My Window On The World
For a person who traveled the seven continents, worked over thirty years in two demanding careers, and, yes, lived what I wrote and wrote what I lived in five works of erotic gay fiction, one memoir, and hundreds of blogs, my life has been reduced of late – by choice – to my large screened in patio facing one of Lauderdale’s famous canals.
My window on my world.
It is a lush world here in south Florida, a universe away from everywhere else, a place I spend much of my waking hours as a contented recluse, reading the morning paper, writing, hugging my dogs, taking unending naps on a thread worn but comfortable old couch with my three babies cradled around me, making love to my man – in and out of my heated pool – arguing on the phone with my cantankerous eighty year old ex up at our home in PA about absolute shit who I, being a masochistic, will be visiting later this month for a few weeks to see he hasn’t become a hoarder …
… and seriously contemplating my own destined, preplanned demise. After all, I already have my mausoleum picked out and paid for, my revised will is signed, sealed and delivered, so there’s not much left but to, well, do it.
The pretty foliage which adorns my patio was laid out by a conniving metrosexual fuck buddy who thought the tooth fairy would fix his transmission and who at 56 was out of a job with almost no money put away, yet thought I was the uncouth one because I led my life as a realist. Our lingering on again, off again one sided three year “romance” where I performed the sex and provided the drugs like some willing standby unpaid rentboy ended abruptly when he realized the candy train was coming to an end, but just before, with his designer eye, he laid out the plants that make my window on the world all the more lush. I have no animosity towards him – though he owes me a thousand dollars and I hope he loses everything and ends up homeless or turn him over to a buddy of mine who said “any body gives you trouble, they’ll end up in my trunk” – only anger at myself for having played the fool so long.
I must admit I put on a good show for the world outside my world, still sexy and snappy, when I venture out on a weekend night at our leather bar, the Ramrod, or Hunters, our disco dance club, cruised by kids old enough to be my grandson or old men younger than me or when some buddy or girlfriend or my lover ventures into mine. But with the vertebrae and discs of my spine collapsing – there is not a fucken thing else wrong with me – I wake each day, or more likely several times during the night, in pain that only a heating pad brings a smidgen of relief until my Advils kick in. (The medical marijuana helps but isn’t a cure-all – great for sex though.) I bounce from bedroom to living room sofa, inevitably to my thread worn couch on my beloved patio with my beloved Pete, who follows me around like a shadow, materializing by my feet, channeling I think some late gay great great uncle who was the town queer in the old country.
When my primary care doc who became concerned about my mental state prior to my shoulder surgery had me seen by a psychiatrist who I think are jokes, I decided to mind fuck her and laid it on thick when she, after all, asked me how I had planned to do IT. Oh, park my 2009 Honda Element in my carport (which has a great trade in value – pay attention executor of my will) , run an exhaust hose, probably the kind you buy for your dryer, through the utility door into the house. Of course, I’d have my three dogs, my Chihuahua terrier mix Pete and my two elitist doxie girls, Annie and Bebe, with me. After all, what future would three aging dogs have in this cold cruel selfish world when their Daddy was no longer around?
The only problem is dying on my beloved patio where the open air would dilute the blessed noxious fumes. Or maybe it would just take longer.
I might try a dry run and see…
That is, that was what I was actually contemplating until I attended a few AA meetings – yes, AA meetings – with Jimmy, the pay for hire home health aide who helped me during my shoulder surgery. While I’m no alcoholic, though I freely admit I have an addictive personality, those meetings may very well have saved my life.
Find out why on Wednesday…