When my father graduated from college he was given a Rolex as a present. Through his twenties, when he was wasting time with boring women, boring jobs, and generally being a misfit he would wear that watch. And to this day he will say “Jon, that watch has seen me through many tough times”.
I’m not exactly sure what he’s trying to tell me through that statement. But I know what it means to me.
When I was in high school. A Freshmen, I believe. My father bought me a watch. It was nothing special, really. A Swiss Army with ratcheting bezel. But through the act of buying it with me and feeling the cold weight of stainless on my skin I felt like I had finally entered manhood. Forget the car, that was filled with more anxiety than it was worth.
No, the watch was my introduction.
I took my Swiss Army with me to Ithaca, NY after my Sophomore year of High School. The most formative 3 weeks of my entire life. Those 21 days at Cornell were my first experience in a group entirely composed of other intellectually curious kids. It was the first time I essentially had limitless personal freedom. I was an out gay man (boy). I made friendships, which I will always remember. And always treasure.
It was that same summer, wearing that same watch that I had my first kiss.
My Swiss Army was a piece of home in Philadelphia when I finally left that home for good. When coming back would never be the same again. It came with me on my first college date (with a law student!?) in late September. It saw me through all of school. It would never give up.
It saw me through good and bad. Really bad. Times of depression. Times when I was so lost I didn’t even know I was depressed.
And eventually it gave up. Literally.
The circuits inside just broke.
It was fixed, alright. Sort of. For $125.00 it now ticks.
But for some reason it never felt right again.
And un-ironically I lost it soon after.
While I didn’t feel as close to the watch as I once did (its’ soul had been lost, after all), I was still heartbroken. I felt like my best friend was truly gone forever.
Until this weekend. On Sunday, December 6th I found my Swiss Army watch. It was still ticking.
It was waiting for me.
But in a way, it’s me who’s still waiting.
I don’t know what it means to have my watch back.
Like a window on the past. It seems so far away now.
Maybe that’s why it broke in the first place. It was meant for the person I used to be.
And not the person I am now.
I feel ashamed to wear it to school. I feel ashamed to wear it at home. I feel ashamed to have it on my wrist. I’m not sure I deserve it now.
For all my faults.
And I had many.
He makes me smile.
Sometimes I’ll run into a fag I knew back in the old days. And it’s fun to catch up. I’m back in my home town after all. But then I realize that I really am not that same person. I can be better.
So yeah, my watch has been through a lot with me.
My life is somewhat more ordered now. It has a shape and outline. But I like to remember those times. When there was possibility. When I was met by wide open road.
I’m going to keep wearing my Swiss Army.
If only as a reminder.
It’s been an eventful few days. Too eventful if you ask me. I feel like I finally hit a wall of sorts.
I’m standing in that place where all that pining and all that work just sort of… Bleeds to the distance. And sure, I would have felt this way irregardless of other facts.
But it’s more stark. He stands there. He doesn’t have to speak. He doesn’t have to do anything at all. Because he’s miles taller than everyone else.
It’s a joke, really. Laughable.
I spent all this time going out. Not sleeping. Looking my worst.
But then it all becomes crystal clear. Obvious.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him on Saturday. We saw art, Maybachs, a Fiat 500, and Daytona watches. But he shined brighter than any of them.
Wrapping my arm around his shoulder, tugging at his jacket, hugging goodbye.
I tried everything I could, short of a kiss. I hope he felt it.
I have my foibles. I take him for granted. Maybe I had high expectations of other people. Maybe I thought the difference was smaller.
But the difference is a huge chasm that probably could never be filled.
But my mom is right. He’s just worth it.
No, he doesn’t want all the same things I want.
No, I won’t be on a plane in three weeks headed west.
It’s time to stop seeing Jeff as a Red light opposed to things I WANT.
He’s a green light saying yes to ME.
Everything else (read, Slut Boy) is just window dressing.
I have a hard time going to the movies, reading books, playing video games, watching TV, listening to music.
That is, I have trouble putting faith in that media when I don’t know how it ends. Or at least understand the main thrust before walking in. I want to know what happens before it does.
I play the same video games over and over again. The same movies. Read the same books.
Because I know what to feel and when to feel it. And I love it.
It can be a big problem. Never taking risks. Self-fulfilling prophecies.
And I’m doing it again. Right now.
B and his blue backpack. Covered in white scrawl. Jokes and band names. The pulp of his life.
I did everything I could. I threw away “No Strings Attached” and popped in “The Moon Is Down”. And I knew it wouldn’t work. I knew it was hopeless. Which is why I walked down that path.
And I’m doing it again. Right now.
It’s a good feeling, rejection. It reinforces everything you’ve come to believe. It’s almost a relief to know that there simply is no chance.
I’ve arrived in this place in less than six months.
The process of digging out begins now.
It’s not that I think I didn’t make it clear the first time.
And it’s not that I’m looking for some kind of pity/sympathy.
I’ve lived this way for the entirety of my adult life (or at least until the testosterone started pumping). I’ve made it this far. And I’ll make it further.
But it is a strange thing. No doubt. Cliched. But strange.
When I think of the qualities I want in another. My personal checklist. From the intellectual to the emotional and the physical. I start of pretty well. Not perfect, but I’m holding my own. And then bit by bit I start to fail my own test.
And in the end I’m a complete mess. Totally out of the running in a contest I designed! How can I fail my own test!?
True. Lots of people find themselves in similar situations. I’m just one of millions.
For most people (assuming similar taste) Slut Boy would have been a lovely interlude. Some eye-candy. A testament to aesthetics. Something fun. A challenge.
What have you.
For me Slut Boy was a slap in the face.
A Skinner Box of punishment.
The embodiment of “no”.
What I cannot be. What only others are capable of.
I saw him. But he was behind thick glass of my own mind. Out of reach. Out of contact. Out of range.
No lie. It’s not easy to wake up and lay myself down feeling that way. Knowing that at best I’m a spectator. At worst, the court jester.
Without names I will admit that I finally feel the way a good friend once did in college. I get by alright. I’m smart. I’m sarcastic. I spit out witticisms quick enough to make an impact.
Completely harmless.
I’m not the shunned loser in the corner. 200 lbs and playing WoW.
But the real game is cut off from me. Beyond my grasp.
Worst of all, if I had to make the judgment I would come to the same conclusion.
After all. I failed my own test.
Wow. I never write titles like that. But as all of you who’ve spoken to me this weekend already know I had a run-in with a “hired gun” of epic proportions.
So I should have been studying but it was Friday night and I just couldn’t say no. Besides, I hadn’t yet been to this bar. So we went.
It was a dive. In some ways good and in others not as good. There seemed to be quite a lot of smoking going on in their outside area (read back alley). Connecticut gays must have a real addiction going on.
Anyway we approached the bar and the first two things I noticed.
One. They served mixed-drinks in plastic cups. Yeah. It was a dive. Thus it would be a beer night for me… for the first two anyway.
Two. Asian bartender. Now, I may not be a genius but I’m not so dumb as to not understand what’s going on here. If I owned the bar I would have done the exact same thing. You have a gay night. This necessitates hiring of intensely attractive straight bartenders so that you have no “fraternizing” but you also get lots of money because the fags are like nicotine-addicts. They see meat and they just can’t say no.
And in this bartender’s particular case, the attraction wasn’t anything high-brow. He was going for the gut.
Hair. Not quite a true Mohawk but definitely taller and more defined than a Fauxhauk.
Piercings. Where to begin? Two big studs in his ears, an industrial bar, both nipples pierced. Yeah… slutty. You know it. But could you say no?
Tattoos: He had a lot… On his chest, back, and lower abs he had several small Chinese character tattoos. I don’t speak the language, I just admire the view. He also had a “whore tattoo” (read tramp stamp) but not on his lower back. Instead it was on his shoulders. They drew attention to the muscles 
.
Body: Yah… and here I just couldn’t look away. Totally buff. But not so cut that I ran away in fear. He cares a whole lot about his body but he’ll have a drink once in a while. But make no mistake, super cut and beautiful. Just not the scary kind.
Skin: I want to know where he got these genes. First off, it was the most beautiful tan shade I’ve seen in a long time. Sure, it was pretty tanned but not so dark that he had over done. And his complexion was amazing. Not a flaw to be seen anywhere. And smooth as all hell. Really amazing.
I didn’t know what to do with myself all night. This bartender was hired and designed to appeal to every raw instinct in my body. I forgot my higher brain functions and let my dick do all the work.
Of course, I didn’t actually do any work at all. I bought a couple drinks, left him slightly larger tips and eyed him longingly from time to time. Sure enough a friend of mine told me that while this boy claimed to be straight he’d heard that he’s really in the closet but only fucks other asians.
Typical.
Whether straight or not, this guy was doing exactly what he needed to do. Let you get just close enough to shell out the cash but never cash-in.
Sometimes attraction is about the high cheek bones and perfectly coiffed hair. The great clothes. Sharp wit.
Other times it’s raw sex. I’ll admit it. I like that image.
Despite what my wallet may say.
Slut boy can stay.
