Make It Work

I'm stumped.

How can I do this?

I need leather. Leathersex, leathermen, leathercammeraderie. And I ain't gettin' none. And it's making me nuts.

Here's what I've tried so far.

Think Globally. Fuck Locally. Uh uh. If there is a thriving leather community in the Delaware Valley, they're all doing a really good job of keeping themselves well hidden. It's pretty lame out here. If I hadn't moved to NYC from Philadelphia in 1990, I think I probably would never have come out into leather. What would be the point of that?

Find a Steady Eddie The chances of that happening seem to be slim to none. I mean, it's not like I haven't looked. I've been to the Raven. I've been to the Bike Stop. He ain't there. And, according to the Baron, he ain't anywhere. In an episode of Sex In The City, the question is posed, 'How many loves of your life do you get?' Carrie worries that because she's had two (Mr. Big and Aidan), she's pretty much exhausted the possibilities for this lifetime. The Baron would tend to agree. I've had it with Special Guy. Men of his calliber don't happen along every day. In fact, the Baron, being of a medieval mindset (i.e., much tea leaf reading), feels that Special Guy was, in fact, Special. He and I were Meant To Be.

Whatever. All I know is that there sure isn't a lot going on in that quarter.

I Love New York! Except I don't. Going back there is weird. There are now a Dunkin' Donuts and a Subway on Christopher Street. I drive around forever trying to find parking. Sitting for an hour waiting to get through the Holland Tunnel leaves my mental health and stability so taxed that I can't make a fist afterwards for several hours. But overall, I just have the feeling that I don't belong there. And, NYC guys are not interested in some rube from the sticks. Why would they be? Why block out an hour on a Saturday two weeks from now when there's a hot boy in the West 30s who's up for it now? There's just not the attention span required. So that doesn't work.

Nope. New York City is good for softball, but not for romance.


Now then. Where does that leave me? What are my options?

Leather Tourism This would basically mean going to MAL, followed by SmokeOut, followed by American Brotherhood Weekend, followed by IML, followed by Folsom Street East, followed by Dore Alley, followed by Inferno, followed by Delta (or vice versa in alternating years), followed by Santa Saturday, and then it's back to MAL.

Well no. Not this blue collar guy. Y'see, this year, I get no vacation days. Next year, I'll get five vacation days. And five the year after that, and the year after that. In year four, I'll get ten. And then there's the expense involved. I doubt that I could make that work. In a way to be meaningful, at least.

Bi-Coastal Or, in the alternative, Bi-National. Or Bi-Metropolitan. There are some amazing men out there, it's just that none of them are within driving distance. I'm meeting up with one in the weeks to come. Now, what if it 'works?' What if the magic happens? What then? Then he flies back to... y'know... that city he lives in. I'd say that optimally, we could see each other once a month.

Could I live with that? Could I make that work? Do I need more? Would interstitial phone calls and emails do it for me?

That is a tough call.

Forgo There's a great John Updike short story, The Country Husband, about a suburban dwelling family man who starts obsessing about the nubile baby sitter. He goes to counseling. The story ends with him in his woodshop, building birdhouses, on the advice of his psychiatrist. The babysitter is forgotten. It's what we used to call in English courses 'an ambiguous ending.' In other words, is this man gonna be happy and fulfilled building bird houses in his garage? Or do we all make our little bargains with the devil to get through life? Isn't that part of being an adult? Learning to compromise?

Couldn't I just take delight in my job, softball, gardening, lattes at Starbucks, and all this Nay-cha (as they call it in Canarsie) that we got around here?

That would be tough.

Y'see, sex--and by that I mean, sex with men, and all the intimacy and connection attendant thereto--is pretty much what psychologists call the Organizing Principle of my life. So if I were to give that up, there would go the gym, and my self-esteem, and my sense of well-being. And so much else. Now, those sex-drive dampening anti-depressant medications that Guy Baldwin mentions would probably help a lot. But hell, I'd be such a different person that I think I'd be unrecognizable to myself. And I think I'd end up having some sort of 'A Death In Venice' moment: I'd be arrested for trying to stick my tongue down the throat of some straight guy at Starbucks, or get up on the sanding table at work and disrobe in front of Nightingale while singing I Wanna Be Love By You and they'd cart me away and I'd be all over the local papers and my father wouldn't be able to show his face at the monthly senior citizen lunches.

There Is A Light Which Never Goes Out Keep at it. Whine. Bitch. Complain. Go off like some knight errant, making that hour-and-a-half drive to wherever and come home chewing the bittter cud of disappointment, but keep plugging away at it.

Keep. Plugging. Away. At. It.

Find a way... actually many different ways, probably one a week ...to keep hope alive. To keep thinking that maybe This Time when I drive down to the Bike Stop, I'll meet a guy. A really great guy. A kinky guy. A big, bearded, cigar-smoking kinky guy. A guy who runs an autobody shop. Or who works as a physical therapist. Who drives a black Dodge Ram 4x4. Who has done a lot of work himself on his house. And who takes one look at me and just about falls over with desire. Who wants me bad. Who keeps calling me. And gets my father, with whom he talks, and says things like, "That son of yours seems like a really great guy." Who makes a plan to 'get me': I get home from work, and there he is in the driveway. He worked it all out with my father. He takes me out to dinner. We take a walk along the river, talking. Then he drives me back to his place. We sit in his hot tub, smoking cigars. He fixes coffee and dessert. We start kissing, touching. He looks deep in my eyes and whispers in my ear, "I could really get used to having a man like you around." Then he takes me upstairs and we wreck his bedroom having a no-holds-barred, mindblowing, work-up-a-sweat, earth-rocking, fuckfest that leaves us both almost weeping with joy.

Hey. It could happen!

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