“They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” – Andy Warhol
Living near the coast in San Diego is wonderful, but the marine layer often chases me east for vitamin D and vodka. A favorite destination of mine is Palm Springs. If you’ve never been, you should visit. In the summer, temperatures approach 120 degrees. What’s better than the blazing sun, ice cold beer, cool misting systems, and a dipping pool? Strawberries and Cool Whip, perhaps–only if they are fed to me by a buxom young lady.
Another fine thing about the weather is it remains warm at night. It’s fun to stroll around town, admiring the packs of bachelorette parties. I always offer three words of advice, “Don’t do it.” Occasionally, I’ll break out my Bugs Bunny voice and say, “You’ll be SOR-ry.” People don’t appreciate Looney Tunes nor my marriage aversion, for that matter.
Palm Springs is also a popular destination for gay men. In fact, my favorite restaurant is a haven. These men usually have fine-tuned straight-dar, and realize I prefer pussy. Still, I seem to present a challenge. Much as I’m not offended if the man next to me likes meatloaf, I don’t mind if he likes meat injections.
“Look, I know you’re not gay, but I’m still going to hit on you. You have lovely eyes.”
“Thank you and, you are correct.”
“The not-being-gay part. I am flattered, though.”
“Have you tried it?”
“Not even a little experimentation during adolescence?”
“I experimented plenty, mostly with myself, a magazine, and sperm-absorbent tissues.”
“You might like it, you know.”
“Nope. Again, sorry. You’re a handsome fellow. I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a young man to enjoy.”
“What if I want to enjoy you?”
“Wouldn’t you agree it’s more fun when both parties enjoy it?”
“Oh, you’ll enjoy it. I’m very good.”
We continue our discussion–absolutely blocking me from vagina, which was scarce, to begin with. He has a partner he’s been with for thirty years. They rarely have sex anymore, sleep in separate beds, and go have their little trysts, which are known but never discussed.
Relationship paths are remarkably similar, regardless of the types of people involved.
He spoke about his first love: the high school football star, who had to hide his sexuality. It was the stuff Lifetime movies are made from. (OK, maybe Bravo!) Then, we got into the typical destination for most discussions involving me.
“So, why are you single, Phil?”
“You say that as if there’s something wrong with being single.”
“Well, don’t you want someone to love and take care of you as you get older?”
“I love and take care of me.”
“Ah, but we all need more.”
“There’s the difference: While I want more, I certainly don’t need it. Neediness is unattractive. You have someone you love, yet you sleep alone and you’re out here trying to turn me like a vampire.”
“I do love my man. I have a bird I love, too.”
“What do you love about them?”
“I love being able to take care of them, as well as the interaction.”
“So, love to you is not having someone taking care of you; it’s having someone to take care of.”
“I guess so.”
“There’s another reason why we get along, but won’t be doing so nakedly: We’re both nurturers, not nurturees. We relate. But, we each require a little project/person to make happy in order for us to be happy. As long as that person shows appreciation, love flourishes.”
“Sounds poetic. Are you a writer, by chance?”
“No, I am a writer by choice.”