered him on the local gay Internet Relay chatroom. 19, cute, horny and living alone in a bachelor apartment not far from me, Morrie sounded too good to be true. When he invited me over that night, I did not have to be persuaded: I was out the door in a flash.

Morrie was cute--tall, black hair, brown eyes--and he certainly seemed to be attired for a raunchy evening. He answered the door draped only in a tattered comforter blanket, loosely fastened around his waist with a bathrobe belt. The blanket kept slipping, baring silky muscular shoulders, a smooth torso.

Morrie said he hadn't been dressed or out of his apartment in several days. He insisted on showing me every bell and whistle on his Mac computer. This did not interest me in the slightest. Morrie talked and talked and talked. He was very mature for his age, in a nerdy sort of way. This loquacious nerdiness sapped any erotic charge in the air. He was fixated on his computer, would barely meet my eyes: there was little opportunity to advance the sexual agenda which had brought me here.

After a couple hours of listening to Morrie's chatter, I politely announced I was going to leave. In parting, I made a flirtatious remark. Morrie admitted he was shy about sex, had barely any experience. We exchanged numbers; I left it up to him to call me, kind of hoping he wouldn't.

He did.

We got together one other night; after another flirtatious online chat--"I'm so horny," Morrie wrote, "Get yer butt over here!"--I went back to his place. He yelled to "come in" when I got to his door. Morrie lay in the dark on his single bed, tucked beneath that same silly blanket. It needed to be washed, my nose told me. As I perched on the bed beside him, he squirmed nervously. We chatted awkwardly. I reached a hand out in the dark, caressed his sweet face. Morrie was silent; his whole body went limp. He would not kiss: my tongue traveled down to more responsive bits, which tasted delicious.

Afterwards, Morrie insisted on walking me home. I didn't really want him to come over, anticipating difficulty getting rid of him. As we walked along in the moonlight, I said, "Hey, I can still feel your dick at the back of my throat." He blushed.

Sure enough, as soon as we got inside my house, Morrie made a bee-line for my computer. After a monotonous hour of that, I finally insisted we go out into the living room, have a decent visit.

And we did. I lit candles. I remember Morrie opening up about some stressful things going on his life. Family stuff, nineteen-year-old, just-out-of-the-closet stuff. I remember tears coming to his eyes. He looked breathtakingly beautiful then. I remember thinking that while the blow-job had been eminently forgettable, perhaps there were other reasons why we had crossed paths.

Several hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, I did have to insist that he leave. Morrie struck me as an intensely lonely, clingy and loveable young man. Beautiful, without being sexy. But there were things about him that were already driving me crazy. I was also already embarked on a sexual friendship with Pierre; one emotionally-needy young man was enough, I thought.

So I dropped him.

Whenever I'd see Morrie online he would flirt with me outrageously. I deflected his constant propositions and invitations for me to come right over. When he would call and leave me a voice message, I would not call back. The next time I'd see him on the Internet chatroom, I'd apologize, say we'd have to get together soon. Then Morrie would call me again, and I would not call him back. This went on for several months.

To the extent I reflected on this at the time, I justified myself this way:

(a) Morrie and I had so little in common,

(b) I sensed he might be a handfull, emotionally-speaking, and

(c) while I was attracted to him, I didn't feel I had the energy to 'take on' another frigid young man.

Around this time, Morrie showed up in that big dream I had about my alcoholism. His dreamtime appearance surprised me, but I didn't give it much thought.

I rarely go on the local cyber-chatroom anymore, but about a month ago I logged on: sure enough, there he was. Morrie made some snide comments about how I'd been ignoring him for an entire year. I had no right to be offended; he was right. The conversation basically ended there.

A couple days later Morrie phoned me, left a message. In the middle of this melancholy funk I'm gradually emerging from, I had a lot on my mind. But I intended to call him back.

I did not call him back.

So there I was, last night, writing about my disillusionment about gay men playing shoddy games with me. I have gotten quite good at bringing home my projections; the next step is to honestly look at how I too play similar games, how I too can withdraw from potential connections.

Which is not to say I need to go overboard, eh? I had valid reasons for concluding Morrie wasn't someone I would connect with. But he was sweet in his own nerdy way; I fondly recall that one meaningful conversation we had. And whatever my reasons for not furthering the friendship, the way I handled this was immature and unkind. I hate it when guys don't call back; it drives me crazy when anyone says "yeah, let's get together soon" when they don't mean it.

So last night--three weeks after his last message--I picked up the phone and called Morrie. He now lives at home with his father, who he's not out to. Needless to say, Morrie was surprised to hear from me. He told me his Dad freaked after walking in on him going at it with some guy three weeks ago. That was why Morrie had called me; he'd really needed someone to talk to.

Did I feel guilty? Oh yeah. Morrie and his father haven't spoken since, and he plans to move out on his own again soon.

We had a decent chat; we're going to get together sometime in the next couple weeks.

I don't have high hopes that Morrie and I will bond; I fully expect to be chafed by his non-stop chatter about stuff that disinterests me, his emotional neediness. But underneath all that, I expect to find a loveable young man who could use guidance more than blowjobs. (If the two fit together, hey!)

You know, there's a lot of people out there who I don't connect with. I don't have to shut all of them out. I am capable of setting appropriate boundaries; I don't need to cut people off like this. I have isolated myself too much lately; reaching out to Morrie last night made me feel good.

I am not going to learn about love by withdrawing from the world, bemoaning the men who've fled.

There are men who love me. I keep most of them at arm's length. Safeguarding my solitude can become a neurotic endeavor.

I am a sucker for new men, for the gush of hot blood that comes when the next pretty face smiles at me. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing.

And I get hurt--more easily than I let on--when I start to get close to that pretty face, taste the personality behind it, begin to unfurl my heart a bit, only to have the guy vanish.

But look at all these beautiful people around me, who know me, who want to know me better, who still keep coming back for more, who want to be let in.

Many gay men piss and moan about queer life, about how untrustworthy and fucked-up all the other guys are out there. Such talk grates on me: there's no way out of that projecting loop.

A helpful critique of queer sociality can only emerge from an honest look within. I've got a big heart; the world needs more of it than I let out.

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