I have emerged from the fog of romance into the harsh sun of practicality, none the worse for wear and tear, absolving myself for embarking upon a sojourn to nowhere and upsetting the emotional checks and balances of someone who, as it turns out, is prone to motion sickness. This was not some plot I exacted; he was not on my hit list. Now, here I will have to resort to the usual explanations of the low-life guests of Jerry Springer and Ricky Lake, sheer talk-showese: It just happened.
When you last heard from me it was November and I was writing haikus and sonnets, marveling this amazing thing, love, that had floated in almost unnoticed, a friendship turning to something more, a brother becoming a significant other. When was the last time I was wined and dined? Held hands with someone at the theater, kissed unabashedly on a lamp lit street corner? This was the holiday of dreams. We were co-stars in a romantic comedy, close-up of him in Christmas flannel pajamas toasting our good luck. We were like that girl in “Native New Yorker” who still believed love could really be like a Broadway show.
Most of my friends are fairly new arrivals in my life so had never really seen me in love. Their reactions were generally positive and encouraging, although their raised eyebrows did not go unnoticed. But they gave appreciated thumbs up without having to weigh in with an opinion with which I would most likely disagree. My life is usually an open book but with this man I initially took a vow of silence, believing that talking about it would jinx it. His friends, on the other hand, quickly formed focus groups to analyze the feasibility of this joint venture. Every aspect of our courting and dating was discussed and critiqued and I was given quarterly reports from the board of directors, my ranking abysmal. This was my first relationship by committee, with a script written via email. How far we have come in this game of love!
So Broadway shows close. Joint ventures dissolve. And at the end of a love affair what do you have? You have the luxury of memory. And, if this was something real, you have someone who touched your life and who continues to do so. I have not turned into a bitter and jaded queen. I have not succumbed to pessimism or self-destruction. But I have grown tired.
At first I was afraid, I was petrified…
I am constantly amazed by the brothas who want nothing to do with love. After my latest breakup my good friend, the one who has been alone since the Reagan administration, couldn’t resist the urge to tsk-tsk an “I told you so.” That is general consensus when brothas break up: It was a nice run but now let’s get back to our senses. Here we are, brothers out and proud, ‘bout something and looking damn good, thank you very much. And there is this aversion to getting closer. We kee-kee at fashionable spots among the rich and famous, count scores of beautiful people among our dinner party guests and hob-nob with eligible men on a daily basis and every one, when it really gets right down to it, backs off when it comes to committing to a love relationship. Back in the day we were afraid of being alone. Nowadays we are afraid of being close.
Kept thinkin’ I could never live without you by my side…
So I’m back in the fold of the in crowd, les misérables, who luxuriate in being eloquently single in a city that was designed with them in mind. New York is really not a city for lovers. People who find love here quickly give up the $2,500 apartment and move to New Jersey. All the gay married couples are in Asbury Park; only lesbian couples have the tenacity to stick it out in the city, comfortably gentrified in Park Slope. One day I audaciously imagined myself married and in Bayonne and nearly suffered a panic attack. I quickly grabbed my keys and flung myself into the singular madness of Manhattan bachelorhood where everything (and everyone) is up for grabs. We still write sonnets and haikus, but now they are love poems to ourselves.
Anesthetized to reality, we embrace fantasy. Even as the world alarm clock goes off and we are shaken awake, we are groggy with no sense of urgency, in need of a second cup of coffee before plunging head first into the real world. Where is the discourse on the economy, HIV, the war, the election? We roll our eyes over latte, throats cleared and another segue into mindless banter: gatherings of the Old Guard on Sag Harbor, a premiere in Times Square, what to wear to the nude beach party at Sandy Hook. Fueled with designer martinis and Jello shots, we itemize our society-page appearances: The VIP grand opening of Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle, backstage at “Raisin,” the farewell party for “Caroline.” What is all this talk about gay marriage when there is and always will be sex and the city?
The summer has come and gone, barely noticed. We have adapted to its finickyness and logged in fewer hours by the sea, more in the city. The parades! Two black pride celebrations and one gay pride each for each of the boroughs (except Staten Island). Jersey City and Asbury Park too. Brothas were seen at the hot gathering spots for men of color, the spiffy Luke and Leroys that has at least two party nights for black gay men, and Langston’s upping the ante in Brooklyn with a Sunday party that verges on being classified a good old-fashioned tea dance. Brothas fall into Posh on Tuesday nights and check out the jazz at View Bar on Wednesday. There is an explosion of book clubs and we hotly debate “Passion Marks” and “The Man In My Basement” as Diego orchestrates lush 70s music nostalgia at the Hangar on Tuesdays.
There is a return of the men of a certain age who disappeared from the scene because of aging and self-esteem issues. That or sheer boredom. They married or cared for the dying or hunkered down awaiting the next assault way back in the 80s, devastated by the changing world where they were no longer the golden boy, the chosen. And adding insult to injury was hip-hop, the first black music they didn’t understand. Ah, the man over 45! Boomers embracing doom, believing the hype that they were not beautiful, desired or relevant. They left the scene in droves, taking with them the style, the banter, the attitude, the manners, that made The Gay Lifestyle bearable, even desirable. The young children today, the ones who never knew the Nickel Bar or perfected the art of mingling at cocktail parties, they are the ones who suffered most from the flight of the Talented Tenth. Thirty-five-year-old Ph.Ds with no home training, common sense or wit. Where is the progress in that? Monosyllabic thug-boys wanting the bling-bling that only a sugar daddy can provide. Has the pendulum swung back? Everyone wanting to be taken care of, the children our parents warned us against.
There is no-one, no-one at all/ Never has been and never will be a lover/ Male or female/ Who hasn't an eye on/ In fact they rely on/ Tricks they can try on / Their partner/ They're hoping their lover will help them or keep them/ Support them, promote them/ Don't blame them/ You're the same
The grown-ups have returned, yes I am sure of it. They languish on the balconies overlooking Condado Beach in San Juan, tapping into their Palm Pilots upcoming cruises to Mexico and Alaska. I have seen them planning their own resocialization into the gay milieu, poking their heads into parties where they were once uninvited, re-establishing ties with old friends aging like fine wine in Westchester splendor, walking the promenade of Christopher Street to a sparkling pier on the Hudson that the white status quo has reclaimed. The white world reluctantly acquiesces in the name of tolerance and diversity. These black gay men are the latest comeback sensation, finally confident in being accepted as the right kind of Negro, the kind with connections and clout and who know and have always known the importance of being in and of the moment.
They were in droves at Fort Greene groovefests and organized groups of fifty-something types routinely descend in mass on places famous for plastic superficiality, the shallow and hallowed halls of Chelsea aristocracy: xl, XES, Splash, Viscaya. In pastel retreats well known for its allegiance to youth, brothas of a certain age are boldly wrinkled, gray and out! At their card parties and birthday celebrations the older black man has grown more in the realization that, whatever has happened or hasn’t happened, we are still here!
You think I'd crumble?/ You think I'd lay down and die?
Or maybe that is just wishful thinking on my part. I am most certainly a member of that demographic, dangerously near the mid-century divide. But encouraged by the splendid showing at the Associates party in Washington Memorial weekend where older men were in glorious abundance, I dream of a world where hip-hop and be-bop can co-exist and where thug-boys and griots speak the same language. Wouldn’t it be rich, a splendid scene, where a party is given, everyone is invited and everybody knows the words to “I Will Survive”?
