Back to Fifteen in The Stuff That's Not Interesting But Is The Most Interesting Stuff I'll Write

Okay, so let’s backtrack a little bit and explain that (I believe one noter called it “cringe-worthy”) opening line from my last entry.

I had just returned home from Palm Springs and was feeling a little conflicted. I’d heard for years about what a wonderful place Palm Springs can be. How it is a gay oasis and life there is surreal and away from the real world. For the most part, they are correct. 70% of the population of Palm Springs is LGBT. It’s without a doubt, population-wise, the gayest city in America. But what does that actually translate to, culturally?

You see, there’s another little twist to this gay oasis. The vast majority of the population is also over fifty. It’s also too hot there.

Essentially, I found myself surrounded by my forefathers. These are men who survived the AIDS epidemic, in some cases, were amongst the first to march in Pride parades, and heard Harvey Milk speak. I had always regretted the lack of communication between the generations within the LGBTQQIA-LMNOP community, so I figured this was finally my opportunity to engage in these conversations. They have nothing to say. There’s no “Tuesdays With Morrie” kind of revelations. All they wanted to do was have sex with me.

Fair enough. I guess I shouldn’t really have expected more than that, after all, I consider myself in the vein of those old school queers and recognize the extreme difference between the old school queers and what I call the Post-Millennium Queers of this day and age. They both have to do with the gay man’s response to the law; old school queers wanted to be free from it; Post-Millennial Queers want to be protected by it.

That disillusionment, along with a kind of disillusionment with my friend Dave, led me to a group of strangers upon my return home. I had gone out on my own, had business to do, but ultimately found myself in completely unfamiliar territory. As I am always able to do, I find my way into this intriguing circle of young, early 20-something straight people… well, except for myself and a lesbian.

We finished at the bar we were at, bought three cases of been, and proceeded to someone’s house to keep this strange collection of people rolling into the night. We played games, drank a ton, and pretty soon I got to talking about Palm Springs. You know how it is, you’re with strangers who a freed from the preconceptions that formed by actually being a known-friend, so you’re a little more loosened of having to follow a normative pattern within your conversations.

I know this sounds like bullshit, but I oftentimes feel really trapped by the friendships I have made because they are based on predicted responses. The only predictable thing about me is how unpredictable I am.

I was discussing this bullshit theory about sexuality and suddenly the remaining three of us were totally engaged by this idea of pleasure existing separately from attraction. So here we were, the newly 21 year-old straight guy, the 25 year-old lesbian, and myself discussing this idea. We were drunk enough that we decided to put it to the test.

We went inside the house, found a bedroom and went to work. We had discussed that neither of us were particularly attracted to one another (obviously, the poor lesbian had more going for her on this particular point) but that that just added to the experimental nature of what we were doing. The straight guy said he didn’t think she was that attractive, and I thought the straight guy was cute, but not exactly sending me throbbing erections, either. Besides, my responsibility was to make the lesbian cum, the straight guy was to focus on me, and the lesbian focused on him.

This was the idea. We started out with clear rules. Clear definitions. Clear boxes. Lines drawn. I think we were so worried about being swept away in the tide that we had a really rough start. But at one point, we just have it over and there were no more assignments. We were in it together.

And that’s when I remembered the threesomes I always enjoyed. And the sex I always enjoyed.

There was a brief time in my life where my entire being wasn’t defined by a movement or an alphabet soup. Joe and I would hang out with people, men and women, and somehow the evening would turn sexual. We were listening to loud, angry alternative and having sex. I suppose it’s the 90’s version of hippy “Free Love” but with lots more hair gel and baggier pants.

It wasn’t until Joe died and I got involved with religion that I felt a pressure to label exactly what I was doing. That’s when I started classifying my behavior and struggling to qualify my feelings.

This whole concept goes hand-in-hand with what I was saying in the last entry. I’m just continuing to reject everything I see. I won’t be bottled by the idea that I’m supposed to act a certain way… “That’s no way for a thirty year old to act.” I’ve got to let go.

My friend Kat told me that she is constantly surprised how old I am, she told me that I was so together and mature, and the adventures of the past few weeks made me learn one thing, which I told her, “Ha! That’s totally incorrect. I knew more about life and myself at fifteen than I do now. I’m trying to find my way back to fifteen.”