Urban Insanity

Lost and Found

I've been very lucky. 

I'm 30 years old, and until earlier this month, I'd never lost a close family member. 

But on May 2, 2007, my grandmother died.

She wasn't just my grandmother. 

She was "Granny," my closest grandparent and a big influence in my life. 

She was a farmer's wife, a mother of four, and a selfless woman who loved Big Band music and made the best homemade rolls I've ever tasted. 

Until the day she died, she'd showered her family with endearing love.

My dad warned me at the end of April that her health was failing, and I bought a plane ticket to return to my small hometown for a few days to spend time with her. 

Unfortunately, Granny passed away two days before my flight. 

I attended the sad visitation and mourned her death with close and distant family members.

Along with the other children, I released a balloon as a symbol of my own "goodbye." 

It was a nice, lighthearted gesture, but it didn't give me the feeling of closure that it did for some of the other grandchildren; for me, closure wouldn't come until later. 

After the burial, the immediate family returned to Granny's house, where friends brought fried chicken (a Southern tradition), dressing, sandwiches, dozens of desserts, cheeses, and everything else you can imagine.

Granny's best friend, Ann, was the only non-family-member who stayed with us at the house throughout the day.

Ann had spoken to Granny on the phone every single day for 70 years.  She knew so much about Granny's rich life, and her stories kept us captivated for hours.

Granny was a classic surviver of the Great Depression, and hid cash around the house until the day she died.  In the early years of her marriage when times were tough, she cooked everything from squirrel to raccoon for my grandpa.  She also used to chase my dad and uncle - twins - around with pigs' heads that she'd skinned in the kitchen. 

Like Ann's stories, my own memories of her were vivid. 

When I was young, Granny took care of me.  She taught me how to cook, how to ride a bike, and how to play the piano.  She told me stories about my dad and his siblings that I wouldn't have ever heard otherwise.

More importantly, she showed me how love could conquer any problems that my relatives faced, whether it be divorce, drugs, alcoholism, or lack of faith. 

Her love was unconditional, more enduring of hardship than it should've been, but more pure that any love that I've ever seen.

Her love for my stubborn grandfather, a recent victim of alzheimer's, was unwaiverable.  And Granny's love for her children - a hippie, an angry Southern Baptist, a crazy person, and a classic Type A (my dad) was unpretentious, unqualified, and unending.   

I was Granny's "golden child," - the athlete, the scholar, and the ex-military soldier who she'd bragged about and worried about incessantly.

For the last ten years, every time I journeyed home, Granny asked me about "what girl I was dating."  She wanted me to produce a litter of babies that'd have my father's and grandfather's last name. 

It was an obsession for her.   

Of course I never told her that I was gay. 

That would've crushed her spirits.  She'd never met a gay person, and I know she wouldn't have understood.

Now that she's in a better place, however, I know she grasps why I stopped bringing girls around the farm and why I never married. 

That knowledge gives me a sense of peace, and I finally feel like I've said goodbye to her. 

I found closure with Granny's death when I realized that I no longer had to lie to her about my sexuality. 

Even though this new-found honesty between us didn't come until after she died, it still gives me a sense of relief to know that she sees who I really am and realizes that I can be happy without a traditional lifestyle. 

Bought and Paid For

The difference between a prostitute and an expensive date depends on where the cash goes. 

If the money goes into your pocket, you're definitely a hooker.  If, however, your date pays for an expensive dinner, a nice bottle of wine, and tickets to a show, you're just an expensive date. 

But what do you call the guy who accepts a plane ticket, a $500, second row, center court seat at an NBA game, a trip to a luxury ski resort, and several extravagant dinners? 

I was that guy just a few months ago . . .

Back in early February, my friends BOB and Neo planned a weekend getaway trip to NYC. 

Having never been to NYC, I jumped on board immediately. 

Two weeks before we left, the three of us sat around BOB's house and planned out our agenda.  We ordered tickets to Mama Mia!, the Broadway show.  I'd heard great things about the Met (Metropolitan Museum of Art) and MOMA (the Modern Museum of Art), and wanted to check out at least one of them.  Neo didn't much care what we did as long as clubbing and drinking were prominently weaved into the agenda. 

The museums, show, and tourist trap planning were easy - anyone can find that stuff online.  However, none of us had ever been to the Big Apple, so we had absolutely no clue where to eat or where to go out at night. 

Determined not to miss out on any fun nights in the New York City gay scene, I logged into gay.com to get the scoop. 

Almost immediately, a forty-year-old investment banker in the Manhattan room sent me a "pvt" message. 

He was masculine, self-confident, and had an ironman competitor's body.  He'd been a part-time model from his college years until age thirty-eight, when his job intensified and he got a divorce from his wife. 

Although he had the face of a twenty-six-year-old, his gray hair gave him a distinguished air.  To give you an idea of what he looked like, imagine a much hotter, more muscular version of Anderson Cooper, the infamously-gay CNN reporter. 

"Anderson" and I chatted online for two days, until we were comfortable enough to talk on the phone. 

The conversations were fantastic, and we could barely wait to meet each other.  It got so bad that Anderson tried to get me to commit to staying with him in his penthouse apartment for an extra day or two. 

BOB knew how excited I was to meet Anderson, and told me that I better not ditch out on any friend-time to hang out with my mysterious Internet crush. 

But Anderson was persuasive. 

An aggressive multi-millionaire, he was used to getting what he wanted.  Through our lengthy conversations on the phone, Anderson figured out that I'm a sucker for basketball games.  It doesn't matter if it's high school, college, or professional--I love them all.  He made a couple calls and scored second row, center court tickets to a Knicks game for Friday night. 

How could I say no? 

I broke the news to BOB and received a warranted scolding for ditching my buddies, but then licked my wounds and started drooling over the game.    

DAY 1

Finally, after two long weeks of planning, we boarded the plane on a Thursday.  We arrived in the Big Apple and took a cab to our tiny hotel in Chelsea.  The weather in NYC was shockingly cold, but no amount of wind, rain, or snow could break our spirits. 

While Neo and I waited for BOB to get fully pimped out, I called Anderson at his office.  He knew we had dinner reservations at Vice Versa, a cool, eclectic restaurant in midtown (www.viceversarestaurant.com), and wanted to meet me there for a drink. 

I was hesitant, especially since I was already bailing on my friends on Friday, but I was curious to finally see Anderson in person.  So, I penciled him in for a quick drink between dinner and Mama Mia! 

After BOB, Neo, and I finished our delicious, surprisingly affordable dinner, Anderson called. 

"That's him," I say as I pick up my cell phone, which had been sitting prominently in front of my plate. 

"Well, get it over with, hooker," BOB said with a grunt. 

I laughed and flipped open the phone.

"Hey."

"I'm sitting at the bar," Anderson says.

He has a calming voice, but my heart is racing. 

A thousand thoughts are running through my mind. 

I'm finally gonna meet him.  I hope he's as cute in person as he is in the pics.  Please don't be psycho.  I hope he's attracted to me.  I hope I'm attracted to him. 

With a bit of liquid confidence from two glasses of Cabernet, I walk towards the bar. 

And there he is. 

Ball cap, jeans, a long sleeve shirt, jacket, and hiking boots.  Not your typical Manhattanite. 

More importantly, he's exactly what I pictured.  His angular jaw and cheekbones compliment his deep-set blue eyes beautifully, and his triathlete's quads flexed on the barstool beneath the thin fabric of his faded jeans.

"Hey.  Finally, we get to meet," he smiles.

I smile back and stare at the cute dimples that hadn't shown up on any of his photos. 

"It's about time." 

I sit down and lose myself in the handsome stranger sitting next to me. 

I lose track of time, and have to hoof it over to the Winter Garden Theater to meet my friends and catch the show in time. 

Anderson walks with me. 

Before we get to Broadway, we stop. 

"I really want to kiss you right now," he says. 

"Here, on the street?" 

"This is New York.  It's no big deal."

Before I can respond, he closes the gap between us, puts his hand on the back of my neck, and kisses me warmly with his soft, full lips. 

I forget all about the chilly February air as he pulls back and flashes a little grin. 

Without warning, he goes in for another kiss. 

I don't stop him.

"Meet me after the show tonight.  Please."

"I can't.  I've got to hang out with my buddies.  Tomorrow, though." 

"Come on," he says with the confidence of someone who always gets what he wants.

"I'd love to but-"

"Don't say no.  Just . . . give me a call later, o.k.?"

"Um, alright.  I'll do it."

I say goodbye to Anderson and walk the last half-block to the Winter Garden Theater.

Mama Mia! was really fun, but thoughts of Anderson lingered in my mind throughout the show. 

Neo had his heart set on going to Splash, a huge gay dance club, so after the show, we took a cab there. 

After spending $10 on cover and $30 for two luke-warm beers, I give Anderson a call. 

"Change your mind about coming over?"   

"I thought we were just hanging out.  You want me to come over to your place?" 

"Yeah.  What's wrong with that?"

I pause, not sure what to do.  After all, I'd just met this guy a few hours ago. 

Anderson isn't finished though.  "Matt, think about it.  You know me better than you know a lot of people.  We've talked everyday for two weeks.  Seriously, think about it."

He's right, I rationalize.  Why not?

"Sure.  Why not?  Should I take a cab over?" 

"Yeah, or you can take the subway.  I'm in Tribecca." 

I choose the cab. 

Minutes later, I walk into Anderson's professionally-decorated apartment. 

He gives me a quick tour before leading me into the kitchen. 

Anderson pours two glasses of red wine and hands one to me. 

Nervous, and feeling like a called-in male escort, I ramble something about BOB's antics at Splash. 

But Anderson isn't the least bit interested in the story; he has other things on his mind. 

He puts down his glass and slowly closes the gap between us. 

Anderson likes to be in control, and I don't resist as he kisses me softly again with his wine-tipped lips. 

Sheer electricity and excitement run through my body. 

I'd only met this guy a few hours before, and now I feel like I'm losing control.

It feels dangerous, and I love it. 

Anderson runs his strong hands down my lower back and pulls me toward him. 

I feel his manhood through his thin cotton pajama pants, and I'm completely enveloped by his firm limbs and soft lips. 

He looks at me with his sea-blue eyes and says, "Come to my room with me." 

I don't leave until the next morning.

DAY 2       

Friday morning, I took the subway back to my hotel in Chelsea, expecting a serious thrashing from BOB and Neo.

And, deservingly, I got one. 

I promised BOB that I wouldn't hang out with Anderson after Friday night, and I knew that it'd be an easy promise to keep since Anderson was going out of town on Saturday. 

I grabbed lunch in Union Square with an old co-worker while BOB and Neo shopped and got massages on Canal Street. BOB was in a particularly good mood after his massage, where he got naked while the Asian masseuse climbed on his back and rubbed him down with exotic oils.  Only on Canal Street . . .

That night, I bought Anderson dinner at Nobu, a Japanese restaurant in SoHo. 

Then, finally, we walked to Madison Square Garden to watch the Knicks play the Milwaukee Bucks. 

I'd sat in luxury boxes for several professional and college games, and in the cheap seats lots of times, but I'd never sat two rows off the court. 

It was absolutely awesome! 

The adrenaline of the players and fans was intoxicating, as were the four huge beers that Anderson bought for me. 

Something about basketball excites me, and I couldn't wait to get back to Anderson's house.  Anderson felt the same way, and said I looked sexy holding a beer and cheering for the Knicks. 

Anderson told me that he couldn't get enough of masculine guys, and wanted to rip my jeans and polo shirt off during all four quarters.

Later that night, we both got our way, and for the second night in a row, I didn't go back to my hotel room. 

DAYS 3 and 4

Anderson left town on Saturday morning, so I spent lots of uninterrupted time with my buddies for the last two days of the trip. 

Neo, BOB, and I checked out the Met and shopped in Midtown.  We dined in a cool Italian restaurant in SoHo and went out to the bars in Chelsea. 

Despite the fun I had with my friends, I longed to see Anderson one last time. 

I liked the guy, and honestly, sex with him was addicting. 

DAY 5 - 11

Starting on Monday, he called me several times a day. 

Apparently, Anderson wanted to see me again too.

He wanted me to fly back to NYC to go skiing with him.  He said he'd buy my plane ticket, he'd pay for the equipment rentals and lift tickets at Lake Placid, and he'd reserve us a romantic room in a luxury resort. 

I hesitated at first, feeling guilty about accepting so much from Anderson.  But I wanted to go skiing, and I wanted to see him again.   

I ultimately put my hesitations in the back of my mind and hopped on a plane to NYC that next Friday morning. 

Most of the weekend went really well; awesome, in fact. 

But on Sunday, while Anderson gave me a driving tour of Manhattan, my hesitations resurfaced, and I started thinking about the two weekends I'd spent with my handsome internet crush. 

I felt like he was a little distant too.

I think we both realized that, although we had fun together, and the sex was fantastic, nothing more "real" could ever develop between us.  We knew that a relationship would never work.  He'd never leave NYC, and I couldn't leave my job or my town for the next few years. 

He drove me to the Newark airport, I boarded my plane to return home, and haven't spoken to Anderson since. 

In the last few months, I've thought about Anderson.  I've wondered who he's dating and what he's doing.  But I haven't really wanted to see him again. 

I have no doubt that he feels the same way.

When I was with Anderson, I felt like more than an expensive date. 

But I never really felt like a male escort. 

Still, I felt cheap in some way, like I'd sold a part of myself to someone.  Perhaps it was because the sex, albeit good, was meaningless. 

Maybe it was because I knew that Anderson and I could never have anything truly meaningful. 

Is there a middle ground between being an expensive date and being a prostitute? 

Can someone really exist in that gray area, and exist there happily? 

For me, I stopped being happy with Anderson when I realized that a relationship with him would never work . . . that we could never be anything more than two guys experiencing a romantic, lust-filled weekend. 

It was at that point that I felt cheap accepting his generosity.       

Coming Out: The First Friend

Coming out to that first buddy can be a big challenge. 

Some people muster enough courage to do it over lunch or dinner.  Others might take a weekend trip with that special friend to really have a good discussion, or they might simply shoot out an email because they fear their friend's reaction. 

For me, however, it took a lot of alcohol and some serious frustration before I could tell my first friend that I was gay:

On one random weekend last fall, Travis, one of my straight friends, called.

"Hey, what are you doin' tonight?"   

"I don't know yet," I reply.

"You're coming with me to the Walrus Bar.  It's opening night tonight."

"Where is it?"

"Downtown.  Next to my office."

"Cool.  I'll be at your place at 10:00 p.m.  Does that work?"

"Yeah, see you then."

I hang up and sit back in my office chair, thinking of ways to sneak off to a gay bar after Travis gets occupied with a girl.  At this point, I'd only lived in the city for a couple weeks and didn't have any gay friends, so I was in the habit of going out with my straight buddies, helping them score with some chicks, and then rolling solo to the "family" clubs at around 12:30 a.m.  It wasn't fun, but that was all I knew back then. 

As planned, I meet Travis at 10:00 p.m., and we drive to the Walrus Bar. 

When we walk in, I notice that the Walrus isn't a typical metro bar.  It's more like a college dive with cheap pitchers of beer, hardwood floors, and drunk, blond coeds on the prowl for rich husbands. 

Travis and I grab a table and scout the room for hotties. 

Of course, I totally ignore the girls and instead scope for possible "family" members.

Unfortunately, the Walrus is a straight guy's mecca--the guys are few and far between, and the drunk women are plentiful.  This doesn't surprise me.  Most clubs are like that when they first open.

In the past, when Travis and I had gone out, we'd discovered that we were about equal when it came to picking up women.  Neither of us had looks that overshadowed the other's, and both of us were able to carry a conversation.  While neither of us claimed to be the next Brad Pitt, we usually didn't have trouble pulling numbers. 

All of this made me the perfect wing man in Travis's eyes.  In fact, during those first few weeks that I'd moved to the city, he dragged me out several nights a week.

Unlike our other excursions, however, this night was anything but typical. 

This night, I was some kind of magnet for horny girls while Travis repulsed them.

It was hilarious, for a while anyway. 

After a few drinks, a raunchy-looking twenty-two-year-old walks up to me. 

She doesn't even glance at Travis.  Instead, she holds out her hand to me and says, "Hey there."

I can't help but glance at Raunchy Girl's breasts, which aren't big, but are about to fall out of her thin blouse.  Raunchy Girl's hair is bleach blond with jet black roots inching out.  She's wearing a pound of eye makeup and some too-bright red lipstick. 

"Hi," I smile. 

"You're hot!"

I laugh, partially because of how forward she's being and partially because I know that Travis is pissed, not because he likes Raunchy Girl, but because she didn't even notice him. 

"Thanks.  Nice shirt." 

She looks down at her breasts, as if to check and see if anything fell out. 

"Let's get a drink.  I know the bartender."

A couple drinks later, Travis and I ditch Raunchy Girl and walk out on the patio. 

I'm buzzed at this point, and actually wondering how Travis will take it when I decide (one day) to tell him that I'm gay.  I have no idea that that moment is coming very soon.

Travis, dressed sharply in his Lucky Jeans and a tight, button-down shirt, complains about Raunchy Girl and about the lack of hot chicks in the bar. 

As if on cue, a pretty brunette in a sun dress and her skinny blond friend walk right by us. 

I know what Travis is thinking before he says it.

"Matt, let's move back inside."    

Moments later, we're sitting at a table by the door. 

The girls must've seen us looking at them, because they slyly glance at us from the bar. 

Then, to our surprise, they sit at the table beside us and sip a pair of Cosmopolitans.  I look at them a little more closely.  The brunette is strikingly pretty, with intelligent brown eyes and a sensual body.  The blond isn't bad either, but next to her friend, she seems a little plain.

Travis practically drools over the brunette. 

But always the patient hunter, he waits to make his move. 

It's only when the girls make eye contact with us several times that Travis walks over to them.  I'm not really in the mood to talk to these girls, and I think that Travis realizes that, so he leaves me guarding our table. 

Moments later, Travis walks back, pissed.

"She likes you," he says.

"What?" 

"The hot ass girl.  She wants you to go over there."

I laugh.  Whenever Travis doesn't get his way, he gets bitter in a funny way.  I know that he's not really pissed, but just frustrated at the situation.

"I'll just let her come over here," I say, as I couldn't care less about this girl, despite her exotic features.

That doesn't make Travis feel any better. 

But we're both shocked, when, five minutes later, the girls walk over. 

"Thanks for saying hi," the brunette says flirtatiously.

I stand up, introduce myself, and spew out a bunch of bullshit about how we were in a deep conversation that's now finished. 

The girls actually buy the story. 

Just when we've won them back over, however, out of no where, Raunchy Girl walks over.  She actually pushes through the two girls and stands in the middle of our circle staring at me.

"Why are you talking to these two girls?!"  She belts out as she throws her thumb over her shoulder.  "They are so ugly!" 

Nothing like this has ever happened to me, and I'm speechless. 

So are Travis and the two girls.

"If you want to talk to a real woman, I'll be at the bar!"

Raunchy Girl storms away after giving the other girls a nasty stare. 

Now it's the brunette's turn.  "O.k., if you all want to talk to us, come on over to our table," she says. 

The brunette and the blond turn and walk back to their table, which is only a few feet away.  I see it as a silly gesture, so I just back down in my own chair. 

"Matt!"  Travis exclaims, "What're you doing?  Get over there!" 

At this point, I'm flattered by all the attention, but annoyed at the way the night is going.  Plus, I see my chances of escaping to the "family" bars as a distant hope. 

Frustrated, I muster up the courage to tell Travis why I don't give a shit about these aggressive girls. 

"Travis, on a scale of 1 to 10, how drunk are you right now?"

"What?!" 

"Come with me outside," I say as I walk towards the patio door and repeat the last question.

"I don't know, dude.  Maybe an 8.  Why?"

"Um, if there was something major in my life, would you want me to tell you?  I mean, would you rather us go on being friends and you being in the dark about something?"

I realize that my question makes absolutely no sense, so I just blurt it out, "Trav, I'm gay.  I like guys."

"Are you serious?"  He asks. 

"Yeah, I'm not kidding, dude."

A wave of calmness suddenly falls over my friend, as if his predatory skills vanish for the night.

"Well, that's . . . cool, I guess."

"It's cool?"

"Yeah, Matt.  You know, I think I've always kind of known." 

"Really?"

"Yes, it's not your mannerisms or anything.  I mean, you don't act gay.  But . . . I can't put my finger on it.  I just knew."

For the rest of the night, Travis and I talk about my ex-boyfriends, my girlfriends during law school, and the rest of my coming out journey. 

It turns out to be a great night, and I somehow even manage to make out with the brunette before we leave, which practically throws Travis over the edge. 

In the months that have followed that night at the Walrus, Travis and I have become much closer friends.  To my surprise, he could've cared less about my sexuality.  The only thing that Travis was upset about was that I'd lied to him for the three years that we'd known each other. 

He's now fully integrated into my life, however, and shares in my dating and relationship failures and successes. 

I have Johnny Walker, Raunchy Girl, and an exotic brunette who kissed a gay guy to thank for helping me over this first hurdle. 

More importantly, I have Travis to thank for taking everything so well and for valuing my friendship enough to accept me for who I am.