Sunday, Oct. 26, 2003 - 12:30 a.m.
Splitting

I haven't written much about Miles since we met two months ago, except to mention in passing how supportive he's been. He's been amazing, and I'm grateful.

Things between us have become a bit complicated lately, and for once it's not about my wandering eye (a euphemism for my wandering crotch). My eye never stops wandering, but my crotch has been pretty much of a homebody-part of late. My sex drive is at an all-time low, actually. Aside from a naughty massage a month or so ago, I haven't been with anyone else. (Don't tell Miles that though: de facto exclusivity is fine, but I'm not ready to declare de jure monogamy.)

Miles and I are spending lots of time together, and we've gotten close. I love the guy. The problem is that he's leaving town, heading back in January to finish up his degree on the other side of the country. He hopes to be back in town in January '05 to do his Masters, but that's very much up in the air. We've agreed that a long-distance dating kind of arrangement won't work for either of us, so where does that leave us? A year's break, only to pick back up if and when he returns? A clean break altogether? We don't seem to know, and haven't been able to talk about it meaningfully or helpfully. I sense him sometimes pulling away, not being as open with me as he first was, and I don't know if I blame him for that. But yet on the other hand, we seem to get into each other, and the relationship means a lot to us both.

So there's that.

Also, I've come to realize that Miles has a drinking problem. I think he's probably an alcoholic. As a recovering drunk myself, this obviously isn't great news. He'd already told me he wondered if he might have a problem before I saw him drunk, two nights in a row, last weekend. He drinks the same way I used to: rapidly, compulsively, solely to get inebriated. It was a real "remember when": most of my drinking is such ancient history that I don't think of it that often—don't remember it that well. But we stopped in at a gay bar to watch a drag show last Sunday night and I immediately went into the smoking room. When I emerged seven or so minutes later, Miles was on his second beer. We stayed 45 minutes: he had four beer altogether and was quite drunk.

It's his life, right? Only he can decide whether or not he has a problem, whether or not to do anything about it. But I know what I need, too. And so I said to him on the phone this week that I wasn't comfortable being around him too often when he was drunk. Not because it makes me want to drink—it has the opposite effect—but because I don't feel that we connect when he's drunk. A boozey membrane goes up around him; it's porous, intoxicatedly so, but I don't have much interest in bonding with someone who's under the influence. I don't trust what gets said: I know how much I used to say while inebriated that I either didn't mean or was too scared to say while sober.

Miles reacted well to my assertion, said he'd have no problem not drinking around me. So that's good; I'm glad I brought it up.

We got together last night, Friday. Miles was tired after a long day. We went out for dinner, and then afterwards he didn't feel too well, a slightly upset stomach. So he was kind of grumpy, and complained about my smoking. I get defensive about that, which is childish. There's little difference between me not being comfortable with his drinking and him not liking my smoke in his face eh? All in all, I didn't feel connected with him whatsoever. He laid on the couch distractedly watching TV (we have the exact opposite taste in televsion: I watch only news programs and documentaries, and he watches everything but), and I sat at the computer surfing the net and chatting online, equally distractedly. We were both pouty and untalkative.

This poutiness was no big deal. Like, we occasionally made conversation; there was no real tension or anything. It was just the absence of connection—which has been more and more how things have been between us—that got me down.

And that's a real trigger for me, eh? The cynic in me gets its back up, and says "What the fuck are you doing spending such meaningless time with this person? You'd much rather be on your own."

Ordinarily, I would hope that I'd have tried to engage him in some conversation, break through that way. But he wasn't feeling well, and he was tired, so I didn't think it was the right time for a chat. I begrudged going out onto the deck for a smoke, but I did, and then thought I'd just go get into bed and read while he continued to watch the stupid TV, flipping through the channels so annoyingly.

We were definitely not going to have sex; of that I was certain. We were so far apart, off in our own little worlds: sex felt like the last thing I'd want.

I got into bed and was all set to pick up my book—Jeffrey Toobin's take on the Clinton sex scandals—when Miles crawled in beside me.

"I feel better," he said, fresh out of the shower. "Whatcha doing?"

And he rolled those beautiful brown eyes at me, giggling, kissing my cheek, stroking my hair.

I was a goner, easily convinced to have a quick shower myself, and then we were soon off to the races.

I've never meant to kiss so meaningfully. Our lips wre infatuated.

He's such a butt-man, and I'd never let him fuck me yet. (We did try one night, but it didn't work.) He'd been satisfied with lots of fingering and I'd certainly been enjoying the prodding.

Last night it felt right. I told him so. He asked if I was sure. I said I was.

So I got it up the hoop. It felt like letting love in. He split me open and, oh, I needed to be split. To be opened up: to him, to the radiant light leaking off on his face. To what got liberated inside me, the urgent circulating beauty of capacious, uncertain, befuddled hearts.

I knew love in that moment, watching him, feeling him inside. And I knew how fucked it would be, while fucked, to say I love you for the first time . As ridiculous as if he said it while drunk.

And I knew that Diego was not in the next room, waiting, knife in hand. And I knew that I'm fragile, brave, immature, gifted, confused, alone, capable of abiding love. Possibilities flared up, lighting our conjoined bodies, our bed. The room became a brief bright world.