| jef st de lore | |||
| Jef St. De Lore is a columnist juggling work, grad school, and friends. He always makes time to meet potential husbands and lovers... or at least write about them. | |||
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June 24, 2005
When I was a kid, I wanted to sing like Karen Carpenter. Okay, I wanted to be her (but without the anorexia). I didn’t care if she was a girl and I was a boy. I loved the way that she sang a song. Any song. Her voice was pure magic. Many afternoons, I would escape with Karen. Getting off the school bus, I would rush home to my room, find my “Carpenters: the Singles” cassette tape, pop it into my walkman, put on my headphones, and escape from life/family/homework.
At home I would listen to the Carpenters for hours. After just listening to Karen’s voice, I would try to imitate the particular vocal flourishes that she would use with different words and phrases. Luckily, I had a room to myself so my poor family wasn’t forced to endure too many hours of me singing along to the Carpenters in the back seat of the car or with stereo in our living room.
I used to sing a lot from junior high through my college years. (These were my church years). It was probably sacrilegious but I always prayed that Jesus would let me channel the spirit of Karen Carpenter into my singing. I wanted to entrance people with my silky-smooth vocal “stylings.” I wanted the crowd (okay…church congregations) to close their eyes and leave their troubles behind as they listened to me sing.
While I might never have achieved the magical vocalese of Karen, she was definitely my role model for many years as I began my singing career (hobby). However, she left me with a few bad habits along the way. I tend to scoop my way to high notes ala Karen. (She got away with it!) Now I understand that I can’t blame Karen for all of my vocal shortcomings. Those bitches from ABBA messed me up, too. Ask my sister Jeni. After overdosing on too much of “ABBA’s Greatest Hits, Vol. 2”, we both sang with Swedish accents for over a year. (The accent really only showed up with certain vowels but it was strong enough that often people at church would ask me what my nationality was.)
To this day I still enjoy listening to Karen Carpenter. Fortunately, I’ve expanded my CD collection to include other musicians/singers. Some even from the 21st century! I look to new music for fun, inspiration, and innovative ideas. Sometimes I’ll buy new music to help me further develop or influence a particular ability –my song writing, my piano playing, and/or my vocal arrangements. Even though I’m not a professional musician, I want to expand my horizons as a performer and continue to improve regardless of how often I perform. I only perform from time to time but I don’t want to sound like some sap who never left 1982.
Before you start to think that I’m a total “American Idol” wannabe, I should say that the role models in my life aren’t just musicians and performers. Every category of my life has people who have played a role in my development. I’ve learned a lot by the example set by others. My teaching style goes back to the great instructors I have had over the years who were great communicators. I try to be encouraging and an “active listener” like Miss. Duling, one of my grade school teachers. I try to accept my limitations while challenging myself to take new risks like one of my old bosses at the Northwest AIDS Foundation. And when it comes to political activism, I look to my friend Amy who is an activist diva. Even after juggling married life, graduate school, a research job, and two cats, she still manages to find time to collect signatures for a smoke-free initiative for our state. While I’ve always thought it was great that I simply voted, Amy inspires me to get off my ass and to be involved in the political system, to try to make our leaders accountable for their decisions and to encourage others in the community to fight for equality for everyone.
I also look for role models when it comes to relationships. Over the years I’ve watched family and friends and saw how they interacted with their partners, spouses, and kids. I’ve seen the good, the bad, and the abusive. I’ve seen families that were run by a dictator who called himself dad and lorded his authority over his wife and kids. But I’ve also seen parents that listened to their kids instead of the TV. I’ve seen couples who’ve made their decisions together as equal partners and have always treated each other with respect. I’ve seen couples who’ve managed to keep the romance alive in their relationship by continuing to prioritize one another even after 8 years of weight gain, loss of jobs, death of pets, and every other possible crisis.
I’ve had some great role models (the singers, teachers, and the lovers) in my life. I’m sure that I’ll meet even more as the years go by. But sometimes I wonder about the example, the legacy I leave behind. I don’t expect people to copy me - the way that I sing, teach, or host a party - and I’m okay with that. I know that I have some “less than glamorous qualities.” I just don’t want to be one of those “bad” examples. I hope that when I’m dead and gone people remember me as a guy who took risks and was willing to pursue new territory, who treasured his family and friends, and was honest about the way he lived his life. But…you know…I have to confess. I wouldn’t be offended if people heard a Karen Carpenter song playing in the background whenever they remembered me. Maybe the opening chords to “Close to You.” Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh…
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May 16, 2005
She said, “No.” She said that she was too busy. She had too much going on and couldn’t make it. We all have crazy schedules so I could have been more understanding. But when I asked my mom if she would like to come with me to an awards dinner where her son would be honored, I thought she would jump at the chance to see me shine.
My parents go to every basketball game my nephew Brent plays. Every one. No matter how far they have to drive, my parents are there to cheer him on. More than once they have spent over 10 hours in the car, driving over half the state to watch him play in a basketball game. And yet, my mom tells me over the phone that she is too busy to attend a two-hour dinner/awards ceremony for me.
At least she had the decency to lie about why she couldn’t make it. But her excuse seemed kind of lame. “I have too many projects.” I wanted to believe her. But when I hung up the phone, it hit me. She’s unemployed. She was laid off from her job weeks ago. How busy can she be? She’s unable to steal away a couple of hours from “cleaning the house” to watch her son receive an award?
The truth is my mom is avoiding this event because I’m being honored by a LGBT organization. She is a conservative Christian who still hides behind her religion. She refuses to deal with the fact that God made me different than the other boys. My mom still clings to the crazy idea that I chose to be gay. (To spite her? To embarrass her? Notice all the possible reasons reflect back on her.) For whatever reason, she is unwilling to accept I’m different and that different can be good. And thus, my mom won’t be sitting next to me at the dinner.
And while I’m ticked off at my mom for choosing to avoid an event that would force her to see her son as a gay man, I’m more frustrated with myself. I’m 36 years old and I still look to my parents for their approval. I want them to be involved in my life. I want my parents to be proud of me. I want them to say, “Good job. You’ve really made us proud.”
Overall, my family is pretty good. I’m lucky. I get along well with everyone as long as things don’t get controversial. Birthday parties and holidays are fun unless someone mentions George W. Bush or “the gays.” Things could be worse. I could have been rejected by my family after coming out. Again, I was lucky. My parents’ pastor encouraged them to reach out to me in spite of their religious objections with me being gay.
Sometimes I want to be “normal” so that my parents will want to be more engaged in my life - work, dating, and hobbies. But maybe that’s not the role my parents are destined to play. Like everyone else, they’re human. They’re not perfect. And I just need to realize they aren’t going to give me all of the things I want from them. My mom is not going to call me up on Monday night to ask me how my dating life treated me over the weekend. My step-dad is not going to join PFLAG or march in the Gay Pride parade in June.
I would be in a better position if I changed instead of waiting around for my parents to change. I can alter my expectations for them. My family meets certain needs in my life but they can’t be everything for me. That’s why I have friends. My friends are the family members I’ve chosen. Friends ask about your dating dramas, your blunders at work, and your frustrations with your family.
I’m still going to reach out to my parents, and share with them details from my life. But I’m going to try to stop looking to them for approval. With a change in perspective I can enjoy my time with them without having to rely on them to provide something (acceptance) they’re not willing to give.
I guess one of the best ways for me to acknowledge my adulthood is by accepting my parents for who they are and who they’re not. I can still love them and include them in my life but in a different way. I’ll probably never get the support/acceptance that I want. But they’re never going to get the son that they want. But can’t there be a happy medium? They accept me as their gay son. And I accept them as imperfect parents who love me in their own unique way.
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April 06, 2005
As a kid, I played a lot of team sports and so I spent a fair amount of time in locker rooms getting ready for practice, a track meet or just hanging out with the guys. And of course, I experienced many group shower scenes during my high school and college years.
I never had a problem with group showers. I wasn’t shy and didn’t have many body issues. I was one of the lucky ones whose body developed “on schedule.” Puberty treated me okay. The hair, muscles, and such all kicked into gear without too many awkward feelings or frustrations. And okay, I confess; I was one of the horny young men who actually looked forward to showering at school. I got to hang out with other naked male athletes. C’mon...that’s like the beginning of many great porn flicks.
While showering, I was often guilty of having “wandering eyes.” I wasn’t lewd about it. I didn’t stare at the guys or jerk off in the locker room. But I did develop a “down low” approach to cruising in the primarily heterosexual environment (men’s locker room) that allowed me to check out the naked bodies around me without getting beat up.
One of the fears that haunted me while I enjoyed the “eye candy” offered in the men’s locker room was that my body would betray me and would expose me as a homo. I wasn’t worried about my walk. (I don’t think I walked with much of a swish.) And while my voice might have had some “gay leanings” and sounded a bit too energetic when compared to others at my school, I feared that I would get an unscheduled erection in the men’s locker room in front of my teammates. (I wasn’t as worried about the ones that popped up in class, church, or around town – the tights jeans of the late 80s/early 90s kept everything in place no matter how big it grew.)
Thankfully my fears never came to pass. I never got an erection in a group shower setting nor was I caught checking out naked athletes in the locker room except in college. That was by other gay men and that’s another story for a different column.
Any way...now that I’m back in graduate school, I get to work out with students and staff members. At times, I flash back to my youth and all of the questions, desires, and fears I had when I was here 15 years ago. I still see the men who wander around the gym in a towel, walking up and down the rows looking for? (You know, I’m not quite sure what they want). I see the “sauna whores,” the men who must not know that we have a swimming pool, weight room and other facilities at school because these guys show up, strip naked, throw on a towel, and then live in the sauna for hours. You can usually pick them out right away. They are naked when you show up at the gym and they are still naked (but more sweaty and flushed) by the time you are leaving post-workout. But the guys who make me smile are the ones who remind me of my younger years, the ones I see questioning their sexuality while struggling with curiosity and over active erections. Guys like Tom.
Tom (not his real name) is in the ROTC (Reserve Officers' Training Corps) program at my school. I see Tom quite frequently at the gym. He has a rock hard body, great face, and a friendly demeanor. He usually hangs out with other guys in the ROTC program. They joke around, work out together, and ...shower together. And when he thinks no one is looking, I see Tom checking out other men in the shower and locker room. He’s very secretive about his cruising but having experienced men’s locker rooms since the 80s, I know how to separate the clueless looking around of straight guys from the secretive stares of a closeted, questioning young man.
I feel like I understand where Tom is coming from. I remember the doubts, fears, and questions that come with being gay and growing up in an environment that doesn’t support diversity. Sometimes I just want to walk up to Tom and let him know that it’s okay that he’s gay, that he’s attracted to men, and that his feelings appear to be different from many of his friends. But I know better. Tom needs to come to terms with sexuality on his own time and in his own way. Any words from me would be unwelcome. If anything, they’d be feared. Since I only see Tom in the locker room and/or showers, starting up a conversation about homosexuality would probably throw him deeper in the closet.
I don’t know if Tom will ever come out of the closet. He’s in the military so he has it tougher than those of us who work in fields that don’t prosecute sexual diversity. I hope that he doesn’t end up living a double life (wife at home, male lovers on the side). I hope that when Tom is ready to seek answers to his feelings that he has supportive friends around him and/or resources that welcome him like I did when I was a youth with locker room dreams, questions and fears.
Tom needs people in his life who will tell him that being gay is okay. He needs being gay “normalized” for him through media images, legislation, and conversations with friends, other students, faculty, and family members. I’m just not in a position to help him out. I wish I was. All I can do is be out about my sexuality with those in my life, support queer friendly organizations and legislation with my time and money, and hope that someone else is in a position to reach out to Tom and support him on his journey of self discovery.
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March 07, 2005
When I was a kid, Cookie Monster told me that “C” was for cookie. While driving around with my friend Trent, I’ve heard him use a totally different “C” word whenever a female driver cuts him in traffic. I don’t use that word. But after leaving the STD clinic, one Tuesday last month, I discovered that “C” can also stand for Chlamydia.
It all started with an itching feeling I had on Tuesday morning. I didn’t have any of any classic STD symptoms but the itching sensation inside my dick didn’t feel right. I tried to explain away the sensation as a result of the changing weather and my allergies, on which I blamed a bloody nose I had the other day. Surely, the same forces of nature could have made my dick itch. Or maybe the itching was caused from chaffing. Maybe I had spent too much “personal time” with myself and hadn’t used enough lube. Still, I had my doubts.
You see, last month had been pretty good for me. I had hooked up with an ex-boyfriend of mine. No, I’m not saying which one but let’s just call him Rich. All that you need to know is that we both had a good time, and that we’re not getting back together. A week later, I met Ryan, a cool guy who was a “friend of a friend.” Great smile, engaging personality, and lots of fun to hang out with. Fast forward through dinner and drinks, on our first date we got naked together. And yes, a good time was had by both of us. Twice. Now this is where the story gets trashy because after my fling with the ex and before meeting the new guy, I messed around with Max, a friend who was in town from Philadelphia. Of note, he’s in an open relationship.
So when I started having STD questions on Tuesday morning, I wasn’t just worried about my own dick. I was thinking about the dicks of three other guys. One which possibly gave me Chlamydia and the other two that I may have infected. Not my proudest moment. All I could think about was having to tell these guys that I had tested positive and possibly infected them.
My first challenge was to get tested. For someone who works in the queer health field, it’s hard to get tested in this city discretely. If I show up at a clinic, any clinic, people think that I’m there for work related reasons and I get barraged with a thousand work questions. I can’t blend into the crowd. I get called out by name by every staff member I know who walks by the lobby.
But I knew that I couldn’t let pride stand in my way. I had seen the scary slides of STDs gone awry while in high school biology and even worse examples while working for the health department. I knew that if you get a STD, you can’t just ignore it. If left untreated, STDs can become very serious. And not everyone gets symptoms. I knew that if you had questions, it was best to play it safe and get tested and treated with antibiotics.
Luckily, my friend Mark works at the STD clinic and was able to get me tested without parading me past everyone else. I wasn’t ashamed of getting tested for Chlamydia. (I applaud everyone who gets tested and treated for STDs.) I just didn’t want to have to explain my scenario to every clinician, receptionist, and lab technician who saw me.
The testing experience was fine - nothing scary, no swabs. I just peed in a cup. But then came the hard part. I had to wait a week for my results. With HIV tests, you can often get a rapid test and get your results in 30 minutes. Chlamydia testing hasn’t become that advanced, yet.
After leaving the clinic and beginning the waiting process, all I could think about was the conversations I would have to have with Rich, Ryan, and Max if my results came back positive. I’ve never had “that conversation” with anyone. I knew that Rich would probably be okay with the news but I didn’t know how Ryan or Max would respond. I’d only had one date with Ryan. How do I bring up the “C” word on our second date? Do I tell him that I might have exposed him to a STD while at dinner or do I wait until we’re making out later on in the evening?
To be honest, my real concern was talking with Max about my test results. I don’t see him often because he lives in Philadelphia. Still, he’s a cool guy and if I was infected with something, I had to be a man, call him on the phone, and tell him. I guess I was worried because Max had a partner. In the past, their open relationship had had more of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” philosophy to it. I knew that Max played around from time to time but he used condoms and had verbally okayed it with his partner. But I didn’t know what they would do if Max came home with a STD. Maybe he had in the past, but Max had never mentioned any syphilis stories before.
As the week progressed and my mind was consumed with test results and challenging phone calls, my itchy dick never got worse. In fact, it got better. And when I got my test results back from the STD clinic, everything came back negative. Relieved? You betcha. I didn’t have to call up the ex, I was able to enjoy date number two (and three) with Ryan without having to examine his dick except for my/his pleasure, and I didn’t have to call Max and drop a bomb on his 5-year relationship. But I decided to send Max an innocent postcard just to say that I enjoyed his visit. It was a Cookie Monster one, with lots of cookies. ‘Cuz “C” is for cookie and that’s good enough for me.
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February 08, 2005
I feel like I’m always shopping for a boyfriend, new clothes, or furniture. Am I making a lot of purchases? No. But I like to window shop and if something/someone really catches my eye, I’ll ask a hot guy for his phone number or skip a meal to buy a new sweater. Before returning to grad school, a few months ago, I decided to make some purchases for my apartment, stuff that I couldn’t afford to buy while in school - big stuff like new bookshelves, cloth napkins, and a coffee table. These were items that once school started, I wouldn’t be able to justify - like spending “book money” on new furniture. But as a working professional, I could make the excuse.
My big goal was a new coffee table. I’d wanted one for a long time but I wasn’t having any luck. I had scoured the city looking for the right one but nothing really caught my attention. It seemed like either I couldn’t afford the cool ones or I was only finding crappy ones that I wouldn’t donate to charity. As the beginning of school loomed ever closer and no coffee table was found, I felt desperate and decided to give Ikea a chance.
It’s not that I’m anti-Ikea. I’ve bought bookshelves there in the past. But when it comes to more stand out items of furniture, I’d never found anything that would work well in my apartment. Still, I decided to give them another chance. I looked in the Ikea catalog (online and paper form) and consulted with many, if not all, of my friends about their opinion on various styles and models. I thought I had found a fairly inexpensive coffee table in chocolate brown that would look great in my living room.
My friend Jen and I hit Ikea on a Sunday morning (to avoid the church crowd) and found my coffee table. It was okay. I kind of liked it. But something in my gut was holding me back. I wasn’t excited about it. I know when I’ve made the right decision (shopping, dating, new jobs) because my gut gives me the okay. This time – my gut was quiet. I wasn’t disgusted by the Ikea coffee table. I just wasn’t thrilled. Still – I bought it and headed home to put it together.
Fast-forward three months.
I’m at Pottery Barn with my friend Kyle. Just walking around when we come across the “perfect coffee table.” The manager walks up to me and offers it to me for about the same price that I paid for my Ikea model. I was torn. I had a coffee table at home but I didn’t really like it. It wasn’t “meeting my needs.” Every time I looked at it, I kept thinking that I could have done better. And now I was being offered my dream coffee table for a fraction of its normal price. Kyle reminded me that I wasn’t happy with my Ikea purchase and I took the manager’s offer. Plus, I knew that I wouldn’t have any difficulty getting rid of the Ikea coffee table. I could just return it.
Now I’m not saying that I treat men like pieces of furniture but last week I had an Ikea experience with a guy I met. Gordon and I met through mutual friends at a party. Gordon was a great guy – cute, fun personality, and had a career (not just a job, a career). We flirted a lot at the party and ended up exchanging phone numbers. While I thought Gordon was fun, my gut wasn’t telling me “WOW.” I was experiencing more of a “yeah, he’ll do” feeling. I hadn’t dated anyone for a while (blame grad school, blame the stars...) and thought “let’s give Gordon a spin.”
Well, after a few dates, I was quickly feeling like I had made an Ikea purchase. I wasn’t feeling the “WOW” charge in my gut when he called. I looked forward to our dates like I look forward to hanging out with co-workers outside of the job – pleasant but not my favorite activity on the planet. I felt like I had made a bad purchase with Gordon but I knew that I couldn’t keep him around ‘til Mr. Pottery Barn aka Dream Man Dan showed up. (In case you’re wondering, Dan is my imaginary future husband.)
I tried rationalizing the situation over the phone with my friend Craig. I went over the pluses and the minuses of dating Gordon. But after listening to my dating monologue for 20 minutes, Craig quietly said, “Jef, if you were into this guy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” And I knew Craig was right. If I was really into Gordon, I would have been talking to Craig about how excited I was that Gordon called me or what we had planned for our next date. Instead, I was trying to rationalize having dinner with Gordon again on Friday. Not good.
Having decided that Gordon was not the guy for me, I called him on the phone and told him what I was thinking about our budding relationship (minus the Ikea/Pottery Barn analogy). I figured he deserved to know what was going on. I didn’t want to be mean. I just didn’t want to lead him on by continuing to see him under the guise of dating. Gordon would have been thinking that the relationship was growing while in reality I was looking for my next new boyfriend. I couldn’t treat him like a piece of furniture that could be exchanged later when someone better entered my life. Gordon deserved more respect than my coffee table.
While I can juggle returns and sales when it comes to “things,” I don’t want to date with that same code of ethics. I can’t be that heartless. Gordon has feelings. Future Gordons have feeling. And I do, too. I don’t want to be somebody’s Ikea guy, the “okay for now” guy.
While I know that dating is a form of shopping, I’m trying to be a lot more exclusive where I shop and what/who I bring home. No more “maybes.” I’m too busy to make lots of returns. And to be honest, I’m really only looking for “keeper items.” The pieces, the people that make me smile when I see them and that make my day by just being in the room or calling me in the middle of the day just to say hello.
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