Surgeons are Sexy

2011-05-14_16-36-45_596 - Version 2

By the time Sonny and I arrived at the gym, at my insistence, to meet his “other man,” Sonny could tell my rage had subsided a bit. He likely noticed the salty, wet polka-dots on my jeans and the fact that I wasn’t breathing fire anymore. I simply asked in calm voice, “Do you mind if I talk to him alone for a couple of minutes?” I just said, “Whatever” figuring they wanted to get their stories straight. I watched them through the dirty windshield, studying the other man to see what he had that I didn’t. Something struck me though; the two of them didn’t really look like two guys who had simply “hooked up.” They looked like they knew something about each other, like maybe they were even friends. In my imagination, all of the guys that Sonny had been with were simply hot fucks on the side, giving him something that clearly I wasn’t able to provide at home. I actually began to feel bad about my part in putting us in this very awkward situation.

 

I was tired. I was tired of the continual recreation of this same scenario. I was tired of trying.

 

After about five minutes, Sonny came over to the car. “So do you want to meet him or what?” I got out and we walked back over to the other dude. “I just have one question.” (That was me.) “Is this just a hookup thing or is there something romantic going on? Their silence gave me my answer. It hit me harder than all the sexual stuff altogether. The other guy just said, “I care about Sonny.” Sonny said, “I’d like to see if there’s something there.” His answer closed the door on two and a half years. “Well good luck with that. I’m done.” It was all I said and Sonny moved out the next day.

 

I was hurting but at the same time I knew that I was now free to do what I wanted. Liberated from the “restraints” of a “monogamous” relationship, I could explore whatever sexual debauchery a city like Los Angeles had for a horny young Southern boy like me. I’d heard whispers of anonymous hook-up sights and knew how to play that game well after years of living in the closeted South. (By the time I fled Dixie, at least 90% of the sex I’d had was with partners who presented a “straight man” face to the world while trolling the parks, public restrooms and gym steam rooms for what they really wanted. I shudder to think of all the bad karma points I racked up helping men cheat on their wives and girlfriends.) In LA, decent looking guy who knows his way around a barbell can spend his days and nights procuring and dispensing with one “conquest” after the other. And that’s what I did.

 

I am an addict. My drug of choice is anything that can give me that “everything is going to be alright” feeling and can postpone any feeling that doesn’t feel great. Sex gave me that and I was able, for a short time at least, to avoid the anguish of having lost the man I had been certain I’d grow old with. But as with anything I use addictively, the shine was short-lived and I began to miss Sonny a lot!

 

I decided I’d given up too soon. Surely there was something I could do to get him back. I called him up and asked if we could meet. I apologized for my part in the disaster that had been our breakup and pled my case for a reunion.

It hadn’t worked out between him and “blue sports car guy” but it seemed he’d found a sexy surgeon named Phil who was the new love of his life. A surgeon?! Surgeons are sexy. Surgeons are rich. Surgeons have their shit together in ways that I certainly did not. It was everything I needed to finish beating myself into a pulp for not being able to hold on to the only man I had every truly loved. All I got from Sonny was a polite, if cold, “no thanks.”

 

I returned to our very empty bed and began to try and face life feeling as alone and lonely as I had ever felt.


About this entry