Finding My Footing

Yesterday, Saturday, the Ball Breakers had a scrimmage against the Dragons. The weather was perfect, and the field was not under water. We were a few men short, so the Dragons lent us a few of theirs. It was a great game.

I struck out my first at-bat. Alas. A poor way to start the season, but I didn't let it get to me. In subsequent showings at the plate, I managed to get on base. My speed is still there. Even though I'm turning forty this year. I fly down the baselines. Like the wind.

But the highlight of the game for me came when a pop-up came sailing out to where I was in Right field. I ran for it, stretched out my arm, and shagged it. My fellow Ball Breakers were frozen like statues. Probably in disbelief. My fielding skilz are... uh... not the best. Sensing an opportunity for 'A Moment,' I looked in my glove, did a double-take, and called out in mock disbelief, "Omigod! How the hell did that get there???!!" It was a Ball Breakers moment.

After the game (we won!), we headed to Manatus to get something to eat, and commune.

Interesting. Since last season, one Ball Breaker has seroconverted. One Ball Breaker who was already HIV positive has had some serious health problems. One Ball Breaker has fallen off the wagon, and is again in rehab for his crystal meth addiction. One Ball Breaker has moved to Florida to join his lover who is retiring down there. One Ball Breaker lost his job, and has just started a new one. I, of course, have had my whole life turned upside down and I'm now in the howling wilderness of Pennsyltucky.

Quite the microcosm, no?

Last summer, I proposed a column in a local gay paper. It was about how gay men make a home for themselves in Gotham. The debut column would have been devoted to the Ball Breakers. I don't know about the other men on the team, but this endeavor of ours, from April through August, is where I've put down my roots. It's where I call home.

Then came the other purpose for my trip to NYC. I went to Venus, the piercing parlor on East Third Street.

Was I really scared heading in there? Yeah. I was reeeeally scared going in there. What if they bundled me into a cab and took me up to Beth Israel Medical Center, telling me that time was of the essence as I had only hours to live before the toxins crossed the blood-brain barrier? Or what if they said, 'Not a problem! We'll fix you up!' as a scalpel was selected to be used for slicing into my tender nipple to retrieve the barbell... "...this is going to hurt. A lot. So brace yourself. And do you want to take your nipple back home with you? We could put it in some formaldehyde for you."

I explained my situation, and my name went on the list.

"Do I have enough time to run out and grab an iced coffee?" I asked.

Yeah. I did.

Off I went into the East Village. I swear, the median age in that neighborhood is like twelve. I did play eye hockey with a sweetfaced punk rock boy.

When I came back into Venus with my iced coffee, I had an idea. I wanted someone there with me. Who did I know who would be able to dash over to Third Street? Diabolique? Gave him a call, but got his machine. UnFortunate? Same deal. I was dialing again when I was told that they were ready for me.

Joe was my piercer. He got me up on the table, and then (Thank the Lord!) numbed me up with something called Hurricaine, used, he explained, for oral surgery. I guess I had been thinking that pain was what they doled out here in big heaping teaspoons, that it was part of the piercing mystique. And although that might be true for piercing, it seems they give you a break when they're dealing with infections.

Cool.

So Joe probed some, and concluded that the barbell was not, in fact, lodged within the flesh of my nipple. He called in another guy for a second opinion. The other guy turned out to be the manager of the store. "This is gonna hurt some," he said.

I whimpered.

And then, manager guy tenderly laid a hand on my chest, looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, "Hey... you're okay."

Oh. I get it. This wasn't a medical procedure. This was a scene. I went right into scene space. Trusting. Breathing. Relaxing. Giving it up.

Thanks, Manager Guy.

So manager guy was in agreement that my barbell had come out. And, he told me my infection was not as bad as I thought. It was just an infection. Go at it with saltwater soaks. Get it to drain. They did some draining for me.

Out with the bad. Get rid of the poison. I am down with that.

They fitted me with a new, longer post, and some bigger beads. It looks really cool. Fucking love it. Stands out a lot more. It says, 'Yo! I'm pierced!', as opposed to the posts and bead I had, which were more like, 'Um... excuse me... you might have noticed that I'm pierced.'

Fuckin love that.

I emptied my wallet into Joe's tip jar, settled at the desk, and was on my way.

I gave another call to Diabolique, this time to his cell phone instead of his landline. He picked up. We talked for a bit, catching up. He's had a few recent losses that he's contending with. Good friends of his who are no longer with us. I suggested we meet up, and Diabolique was amenable. He got himself together and hit the subway, and I took the creaky ol' M8 crosstown to give him some time, and we met at Cafe Rafaela.

D. has been paying a lot of attention to his workouts at the gym. And he proudly showed off the impressive results he was achieving. I told him about the best advice a trainer had ever given me (Eat! Five meals a day! A serving of protein at every meal! Or you might as well be hitting yourself in the face with a throw pillow instead of pumping iron!).

So Diabolique headed off to the gym, and I finished up my tea.

And I had a thought.

For the past few weeks, what with the cold and the infection, I've had more or less an adversarial relationship with my body. I haven't been to the gym once this month.

Even though it's largely a matter of self perception, my sense of myself is that I'm thin as a rail. Spindly arms and legs, like overcooked vermicelli.

Time to change that. Big time. Time to live again in my body.

As soon as the infection is healed, I'm gonna get with the program. From then until I head out for my vacation in Palm Springs, muscle is gonna be the organizing principle of my life. I'm gonna work it. And shove proteinaceous chow down my gullet until I never want to eat another thing again. My body, myself.

So that's my Easterday message. My body is what it's all about. Muscle, sinew, bone, strength, flexibility. The sensuousness. The sheer physical heft of it. The arena of all pleasure. The terra firma of all experience.

My body. To be massaged. To be tested. To be given up in submission. To bring longing and desire to the hearts of men I meet. The body. My body.

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