Going "Home"

There was a time when my fingers regularly danced across the keyboard, when I would drive and draft in my brain and when the words would find their way to my Blog. There was much thought about the content, but very little over the act. Over time that changed, the joy of the writing replaced by fears, fear of who was reading it (I remain married to the mother of my children, I have a boyfriend, I am not one for secrets); a fear of the name of the blog – Am I bi or gay, is “MWM” still true.

Of course there was also this issue of who I was writing for – me, others - both? Time is always a factor – the days fly by and I am no longer alone in the basement at night. I still stick with the choice of doing over writing and doing does keep me busy.

But I confess – I miss the writing. I miss being forced to form my thoughts coherently. I will miss not having a diary to go back and read – that picture of where I was a year or two earlier. And as shallow as it may sound, I miss the comments, both those that kept my honest and those that fed my ego.

Carrie pointed out recently that I should write if for no other reason to share with those who have followed this journey, particularly for those a step or two in my wake. And a journey it still is: one with costs and one with rewards.

The next question for fixation: which Blog – “Tales” or “Second”. The answer comes more easily than I would have thought. Nate’s Second was always a misnomer: it creates a before and after dividing line in a life which has had many befores. So while Tales of a BiMWM may in many aspects be inaccurate, it is where I came into this blog world and where I will stay. Anyway, there are still all the links and maybe someone is still reading.

So I will try my hand at this again – never with the frequency at my peak, I have neither the time nor the angst. And maybe it will quickly fade. Only time will tell. But one thing I have learned: as often or infrequently as I post, it will be the perfect interval.

If you are reading this on Nate’s Second, see you back at home base.

The Mother of All Denials

Over the course of the last few months – my non-blogging period, I have started many posts in my head. They come and go, all seemingly important at the time but none quite so earth shattering in hindsight. But there are themes that keep recurring and last week I found myself again in a state of wonder. I once wrote a post called Flip Books, a story of how all the little pre-gay moments once strung together made some sense, to my friend listening and to me speaking.

Last week I was transported back to a moment when I was maybe twenty-five. The scene was simple enough – sharing a bed with someone a few years my junior, an out-of state guest. He likes to tickle and I passively enjoy his fingers dancing all around my body. It is summer, it is night and at best I have on a pair of boxers. After what felt like forever – my arms, my legs, my chest, almost all of me touched, I am hard. Lying there on my back there is no hiding it, nor any desire to, and he touches me, fingers dancing up and down. It doesn’t take long – I cum, cum very hard. Even now as I type the memory makes me hard. Once over, it is sleep. Nothing said: a brief encounter.

I share the story with my friend, a twinge of embarrassment in the telling. But that feeling dissipates quickly when my friend has the “punch line” while I am still setting the stage. (Yes, I talk like I write – a bit wordy). We laugh at my hesitancy but there is more.

It is one thing to look back and remember once having been unwittingly and comfortably in a gay bar or to recall thoughts of a circle jerk at age ten. But here is a moment: I was twenty-five or so, an adult out on my own. Clearly this was not a nuanced moment. Another man’s fingers dancing up and down one’s penis, the feeling of excitement, of cumming: this was very gay indeed.

Here I am a single man living in as gay friendly a spot as exists. The Stonewall is already history (not that I would have known). I have my own apartment, can come and go as I please. I do have a girlfriend but still I was not married, no children, nothing to stop me. It was not as if I made a policy decision: “Can’t be gay, too difficult.” Just total denial.

While sub-conscious, it had to be the fear, the fear of disappointing family and friends, fear of the unknown. It was, in fairness to me, a very different time for being gay, danger in all forms. But if I looked back and could remember a policy decision, an “I am gay but choose not to follow it” moment, it would make some sense.

My friend will read this and wonder as to the point and maybe there is none. It is just that I cannot escape the damage in my wake, the failed marriages, the broken homes and not wonder how much could have been avoided with a small dose of self awareness. I suppose this is all a good turn, having gone from wondering if I am gay to wondering how I missed it for so long. I suppose it comes down to my current feeling of comfort, but that is for another post.

Heritage, So To Speak

I always thought that this weekend was the New York City Gay Pride parade, the one I saw on TV, or at least the most G-rated video they could find every year. I have never been to one. I mean as a straight guy who does not particularly like parades, there was never much draw. Of course I now wear the gay mantle so in spite of my lack of affinity for parades and mostly in solidarity with my friends, I made the pilgrimage.

The first thing to strike me, well before I even arrived: the traffic reports spoke of the “Heritage of Pride Parade.” Where did the “Gay” go? By no means major, but it seemed a harbinger of things to come. It is a long parade and I parked near where it went through midtown and took a train to the West Village where the parade would end (and one might say where it once began). It was a day of thunderstorms and I was invited to meet my friends at an apartment party seventeen floors above the fray. I gladly accepted.

So the first question is whether I even went to the parade. I suppose I did, I was on the streets shoulder to shoulder, I was there. But no, I did not stand there and watch and cheer. But I did watch from above and saw the Macy’s float and the Google banners – just a part of corporate America which seems happy to stand with me and my checkbook. I guess they don’t know I am more parent than DINK (double income, no kids).

Of course my perch was really the place to be – an open house by someone who is my age but has been out for his lifetime. It was a pretty gay crowd – a few outfits of sorts, a dress here or there. These were the people who remembered the old parade, “their parade”. There were a few moments that did strike me. Standing with a nice man in a headdress and nice underwear (yes that was the extent) watching the thunderstorm approach, discussing the joys of watching weather in all its glory. I had this image of someone in the distance watching us talk and imagining something so much sexier.

And then a little later, another moment: these two twenty something lesbians, tres Goth, walk by and my friend whispers that the lead one was a boy. I steal another glance and no doubt about it: a he. And it strikes me that at this strange party the strangest looking couple of the day is the only straight pair in sight. Oh where are you James Dobson when I need you?

After a time we left the party, the rains and parade were over but the street festival was in full force. We shuffled with the crowds, feeling more refugee than proud gay. We had a mission: one of my friends has been coming for near thirty years now and he always ends up on the small side street by the Dugout, a real bear bar. He and many there are closer to my age than the throngs we shuffled with and it was there that a different understanding came to me.

For my friend, and his friends, this was much more than a parade. This was a thirty year tradition with roots going back to a time when one could pay a heavy price for being gay, a time when corporate America was not supplying floats, where there was real danger. And this was a group which saw their small to start fraternity ravaged by AIDs, these were the survivors in a sense.

A few of us left – 8 PM, family to see, home to return to, but my one friend stayed. This was his night and he wanted another a few hours. Eventually he caught a 2:15 train home having visited all of his haunts. It may not be what it once was for him, but it is still, and I suspect will always be his day.

I suppose the message, if there really is one, is to appreciate how fortunate I am to be coming out into the world of today, to look beyond the “trudging refugees” and to appreciate the thousands of kids, so many of color, who can be who they choose to. And as I write this I realize there is probably some jealousy on my part that when I was their age I had so little clue as to who I was and the possibilities that existed.

So next year I will probably again join my friends – this is my world now – but if I miss it, that will be okay. I think this day is for others – the ones my age who remember the beginning and maybe more importantly all those kids who hopefully will not carry such memories and will just be free.

Pop Quiz

In my mind there is real confusion as to who “knows” and who does not at work. There is one woman who spends much of her time in another office but is still part of my “hood”. She is divorced and over the years she has turned to me for perspective – I have seen both sides of matters of divorce and children, issues which impact her. I always planned to come out to her, but by now she may very well know.

It is a Friday afternoon, the tail end of a long tax season. Carole sticks her head in to say good night; it being the end of my day also, I volunteer to walk out with her. I point out that I have to be at the railroad at 6:04 to pick up my friend. Her head cocks towards me, a smile brightens her face and she asks: “A friend – normally I don’t ask but…” And it is fair – our relationship warrants the question, and it is clear – she does not know. There is not much time to think, an answer, any answer is required.

I look at her and say “I guess you are out of the loop. I am gay, I’m meeting my boyfriend.” I briefly note that I don’t talk about it in general but some have figured it out without my assistance. She does not really register a reaction – no approval, no approbation. It is a quick walk to our cars. We wish each other a nice weekend. We drive off.

I feel bad in a sense – it is a lot to just drop out of the blue, it was such a fair and innocent question. But what other answer was there – I know of her dating, her boyfriend. The only other answer that comes to mind would be to lie and I just don’t do lies. Maybe there is something to be said for overtly coming out, letting people know (at least the ones that matter) where I stand. Then they can ask and I can answer or they can choose to maintain their silence and therefore allow for mine. Fifteen years later we know – or at least I believe – that don’t ask, don’t tell failed the military and I suspect it will over time also fail me.

This episode has solidified one thing – next week as long planned, I will cross paths with the senior partner. I will come out to him because as I keep learning, people will figure it out or put me in a position of telling them, neither of which is pro-active. And as James Baldwin said, “they don’t tell me, I tell them.”

There is an epilogue of sorts. The next day I sent Carole an e-mail, an apology for the way the conversation went, for dropping a bomb: no apologies for the content. And she responded that she too felt bad for having put me on the spot. She wishes me well, as good a result as could be hoped for. But still everything I have said still stands.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

When I posted about my unexpected being out at work, I was struck by a comment form Bear Me Out alluding to “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and as the days have become weeks, it has resonated even more. It is my understanding that my gayness is widely known and presumably accepted at work. However acceptance does not necessarily translate into acknowledgement: And there is a difference. There are a few where there is acknowledgement and that seems to be an invisible border that once crossed leads to a new land. With that limited group there is humor and there is honesty.

A moment pops to mind when talking about two partners of mine – we have in the past rather crudely referred to one as being the other’s “butt boy.” Well recently when discussing them with the office manager, the woman of initial acknowledgement, I said: “Say what you want about me – they’re the real butt boys.” I thought she was going to choke on her coffee she was laughing so hard, laughing as was I. With the group who knows, who openly know, there have been other moments, both of humor and of honesty.

But there are so many others where I assume they know – it is a small eco-system, not much remains pristine – but I do not really know for sure. And even if my assumption is correct, I am unsure where their sensibilities lie, how much humor or empathy is really there. So I tiptoe my way, always being honest but also never being completely blunt. And maybe this is as it should be: I really do not know nor overly care much about their personal lives. But while I may not know who got laid last night, I do know who is married, their “domestic partners” names, a bit of their trials and tribulations.

So I will continue to display a picture of my boyfriend and me in my office – not overly large, not facing the door: facing my desk for me to look at. When I go to Fire Island this summer if someone is dense enough to ask: Where? I will answer: The Pines. (To anyone in New York that is as good as having a rainbow tattooed on my forehead.) And I suspect over time it will become more acknowledged, one person at a time. And that is just fine with me for the bedrock now is that I do not care if they know and while I do not rub their noses in it, I also do not self censor or in any other way hide the reality of my new life.

Tests

It was July 2006 that a daughter got married. My wife and I tried to make believe that all was well – I mean we were still sharing a bed, still imagining some miracle land where I would not be gay, where someone would click the ruby slippers. Of course that was silly and I suppose I have ended up wearing those slippers. Looming on the horizon was the next wedding – October 2006 and approaching fast. Well that was postponed and it was not until April 2008 that another knot was tied. Of course any illusion for me and the Mom was long shattered, but still it was a day of being together and being apart.

While the balancing was successful, moments together, but primarily a parallel existence of visiting friends and family, that was not the main event for me. You see the bride is technically my step-daughter, one who I raised from age eight, one who has absorbed my sensibilities, humor, and general view of the world. Her biological father, long remarried, is still in the picture and she has always tried to do right by him. But after twenty years, most under the same roof, she is much more mine than his.

I have reflected on this of late: a conversation with someone in similar circumstances telling me that they just cannot feel the same towards their step-son as their biological daughter. And on the other end, a friendship with a man whose children were adopted at birth – a fact I only learned in passing, a fact one would never know watching the interactions. For me it is easy – my daughter of twenty years is my daughter, same as my flesh and blood.

Of course weddings of blended families have issues unique to the circumstances and I am anything but stupid. My daughter has been planning the walk down the aisle for months – permutations worthy of a mathematician, compromises reminiscent of a diplomat. I have taken a back seat, an unusually passive role for I realize the difficulties inherent in it all. When she was first engaged I even told her of my agreeability, my desire not to create more issues than there already were. So when I learned I was going to walk her halfway down – never sure of which half – I was pleased.

Twenty four hours to go and her mother takes me aside: the biological father is not thrilled but worse the step-mom is freaking. It seems that this woman equates her step mom role of maybe a weekly dinner visit (with bad cooking to boot, or so I am told) with my step dad role of providing a roof and all that goes with it for decades on end. My daughter is devastated, her mom incensed but there is a choice here, a family war or my taking a back seat and walking down the aisle with the step mom on my arm.

The choice was obvious – no choice one might say. And I realize how far I have come for I think that four or five years ago, I would have been very hurt by how it all played out. But I am not hurt in the least for I realize that I was given an opportunity to be the true parent, the one who would forego for themselves for the sake of their children. And while this has nothing to do with the gayness, I cannot help but suspect that my accepting of myself has again helped me accept so much more.

Free To Be Me

I have thought much about coming out at work, plotted, schemed – planned it like a surgical strike. But it seems that my planning was for naught. No, not a slip-up, not caught holding hands in an eatery. But as usual, I am ahead of the story.

My office manager is a sweet person and a friend; someone I would have been happy to share my new life with. The only reason I have not come out to her is that I no longer invite people into my closet and the doors are not scheduled for demolition for another three weeks. But we still talk and this week I make another reference to my separation. My office manager nods her head and reminds me that as long as I am happy, as long as I am comfortable with myself – well then it’s really okay with everyone.

I know this conversation, I know those comments. They are the comments I receive when I come out to someone. It is inescapable – she must know. A little later in the day our paths cross again, another quiet moment: I take the plunge. “It seems you have a theory of my separation.” She laughs and says “I figured it out a while ago.” It seems that a few people have, as I like to say, connected the dots.

Now to be honest, I have left quite the trail of bread crumbs. It is not that I wanted to be caught as much as I live my life openly. How many separated men still occasionally brown bag lunches made by the ex. And a room in her new house – office manager tells me that was the real lynchpin for her. And I do spend nights with a friend in the City – I never mention gender, but…….. And of late there is a picture across from my desk – two friends on vacation, bathing suits and baseball caps. Seems innocent enough…

But there is a piece of the equation that should have been obvious. I spend my days working with highly intelligent professionals trained to connect dots, to separate wheat from chaff, to not be fooled. And fooled they were not.

So it remains a quiet topic but it is clear: my co-workers know that I am gay. It has been seamless: I could not tell you when they figured it out, and I suspect in a sense neither could they. Our interactions are unchanged, it is a non-event.

And in this, my gratitude knows no bounds. I never wanted to come out – I just wanted to be out. It may seem like a fine distinction, but to me it is as different as night and day. Coming out has an element of being a “statement” and is frankly a personal matter. But being out is the ability to be myself without worry or self consciousness.

I am sure there will be bumps – this is real life and there is much prejudice still out there. But still every morning I walk into my office feeling neither shame nor pride. Just being me; and really that is more than enough.

Out With It

I am out to my family, my friends, children of all ages. Surely that should be sufficient. Yet I have my plan and in less than two months I will also be out at work. It is a planned out – a military like operation taking into account my personal preferences, appropriate etiquette and of course, office politics. The details are unimportant, subject to change, and someday may be a blog post as a matter of history, not conjecture.

But what fascinates me is my need to do this and how my underlying feelings have changed. At work I have friends who I have shared my life with – stories of big vacations and those little “I’m going to kill the kids” moments. So it seems natural to share the gayness, not for the gayness sake but for the “Oh, my friend and I had dinner at this little bistro” sake, for the not needing to self edit before speaking because someone may notice a little gender slip. As it is my friends know I have “friends” and that I am likely dating: clearly women in their eyes and while many would say that is enough, to me it feels false. And it raises dual issues of pride.

Now, as always, I must digress. I have never been one for displays of pride. My car has no bumper stickers, I march in no parades. It is not that I do not have deep core beliefs and pride in many of them; I just do not feel the need to emote them to the world.

Yet now I do feel that desire to share, a bit of wearing myself on my sleeve. I want to share the “micro” – I have a friend who is a wonderful person. Who in my shoes would not want to share that – straight or gay. But there is also the “macro” level, the pride in being gay.

Pride- all groups seem to have it of late, St. Patrick’s or Columbus Day, other less famous ethnic groups. But in the case of gay, at least for me, the pride is rooted in shame. I do not think the average St. Paddy’s day reveler was ever ashamed of being Irish. But I think many, at least of my generation, have roots deep in a closet, deep in a place of shame. It is in the overcoming of my shame that now springs pride, pride in all of me and that of course includes the gay.

I was listening to music last night and played a song that I have loved for thirty plus years:
“All I know is what I feel whenever I’m not playing,
Emptiness ain’t where it’s at,
neither’s feeling pain.
......
And sunshine’s waiting for me a little further down the road”
Jorma Kaukonen / Jefferson Airplane

It is not that I have not had more than my share of sunshine – I have led a blessed and good life. But on levels I still do not fully comprehend, my acceptance – pride – in being who I am has allowed me to achieve a new level of sunshine - at home, at work, with others and most importantly with myself.


And it is good.

Sadie Hawkins

It is rare that one knows where they were thirty-six years earlier, not in general but in specific. In my case it is the afternoon of February 29, 1972. I was in college, in my fifth floor dorm room to be exact, a very young freshman. That afternoon an even younger high school senior took the train and came to visit. We met her once in a post long ago.

It was of course leap year day - Sadie Hawkin’s day - the one day when a woman could formally chase a man. Now we were a modern couple, but this was long ago and we both had a healthy sense of whimsy. So that afternoon Allison took the train, probably cut out of school a mite early, and came to visit. She had a present – not quite finished, so she used the bathroom (dorm’s do not have many places to hide) for those final touches.

When she came out it was with a little box – light colored stripes if my memory serves me well – and inside wrapped in gauze was a shell, a shell from our beach, and she had carefully inscribed it. At the time I did not realize the words were famous, there were no camps in my background. In her light handwriting was:

You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine,
You make me happy
When skies are grey

And then her nickname. It is a hard memory all these years later and I know why; it was a time of such innocence, an innocence that once lost, as it always is, can never be regained. But remember I did – Lord knows why – and it stuck in my memory as the morning morphed into afternoon. And during that time I struggled with a simple question. You see I last saw her a decade ago and I am a packrat when it comes to telephone numbers. A simple question: Do I call her?

For anyone who knows me it is easy to guess the answer. Call her I did, a brief message on her voice mail. And then around 3 PM, around the time thirty-six years she was handing me the shell, she called, as chipper as ever. With the slightest of jogging she remembered the day. It seems that neither of us has had a Sadie Hawkin’s day since.

We spoke for twenty minutes, not about that day or our pasts, but about our lives today: a decade is a long time. There was a comfort in it and an honesty. Nothing for this boy to hide, not anymore.

As I thought about it after, there was one thing that struck me. I remember the day, the shell, the quote. I could describe the dorm room in perfect draftsman detail. One would guess that we made love, a perfect coda to a special day, a day I was chased by the love of my life. And while we very well may have made love, I don’t remember and I am sure nor does she. The thing is that it is such an unimportant detail. The joy, even back then, was between my ears, not my legs.

As that old post details, three short months later, it ended, crashed and burned. I carried the shell with me for maybe a decade after that, a talisman of that day. Eventually I suppose it became too embarrassing, a secret for new girlfriends to find. It was lost. It would have been nice to look at today, not to pine but to remember that time and to finally look back from a perspective of being happy being me.

Respect

I have given a great deal of thought to my lack of writing and blogging of late and there are many factors, most of which do not really hold water. I am busier – as if the last two plus years of hell have not kept me busy, as if I did not blog at strange stolen hours. There are other reasons – being more secure in who I am, being more circumspect in the wake of destruction and, I suppose, having real people (no insult intended) who know my tale and who I can share at least some of my life with.

But of late there has been a new reason: I have … I hesitate because the obvious words seem stilted. I do have a boyfriend though with our average age pushing towards sixty, boy friend seems a mite young. I could say a lover, though there is an air of sexuality to that which seems to belittle the way we feel. I suppose in gay land one could say “my other half”; however I have spent too long learning to finally be whole to give away a half.

The thing is that in one sense there could be much to write – tales of our time together, stories of our meeting, the path leading from a casual meeting to using the most powerful four letter word of all. And it would make for good writing and good reading. It has been a fun ride – road trips and all. But I hesitate, for good reason I think. If there is any regret over the last few years it is in the public sharing of my life. The regrets are muted by the knowledge that without this forum I could not have reached the current plateau. But reach it I have and somehow to “kiss and tell” does not feel right. It is not that these pages are a secret. We have no secrets. It is not that I am afraid of what he will read nor am I afraid that my personal form of exhibitionism will scare him off – he is well aware of all aspects of me.

Ultimately it is many reasons but one stands above the rest: respect. Respect for him and respect for myself. Sure there are those moments I want to scream out “Look at me, look at my happiness, look at my new found sense of self.” But I realize that screaming that smacks of insecurity, of back sliding to a land that hopefully I have left behind.

So there will be many stories, stories every day it seems, and there will even be ones that I will continue to share here. Last night as we lay in bed, both having had a long day and not seeing each other until a relatively late hour, we spoke. Boring things I suppose, our days, our little stories. And my friend looked at me and asked “Is this pillow talk?” It was, and that is where I now choose to tell most of my stories and there is where most of them will stay.

A Hat and More

I have always liked hats – maybe the brim avoiding glare on the glasses or maybe that innate gay style that has always eluded me. I own a few – baseball caps, Stetsons, silly warm winter ones. But I also grew up in the shadow of Camelot. Younger readers may not know about January 20, 1961: JFK not only asked us what we can do for our country, but he asked it without a hat, the famous hair for all to see. Haberdashery still has not fully recovered. But as usual I digress.

Now that I am gay, I indulge myself, usually a nice felt Stetson. For Christmas Carrie buys me a new hat – a pork pie model, very comfy but not really me. I wear it to work and the comment is the new one is okay but the Stetson is a statement. And they don’t even know about the gay, but they are right: it is a statement indeed.

A few days after Christmas I take the kids for a weekend and one of my eleven year olds adopts the hat – it fits her well and on her it is statement also. She and the hat becomes an item very quickly. I bring her back to her mother’s and the question is asked: why is she wearing my hat, my new hat that was not cheap. It is quickly transferred back to me and I leave proudly wearing it. I have learned after two plus years a little bit about picking battles.

A month later, another day with the kids and again: an eleven year old in full hat glory. As we head back to the house the kids suggest we call ahead, invite Carrie to join us for dinner, and to my surprise and gratitude she accepts. We will pick her up and continue on to Outback – steak for my young carnivores. As we turn down the block, final Carrie approach, I notice next to me: the porkpie hat.

I had considered telling this story – it is cute enough and I am a proud Dad, but it is also a little fluff. Then I received a comment on my blog today from Jen, a daughter of a married gay man. I was in heaven – a demographic if you would that fascinates me. Then as I looked at her blog I started to do some math. She was thirteen when her father came out. And here it is almost thirty years later that she is sharing her thoughts, things still clearly on her mind. It was sobering to one who thinks that this is my coming out, my story. It is the stories of others also, my children’s story. And as she removed a hat at the last moment, my daughter showed how much more she understood than she is able to say, at least at the tender age she currently finds herself.

I fear this is a fertile road, one with much for me to learn and hopefully to share.

Dry Run

I have oft wondered about coming out at work. Friends ask why and I think of James Baldwin on why he came out with his second novel. "They don't tell me; I tell them." When I read the quote I understood immediately – it was about controlling the cycle, an understanding of “spin” a generation before Fox and CNN. It resonated with me because coming out while difficult strikes me as infinitely preferable to being discovered – being seen on the street arm in arm with my boyfriend, maybe an overheard phone call, or maybe, just maybe, a slip of my tongue. This all came into focus during the past day.

I am a white collar dude, even if I do not wear white shirts, and definitely a tie dangling. Yesterday I went on a recovery mission looking for some papers that may have found its way into the recycling pile. I learn the recycling bin – an excessively large garbage pail is right behind the official shredding machine. I lean over the shredder, far over, peeking into the bin behind. As I shuffle the papers it happens: my tie dips into the shredder and the whir begins. I know this machine so as it starts to eat my tie, a tie that is attached rather securely to my neck, I hit the off switch and then the reverse button. Within seconds I am free, the bottom few inches of my tie in strips, but fine other than being massively embarrassed. Off with the tie, back to my office and back to work.

It seems that someone noticed this moment from the distance. Now they did not approach, inquire as to my well being, but notice they did and yes, the news started to circulate. A few minutes later two of my partners come in to inquire and I tell them yes it occurred; no it was not a major incident. I continue my work and it being late in the day soon head out for my evening. But the incident stays in my mind – this will, quite appropriately, be the talk of the office. There will be some teasing. And I remain embarrassed.

The next morning I am barely at my desk and three friends pop in. I raise my head and say it’s true. They start to laugh and I can’t help it – I laugh with them. Even I can see the humor. We discuss how much damage I would have needed to incur before the person watching actually would have come to my aid. The rumors already have my head almost in the shredder.

I know there is one person – a senior partner – who relishes in other’s misery. Over the years I have learned the secret. Never give him a rise, never let him smell blood. He leaves me alone in general: what fun is there in one who doesn’t really care. But I know this one will have his juices flowing. It comes to me. I find a large bandage in the first aid kit, some ketchup in the cafeteria and when he comes in I am ready, neck bandaged, just a touch of red. I find him; tell him it was worse than I thought. He looks, smiles and then, with a smile, extends his hand. We shake. I will be teased, this is a good one, but the teasing is with me, not behind my back. I told them.

Through the prism of this incident are lessons for coming out. An acutely embarrassing moment became quite bearable when I took ownership of it. My friends, the real ones, came to me to see what was true and then laughed and without words invited me to laugh with them. Those that would have teased – and still to a degree did – were greatly disarmed when I took the game to them instead of waiting for the hammer to fall.

So I can wait, never come out – maybe I will never be caught, never slip up. Doubtful. Or at some point I can come out – no rainbow flags, just conversations with those I care about and who care about me. It will not be an easy day. But the days that follow will be worth it, days of being me, days of no self censoring. And I can now see how when I tell them, they will no longer be able to tell me. It will be a few more months, but one day I will write on these pages that “I told them.”

A Rose...

I have long struggled with my name in this world and as I start this new blog the struggle continues. Nate, as you may have surmised is not my given name. That honor goes to “Harvey”. As I have blogged the excuse has been simple: if my name was common – a Bob, a Mike, it would be easy. But how many Harvey’s are there? Well, more than a few.

But as I thought about it today, I realized that it is much more complicated. My birth certificate has a blank where normally there would be a name, a first name. On the back is a rubber stamp dated over a week after my birth with my name – first and middle – written in. I know why this is even though it was never discussed – I can see the whole scene. My Dad was the dominant one, my Mom meek at best and invisible most of my childhood. My Dad loved his Dad, a man who died before I saw this earth. Actually all of my granddad’s kids worshipped him, to the bizarre degree that of the six children who preceded me, three had variants on his name, one being my sister.

So I can see that moment when the son, the prodigal desired son was born and my Dad announced my name – Nathan. And I can see my Mom in a rare uprising saying: Was not our last born enough, was not one each of your siblings children enough. A stalemate surely ensued, a blank line on an official form, a blank line that will never change.

A week – joy over the son tempered with the name debate and at the end Nathan was there but in the second slot, sort of like accepting the Vice Presidential spot in this political season. Harvey it was, homage to my maternal side, albeit in a round about fashion. I must confess to never having loved my name – not pretty, hard to pronounce (Did you say Bobby…). And while fifty years ago, neither was that common, Harvey has been relegated to the circular file of names while Nate has made its comeback.

When I started blogging, Nate was such an obvious choice: it is to a degree my name, I do like it and it still allowed me anonymity, cover from the shame of being gay. So as I continue my journey I will continue to be Harvey in my real world but it was Nate who joined this community two years ago and in these pages it is Nate that I will remain. Not out of shame, not out of hiding, but simply because I want to.

Prologue

It was January 5th 2006 that I first joined the world of blogging with Tales of a Bi”MWM”. I am two years older but a lifetime away as I start this new Blog – a marriage in tatters, bi being a technical label that I am not sure I can claim and more significantly not sure I would choose to. It has been a while since I wrote so it may be a bit before I get my sea legs back, before I set the stage. I look back and my last post was November 30th and before that October 14th. It has been a busy time and one of great change. A few weeks ago I killed some time writing in my scrawl on a note pad – tonight I found the note and it is the place to start:

My therapy is rounding the final bend. (Tomorrow will likely be my final session with Bob.) It has been over a year – far and away my longest stretch and the first time that the therapist will sound the final bell as opposed to my typical declaration of graduating, of being cured. Bob asks what my final goals are and I am unsure, this is unfamiliar territory. He prods me: Learning to accept happiness. We explore this for this happiness is new and it has come at a steep price. It is hard to let go, to free fall while a wife is crying, while the wounds are so raw.

I share this news with Carrie and she is bemused. She thinks me quite adept at happiness, an accomplished narcissist on a mission for carnal pleasure, a mission that has succeeded in her eyes. I consider this for there is a measure of truth. But the measure of truth pales next to the reality. The word happiness is really a misnomer in all of this. Sure I am happy in many ways but I realize I have forgotten what Michelle Shocked rambled about in her concert last May: It is not about happiness, it is about authenticity. And only with authenticity, one can enjoy the by product of happiness.

The better word that comes to mind is comfort – comfort with who I am, comfort with what I am: simply put, a fifty three year old gay man. I can finally say it – no modifiers, no shame. Self acceptance has been a long time coming – self acceptance of myself and self acceptance that there is no road back. Self acceptance of my desires, both the carnal (yes, I am enjoying the ride) and the casual. Self acceptance of the hardest truth of all – if offered the road back, I would not take it and if offered the “straight pill” I would swap it for a Viagra. Its funny how I am writing this tonight and as I read the notes from weeks ago, I realize that even in this short term there has been change. That evening I wrote of going back: “Not that I would not be tempted, sorely tempted…” I am no longer tempted. Four decades of denial is a feat, not one to be proud of, and my new life is finally falling into place.

There are stories of the last months, of the last weeks, stories of all types. They are a coming now that the basics are stated.

God, I missed the writing.