Libraries and Sexual Identity.

I've been wondering, since the Senator Craig scandal has shed so much light on the previously esoteric world of tearooms, has sex in public bathrooms decreased -- because there's a big spotlight on it now, making people more afraid of getting caught -- or decreased -- because, now that the arcane signals have been broadcast to the world, everyone can play?

I can't say I'm an aficionado, but it's definitely on my radar when I walk into a public restroom. The first anonymous sexual encounter I had was in a restroom in the college library where my mother worked. It was a year or two after I'd left for college but I was home for the summer. I was waiting for my mom to get off work, reading in a small lounge next to the card catalog. It was summer, so the place was deserted, but there was another man in this lounge, also reading. He kept looking at me. I was looking back. I'm not sure how I knew to do this, but when he got up and went to the bathroom (which was next to the lounge) I waited a minute and then got up and followed him. It's been many years, so I don't remember the sequence of events -- was there foot-tapping? I don't remember -- but it ended with me on my knees with my penis under the wall getting a blowjob. At that time, I had only had 2 or 3 sexual partners, and it had not occurred to me that I could have sex with someone I couldn't even see.

When I was in junior high and high school, I spent a lot of time at this library. I liked books, I liked hanging out with my mom, I liked that it was a college library -- I saw myself as much more intellectually advanced than the shit-kickers I went to school with. (If you think I'm a snob now...) I even worked there a couple days a week my junior and senior years in high school, and full-time during the summer between.

It's where I learned about homosexuality, by reading the Kinsey books, and started to come to terms with my own deviant feelings. I worked in the reference department for a librarian who, I see in retrospect, knew I was a gay kid and made a great effort to let me know it was okay. She talked about her gay friends (she was a former Catholic nun married to a former priest, so she had a few homosexual friends), and she introduced me to lesbian feminist writers.

I was going to say I wonder how she knew, but I was going through my first wave of Judy Garland obsession when I was 16, so, duh. She consoled me when -- after I'd gotten tickets to a Liza Minnelli concert in Indianapolis 6 months in advance and looked forward to it more than anything ever before, but, a week before the date, Liza canceled "due to exhaustion" -- I was practically suicidal.

I still like libraries a lot. I feel at home in a library.

Reclamation.

I had my first meeting with my personal trainer, a very fit young man who said, "yes, sir" and "no, sir" to everything I asked him. We met briefly to discuss my "fitness objectives." I felt like a shy high school girl crossed with someone's totally uncool dad. I know, scary. The trainers at the U.T. gym are studying to become certified. They're inexperienced, but inexpensive.

I have one fitness objective, which is basically, "yes." We scheduled two sessions next week. I can't wait to start. He told me I should see and feel different in as little as six weeks, since I'm starting pretty much at zero. He looked me over and said that he thought I was starting with a "good foundation." No one has ever told me that before. (I think he meant, "At least it's not like you're 350 pounds and asthmatic.")

Since I first mentioned that I was going to start working out at the gym and that I'm a little frightened of it, many of my gay men friends -- as well as readers of this blog, guys I don't even know -- have expressed sympathy and support. It's funny, and I've been very moved by it; I never thought of this step in the terms I'm starting to see it in now, as a reclaiming of territory that was denied me as a kid. Denied to me partly by other boys because they were cruel, were bullies, but I think mostly self-denied because of my confusion and discomfort with an environment where there was obligatory intimacy with other boys in the form of physical contact and nudity.

The sad thing is that an environment of natural intimacy among men would have been such a healthy thing for a little gay boy. I feel a great sadness and regret sometimes that I missed all that. For me, the first -- and only for many years -- situation in which it was appropriate or even possible to touch or be touched by boys or men was when having sex.

That idea of reclaiming male space is obvious now, because I'm staking a claim in this particular gym which is full of boys just barely out of high school who are masculine and athletic and, at least apparently, sexually confident, just like the boys I was afraid of 30 years ago. But now, because I'm as old as their parents, to these boys I'm either invisible or I'm an authority figure.

Patti Smith Makes It All Better.

I had a vivid and rambling dream about Patti Smith last night. Through most of it, we were just talking quietly in a bright, white-painted New York loft. We were sitting very close, and I had to lean in to hear her. I don't remember what we talked about, but she smiled a lot and her eyes were so bright. When I got up to leave, we lingered at the door for a long time, and she hugged me over and over.

I had gone to bed feeling anxious because there wasn't enough time last night to study my Spanish as much as I wanted to, and I woke up reassured.

God's Gonna Send the Water From Zion.

It's raining, and I opened my windows for the first time in four days. J said a storm was coming -- his sinuses tell him these things. The weather has been absolutely, relentlessly stultifying for the last week, day and night, but now it's cool and breezy.

I took a break from studying so we could watch the two remaining episodes of Peep Show on DVD (we started watching it last night -- it's really really funny) and then we went to Hut's for 2 for 1 veggie burgers. Now back to Microbiology. We're still on the chemistry chapter, which is like a fascinating nightmare. I'm simultaneously enthralled and terrified. Is all that stuff really happening inside me? and how can anyone possibly keep it all straight?

Monday is a bear. I have Spanish lab at 8 a.m., biology lecture at 9, Spanish class at 10, and biology "discussion section" (which is a small-group review session with a grad student) at noon.

I have to study now.

Kane Welch Kaplin.

Our old friend Fats Kaplin was in town on Friday, playing with Kevin Welch and Keiran Kane at the Cactus Cafe. They go by the name Kane Welch Kaplin -- it's the three of them along with Keiran Kane's son Lucas Kane on drums. It's been a while since I heard such beautiful songs and beautiful playing. J and I were friends and neighbors of Fats and his wife Kristi Rose when we lived in Nashville, Fats produced and played on the record we made there (The Hey Y'all Soundtrack), and we met Kevin and Keiran at the Kaplin's house, probably more than once, but somehow I never paid attention to their music.

The Cactus Cafe is a funny place. It's a small listening room-type venue. The shows there are usually in the folk/Americana/Texas singer-songwriter camp which is revered here in Austin. It's on the U.T. campus, in the student union building, but I'm sure most of the students have no idea it exists. The audience is older, the grey ponytail and Hawaiian shirt crowd. It's the crowd that J and I spent so much time and energy wooing when we were doing Y'all. A faction of that audience loved Y'all, but we were never an ideal fit because we wanted to do more than sit and play. (The fact that the "more" that I wanted to do became, over time, different from the "more" that J wanted to do is what pulled us apart eventually.)

Kevin and Fats and Keiran sit and play. The stillness is what makes it soar. There's no detectable showmanship -- though they're charming and engaged -- but the trick is to make the audience feel like they're sitting in your living room, and these guys are good at it. I guess at some point, in the life of a touring folk musician who spends as much time on the road as at home, these little acoustic venues become their living room.

I fancied myself that kind of songwriter, because I love that stuff so much, but I wasn't interested in developing the musicianship that this genre requires. The simplicity of the presentation is what makes it so affecting, and it is also what makes it crucial that you be a very good player, because it's only you and your song, your voice and your guitar. I was aware of my musical shortcomings all along, but Friday night it was really clear to me.

I came home and downloaded from iTunes one particularly gorgeous song they played called "I Can't Wait." If you're a fan of songwriting, you might want to check these guys out.

Disingenuous.

My new language pet peeve is the overuse of the word "disingenuous." I remember many years ago having to look it up when I encountered it somewhere and thinking what a good word it was. Now, suddenly it's everywhere, mostly used interchangeably with "insincere." I hope it doesn't end up one of those words that loses its particular shade of meaning because people use it indiscriminately -- it really is one of my favorite words.

I don't have any examples -- it's 7 a.m. and I'm getting ready for Biology class -- but I'll try to find a couple.

A Judy Diversion.

I was prepared for my days to be suddenly very different, I was prepared to work hard, but it's still a shock. I'm either in class, reading, or studying almost every moment now (except when I'm hauling 40 pounds of books around town on my back). I was sitting in the student union building today (they call it the "Texas Union" because everything is Texas something here) -- there's a nice quiet study lounge where I spend quite a bit of time between classes -- reading, and I felt a sudden shiver of joy realizing that this is what I do now: sit around and learn stuff. And I'll be doing it for quite a while, years even.

Yesterday when I got home I really needed a break. It's been very humid this week, and of course it's always hot (Texas hot), so when I get home I just want to get dry. So I turned on my a.c. and watched a Judy Garland musical which had arrived several days before from greencine.com but I hadn't had a chance to watch it: Presenting Lily Mars. Whoever wrote the blurb on the sleeve called it "so-so" but judging from this writer's summary of the plot, he or she didn't even watch it, so... I know a lot of the MGM musicals are trash -- J won't even watch them with me anymore -- but I'll watch Judy Garland do pretty much anything.

The movie was full of cliches and over-the-top sentimental (of course) but I enjoyed it. Great musical numbers. And there's one scene that broke my heart, between Judy as Lily Mars, who moves to New York from Indiana with nothing but a suitcase and wants desperately to be a Broadway actress, and the charwoman (played by Connie Gilchrist, who has had a long prolific career, but I know her from Auntie Mame, in which she plays Mame's maid). Lily camps out in the theater, and the charwoman, mopping the stage, discovers her asleep in the orchestra pit. Well, it turns out Connie, when she was a young thing, also had Broadway dreams. Her dreams didn't quite pan out, but she loves the theater so much she'd rather be mopping the floor of one than be anywhere else. She sings a song called Every Little Movement, Judy joins in on the second verse and they sing in harmony and do a soft little shuffle across the theater floor in the dark. It got me.

The finale is pretty dazzling. It jumps forward to when Lily is a big star in her own big Broadway show. The number is about 10 minutes long, a big flashy dance medley. Wow. Judy delivers. Other highlights are Bob Crosby and Tommy Dorsey and their big bands.

One Down.

Today is the first anniversary of the day I moved to Austin. J and I went to see Cleopatra at the Paramount Theater downtown. It was the original 243-minute, 70 mm version of the film, which hasn't been seen in theaters since it was released in 1963. The first half is better than the second half, which gets a little tedious, but wow what a feast. Afterwards (speaking of feast) we went to Hoover's and had catfish po-boys and mashed potatoes.

Heart.

I loved Heart when I was in high school. I was obsessed with Ann and Nancy Wilson. There was a group of girls in my high school who were a few years older than me, the older sisters of my group of friends, sort of pothead bad girls but beautiful and, I thought, glamorous in their frayed jeans and gauzy tops. I idolized them. I still swoon a little when I smell patchouli because Carly, who I thought was the most beautiful of those girls, wore patchouli. Ann and Nancy Wilson were the apotheosis of that type of girl. I thought they were the most desirable people on earth. I sat in my bedroom and stared at the Little Queen album cover and longed to join their caravan of rock and roll gypsies, imagined what it would be like to be married to Ann and Nancy would be my sister. I drew pictures of them, I listened to Little Queen and later Dog and Butterfly over and over, I knew every word, every inflection, every guitar riff. Ann Wilson is the only woman I was ever sexually attracted to.

Around 1977 or 1978, I saw Heart play at the Indiana State Fair. I can't think of any show I've seen since that surpassed the thrill I got from that concert. I don't even remember who I went with -- maybe my brother? -- I was so single-minded through the whole thing. I devoured it.

The concert started with Nancy in a tight spotlight, playing the acoustic introduction to Crazy on You, her hair blowing like a flag. (It's not short, that intro. Nancy Wilson is a great guitar player and this is her moment, at the very top of the show, to show off, because once Ann is out there she's going to get all the attention.) Nancy hits those harmonics at the end of the intro. She pauses, and you can see her wind up for the opening riff. The beauty and suspense of that moment. The band kicks in, the whole stage is flooded with light, and Ann strolls up to the microphone. I probably cried.



When I moved to New York and became a cynical, detached young art student, I found I could keep my Heart obsession if I turned it into camp. If you're going to say you're a Heart fan, it's better if you're wearing black and chain-smoking in an East Village cafe than if you're wearing a Doobie Brothers t-shirt and a mullet. Or so I told myself. I was such a smart-ass. I probably used to say that Ann was like a drag queen. It helped that she gained weight and turned from a sexy rock and roll woman-child with a huge voice to a big, flamboyant rock star with a huge body to match her huge voice. But what never fit into that reductive view of Heart is that they were a great band, and that Ann was and is a great rock and roll singer, the best. Who is better? Okay, Janis Joplin. But who else? Etta James? Anyway, Ann is up there with very few peers.

One thing I love about the youtube age is that you can easily find clips that confirm or refute your memories of public events. The clip above must be from around the same time as the concert I saw, maybe even from the same tour. It's exactly as I remember it. The clip below is from some sort of tribute concert a few years ago. Ann doesn't look like a drag queen -- Wynonna, who appears in another clip from the same show, looks like a drag queen, bless her heart -- Ann looks like the motherfuckin' queen of rock and roll. And Nancy is still kickin' it.

Gym.

I had time between classes today, so I decided to check out the gym. It sounds so casual to just say it like that, but it was a big deal for me. Next week, I plan to start working out for an hour 5 days a week. I haven't been in a gym since I was 16, back when I would cry myself to sleep on nights before P.E. class.

I rant a bit from time to time about the soul-destroying culture of body perfectionism that either springs from or at least feeds the fitness industry. Not that I don't still believe that, but all that bluster also functions as a great excuse not to be in better physical shape. And I've come to see that a big part of my aversion to gyms is simply fear. I'm surprised -- I shouldn't be -- to realize how traumatized I still am by the experience of being forced during puberty to parade naked in front of, and compete in athletic contests with, boys whom I was just discovering a (horrifying and deeply shameful, but powerfully stimulating) sexual attraction to.

So I just walked right in that gym today, puffed up my chest a bit, and sniffed around. It's gargantuan. Lots of big rooms full of big machines. And a cafe.

My friend the Gardener, who knows all about physical fitness (did I mention he was a helicopter rescuer?), offered to come with me to the gym a couple times and show me what to do, and that's exactly what I need. I'm a little reluctant to put myself in such an uncomfortable and vulnerable position with a very new friend. But I'm gonna do it.

So Far, So Good.

All but one of my classes has met at least once now, Spanish twice. My American Government class won't meet until next week, but I've received a couple emails from the instructor and she seems enthusiastic and engaged. I like my American Lit. professor quite a bit. He obviously loves teaching. The reading and writing for his class is going to be a bear, several novels in addition to a stack of shorter readings each week, a critical journal, and two more formal papers. But that's what I'm here for.

I dropped Environmental History, reluctantly. It looks like a great course, but I'll take it later. When I looked at the syllabuses of all my classes together, I realized I would be reading a book a week for Lit. and a book a week for History. I'm used to reading a lot, and I could probably get through two books a week if I weren't doing anything else. But I'll have a lot of reading for Biology and Government, and Spanish homework, too. Without the history class, I still have 14 hours, so it's still a full load.

Day One.

I love my biology teacher. The class is called Biology of AIDS, so it dips into many areas: molecular and cell biology, genetics, immunology, epidemiology. Today she gave a very condensed history of the early years of the epidemic, talking about the Reagan 80s like someone who remembers what it was really like. I was the only person in the room besides the professor who was alive in 1981.

My Spanish teacher is a small, shy young Asian woman who speaks halting English. I'm sure she speaks Spanish beautifully. (But she did a very weird thing this morning. I'm still trying to figure it out. She was sitting at a desk in the front row as the students came in and took seats, so she looked like just another student. At 10 o'clock, she turned around and said loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, "Is this Spanish 506? Did you know the instructor for this class has been changed? Who is this Sheena Lee? Oh! I'm her! Ha ha ha!" and she got up and started the class. It was a bit surreal.)

My only other class today was the discussion section for my American Lit. class. Here at U.T., the big lecture classes are broken into small groups that meet once a week to discuss the material with a graduate student. The instructor didn't show, I guess because, since we haven't had a lecture yet, there's nothing to discuss. Still, it would have been nice if someone had let us know. We all just sat there for 10 minutes and then one by one got up and left.

I spent $350 on books today. That's just for two classes. My Spanish book cost over $200. I have one more textbook to buy, for my government class. The books for my other classes are regular trade paperbacks which I hope I'll be able to get cheap used or maybe even check out at the public library. There are about 10 books on the list for my lit. class and just as many for my history class.

On another note, my jaw hurts. I have TMJ. Usually it doesn't bother me much, but last week I strained my left jaw muscle while I was chewing. I could barely eat for two days. Now it's just a dull ache. When I told J that I had strained my jaw, he said, "That's not very good for dating, is it?" And when I told Z, he said, "How'd you do that?" and he smirked. One bad thing (or good, depending on your sense of humor, I guess) about being a gay man is that there are times when your life feels like one long blowjob joke.

Off the Hook.

I heard from Z. He'd been trying to call, but he's climbing a mountain somewhere (South Dakota? I can never remember, he's always climbing a mountain somewhere) and couldn't get through. He told me I wasn't as much of a freak as I thought I had been, and that his new boyfriend thought I was very nice. Much relieved, it occurred to me that maybe it's good the marijuana threw me so far off balance Friday night, because if all I'd had was a couple beers I probably would have done something like pull his boyfriend aside and say, "You better be good to him, 'cause if you break his heart I'll kill you." (Not really. I wouldn't do that.)

Somebody Please Turn Off My Brain.

I still haven't heard from Z. All day in my head: Please tell me that a) I wasn't as ridiculous as I thought I was, or b) I was ridiculous, but it's okay, you forgive me. Please let me off the hook! I don't think Z has seen this needy, insecure side of me -- I tell him how insecure I am but I don't think he believes me -- and I'm not sure I want to show it to him, but I might not be able to stop myself. I had one chance to meet his new boyfriend and I fucked it up. I wanted so badly for it to go ... better. I hate that I could not rise to the occasion.

I keep going back to the question, why do I resist him? Why withhold so much of myself from him and our relationship? Why not let it follow its natural course? I hear women who have grown children and accidentally become pregnant talk about the feelings it provokes, mostly, "I can't do this again. I just can't do this. It was beautiful but that part of my life is past.... I don't have it in me." That's how I react to my feeling of attachment to Z. That's how it feels.

Offering to the Döns.

I get so confident with my 46-year-old self, coasting along believing I'm ready for whatever lands in front of me. Ha.

In my meditation practice, I use a set of slogans which, together, form a system of training called lo jong. I won't try to explain, except to say that it's Tibetan and very old. One of the slogans is a reminder to make offerings to the döns. Döns, when you see them depicted in art, are like little demons that pester you and try to throw you off. Sometimes they bring sickness and conflict. They're unpleasant. The instruction is to thank them for waking you up, showing you where your hangups are, reminding you that you still need work, and giving you an opportunity to practice equanimity and compassion.

I've known my friend Z for several months now. We've had a very sweet friendship, unlike any relationship I've had. We're physically affectionate with each other, there's a lot more touching and petting and kissing than getting naked, though we've done that too. Because he travels a lot for work, and because I'm neurotic about preserving time for myself, we typically see each other about once a week or less. He has a close group of friends he spends time with, and I've met them a few times and like them but don't feel drawn to be a part of the group. Our relationship has always felt like a precious thing we keep to ourselves, separate from any social context, like the fluttery first few weeks of new love.

For a while, when we'd been seeing each other for a few months, I grew concerned that he wanted more time, more commitment from our relationship than I wanted to give, but we talked about it, like we talk about everything, and the tension disappeared. I told him more than once how remarkable I think he is and that I wished sometimes that I had met him earlier in my life so I could be the boyfriend he deserved.

Toward the end of July and into August, our traveling schedules overlapped and we didn't see each other for over a month. We were in touch, sporadically. When I came back from my retreat, I had a powerful hankering to see him. We made plans to have dinner Wednesday night. He picked me up. When I got in the car, we hugged and I kissed him. He held back. Not in a way that felt like rejection, but it felt different. We can both be a little moody, so I didn't think much of it at first, but then it dawned on me: Z has a boyfriend.

I told him all about the retreat, and Lizzie Borden, and U.T. orientation. It was his turn to catch me up on his life. He told me about his trip to Arizona with his parents, some new volunteer work he's doing, then he said, "And ... I've ... been seeing someone."

My first reaction, I'm proud to say, was sheer joy, and still it makes me happy to see my friend, who I think the world of, in love. But of course it changes everything. He and his new boyfriend -- they've been seeing each other for about a month -- have decided to be monogamous, which strangely, I applaud. I think even if that weren't the case my relationship with Z would need to change. Just because you agree to have an open relationship doesn't mean it's going to be okay to continue making out with someone you were dating when you met the new guy.

But where does that leave us? Suddenly it becomes obvious that a big part of our interaction was touching. We held hands, we kissed, we rubbed each other's legs under the table. Sometimes it was more erotic than at other times, but I suppose it always had the seed of something sexual in it. So we stop. No transition, no weaning, cold turkey. We can hug, but hands above the waist. We can kiss, but no tongue. It's so fucking weird to suddenly have these boundaries. Weird and heavy and sad.

When we said goodnight on Wednesday, I wanted to tell him that I love him. It seemed like absolutely the right and necessary thing to say. And at the same time absolutely wrong, so I didn't say it. I'd never used that word with him, because, though there's no question in my mind that it is love I feel for him, the expression is too loaded. But now that things are changed, I want badly for him to know how deep my feelings are. I second-guessed myself and worried that if I told him I love him he would think I was competing for his loyalty, which is almost the opposite of the message I wanted to convey, which was more along the lines of, "Because I care so much about you, I want you to be happy." I'm sure next time I see him, I'll tell him all this stuff that's running in my head, but I couldn't put it into words in that moment of saying goodbye. He's leaving tomorrow for another road trip and won't be back until the first week of September. It occurred to me that it would be good to have an adjustment period before I see him again.

I went out last night, on the spur of the moment -- I know I won't have time or money to go out carousing much once school starts, so I decided to have one last night out with the boys. I smoked some pot before I went out. I had a couple beers. But I didn't feel inappropriately impaired for the setting. I planted myself on a bench near the bar, and I chatted with a guy I'd talked to there before whose name I don't know. I decided to stroll around.

I was walking from the front bar to the back and saw Z leaning against a wall. I have never once run into him in this bar. He doesn't go there. So it was a huge surprise, but a nice one. I gave him a big hug. He introduced me to his boyfriend. And then suddenly I felt very high and completely at a loss. Every molecule in my body wanted to flirt with Z, touch him, act like a girl, but I checked those impulses. But my brain wasn't giving me alternatives, so I stood there like an alien trapped in someone else's body. And I was stoned, so suddenly even more self-conscious. I tried to chat like a normal person, but I couldn't form sentences. I made a fool of myself, and I think I was probably rude to his friend. They left shortly after our encounter. ("This place is full of freaks, let's get out of here.")

I sent him a contrite email this morning. I hope he didn't have to spend too much time explaining my bizarre behavior to his boyfriend.

Today I thank the döns for reminding me that, as confident as I may be, I am still as squishy as an overripe avocado on the inside.

Against Spontaneity.

Yesterday I went to a workshop called "Don't Sweat It," led by one of the therapists in the counseling department. It was designed for transfer students: a combination of stress reduction and relaxation techniques along with an overview of the counseling and academic support services available at U.T.

When I walked in the door, an older woman, probably in her sixties, with white hair tied up in a red bandanna, was the only one in the room (apparently we "older students" like to arrive early). She smiled big and said, "Hello!" I almost said, "Oh, I'm glad to see I won't be the oldest person here." You have no idea how close I came to saying that. I think I even made a gagging sound as I stopped the words from coming out of my mouth. She was so friendly and bright, and I guess I thought it would be a light, funny thing to say.

I'm blushing.

I Guess I'm Really Going to Do This.

I registered for classes this morning. I was up at 6:30 making coffee, making lists, making sure I was clear-headed and ready to go at 8. (I'm lucky that my name starts with a letter early in the alphabet making my registration access time first in the day.) By 8:03, it was all over, and I was registered for every class I wanted. I'm very pleased, but it was a little anticlimactic, after all the warnings about being flexible, having alternative classes picked out, waiting lists, adding and dropping, pleading with professors, etc.

I'll be taking First-year Spanish, Biology of AIDS, American Government, Environmental History of the U.S., and Masterworks of American Literature.

Periodically since I was last in school, I've had dreams in which I'm starting school, but I don't know my schedule, or I can't find the classroom, or I suddenly realize that it's the middle of the semester and I haven't been going to a class I'm enrolled in. Those dreams keep coming back to me now because U.T. is gargantuan, the room-numbering system in the buildings is completely opaque to me, and I've already gotten lost on campus a couple of times. Thank god I don't have a locker with a combination I have to memorize, because I also have that dream from time to time.