Sinking, Swimming...

In what was probably a bad decision, I texted James mid-afternoon with a sappy, emotional message.

"I know this is totally inappropriate, but I've really missed you the past 24 hours."

There I was, three weeks ago, in my parents living room. Surrounded with Christmas decorations, holiday music on the radio and the prefabricated Noel scent that my mom sprays into each room every year. And all I could think about was James, and what he'd said at our last coffee meeting.

"I really had wished we'd be together at Christmas," he'd said. I agreed; for a religious holiday, Christmas certainly has all the hallmarks of a romantic event. Low lights, fire places, snowflakes, chocolate and love. So as I was surrounded with most of these things, I found myself really missing the one that I don't have.

He wrote back a little while later and said hi. And then, late in the evening, he called. When I saw his name on the caller ID, I debated if I should even answer. This was strange; I miss him terribly, but I really didn't want to talk to him.

At first, conversation was rocky. I was fairly quiet, because I didn't know what else to say other than to avoid blurting out awkward statements like, "While decorating today I was debating in my mind if I'm actually in love with you or not," and, "I'm considering getting back together with you because I only now realized you might be the one for me."

So we talked about nothing. Time crept by, and I toyed with the idea of telling him he should go, for fear of missing his friends at the bar.

Conversation shifted to his life post exams, which he'd just finished. He said he'd been out every night for the past week. "Fun, at least you're blowing off some after-school steam," I said, for once not intentionally going for the sexual pun.

"Uh, you could say I've been doing lots of that," he said slyly.

"Oh," I said, fumbling slightly. In that moment, the last thing I'd wanted to hear about was his fabulous sex life.

The subject changed again, but moments later we were back on it, and his admission, "I've been with someone every night for the last week."

My heart just sort of cracked in a way, for different reasons. As he explained, it became apparent that he'd been picking up, or picked up, at every bar he'd visited. His phone was overflowing with numbers of boys wanting him to call. Sex was abundant, he was getting attention everywhere. Guys that had been flirting with him before were swooping in for the main attraction and now that he was once again single, he was open to suggestions.

"Right now it's more of a get-er-done thing," he said, half-laughing. "I'm not really getting much satisfaction, just in one way."

He told me about the boy he'd gone home with on Thursday, the Abercrombie-like model who teased him that such a nice boy shouldn't get involved with a bad one like him. About the college soccer player who wanted action after his game. The "beautiful bleach-blond, blue eyed guy who I met a long time ago but never did anything with. I waved at him and he waved back, and we talked online afterwards."

"But he forgot who I was, had no idea it was me waving at him," James said. "He still gave me his number though."

It was at this point that I seriously considered calling in the 'too much information' card that I'd proposed before, since all this info about how seemingly easy it is for him to attract attention - any kind of attention - was becoming a little too much for the moment. But I knew I never would...my curiosity is dangerous, and I'm an emotional cutter.

I let him talk, but didn't have a lot to say. When he'd exhausted his tales of tricks, I skimmed into a couple of my own, though mine have been more haphazard and disasterous than sexy and blonde.

"Aww," was all he had to say in sympathy.

In many ways, I can't be critical of his promiscuity. I've been (attempting to) burn up the sheets ever since we parted ways, especially in the last couple weeks. But it still bothered me that he was out there, living his life, having a damn good time doing it. He was swimming in a sea of boys every night. I was sinking in the wading pool.

Jealousy plays a part in it; it's not really warm and fuzzy to hear about all the guys your ex is sleeping with, how sexy they all are and how much great action he's getting. But it's not just that, I'm jealous of the attention he's getting. I guess I never realized just how much people like him, how many people wanted to fuck the boy I was with. Cheers to me for being the guy who got to for so long, though he's obviously making up for lost time now.

But the jealousy doesn't end at the fact he's out fucking half the gay population of Toronto, nor at the fact that he's being lusted after, inundated with phone numbers and e-mail addresses. Part of me is just jealous that he gets to have the fun, the glamour of gay. He's out partying, flirting and fucking while I'm barely able to scare up a date for coffee with someone who isn't certifiably insane.

It all sounds 'poor me' in a way, but it all cuts right to the core of my gay angst that's been in hiding for so long. I wouldn't mind, for once, being the guy out on the town, having numbers thrown at me and taking the cute blonde home.

It's clear that he's not being overly satisfied with the whole situation, as he told me. I know there's more to him than that, and ultimately he wants more of a connection, more than just sex. But it's also clear that he's having a hell of a lot of fun with it, before it gets old. It's satisfying something, maybe even just plain curiosity...it's not substitution for a relationship yet he's taking whatever comes his way, even if it's just a night of sloppy passion.

"It's almost over!" he said to me, emphatically. "I'll be home for Christmas soon, and then no more boys."

"Oh, please," I said, trying to sound like I was kidding. "You and I both know you've got a list of guys lined up for when you get home."

"Well..." he said, hesitating. "But there's nowhere to go! You know that very well!"

A few moments of awkward silence passed between us. "Woah, that brings back memories," he said.

"Yeah," I breathed.

The conversation wrapped up with him telling me he needed to get dressed before heading out. We said our goodbyes, and he told me to keep in touch.

Later, my inbox flashed on my phone.

"I miss you too, Steve," he texted at midnight, an hour after the phone call. "Have a good night."

At least one of us did.

I hear a symphony...

Yesterday brought one of those soul-wrenching moments of sadness.

It was me, Mom and Dad out trying to do some last minute Christmas shopping. As we walked up and down the aisles, searching for this or that, I also found myself searching for another part of James' Christmas present.

We've decided to give each other something, since we're friends and since both of us acknowledge this need within us to do so. When I asked him what he wanted, he shrugged and said, "Something thoughtful."

So I wracked my brain, but all I could come up with was memories of the two of us, not really much that spoke solely to him.

Thus far, I've chosen two things that remind me of him, and are actually quite gay. First, I picked up a CD, Celine Dion's new compilation of love songs. Slightly out of line, but thoughtful since he found himself in some self-described 'Celine moods' in the later days of our relationship.

Secondly, I chose the Sex and the City movie, since we both went to a preview the night before opening night. It was the first time I'd met any of his family (his cousins rode along), and we both actually quite enjoyed the movie.

As I was standing with my parents in line, trying to figure out something else that was thoughtful without being too boyfriendish, I caught the melody of a familiar song.

Before I went on summer vacation this year, James and I went out for one final night to say goodbye. At the end of the evening, he pulled out a bag of stuff for me; magazines for the trip, a travel kleenex tissue pack (always the one to plan ahead), chocolate to eat instead of bad plane food, and a handwritten card that recapped the adventures of our summer together thus far.

It was a really beautiful gesture, and pretty moving; nobody has ever done something like that for me, and reading over what he had wrote outlined just how much we'd grown together.

I drove home that night all warm and fuzzy and sad to leave him behind for over a week's time. I also was amazed at what had just happened, at how someone showed their affection for me so openly and so honestly. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

When I got home, I sat up for a little bit. Late in the night, I checked my Facebook and saw I had a new message. When I opened it, I realized it was a video message from James.

"Well Steve, I hope you have a great time on your trip," he said into the camera, smiling. Music played in the background, but I didn't recognize it, until someone started singing...and James started singing along.



It was that Jason Mraz song, the one I'd heard on the radio and disregarded. But I listened, as James sat there singing along...

"In short this is our fate,
I'm yours..."

After that, James stopped singing along. "What can I say Steve. I'm yours. Have a safe trip, I'll miss you." And he blew me a kiss and waved goodbye.

It pretty much blew me away. For a guy that's been unlucky at love, never able to find that right guy much less than find one who really was crazy for him, what James had done was probably the sweetest thing any boy had ever attempted, and certainly the most meaningful.

So as I stood in the checkout by the cash register yesterday, hands full of James' gifts and head floating in memories, the gentle rhythm of that guitar and familiar voice caught my attention almost immediately. My parents standing behind me, the cashier in front, I bit my lip hard and tried my best not to cry.

My heart just sunk, my chest just felt hollow, and my eyes burned. And the memory of that night, and of his video, played in my mind's eye. And for that moment, all I could think about was him.

I guess that's what happens when you realize just what you've lost.

Breakup...

After a couple months of denying it, trying really hard to ultimately not falling in love, James and I have parted ways.

It all went down a few weeks ago, in the same bedroom we'd spent countless hours in before. The same bedroom where I woke up in his arms after my first Pride. The same bedroom where I told him my dirty little secrets, the stuff that other than you, dear readers, not many people know. The same bedroom where he too let down his guard and told me everything.

Trying not to be cliched but finding no other way of getting his attention, I sent him a text that evening, "Can you come by? We need to talk about something." I waited in my living room, with nobody else home, the TV on for background noise. My stomach clenched in sadness and in uncertainty; was he going to hate me after I said what I needed to say?

A flurry of messages later, and he told me that someone else needed his attention, and that he'd come late. So I sat there, alone, and waited.

He finally came, but not alone; as the lock tumbled, I realized that my roommates had come home the exact moment he had arrived. We all stood awkwardly, with everyone but James knowing what was about to happen. He came over to kiss me and I tried to deflect it...I didn't need closeness at that moment, and I didn't want to give him the wrong impression.

We stalked into my bedroom, I closed the door, and we sat facing each other, me in my chair and him perched on the bed. We talked briefly about each other's day and after a few moments I bit the bullet and started my speech. "Well, that's not why I asked you to come," I started, and then went into it.

How much he means to me, how great he is and how I wish things could work. But I just don't feel enough of that magic 'something' to push things to the next level. Without saying, "I don't love you," I tried as best I could to explain how, even though I was comfortable with him, dangerously comfortable...I didn't see it taking the next step.

He sat there, trying not to cry, nodding along. It felt like looking into a mirror, seeing his face cloud over with each sentence and his eyes glisten. My voice was like gravel, monotone, crunching out words.

I explained how I felt, how even though there was nothing broken between us there also wasn't that special 'magic' that I've always thought I'd feel when I was in love. There was so much that was good, so much hard to find with anybody else, but it just wasn't going to get us to the next level, up to the next stage.

Without ever saying the L word, we talked around how we both admittedly felt the lack of magic. As time wore on, he admitted that he'd been trying, probably too hard, to make things work. "But it's because I feel like there's something there...there could be something there, I didn't want to give up on it," he explained. I'd been trying too, but painfully aware of what was lacking in our relationship.

It became a really involved conversation into the facts of life, of relationships. What truly defines 'happy'? We both like each other, enjoy our collective company and for some reason, we can both share similar tastes in music, food, movies...all things that you seek out in a perspective mate. We were happy in each other's presence, even after six months. We got to know each other, the insides of our minds, the things that not many others know. There had to be something there to keep us together for that long, and cause making a decision to be a long and painful process.

We both acknowledged that the 'magic', that certain something that Hollywood tries to capture on film, that soul-wrenching attraction and draw to someone...was missing. While we were happy, we weren't blissful.

But is anybody? Are even the most happily paired couples really, fundamentally burning up inside for each other? Or does that simply exist in movies, or dollar paperbacks from the drug store?

Neither of us knew the answer. And at that point, it didn't matter really.

"So...what are we going to do?" James asked, subtly trying to figure out if I wanted to take a short break, or a permanent one.

"Well, it's pretty unfair to expect things to get better in a certain amount of time," I said. "I mean, if that were the case...we'd already have enough to get to the next level."

He nodded along.

What was most heartbreaking about the evening was, strangely, how close we felt to each other by the end of our conversation. James even remarked on it, "Tonight is an example of why I really like you, your honesty, your compassion. You thought things through, you take things seriously."

After two hours of talking, and both managing not to cry, conversation wound down. But it was so much more than a breakup conversation, more than the cliched 'this isn't working' that so many simply fall back on. We went into the issues, we dug into each other's souls, and we wound up feeling closer than ever to each other on the most ironic night of our relationship.

Someone had told me in the hours before that perhaps this wasn't the time for us to fall in love. I'm no expert, and from what I see most 'relationships' in the gay community are often too complicated and overcompensate a lack of love with quirks that seemingly do nothing to draw two people together. Yet, what he said seemed plausible; either that, or it gave my overly-romantic self something to cling to:

"Maybe this isn't the time for you two. Maybe in a year, or two, you'll find each other again and be ready."

Strangely, James said nearly the same thing at the end of our conversation. "We might not be ready now, but I'll always have you in my heart. And who knows, one day..."

"The one thing I've always been terrified of is loosing you from my life," I said. "I can't imagine life without you in it anymore. And I've told you that a lot of times," I said.

And so we agreed that we both care too much about each other to exorcise the other from our lives. "I have no idea how this works," I said, "since this is my first longer relationship. I don't know when we get to be friends. Hell, we weren't even friends to begin with. But I want to work on it. I can't not work on it."

We stood at my door and hugged tightly for a few minutes. There really wasn't anything more to say, we were both so sad and so drawn that we really had no idea what to do. But the conversation was over, and it didn't explode in my face...but we were both suddenly back to being alone again, and it was just starting to sink in.

As he walked out my door, and down the hall, all the positivity, the closeness and connection shattered, and I was left with the feeling that I was utterly alone. It was a crushing few moments, seeing him turn the corner and walk away for the last time, and me returning to my bedroom, sitting in bed, alone, and really realizing how alone I was again.

It's taken me a long time to get my thoughts together about it. At the time, I wanted to write, to get everything down on paper so I knew how I felt in the moment. But whenever I tried, it never came. I fell into writers block, and a mild depression, and it's even taken me a few weeks to write this one post. I guess it all comes down to time; it heals all wounds.

But it still really hurts.

Heavy...

"All I want to do is make you happy, because you've made me the happiest I've ever been in a long time."

Forgiving the bad grammar, I read, re-read, and read once more the last sentence of his e-mail to me.

For some reason, I almost didn't want to see it. I almost didn't want to hear that, yes, I'm making someone happy. Why? Because, in my experience, it's something that's hard to trust. I've been there before...sure, this time I have way more substantial evidence that it's true, but it can be a little daunting to imagine things working...still working, for someone where it very rarely has.

But there it was, in black and white. And mixed with the slight unease was a great sense of flushed warmth.

Of course, it didn't take long for me to slip from pleasure to pressure. While half of me was relaxed and happy because of the statement, the other half felt a new weight fall on my shoulders, the don't-fuck-it-up-now-because-it's-getting-more-serious pressure to perform.

Actually, writing this now sounds like I'm a lot more worried by the pressure than reassure by the sentiment. That's not the case; when I got it, and after I kept reading it, I was really reassured by it. It felt right.

I just have to remind myself to stop thinking and go with the flow.

Peer pressure...

Everybody knows you talk about your relationships with your friends.

Sometimes it's to celebrate how ecstatically happy you are. Other times it's to vent your frustrations about your partner, where friends offer a safe place outside of earshot to talk about what's been bothering you.

So, it's no surprise to me that my name has been on James' lips lately, when I'm not around. After all, we're still dating, and still happy. And as it turns out, we're one of the few actually happy couples within his circle of friends.

"It feel weird," he said last night, "being the one that actually has something good to say on the dating front."

I laughed, mostly because I agree; I'm never the one that has had such consecutively good news related to dating. And his point was pretty valid; it's odd for both of us to be actually happy while others are hitting the down-in-the-dumps/I-hate-boys wall.

Being the modest sort, it feels weird to imagine his friends discussing my relationship. But being the curious sort, I naturally want to know just what the hell they're talking about.

During our conversation last night, it became more and more clear.

"They're all happy that I'm happy," said James simply. Well, that's a good thing...but I highly doubt that he would repeat anything too negative about me directly to me. Then things started to become a bit more clear.

While discussing one of his friend's new boyfriends, James mentioned the fact the newly happy couple has only been dating for two weeks. "Seems sort of unbelievable," he said, "since it's been so short. I mean, us...we have like three months!"

I nodded my head. "Yeah, of course, I would hope that means we're a lot closer than they are." I kind of got a little tingle of excitement and wonder at the fact I've been with someone for that long and things haven't exploded yet.

But apparently this friend of his isn't too impressed with our track record, no matter how long we've been going out.

"He says he doesn't understand why I'm still seeing you since we're not boyfriends after two months," James said bluntly.

Huh?

"Actually, a lot of them don't really get it...they think we're some casual on-and-off thing," he continued. Apparently a couple weeks ago, his friends invited him out to a party somewhere, "there would be a lot of single guys. They wanted me to go have fun with them and basically get laid," he said.

The bottom line is, most of his friends think that James shouldn't wait around for me to commit, especially after this 'long'. To them, I represent some guy stringing their friend along, unwilling to slip a ring on his finger and book the Orange Hall...er, wait...just what do they expect me to do?

"I don't get it," I said after a minute. "We've been together for a long time, we've been getting more serious and taking our time with the whole 'boyfriend' thing. Why don't they approve?"

James snorted softly. "I have no idea. One of the things I like about you the most is how thoughtful you are, how you really think things through. I really like the fact you don't just call everyone a boyfriend, that you're actually making sure there's something there. They don't get the fact that we're pretty serious about each other."

The conversation segued into a lengthy talk about labels, and what we are, and the fact that we're both quite happy as is. But even after we'd said our goodbyes, I was still stuck on the lofty opinions of his friends about our relationship.

Just where the hell are these guys coming from? We're about as sane and stable as the best couples, because we've taken our time to make sure we actually like each other before slapping a ridiculous label on ourselves. He constantly tells them how happy he is, and that we're still together. He's told them he wants to be with me - and only me - and to stop suggesting guys for him to date. For all intents and purposes, we are boyfriends...except for the fact they don't see it that way.

I've been doing a sort of slow-burn ever since, rolling things around in my head and trying to think up a more polite response than, "Go fuck yourself." Are these guys seriously as vapid as they sound from my end? Do they really think all there is to a relationship is the simple title of 'boyfriend? Does the fact we've been seeing each other for so long mean nothing to them, except that I'm 'wasting his time'?

Even now, I shake my head in amazement. Here I thought these guys were a little above the crazed scene ideology that has seemingly guided them to their conclusion...but clearly I gave them a little too much credit. While I feel like we've done everything the adult way, they seem to think I'm acting like a child.

I vented some of this to James last night. "I mean, really, what would be different if I started calling you my boyfriend?" I asked him. "I'll still feel the same way for you that I do now, we'll still be the same people, except for some stupid label that somehow would prove to your friends that we're a legit couple."

He agreed, saying that he's happy with the way things have gone, and that he's glad we didn't rush into anything.

"Unless we're getting married," I said, "what will the difference be when we finally use that B word?"

In my imagination, I played out the scene...me, on one knee, holding his hand and asking..."Will you be my boyfriend?" What a load of shit.

Our conversation veered into our pasts, with him describing a few instances of intimacy with the boys of yesterday. We compared notes on the subject, and I offered a little anecdote to go along with one of my little stories. Three quarters of the way through, it happened.

After describing a sexual encounter that didn't go so well, and venting a little of my frustration, I casually said, "Ha, I guess that's something that I really shouldn't be reliving with my...oh God."

"What? What oh God?" he said.

"I almost said it."

He paused. "Said what."

I rolled my eyes. "That word. You know?"

James laughed. "What word?" Ok...he wants to hear me say it now. Great.

"You know," I said, with more than a hint of drama in my voice. "The B word."

He burst into laughter. "Ohhh..." he said.

That little scene proves my point entirely. Just what exactly do James' friends think will change when I finally say that word out loud? I already thought it in my head, and slammed on the brakes before I said it, and it clearly shows that we're on the cusp of it happening.

So what makes his friends think we're less legitimate than a couple who label themselves after 14 days of dating?

His sexy exes...

There are many things I'm still trying to figure out about the almost-boyfriend.

Stuff like compatibility in tastes, compatibility in cultural appreciation, the whole physical thing...

About the only thing I know is that we get along well and like each other's company.

It should end there, really. After all, isn't that the most important thing? That we like being in the same space as each other? Take Saturday, for example. With our plans washed up, we decided to go out and hang out/hike in a park and enjoy the weather. Unfortunately, when I picked him up, it started to pour and thunderstorm as we pulled into the park gates.

So instead of sitting outside, we sat in my car, with the rain pelting the windshield, and just talked. And it was actually really nice.

I'm even trying to wrap my head around the physical end of things, the fact that he's not what I'm really attracted to. Every time I walk by a guy I think is really cute, I sigh a little inside and say to myself, "I wish James came in that packaging."

It's obscene of me to think, since the inside counts way more than the outside...and it's not even that he's unattractive! He's just really not my type. And it's hard, because I think to myself, "Do I keep running with things as they are, or do I end things and keep on searching for 'perfection' in a boyfriend?"

Lately, with our return to school coming ever closer, I also wonder what kind of a couple we'll be in the big city. Will he enjoy going to a gallery as much as I do? Can he handle taking in the Royal Ontario Museum on a Friday night instead of...well, anything? Is he fast food while I'm wine-and-cheese?

Are we going to find that our interests in our 'regular' lives are a lot different, after we have the freedom from small-town confines?

Not that I'm terrified about the possibility, because there are of course plenty of couples that share different interests but can meet on common grounds. It's just the thought that, in my mind, the boyfriend I finally find would be strikingly similar to myself, enough that we'd have similar desires to check out this show or that restaurant.

- - - - - - - - -

During Pride weekend, while we mingled in the crowds, occasionally James would recognize someone and either wave or cower behind me. While trying not to be obviously nosey, I asked him who all these mystery men were.

As it turned out, most were exes, one night stands or part of the similar collection of homosexual skeletons we have hanging in our closets. They were all friendly...or at least the ones that talked to us were...and they were all very, very cute.

One after another, I was dazzled by his roster of very eligible boys. They were a diverse lot of races and sizes, but all set off my attraction meter in similar fashion. I kept thinking, and asking subtly, "Why the hell did you break it off with that hot thing?"

And I kept asking myself, "Why the hell are you with me?"

In one instance, we were walking up Church St. in the dusky light, and I was admiring a tall, lean boy walking south past us. He wore black jeans, a tight-but-not-too-tight t-shirt and a summer scarf. I smiled slightly, appreciating him; he was attractive without being over the top, just another example of what I had believed to be my diverse taste in guys.

"Oh shit," James said, stepping beside me. "That's {blank}."

"Friend of yours?" I asked, sticking my tongue out.

"Well, we dated for like a week," he said. "It didn't work out, we didn't really spark," he added, nonchalantly.

Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. While I understand that without a click there's no point, it's hard for me to see an attractive boy walk by and find out my almost-boyfriend had dated him for a week and moved on. I mean, Jesus, at least date him for a few, he's hot!

But again and again I found the same thing; James' boyfriends and lovers were all striking. And again and again, I found myself desiring their bodies more than his.

What it all comes down to is my struggle to understand this whole conundrum. Here we have a host of boyfriends that have killer looks, who dated a boy I'm now with, who is in my taste of tastes not really my best physical match.

It's bizarre! He's clearly hot, or not all of his exes would be. So why am I just not feeling that intense appreciation of his looks, when by the rules of logic he should be as attractive as all the boys from his past?

I know, I know...I'm weird. I can't explain it. And I hate it, because I'd rather be falling over myself because of his looks instead of wondering why I'm not. Maybe it's some insane psychological thing, that I'm not intensely physically attracted to him because of the fact we've got these feelings planted in each other. Or maybe it's just as stupidly simple as he's just not my type. So now what do we do?

And what does it say about me, another in this stream of boys in his life? Does this mean that I'm as attractive as all the rest of them, that my presence in his life means I stand next to the other sexy specimens who passed us by that weekend? Or am I the freak anomaly, the bizarre being that he's giving a spin because I'm radically different from the rest of the guy's he's been with? That he's simply trying something outside of his usual feast of fabulous boyfriends?

Does it mean I'm attractive, or ugly?

Throughout all of this, I have to reiterate that things are going really well between us. We're both in the longest thing either of us has ever had, and netiher of us really believes it's happening. We don't want to push it too much, because it might explode...yet we're being pushed out of our comfort zones by things actually working out with the guy we're dating.

And all of this stuff is the superficial top layer, the least important parts to a connection of the heart. Still, I find myself wracking my brain to understand the bizarre triangle of looks that seems to have appeared, and so far, I haven't had much luck.

Maybe I'll just break down and ask him.

But I get the feeling that honesty in this conversation might not be the most reassuring policy.

The Big Gay Weekend (Part 3...)

So here we are, a week after my first Pride.

Last Sunday morning had my mind slightly preoccupied with visions of the previous 24 hours. I lay in bed, a body beside me for the first time in months, and took in my surroundings. My legs sort of hurt from the night before, and for some reason I had the twitching of a headache. I heard the sound of the sky opening and rain slapping concrete...

Oh shit! Don't rain on my first parade!

We eased awake at around 11:30 a.m. and did some rolling around between the sheets. But my heart wasn't in it...a little because I didn't feel top notch, and a little because I started to feel that little feeling creeping into my mind, that annoying voice that quietly said maybe I'm really not that interested in him...maybe we're not going to work...

I tried to shut it out of my mind, and made us some lunch. We threw on some clothes and hit the street to full sunshine; the clouds had parted and we were on our way. A quick stop at Starbucks and I had some nourishing coffee in my hand...then all of a sudden James' hand grasped mine.

I reeled. We've already talked about what we are and are not, and we both agreed we're not 'there' yet, but there was his hand in mine again. Only now, it wasn't heat of the moment gay pride, or post-clubbing sex appeal. It was just walking down the street to the parade.

As subtly as I could, I slipped my grip from his and inserted my coffee cup in it's place. I still feel sort of childish not actually just saying aloud what I was thinking, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings or anything... it's such a fine line between being honest adults and making someone upset at the smallest thing. If he noticed, he didn't comment, and we walked toward the parade route.

On the way, he called his friends. The few of mine that were supposed to be coming with me all ditched me for various reasons of varying importance. I was a little sad, considering I thought people were coming with (the more the merrier)...and I was also relieved. I mean, had I not been there with James, I would have been alone.

But we wound up alone. His friends were at the beer garden, having a few drinks before the 2 p.m. start time. We didn't want to slog through the crowds to get back to where they were, so he said to call him when they figured out what they were doing. It all seemed a little weird to me. After all, these were his friends, and they weren't insisting that we join them, or telling us to wait at a certain place to meet.

I asked James what was up with that, and he guessed maybe the wanted to give us some alone time.

"Oh God, they hated me that much?" I asked, joking but genuinely nervous. It crossed my mind that they may not have wanted some random tag-along at the parade...but then again, they didn't care about me tagging along Saturday night...my brain tumbled it around a while, and in the end came up with nothing other than a vague disappointment that I wasn't going to get to know any of them during daylight hours. If James cared, he really didn't show it.

We chose a lucky shaded spot on Yonge St. and waited for things to begin. We stood there, side by side, and James hugged me out of nowhere. With me already slightly on edge about the whole touchy-feely thing, I asked him what was up.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just glad I'm here with you."

Sweet sentiment, but I was trying to figure out just what he meant. For the rest of the day he became increasingly quiet and distant, lost in thought about his parents and what lay ahead at home. I kept reminding myself how alone I felt during those moments, and how great it would have been to have someone's hand to hold for support. So we hugged.

The parade started. I went in with a very open mind about what would pass us by, refusing to believe that it was all nearly-naked men shooting water guns at each other. It wasn't...far from it, actually.

Down the street they marched, the young and old, representing all the different community groups, sub-communities, political parties, police forces, varieties of sports, clubs and bars. For every guy in underwear, there were three fully dressed, representing an AIDS foundation, community interest or other support.

Of course, the hot nearly-naked guys were more fun to look at, but it really hit home the number of people who were out to support sexual equality. Not just that, but the differences in ages was staggering; union members that looked to be in their 60's were marching alongside Amnesty International's contingent of under-30 paraders. It was all a big love fest, and sort of gave you that flicker in your heart, the affirmation that you are not alone. Support the other 364 days a year may not be as visible, but everyone was out for the parade.

I've read elsewhere that once you've had your first pride, you become a little jaded. It doesn't mean as much, the second or third or tenth go-round, because you're less 'new' to the whole thing. People seem to agree that if it's your first pride, you think it's some holy groundbreaking event, but as the years go by you become less and less engaged with it. I'll happily admit it was a fulfilling experience for me, one that I'm glad I had and I'm glad was full of the naive glad-tidings other people seem to regard as being foolish.

Of course, there had to be one moment that hit home for both of us. PFLAG marched by, with lots of moms and dads holding signs like "I love my trans child". It was all nice to see, but the last three marchers of their group really got both James and I choked up. There was a guy our age, standing between his parents, and holding a handwritten sign, scribbled on a cotton sheet.

"My parents rock."

It all came gushing forward for both of us, how elated and envious we both were of this boy. Here he was, marching in the pride parade, surrounded by his accepting, encouraging parents who were comfortable and legitimate enough to walk with their homosexual son. For a moment my eyes stung as James leaned into me.

"Oh Jesus, just don't think about it, don't even say it out loud," I said, knowing what would happen to us both if we started talking about it then and there. He nodded and we focused on what was coming down the street behind them.

After three hours, the parade ended and we started walking back to my place. James wanted to walk through the village 'one more time' to experience the whole thing again before the world went back to normal the next day. I didn't really want to, I was more interested in avoiding the crushing crowds, but he grabbed my hand and led the way. It took us half an hour to walk a block through the masses of people, and I have to say the magic of Saturday night didn't carry over to Sunday evening. Instead of enjoying the diversity and beauty of the spectacle, I just wanted to push through the crowd and get to the other side.

The rest of the walk was quiet, with James lapsing into long moments of silence. It didn't look like anyone was home as he walked on autopilot beside me. Seeing him like that, experiencing it all firsthand in another person, was hard; I ached for him. When we got back to my apartment, he put his arms around me and squeezed. Hard. I pulled him in as tight as I could, and we stood there at my door.

A few moments of me trying to be lighthearted, and we were packed up and ready to go. He phoned his cousin as I told my roommate (who had just got back from out of town) about the weekend so far. Any thoughts of us fooling around once more while we had the chance were removed; the mood was awful and neither of us would have had fun.

The ride home was similarly depressing. When we started down the road, James really looked as if he were going to burst into tears. I grabbed his hand and held it on his lap, and we sat in silence as I drove home.

I dropped him off at his cousin's house, so he could feel out the situation at home before going there himself. In the car he gave me a really quick kiss and a big hug.

"There really are no words," I said, almost squeezing his hand off his body. Any attempt at me trying to distill what he was feeling and what I felt would have been laughable; it was a moment of rawness and I hope he understood how much I wanted to give him strength to walk in the door.

"Yeah, I know," he said quietly. "Thank you Steve."

And he left.

I hurried home, exhausted and a little worried myself. My mom knew exactly where I was...but would my dad have realized I was downtown on the gayest day of the year, and coming home in the early evening after the pride parade? I started worrying myself that I was going to be walking into a house full of questions.

But when I arrived, I found both of my parents in upbeat moods. One of the first things out of my mom's mouth (after dad had left earshot) was to ask if I'd had fun at the parade. I took from that that he had not questioned where I was, and I didn't need to worry.

A very short time later, I was tucked in my bed, quietly reviewing my 24 hours. So many firsts, all of them things that I've wanted. And while I wanted to stew, to wonder if it would be another 21 years before I had those experiences again, the questions didn't take hold in my exhausted brain.

My eyes closed, but the smile didn't leave my face.

The Big Gay Weekend (Part 2)...

As we stepped inside, our host hugged James, and then myself.

"We go way back," he said casually, throwing on, "but how are you!? Haven't seen you in a while!"

I wasn't surprised at who opened the door...I knew a long time ago that James and our host were friends. He'd never really explained just how close they were, but it seemed that they were quite friendly (but no, not that friendly, you pervs...) Admittedly it was sort of intimidating knowing that our host for the evening was an acquaintance of mine that stretched back a couple years. Hell, I knew him before he came out, but I've never known him well.

I could tell he was a little surprised at the identity of the mysterious Steve that James was now seeing, but he shrugged it off. I'd love to be a fly on the wall after the fact, mind you.

As we stepped inside, James hugged each of his friends and did the introductions. I got a friendly handshake and hello from them all, and generally felt pretty at ease. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, chatting away rapidly with each other. The crowd was mixed; they were all roughly the same age, at at a distance they all looked somewhat similar, though close up you could tell each was a little different than the other. They all had a common denominator in my eyes: I'd probably gladly sleep with them all. They were all, in their way, quite good looking.

Since we had left my place in a hurry, I had forgot to bring a bottle of anything to drink. James had...a 4-pack of some variety of Smirnoff Ice. I shuddered as I drank the sugar-water, then glanced around to notice most of the other guests were drinking something similar. I laughed to myself, thinking how truly campy it was.

I also realized that most of the other guests were just that: a touch on the camp side. Not that there was anything wrong with it at all; they were all fun and cheerful, but I felt almost not gay enough. I mean, we're all homosexuals, but I just felt like I didn't have enough outward gay happening. I'm by no means the straight-jock-gay variety...but when placed in a room of slightly campy gay boys I was afraid I came across as just that.

During the next hour I had a few good conversations and got to know some of the guys a little. We talked about Pride week and what we took in school and the usual get-to-know-you conversations. I also chatted with the few girls who were in attendance, and found everyone to be generally good company.

James, being the lightweight that he is, was quite happy when he finished his second drink...while I was feeling positively nothing. Not in the best interest of the evening ahead, I though, though it would certainly help in keeping me from drinking entirely too much.

Someone sounded the alert and we all prepared to leave. As I was standing in the kitchen dropping off my empty bottle, I had a short conversation with a guy who had just arrived. He complimented me on my glasses and told me I had good taste, to which I complimented him on his really well done highlights. It was really funny to actually get to say such a thing out loud, and we talked about how he usually likes to have them done. It also gave me a little perk up; I wasn't falling flat on my ass, and it seemed that at least one of the boys didn't stop and ask who brought the ugly straight guy to the party.

We all piled into the elevator, James' arms wrapped drunkenly around my body. Someone not-so-subtly asked, "Oh, are they together?" as he moved in and wrapped us both in a hug.

The walk to the club was quick and loud, with everyone practically bouncing with energy. Thanks to some advance tickets, we bypassed the lineup and stepped inside. And there I was, past the threshold. Inside I gazed into a room dimly lit and full of boys. I may have swooned.

Our group had gotten a little split up as we tried to get inside, so James and I headed for the bar and bought an armful of drinks. It was at that moment I realized the interesting situation I was placed in. We were standing in line, with him in front of me and my arms wrapped around him. It was very calming to have someone to hold on to, someone who I was there with, that allowed me to hold him and that made me feel like I wasn't out of place and completely lost. It was also strange, because here I was surrounded with gay boys and had no chance whatsoever to slip into any of their arms.

In retrospect, it was probably for the best that I had someone that devoted their attention to me the entire night. Had I went in just as friends, I would have had to quickly tackle the whole flirt/nod/dance/kiss/etc with complete strangers, something I have no experience with and no idea how to do. But at different points of the night, I would still find myself thinking what it would be like to just go out and play with whomever.

The music throbbed as we danced on the spot, waiting to be served. Suddenly someone caught James' attention, and next thing I was shaking hands with a guy a few feet away, between patrons waiting for drinks. I retracted my hand, only to be introduced to another person, who rolled his eyes back, cocked his head and said something to the effect of, "Well I guess I'm not important to shake hands with." I offered it again, but he declined to shake. I then rolled my own eyes and realized I'd made my first bad impression/unfriendly connection with a bitchy queen.

With energy-drink-vodka-things in hand, we stepped back into the thick of the crowd...or what we thought was the thick of the crowd. One of the group came and took us by the shoulder saying, "This isn't the main room tonight...come with me."

We walked through a corridor, and into a room triple the size of the one we'd just been in, full of lights and fog and hundreds of dancing boys. It was as if the pearly gates had opened and we were presented with nirvana.

Immediately we all plunged into the crowd and music and started to dance. For the next five hours, we danced non stop. I danced mostly with James, but occasionally with one of the other guys or the girls in the group.

For the first time in my life, I danced with a freedom I'd never known. I moved and thrusted and waved like I've never done before, and I loved it. We laughed and grinded , as I watched the crowds around us do the exact same thing. Some were shirtless, others simply made out with each other. They were all mostly around our age, dancing, drinking and groping their way around the room. It was amazing. James and I danced, like everyone else, with enough sexual suggestion to frighten my grandmother to death (and probably my mother too), but it was fun to be able to. It all felt right, a verification of things that have been missing from my life so far.

I don't know when, but one of the girls accidentally knocked my glasses clear off my face. Thankfully I grabbed them as they slid down my chest, and I tucked them into my jeans pocket. Not having them on really didn't effect my vision in the dark and crowded room, and I felt less self-conscious with them off my face. I may not have taken off my shirt, but losing the glasses was liberating all the same.

There were some memorable fun moments, outside of the generally great time. At one point I noticed James making out with one of his friends, who then inched over to me and made out with me, who then pushed us all together and caused a three-way tounging. It was fucking hot.

There were also some moments that reminded me of the positive/negative of being there 'with' someone. While James was a few feet away, dancing with one of the girls, I kept noticing the guy to my left looking vaguely in my direction. He was cute, though not as cute as most of the other guys there. A large part of me wanted to shimmy my way over and start dancing, but I felt obligated to behave myself. We hadn't set out any rules about other guys, and I know it would have just been dancing/a kiss or two, all very innocent...but I still felt gentlemanly enough not to do it directly in front of my date for the night.

My most embarrassing moment came around three quarters of the way through the evening, when we were heading to grab a couple more drinks. James was leading me through the crowd by the hand, when I felt something underfoot. People had been dropping their empties everywhere, and I had just stood directly on one. It started to roll under my foot, and I went down like a ton of bricks onto the floor below. The people around us all looked over, and one yelled out, "Wow, someone better take him home, he's had way too much to drink!"

Being past midnight, and having had a couple drinks by now (though not enough to have caused the fall, thank you), and being mortally embarrassed by the fact I'd just fallen flat on my ass, I rose slowly, and using the gayest voice I could muster, and a fey limp wrist, I shot back, "Ohmigod, I think I've drank too much. Someone take me home?" I didn't wait around long enough to see if anyone laughed.

While I didn't feel drunk by the end of the night, I did feel exhilarated. It was such a great time, the energy of the crowd and the fun of the evening made me feel amazing. Even the next morning, I felt like things were blurry and fuzzy; the lights and the darkness and the dancing all made for a hypnotic effect.

Finally, the music wound down, and the crowd shuffled out. On the street we said our good nights, with a hug from each of the guys, and James and I headed back to my apartment. He wanted to walk back through the Village, so we did en route, to find it as packed as before. People spilled from clubs and bars, and the energy felt the same as before. And also like before, James grabbed for my hand as we made our way through the crowd. While I wasn't super-impressed, I didn't really mind at that point.

A girl staggered by us, smiling serenely. "You're beautiful," she said to me, "and you're beautiful," she said to James. "Happy Pride!"

We finally made it through my apartment door. As I switched on the light, James laughed. "Wow, your back is soaked!" he said, bemused.

I flipped on a light and looked in the mirror. "Eeeew," I said, seeing the dark patch at the base of my back. "That's gross. But doesn't everybody get like that?" I asked.

"Well, not everybody..." he replied.

Great, now I'm the only 21-year-old to sweat out half his body weight when he dances in a boiling hot club for the night. Come on, everyone must wind up this disgusting...right?...

"There's no way I'm sleeping like this," I said, "I'm gross. I've gotta shower."

"Me too," James said.

I went to my room, stripped, and stepped towards the bathroom door. My left hand clicked on the light, and I looked back over my shoulder to see James standing behind me.

"Well?" I said with a grin. "Coming?"

Never take the simple path...

When it rains, it pours.

A little while ago, faced with the perpetual boredom and the lack of any gay interaction, I made some inquiries to see if there were indeed any openly gay guys around my age in my area. To my surprise, I came into contact with a small but promising number of them, each one a little different than the other.

It became apparent fairly quickly that only one of the few guys actually had his shit together. While I have no problem with guys who are in the closet or still feeling out their sexuality, I was faced with the knowledge that we might suffer through a bit of a dramatic phase; I wouldn't know what he wanted, he wouldn't be able to follow through, etc.

But the one guy, James, was different from the rest. At each sentence I found we had more and more in common. We go to the same school, live within a block of each other in Toronto, have similar acquaintances, and so on and so on. It turns out we even would have met before this, had I went out after attending a mutual friend's birthday party, where he and a few others were waiting to carry on the festivities.

It started innocently enough. I didn't see in him any sort of boyfriend attraction, and even the sexual pull was perceived to be the work of circumstance; two gay boys in a gay-free zone naturally want to get naked with each other.

And we did exactly that. Even though I wanted to go through with things as building a friendship that can carry on past the last days of summer, we found ourselves kissing, cuddling and groping until finally we blurred the line between 'just friends' and something else entirely.

At first I was terrified. I though I'd ruined the chance at keeping things friendly, that when I told him I really didn't want anything serious our friendship would be over. But the discussion never happened, we kept on our course of coffee and movies and dinners and occasionally blowing each other when the opportunity arose (not an easy feat with the both of us living under our parent's roofs).

But as the weeks have passed, we've grown sort of attached to each other. For some reason, the boy I had written off as not my type is now the boy I find myself texting every night to say "sleep well".

It's bizarre, and I don't know when I crossed the line from thinking of us as 'just friends' to actually becoming interested in him. I'm still mad at myself, because it would have been better to just enjoy each other's company and then carry our friendship to the gay streets of Toronto. Alas, we've passed that mark...though God knows how it happened...

I'm also having my usual terrified thoughts of 'is this what I want/is he right for me?' While he's great on paper, and his personality is complimentary to mine, I still look at him and wonder if he's 'perfect' enough for me. I've spent my dating time so far going out with people, trying to find that one click that felt right from the moment it happened...and it never has. Now, here I am with someone, quite comfortable, and second guessing if I should invest myself in someone that I'm not head over heels for yet or not.

It's quite hard to explain, really, so bare with me. But even physically, he's not what I envisioned as my 'ideal imaginary boyfriend'. He's got a great body, don't get me wrong, but he's shorter and a little slighter than I would have envisioned. There are other things, but in essence he does not embody the 'imaginary boyfriend' I designed in my last English lecture.

Still, I'm trying to go with the flow and not let that stop me. The bottom line is, I'm having fun, I do have a soft spot for him and I want to see where things go. We did have a semi-confessional conversation last Thursday when I had gotten back from a friend's party and was sufficiently lubricated to speak my mind and vent my fears. He pretty much repeated the same as me; how it was unexpected, back home of all places, how it was untested, since we're both not able to just stop by and cuddle on the couch on a Tuesday night, and most importantly: is our attraction and our situation borne from a real connection and click, or is it just circumstantial from being the only two gay guys we know in the area?

Since then, we've kept things really out in the open. We're both pretty careful about commitments and labels and all of that, so things are so far very unofficial and untested. Our bottom line seems to be, "I have fun when I'm around you, and I just want things to keep on going like they are."

This is all fine and good by me. But when it rains, it pours.

He decided to skip a friend's birthday party in Toronto to instead spend the evening with me when my parents were away for the night. At the time, I didn't think anything of it, but he got quite a bit of flack after the fact. Seems his friends want to meet this mysterious boy who was important enough to miss a party for.

Funny how he even met his friends...they all go to our same university, are all our age, and all met through the GLBT group's meet and greets since they all didn't know any other gay guys. Yes, go ahead and insert several ironic comments here.

So, the invitation was extended to me, and come Saturday night I'll be having an evening of many firsts. For starters, it will be the first time I meet the guy I'm seeing's group of gay friends. Needless to say, I'm terrified. Then comes the venue...my first night out on the town with gay guys at one of the most popular gay clubs in the city. It also happens to be the most popular, packed night of the year: the night before the official Pride Parade (aka gay Christmas eve). It all culminates with my first Pride ever, the parade on Sunday.

Yikes.

I mean, it would have been great to do some of these things, on a smaller scale. Ease myself into everything. Give myself a chance to get used to it all. But no, I have to be meeting the friends on the busiest night of the year, in one of the busiest clubs in the city. All for my first time.

"What a shitty night to not be single," a friend said.

"I don't know if I'll be able to handle all the judgment at once," I replied. "The friends who want to meet me (whatever that means), the crowd at large on the craziest night, and of course James who would probably not take kindly to me accidentally making out with anyone, should that happen," I said, in a half joking but half terrified moment of cringing clarity.

Another offered his advice. "Nobody's going to be looking at you anyway," he said. "They'll all be either drunk, or high, or both...and not really going to notice you. Besides, everyone will be looking for someone to go home with."

He paused. "What a way to go, though," he said, chiding me.

"It'll really be sink or swim."