I write this from my summer home – George’s and my summer home in Dingmans Ferry, PA, loosely the Poconos, contemplating quietly, with no bar specials or sex club leather nights or “I want It now” web postings to distract me, my life torn between the two worlds I live in.
One world is here more spiritually than even physically with George, who I’ve known two thirds of my life, once a handsome and hunky Omar Sharif look-a-alike, now old in body and in outlook, obstinate, uncompromising, arrogant, argumentative, and judgmental, yet the most masculine gay man I will ever know, conservative in thought like me but utterly unbending to the new ways and views of this Brave New Gay World, and suffering from macular degeneration that threatens his sight though his rigid ego won’t allow him to admit he still needs me. As I, in some strange way, still need him.
My other world is 1340 miles away in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, Gaytown, U.S.A., Home of the Beautiful People, some benign good fucks, others devils wearing Prada, steeped in unholy sex and holiest of holy drugs, searching for playmates to drag down into hell with them.
So which world do I live in? Which world will I choose? Or which world have I already chosen?
I’ll be up here until Labor Day and have decided, after two years, to bring “Confessions” to an abrupt end – at least for now. I’ve said all I wanted to say about the foibles and fallacies of gay culture as I see it, and have shared a lifetime’s worth of experiences, some decades old, some as fresh as yesterday, with you my audience out there in the depths of cyberspace. Because right now I just need to think – think quietly whether George comes back with me to Florida and we lead the stereotypical suburban life so many of our brothers share – and some even relish in – or whether I move on and continue to bed down with an occasional pretty man in between all the shit, just to make me still feel desired, still feel wanted.
After all, isn’t feeling wanted what’s it all about?
Or is it?