my mother has moved to san fransico. this is a good thing. it almost feels like it was meant to happen. she has arrived with a new attitude, re-new’d energy and is being very supportive. she found an apartment her third morning here — it is just two blocks up the street.
a lot of things have happened over the last several days. most not at all good. in fact, most have been quite horrible. but, my mother’s arrival has been a positive thing in my life. and, her’s.
changes, evolutions, revaltions, changing of wind and thought.
we had to stop the car. i was having one of these scary/odd experiences which i am told are “normal” for someone in my current mode of condition. i step’d out of the car, leaned on to the pavement wall over-looking this beautiful city.
i was trying to gather my thoughts and balance.
i lit a cigarette and heard a familiar voice call out my name. it was a former co-worker from my last job. …the best job i’ve yet to have. and, this former co-worker is someone for whom i have a great deal of respect and love.
i felt horrified, self-conscious and confused. but, she rushed to me and gave me a hug. and, though, i felt as if i were floating several blocks above the situation, i managed to speak.
as difficult as it was on one hand, it was so perfectly timed on the other. and, as it turns out, this other hand far out-weighed the first.
we only spoke for a few moments.
the exchange made me feel good. it gave me hope.
hope is so crucial, but these small moments glue the random pieces together to form a life.
…it’s the small moments that matter.
When I left the confines of Texas at 24 and moved to Boston something “new” started happening to me. As an example, I might be standing on Boylston near the library waiting for a friend — or I’d be on Columbus waiting to meet some other pals — and some gay guy would approach me as if I were working the streets. I’d be offered money for sex. These men thought I was a prostitute.
At that time in my life I was mif’d but somehow flattered. I would politely decline and explain that I was not for hire. Later, in my 30’s this odd situation continued. The flattering aspect of it had disapated and I was left frustrated, humilated and annoyed. I would decline, but not in a very polite way.
Then, after the world as I knew it in my late-30’s came crashing down around me — I decided to take the advice of my pal, A, and sold what I had and moved to San Francisco. At that time I was very much over-weight. I lost the weight pretty fast due to the fact that I really didn’t have enough money to eat and was constantly walking around this beautiful city when not looking for a job.
Now, the odd thing was that as I was pushing 40 gay men were still propositioning me for money in exchange for sexual favors. Being 38 and about 60 pounds over weight, I took a sick sort of enjoyment at the idea that anyone would want to pay me for sex. However, I didn’t really understand why a person would mistake me for a whore.
By the time I had been blessed enough to meet my B and fall into real love and finally found my dream job, this crude mistake of my fellow gay brothers really began to distress me. I’d be walking home from the non-profit media organization for which I served as Office Manager — usually by way of the Mission to the Castro — and some dude would ask me $50 for a very personal “service” — I was angry and confused.
I’d walk into the apartment and examine myself in the mirror. Was it my shoes? What was I projecting that made horny men think I was hustler? Maybe it was my thrift shop shirts. It had to be something because men seldom just made a pass — they just jumped ahead to the conclusion that I was for rent.
Now, I just turned 42. I am almost at my goal weight but am in bad need of tone-ing up my body. Working out is a bit of a challenge as I work through all of this PSTD horror show. …I’m always a bit dizzy and off-balance. And, I am being mistaken for a whore more than ever! Ugh!
I finally decided and announced to B, A and Ing that the next time it happened I was just going to ask the individual why he thought I was a hooker! But, the next time it happened I was having a bad day (sadly, I have loads of them as of late) — and all I could think to do was to sternly advise the chump to do something off and toss my cig at his feet.
However, it happened to me again yesterday! This time in a park near the ocean. I had just walked Little Bagel, but she had tired. So, I brought her home and returned on my own to look down at the stunning ocean view which was somewhat obscured by the fog of our Richmond neighborhood. I was unable to see the Golden Gate. …only those infamous points.
As I sat looking out at the crashing waves, I felt someone standing to my left. This is the conversation that transpired as best as I can recall:
“So, how much?”
me: “How much for what?”
“A blow job.”
me: “Not going to happen. Do I look like a hustler to you?”
“Sorry, I thought you were working.”
me: “Why? Seriously, why did you see me and think that I was a whore?”
“Chill out, dude. I was just looking for hook-up. I saw you and figured you were selling.”
me: “But, why would you figure I was selling?”
“Dude, I didn’t mean to piss you off. No problem. I’m leaving. I read the action was at the windmill anyway I was just thinking it would be cooler if I just paid for it.”
me: “No, I just want to understand what it is about me that makes people think I’m a prostitute.”
“Look, man, I’m just a straight dude lookin’ to hook up for some sex. I surf down there on Tuesdays and I’ve been thinking about trying this out for a while.”
me: “With me?!?!?”
“No, man. Look forget you saw me. I’m outta here.”
me: “You’re straight? Wait. Is that a wedding ring?”
“Aw, fuck you, man!”
And, this obviously sexually-conflicted surfer dude turned “want to be trick” ran away.
I just don’t get it.
I am worried that it might be my shoes. Maybe I wear male whore shoes.
love and kisses,