OTAS, you found it

It’s been an interesting weekend. Friday night I went out to the suburbs to visit diggerblue. A beer turned into a couple beers, and a few beers turned into a night a drunken debauchery. The next day I was dropped off back in the city to enjoy (or, more like it, be irritated by) Pride weekend in Chicago.

Saturday night friends in New York and Atlanta called me and encouraged me to go out for a few drinks to celebrate the gay holiday. I wanted to, but didn’t want to. I’d bought a bunch of new CDs and was perfectly happy having a glass of wine and listening to them. And you see there’s really nobody left in Chicago to go out to the gay bars with. All are generally into their own lives or just plain over the novelty of anything gay. (This is what I get for leaving for 7 years.) But for people like me who actually are gay, I’m still left with the desire to go out with my people, however annoying it can occasionally be. God, if I want to have a social life or meet any like people, I must force myself out of my apartment.

But it takes a little preparation. I went to Jewel and got a bottle of wine, went home and drank half of it. At this point I was relaxed enough to be comfortable being a wall flower. Pathetic, yes, but if I never leave my apartment, I risk sinking further and further into my own weirdness and being a hermit.

So I go to my old watering hole and order a vodka and tonic. Then I stand. . . .

And stand.. . .

And stand. . .

I move to the other side of the bar and stand. . .

And stand. . .

And stand. . .

I stand like a sea anemone whose tentacles are reached out into the current desperately waiting to pull something in that happens to float by.

Someone seems me who’s with a group of people and says: “hey there, where are your friends?”

Okay, like I wasn’t self-conscious enough about this already. “I’m here alone.” I explain, “Most of my friends here are straight or really don’t like to hang out in places like this anymore. And I’ve just moved back after being gone for a while and haven’t developed a new network of people.”

Okay, so it was a long, pathetic, explanation. But it was true.

“Well, you’re going to hang out with us then.”

Just what I wanted to hear. His name was Anthony and was really cool. We had a great time that night and were able to all spend Pride together the next day, too.

Sometimes you just have to stick you neck out and be friendly. Sometimes (1 time out of 20, perhaps) you get lucky and meet people of substance.

To say that the last few days have been intriguing would be a gross understatement. After a week of having the insane house guest and testing for a terrible disease, how could things could get more dramatic?

Just asking that question seems to have temped fate.

Sunday was Father’s Day and I spent a rather painful afternoon with my aunt and grandparents. Once I was out of my family obligations, I was glad to be able to go back (alone) to my peaceful apartment.

Out of the blue I got a call from my second cousin. She initially engaged me in about a half-hour of small talk: work, life, school, etc. Then after an uncomfortable silence, I hear:

I’ve actually called to ask you a question. And I hope you are not taken aback by this or take it the wrong way. . .

(Immediately, I knew what she was going to ask. But for drama’s sake, I’ll move the story forward.)

You know my partner and I (she is in a same-sex relationship) would like to have a family. And we love you dearly and your family dearly. We would like you to help us make that happen. We don’t want an anonymous donor, and if we were to pick someone who we think would be good father and came from a good, it would be you. You would be the dad!

The whole world descends on me. . .

Sure, when I was younger and more naive I thought about having kids – at least in some form or another. Now that I’m older and more jaded I’d completely dismissed the notion. So it’s appropriate that I should be confronted with this now, when I’m psychologically unprepared.

The pressure was compounded when I consider that they want to have a family, and I would be retarding their efforts by saying no. Even if I didn’t want to be a father, per se, what’s a little sperm to give a happy couple a family? For God’s sake, my body makes enough to go around -- what’s passing along a few complex amino acids / molecules to make someone else happy? Right?!

The more I tried to have that view, the less I bought into it. No, it’s not just like a blood or kidney donation – there are my jeans. And this child would be, in part, built from the same stuff that I am, that my parents are, that my brother is. I would be a father, I would care about this kid because of this connection. I would be curious about how the child develops, what it looks like, how it lives its life. I would love it; Not a matter to be taken lightly.

I’ve decided to talk to my parents about it. What they think is important to me.

Aside from that, I’m also not sure what type of relationship I would have with the child. These people live in Louisiana, so I’ll not be a functional part of this family. Is that too weird? Maybe. But then again, my life has been less then conventional: Why start now?

And would he or she call me dad? Would my parents now be grandparents? And would my brother now be an uncle?

Aaaargh. I don’t know. I don’t know. . . .

I’ve consulted friends and my brother. I think I’m actually going to do it. It will give this strange life of mine some sort of longer-term purpose, and I’ll be helping two responsible people who deeply love each other have the family they want. Whatever role I may have in this child’s life, I’ve helped to bring another life into the world. Even if I never see the child, that would bring me some sort of peace.

We’ll see, we’ll see. . .

For the last few years I have been even more “single” than in my college days. As a single gay man I’ve finally been doing what others do: go out, party, meet guys, and try to meet Mr. Right (and have a little fun along the way).

In the process I’m sorry to report that there seems to be more and more people in my community that are HIV-positive. Jean’s informal survey has estimated the sexually-active, bar fly infection rate at 25%. In dating people here, my informal survey puts it at 33%. (Admittedly, though, Jean and I tend to meet some fucked up people, which is for another Opera show.)

Knowing my own status was long overdue. I sucked it up and finally got tested. I really didn’t want to know - ignorance is bliss – but went through it anyhow. Not knowing, and being in a high risk group, has its own torments. So Friday they drew blood and tested me for a number of things.

They told me it would be a few days before I knew the results and, since then, I dismissed it from my mind. That was, of course, until today when I got a message on my cell phone from the doctor asking me “how I was feeling” and telling me to call him back to get the results.

I was mortified. Why would he ask me how I was feeling? And why would the doctor himself call when normally the nurse would? In dialing his number my hands were shaking and my voice wobbled - I nearly had a panic attack.

Of course, I couldn’t get a hold of him and the anxiety continued for several more hours.

Finally, sitting at my desk, he called. In what seemed like an eternity he finally said: “All your tests came back fine --nothing to worry about. Remember, condoms and abstinence are the only way to go.”

The entire free world could have, perhaps, felt my sigh of relief as years of wonder were put at ease (I’ve been thinking about doing this for a LONG time). It was as if the weight of the world was on my back, then lifted.

But, then again, being HIV-positive would have given me a tragic life of a terminally ill person whose life would be cut short just as I finally fell in love, or some shit like that.

But seriously, this healthy existence was easy to embrace. There’s a lot of world out there to explore and I would not want it to be cut short, even if it were the stuff of a great 21st century opera (or bad Broadway play).

Let’s keep the tragedy in the opera house.

Of all the foolish things I’ve done, last week’s tops the list.

I’m almost embarrassed to publish this blog, but the story is so damn entertaining –I can’t resist.

Last Sunday, after getting a drunken phone call from New York friends, I was inspired to go out alone (red flag number one). So I go to Roscoe’s and meet a bunch of fellow Asians. . . we dance and drink the night away and I have a great time.

It was then 11:30pm and I needed to go home. I begin to stumble over to the 7-11 for some Gatorade, cheese and crackers to pre-empt my hangover. While crossing the street this rather pathetic -- but good-looking -- guy spots me.

Hey, man, do you know where I can find a hotel room around here. I’m visiting
from out of town and have lost my friends --I don’t have my cell phone on me.

Now anyone, even I, SHOULD have simply directed him to the loop and on his marry way. No not me.

Do you need to use a phone? If you need to make a call, you’re welcome to use
mine – my apartment is only a block from here.

Do you see where this is going? Yes, I was influenced by his looks, but I also didn’t get too bad a read and he *seemed* genuinely abandoned.

So he comes to my house and uses the phone and is unable to retrieve his friend’s number, who lives in the suburbs. So I, rather reluctantly, offer for him to crash at my apartments.

Yes, some day you are going to find me in a dumpster some day. But the guy was military and visiting from Hawaii -- his ID checked out. Apparently, he was here for a conference but managed to squeeze in a trip to Chicago on the way.

The rest of that night, let’s just say, is something gentlemen don’t talk about.

So the following morning he was able to get a hold of his friend, exchange our information, and make it to the airport in time for his convention in St. Louis.

That day I get a call from him.

Hey, I really think you’re a cool guy and was thinking . . . (God help the
military guy who starts thinking) . . I can change my ticket so we can spend
some additional time this weekend together. Hadaka say?

Perhaps it was desperation; perhaps I really thought I liked him; perhaps it is summer and have some sort of summer fever. I answered “Cool –and you’re welcome to stay with me.”

And that, as they say, is that.

I picked him up at the airport on Friday morning. He arrived in his uniform. Dear God, what am I getting myself into?

We take the el to where I work; he tells me he wants to take a picture of us together while he still has his uniform on.

Okay, weird, but fine. What the hell?

We take the photo opp and he’s off in a cab to my apartment.

Later that day I came home. He greets me enthusiastically at the door.

Welcome home, Matt! I’ve been running all over the place today and want to show
you something.

He pulls out these enlarged (8x10) photos. Dear God, they are the ones we took earlier that day. Things are getting fucked up fast.

Hey, man, and I have something else for you too.

Dear God, what else? He directs me into the bedroom where I find a large orchid plant, a card, and some chocolate-covered macadamia nuts. If I’d thought this was going overboard, I was in for more surprises.

He actually went to Crate and Barrel and bought me a basting pan, oven mitts, a basting brush, and some other kitchen stuff that, apparently, he felt I shouldn’t be without. In total, I would say that this guy spent hundreds of dollars on this stuff that day.

The rest of the weekend was more of the same excessive behavior so that by Sunday, I was totally relieved to have some time to myself.

Note to self: No more picking up people off the streets.

(Though, in some strange way, it was sorta fun –Livin’ on the edge – and it was nice to have someone obsess over me for a couple of days.)