The following story was sent to me by a dear friend when I asked him what was up with his ongoing 20+ year “relationship.”
It’s a beautiful story of a unique kind of love; an entertaining story of a non-traditional relationship that many of us share in one way or another but one that not many people are talking about.
It’s time we all start telling these stories – coming out of the closet in a sense and speaking our truths. Love is love is love – no matter who or how. It’s all beautiful.
(Warning: this story contains profanity, “inappropriate” humor, and gay related subject matter. If you are offended by these sorts of things, go read someone else’s blog. 😉
Onto the story…
I was dancing with some crazy girl at The Nectarine Ballroom in Flint one drunken autumn night.
According to the Kinsey scale, no man more homosexual than I has ever walked the Earth. I still find women’s forms beautiful though, like a fine car, a well bred horse, or an intriguing sculpture.
I may stare for hours, but I will never stir, if I’m not being too subtle.
I prefer the company of women even, but exclusively the witty, wild, and free. If she’s also a bit dangerous – to the front of the line.
This young woman was all of those things. From tequila shots to the dance floor, her aura was on fire.
And so we danced.
I’ve danced with far more women than men.
Ironically, I tend to find most gay men I meet rather off-putting, with their polished bitchy attitudes, ridiculously expensive shoes, overpowering cologne, and their outright refusal to familiarize themselves with power tools.
And straight men are, well, straight. We’re Iike cats and rabbits.
Now I’ve snared many a rabbit. I’m not gonna lie. But alas, it was a phase. They longer do a thing for this cat, with their constant mindless gollumping around with those big feet and ridiculous ears, shit just dropping out wherever it may.
I just wanted a sweet, smart, funny gay boy who would play in the mud.
I wanted a man who could help me choose the right curtain fabric, then race our motorcycles all the way home from the fabric store.
The fact that my heart might as well have longed for a unicorn on roller skates weighed on me at times.
The rest of the time I had my feral Amazons to play with.
And I had plenty of sex, going thru men like so many tissues, collecting numbers like trophies, kicking them out before breakfast, never to see them again.
I could never find the kind of man I wanted, but my sluts and Amazons were a satisfying substitute.
They gave my life plenty of laughs, orgasms, and symmetry, so that was the path I chose.
Her name was June. The girl at The Nectarine. Russian. Mad as a hatter, as it turned out. Also quite dangerous. I was just drawn to her, like lightning to the highest tree.
Finally exhausted, we went to her booth to meet her girlfriend and have another round.
Her girlfriend was Carrie.
Upon meeting her, everybody else at the bar seemed to fade back into the dance floor fog, leaving us room to focus on each other entirely.
For the next few minutes or hours, we spoke of many things, of fools and kings and then the night was past. I rose and said goodbye, both of us sorry we would never meet again, without saying it out loud.
Still feeling her gloriously abstract nature sinking into my soul, I bent back down to her and said with a twinkle in my eye that she would have been fun to get high with.
I didn’t even know if she smoked pot. Hell, it was still pretty new to me.
She just smiled a thoughtful smile and I turned and left her.
About a week later I was at a birthday party for one of my best friends, a block from my house.
As it turned out, he was somehow dating Carrie’s best friend and roommate. Naturally, she was there too. Imagine our surprise.
As soon as it was polite and our disappearance wouldn’t be noticed, we yanked a 40 out of the cooler and took off walking around the block.
Our buzzes still young and on the upswing, our talk of fools and kings began just where we left off, the minute we hit the sidewalk.
We talked and passed the beer back and fourth.
We laughed because her hands were so small she had to stop walking each time and grip the forty with both hands before knocking it back like an alcoholic Pezz dispenser.
We then came upon a boat for sale.
Suddenly longing for a boat, to be in one at that very moment, we decided to just jump in. Right there on frickin’ Walton Blvd.
We would be quiet. It would be a snap.
Once the traffic was clear in both directions, I ever so gingerly stepped upon the ladder on the back and proceeded to climb in, just as soft and quiet as a bunny fart.
Two steps up I realized the boat was moving. It was tipping. Back. Fast.
The ass end came slamming down, hammering the propeller into the concrete with a mighty crash.
I then vaulted up onto the floor of the boat, causing the trailer hitch to do the same.
Calmly, I sat up, looked at Carrie, and said, “Your turn.”
Matching my ridiculously calm cool demeanor, she shimmied up behind me, also matching my graceful crashing and banging.
We layed on the floor of the boat, continuing the conversation, pretending we were on a lake until we thought for sure the cops were coming for us.
20 minutes later we were climbing into an above-ground pool one street over. Right by my parent’s house.
After that we sat in my front yard and talked until she horked on a tree my dad planted when I was six.
On the way back to the party we decided we needed to get an apartment. I told her we would be together forever.
A few months later we had an apartment.
As it turned out she was, in fact….
The best person you would ever want to get high with.
We quickly became big rave stars, with vintage platform shoes and glittery false eyelashes, sucking, snorting, fucking, licking, and smoking everything that wasn’t nailed down.
A year later we rented a 10 acre farmhouse right across the street from Oakland University, at I-75 and University Dr.
As raves began to wear out and run thin, it was no trouble luring kids out to our property for bonfires, good free home grown, and my 200 ft long downhill slip & slide.
That was how our paths merged and become a new trajectory.
Carrie also seemed to share the exact same dating curse as me.
Straight women bored her and every lesbian she met had high-top gym shoes, a mullet, a pickup, and a baseball cap collection that was growing strong.
We preferred to opt out of the rigors of dating and just be with each other.
We’ve never been at all sexual with each other. We’ve never even seen each other naked, except maybe for one late night pool party with the boys I’d rather forget. 😛
We have always acted in many ways much like the traditional straight couple, splitting the chores, hosting the parties, nursing each other when we’re sick and all the for better or worse stuff.
When close friends would inevitably ask us what we do about sex, we simply replied, “We order out.”
We became sexual predators, out for mostly one night stands, but if we ever found anybody cool who could live with “The Situation,” we would try to keep them.
The Situation is, Carrie and I will always live together. We will always be each other’s emergency contacts. You, will be in the guest room, if you get in at all.
Yeah, so far no takers, but we don’t really care.
At this point, who wants to spend another 20yrs breaking in a new roommate? Pfff.
I’m proud to say our long long talk of kings and fools lasted into the wee hours of morning, for many many mornings, spanning many many years.
Passions fade and eventually we know all of each other’s thoughts, stories, and feelings. It’s not sad. It’s the natural course of things.
We still stay up talking far past our bedtimes from time to time, but there are more comfortable silences.
Like Anne Rice’s vampire gods, Akasha and Enkil, sometimes it seems we just sit at each other’s sides in silence, like statues.
It’s as though instead of speaking we were emanating a single harmonious vibration, like a single complex flower in the universal garden.