Heart of Glass

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54)and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.

Saturday afternoon, West Hollywood park

Irony shadowed us. Perched vampire-like outside Gay Pride's Country Music “Jamboree,” it beckoned for a sign. But I would not hasten its admission to what had become a rarefied tent. I would not provide a rolled eye, a quiet smile, a glib cue that said, “Come in.” No, irony would have to stay put for now. I wanted to keep its toilings as distant from Arkansas as possible. Because, my time with him would be pure, open and engaged. He was not merely a subject to me anymore. And, not even two-stepping at the gayest event of the year would grant irony an entrance.

Knowing Arkansas’ reticence to participate in this overall event, I thought we’d be wallflowers inside the country music tent. That he would bob his head to the music and I would scope out and place Paris Hilton tranny look-alikes in the order that I would screw them, theoretically. But plans change. Sometimes immediately.

“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing my hand with a childlike fury. There was a “get me out of here” immediacy that was peppered with beads of sweat. The dance lessons weren’t for another hour or so, but that didn’t stop Arkansas. He pulled me onto the dance floor with a frankness I had yet to witness.

“I can teach you,” he said, slightly out of breath.

I believed he could.

We began to dance to the music. He counted steps and told me to follow. I spent the rest of the time looking at his feet, then mine. Then, his again. I looked around to see what other people were doing. It was apparent, they were just having fun. And so were we.

Arkansas and I were sharing more than just a dance, we were sharing something more monumental. He told me about his long process of self-forgiveness that is still going on to this day. Of his eight-year old daughter who one day will know the reason behind her parent’s divorce. The internal dialogue that brought him to this event, to this day, to this moment. It was the reason that he gave up his marriage, his friends and his former life. The realization that he was gay occurred two years after the wedding. Then he was stuck with a decision, one that would forever alter his life.

But coming out was both the hardest and happiest moment in his life. For once, he felt free. But that freedom soon turn to guilt and self-loathing from all the nuclear fallout. He wanted to be just like everybody else. And in every way except the one he yearned for, he was.

“You know, Rob, I’ve never felt more like a man, until I was in the true embrace of another,” he said, out of nowhere. The sheer poetic style and dramatic pacing pushed the words beyond poignant for me. The moment, alongside the fond remembrance of my first “sit-down” blowjob, will forever be stylized in my head. Ahh, Jenny Frazier.

As different as Arkansas and I seemed to be, we were similar by equal degrees. Growing up, I always felt like I had two selves, an outer shell and inner being. And most times they did not benevolantly conform. I felt the same for Arkansas. He married in the shell, yet dreamed from inside.

But as different as our current shells, me in my cowboy hat, he in Mervyn’s most salient brand, we shared the same central form, separated only by who we like to fuck.

As I danced the day away, dodged drunken pick-up attempts and exploited myself as Arkansas’ “trophy” wife, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was living the gay lifestyle all along.

The sun set on a miraculous day of alcohol-influenced self-discovery, but the yang had yet to come. The flamboyant, decadent and highly superficial balance was about to be ushered in by Debbie Harry's night rhythms. We walked over to Daniel and his friends, and back into the confusing part of Arkansas' world.

“Hey, you like 80’s music,” I said to Arkansas, snapping him out of it.

He smiled, knowing full well what I was doing.

“Why, you want to talk about it or something,” he said mockingly.

“Na, I just thought-,” I said, playing along with his query string.

“Let’s do this, sex tape,” Arkansas said as started to dance.

“This time, you follow.”