Just Right…

This past weekend was, for intents and purposes, one of the more prominent gay high holy days here in Chicago: IML (International Mr. Leather). People come from all across the nation and beyond to embrace their inner kinky side. From 21 years and up, people — mostly gay men, but there are a decent number of straight-ish people — come to buy gear in leather, rubber, neoprene, metal, and various materials. They come to watch as Chicago’s Memorial Day tourists encounter leather daddies in ass-less chaps, vests, and enough back hair to help out a few cancer patients. They come to make out and “play” with random strangers and old friends alike, engaging in activities varying from a completely platonic makeout session to bondage, domination, submission, sadism, or masochism scenes that most of us would rate NC17, or choose not to watch at all.

For those of us less connected with the kink world, IML is our version of the old turn-of-the-century sideshows that accompanied the traveling circuses. It’s a place to go and see something with which we might never actually identify ourselves. We shift into “other” language, using they and them to describe the people that we are not like. But for some of us, there is a change that takes place when we show up at the Hyatt Regency down off of Wacker and Michigan (fitting street name, right?). We see something, or someone, and all of a sudden, we learn something new about ourselves.

I was reading a blog entry this morning on In Our Words, a queer blog project. The entry was about the frequent disdain present for and aimed at a particular subset of the gay community, twinks. Most often, the term is used to describe gay men between 18-21 who have slender builds, little to no body hair, and often a more effeminate persona about them. While the age bracket fluctuates thanks to the magic of skin care product, the stereotypes hold fairly steady. I have some friends who blog for IOW, and so I’ve been following the site for awhile. This particular post struck a pretty big chord with me.

Growing up, I was never athletic. Slender was a far-off dream. And hairless, well, over the years I’ve maintained the same level of hair, although it’s progressively lost the battle against gravity. Until a couple of years ago at my first IML, I was unaware that there was a term for me as well: I’m a cub. Unfortunately, as much animosity as I had and still have towards “twinks,” I seem to hold just as much for myself, though not necessarily for those who share my shape/physique.

So how does all this come together? What’s the point? Well, as someone who tends to do more introspection than anything else, I felt like, after attending IML for 3 years in a row, it was time that I actually did some tangible reflection on the experience(s)…

If you go to IML, the types of people you may encounter are as tall as they wide. Additionally, the range of interests and intentions are just as varied. Me… well, prior to meeting my partner, I was pretty much as vanilla as they came. Hell, if it were possible to be something more vanilla than vanilla, that’s where I would have been. I knew the terms and a decent amount about the “kink” community, but it was not my niche… or so I thought.

Then I met Frankie, and his friends from both his pagan brotherhood and his circle of “recreational” friends, and I realized that I had more in common with most of these men than I ever had with most of my pre-existing gay male accomplices. Specifically, when it comes to body image and persona, within this community, I shared some major similarities. I care a lot for self-exploration. I require trust within sexually intimate situations. I highly value relationships. And I rely on the input of others to help me learn more about myself.

Last IML, Frankie got me a t-shirt that says Trophy Cub. For most, this is just corny and adorable. For someone like me who has always struggle to feel physically and sexually adequate for another person, it was a badge of honor. It was someone telling me, “You’re enough for me. In fact, you’re more than enough. You’re what I want, and I choose you.” Here we were standing amidst this veritable smorgasbord of body types, personalities, interests, and fetishes, and someone chooses me, possibly the most average, easy to please guy of the bunch. I wasn’t much into pain or bondage or 3/4/5+somes. I wasn’t into leather, rubber, neoprene, or other apparel materials. I wasn’t caught up in being called “sir” or “boy.” I was simply me, a guy with a slight tummy, a fuzzy patch of hair right at the base of my back, an average “endowment,” and most different from many others, a call into ministry. If there were ever a place in which I felt like “one of these things is not like the other,” it was amidst that crowd.

I found myself people watching amidst the crowds. When my eyes would come across anyone who remotely resembled a “twink,” I would internally cringe with hatred, disdain, and sheer envy. Why were they lucky enough to have the perfect head of hair, fashion sense, physique, below-the-belt endowment, and tan level? Why could they feel comfortable wearing a singlet or a harness or another other piece of fetish apparel while I barely felt comfortable in a polo and cargo shorts? Better question: what had I done to not deserve those traits? Why did I get left out? Dammit, I had every right to be angry, and worse, I had every right to make them feel as bad about themselves as I felt about myself. I was the one who spoke about them when they were within earshot, ensuring that they knew how I felt. Unbeknownst to me, I was telling them more of how I perceived myself than of how I saw them.

Yesterday, I grabbed lunch with a close friend and neighbor. We went to the Bear-B-Q at Sidetrack down off of Halsted. Here I was among this crowd of guys who could most likely crush me, yet I felt so at home. I felt like I could be myself without scrutiny or judgment. I didn’t feel like there was anyone calling me too fat or too thin, too tall or too short, too butch or too fem. As lunch went on, the crowd grew more diverse, including younger and thinner and smoother guys. I could have felt uncomfortable or awkward, yet I did not…

I felt just right.

Front Steps

Taking some down time before our wedding…

 

It’s been nearly 2 weeks since F. and I got unionized. The ceremony was beautiful. The company was great. The food was fantastic. I sincerely could not have asked for more… well, almost.

My mother did not come, and while I was okay with this on the day of, I realize that it still hurts, and it very well may hurt for awhile. I’m not sure what will happen with our relationship from this point on. I love and her for her. But my life is different now, and I love it.

More pictures will be on the way. I just wanted to drop a line and let y’all know that I’m doing well and life is good.

Ashes to Ashes…

I’ve always been a fan of fire, though not in a detrimental fashion. I love the warmth. More so, I admire the sheer power of the energy emitted by fire – energy that can be used to destroy, but also to create. In my own life, spiritually and emotionally, I feel as if I have been waiting for fire to serve both functions in my life. I wait for it to destroy those parts of me that stem from depression, self-hatred and loathing, desires for self-harm, fear of rejection or abandonment, and many other places. When all that is finished, I wait for it to rebuild me, to forge me into a stronger, holier, more loving person who truly represents the Savior he professes.

On this dreary, rainy, gloomy afternoon, after what turned out to be a fantastic Ash Wednesday service, I find myself desiring to be broken, if only for the sake of having the aforementioned negative traits purged from my system, to have the dross of my sin scraped away, leaving behind only the purest, most authentic segments of who I am, untarnished, unbroken. Yet I know that I cannot be the one to catalyze this process within me. I want to be new, to be whole, to be someone admired by others for more than just my being able to survive all the hardship and heartache previously doled out to me. I also know that, right now, I am not fully ready or willing for that process to take place… for the Creator to stare me down lovingly and ask, “Are you ready to go?” I’m not, and I don’t know when I will be.

With my wedding in 51 days, I want to be as ready as I can to be the husband that I will vow myself to be. And while I know that I’m close, there is still work to be done, growth to experience, and transformation to accept. I only hope that I will have the strength to endure it, for the sake of my relationship, my sanity, and my spirituality.

Walls and Fences…

I’ve always had a struggle with boundaries, whether they be physical, relational, sexual, familial, or professional. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had difficulties in seeing and defining where I ended and someone else began. Part of this comes from being raised in a household in which there was no clear delineation between my mother and me, where she stopped and I started.

Being in seminary, but especially serving a church, I’ve had a challenge in defining who my professional self is, partially because I am the first in my branch of the family to seek out more than just a job, choosing instead to have a career, a vocation. Unfortunately, this means that I’ve had very little in the way of modeling in my life when it comes to developing and maintaining healthy professional boundaries.

In my past, my lack of boundaries in the professional setting cost me dearly, leading to my dismissal from a graduate program in social work due to a severe lapse in judgment on my part with a client. Though I was not cognizant of it at the time, I had power that I had failed to acknowledge, and I caused harm. Even if unintentional, I made a mistake and have had to live with those consequences. My hope now is that I will not make such a grievous mistake again, especially not in a ministry setting.

All of this is surfacing because, for my last 3 months of field placement, my supervising pastor and I will be focusing on and reading through a book entitled Boundaries by Henry Cloud and John Townsend. My supervisor, having asked advice of my field education director, decided that this would be a good way to finish out my time with the church. For this, I am thankful. Granted, my typical depression-induced paranoia kicked in when she told me that we would be doing this, leading me to inquire if this was because of any particular mistakes I had made. Thankfully, it was not (whew). Yet it does make me aware of how I am potentially perceived by those whom I serve.

There are days when I feel as if I have strong walls built up… impenetrable, invulnerable. Nothing can come in, and nothing can go out. I think this is something many of us struggle with, even if we don’t always admit it. Other days, I feel like I have some semblance of a fence up, with a gate, which allows for deliberate flow of emotion, thought, action, and dialogue in and out of myself. Most of the time, though, I feel as if my boundaries are merely made up of a dense fog, incapable of discerning the dividing line between myself and others. I long for connection, intimacy, and relationship, and so, in the process, I end up losing myself in them, sometimes far too deeply. This is my problem, and I realize that, given my past and family history, it will take hard work to undo.

And so I ask for prayer, support, and accountability. If and when you sense my tendency to merge myself with you, please call me out on it, in love. Likewise, if you sense me locating to the other side of the pendulum, tell me then as well. Remind me that I can be me and you can be you, and that there can be connection and intimacy without either of us losing ourselves in the other. Help me be responsible for my thoughts, words, actions, behaviors, choices, etc. We’re all made in the image of the Creator. Help me to not lose sight of the distinct Imago Dei that is me, just as I will seek to help you see the image of God that is you. Keep me responsible for handling my own load while sharing my burdens insofar as you feel comfortable doing. This is what it means to be the Body of Christ, is it not?!

Contemplation…

I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, mostly because being on break from school has given me more time to think about non-school-related topics. Mostly, though, I’ve been thinking about relationships, sex, intimacy, ethics, morality, and the intersections of all these various subjects. F. and I know couples who are exclusive emotionally but open sexually. We also know couples who are comprised of multiple persons, and who are open sexually to encounters with individuals outside of their core group. It’s only been a couple of years since I was exposed to this, to a realm of relationships outside of those identifying as monogamous. And I must say… I’m intrigued.

After coming out, I first had to deal with the morality of non-heterosexual intimacy. Simultaneously, I had to cope with the fact that, since marriage is defined by most as between man and woman, and since I would never be able to marry a person of the same gender, any physical intimacy I had would be outside the context of my being married, and by the standards of those who raised me, would be “sinful,” fornication, unholy. One can imagine what this would do to my morale.

Upon delving into the realm of same-sex relationships, I realized that, for one reason or another, monogamy didn’t really fit. It felt awkward, as if I were limiting myself to loving one person (physically and emotionally) when I felt I had the desire and capacity for sharing that with more than that. Nonetheless, I tried it. I felt like it was more moral/ethical than letting myself run rampant. First relationship – failed because he wasn’t really that into me. Second relationship – failed because I wasn’t ready or really all that into him. Third relationship – failed because we weren’t really that into each other. Then F. came along, and we opted to allow our relationship to be open. I’d never felt more free, but as of late, more questions have come to mind.

First, I must admit I have a slight problem. For me, sex is rarely ever just physical. It almost always carries with it some level of emotional attachment. For someone trying to limit his emotional attachment to one person, this makes things difficult. Because my first sexual encounters came after having been kicked out of my home church and betrayed by those I trusted and loved, sex became a coping mechanism for me rather than a means of sharing affection and developing connection. I used sex to build within myself the semblance of self-esteem, of self-worth, of being wanted, desired, needed. Even with therapy, as time as progressed, this is still a challenge for me. During times when I feel disconnected and even invisible, I use flirtation and seduction to balance and center myself. As to be expected, though, it often leaves me feeling isolated as such measures are not always reciprocated. In those instances where it is reciprocated, it often leads to encounters that, while often enjoyable, are fulfilling only for a short time. Though this is not always the case as of late, it still surfaces at times.

I’m working on this bit by bit. Lately though, it’s been more difficult. Since losing Nanny and being cut off from my mother, I feel as if I’ve been spiraling, a trend I’ve seen before. It scares me, even though I’m aware of it and trying to keep it in check. Most days, I just want someone to slap me sideways and tell me to get a grip. Hasn’t happened yet. Probably won’t. So I’m left slapping myself it would seem.

Mostly though, I’ve just been hard on myself lately. For not getting the best grades I could have gotten. For letting myself become apathetic in my faith. For isolating myself from those I love, detaching and removing myself from the picture. For not taking care of my body, or my mind. For letting the depression and the paranoia defeat me, keeping me from abundant life. The list could go on… these are just things that came to mind the quickest, the things that cause me the most angst and heartache.

F. and I will be married in 97 days, and I love him more than I ever thought I could love someone. I also know that he loves me more than I ever imagined being loved. I also know that, if circumstances led to someone else being a part of our relationship, he would be alright with that. I’m questioning if I would. Should we stay open, or be monogamous? Would being polyamorous be a good move for us, or would it be detrimental? Am I ever going to feel whole, unbroken, or will I always deal with this demon whispering in my ear, telling me I’ll never be enough… I’ve gotten so used to his voice that the idea of no longer hearing it seems preposterous. Will I always feel this nagging tingling in my wrist, aching for some red catharsis to match the emotional one I so desperately long for, wait for? I’ve gone this far in life without doing fatal harm to myself. I don’t intend on starting now. However, that doesn’t change the reall presence of emotional pain that seems to be constantly urging me onto such measures. For now, though, my tears will have to suffice to silence the voices inside my head.

Numbers…

I see the numbers on the page… they don’t add up. Some of them are representative of student loans, some of work-earned income, and the rest are the remnants of the inheritance. None of it equals her being here. Nonoe of it brings her back into reality above the surface of where’s she’s buried.

It’s been six months since I broke down in the courtyard of our apartment complex after receiving the news that she’d left us. Six months since I last wrapped my arms around first her living and second her lifeless body. Since I saw her smile, felt her chest rise against mine mid-hug. It hurts so much.

I do my assignments. I go to work. I serve my church. I have conversations about God and how God has, is, and will continue to move in the world and in God’s creation. Some days, it fills me up ever so slightly. Other days, it only serves to remind me of the void that exists because of her absence. I often find myself wanting to call the house, only to be sharply reminded that it sits vacant, stale, phone shut down, pieces of furniture cleared out. She, however, is underground several miles away next to my grandfather and his family. That’s just her shell, I try to tell myself. Sometimes it works. Most often, it only leads to more desperation.

I love my life and what’s happening in it, but there is so much less joy with her gone. I get more and more angry at the platitudes that continue to be given to me. “It’s a good thing you’re this sad… it shows how much she meant to you.” “At least you got that last visit with her. God must have known and planned that.” “She’s with Jesus now… you should be happy about that.” “She’s still with you, in how you live.”

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…

And then, there are those with an agenda. “She knew your lifestyle was wrong. She just didn’t want to hurt you.” “We talked about you a lot. She knew you’d wake up and see the truth someday.” “You can’t disappoint her by living like this. This is no way to honor her life or how much she loved you.” “Don’t waste that money, boy. You know what she’d want you to do with it.” “She wanted you to quit smoking. You really should. And you shouldn’t drink anymore either. It’s not right.”

Go… to… hell…

I’m tired of letting my anger about the unfairness of losing her be directed internally. Such Southern Baptist bull shit. This is not how we’re supposed to love each other. This is not being Christ-like. This is abusive and manipulative and needs to stop. No one, and I mean no one, has a clue of the true details of our relationship, of how much we relied on each other. No one knows the number of times that a conversation with her kept me from harming myself intentionally, or worse, fatally. No one knows just how hard she tried to reconcile the reality of my sexuality with her understanding of God, the natural order, Scripture, and faith. The only thing that mattered for her was her love for me. Everything else was secondary, and I wish others could understand that. She knew how much heartache I’d faced, turmoil and self-hatred… and how much of it was imposed upon me by others in the name of Christ, of “truth.”

It’s been six months since I felt grounded. Since I had the one person in my life whose faith in me never faltered, and whose love for me was wholeheartedly unconditional. This is by means belittling those other relationships in my life – with my partner, my church and school friends. But given that she was a tangible representation of Jesus for me, the person through whom I most felt his love and affection for me, it kinda makes sense that I feel a grief similar to that of the disciples after the leaving of Christ. Something is missing, and even if it’s still there in a different fashion, it’s not the same, and that very fact makes the pain different.

Ok, I feel better… just needed to get some of that out…

Halfway, but not quite…

I keep waiting to wake up. Despite going through a full semester, despite feeling the bite of winter start to rear its head, I keep thinking that I’m going to snap out of this nightmare, realize it’s June 11th and she’ll still be here. That I’ll get a call from her, talking about life, summer, plans for the fall and what not.

But I won’t. It’s December 7th, nearly 6 months after losing her, and somewhere a couple yards below the surface, her body is decaying, encapsuled by a concrete vault. It’s still stiff, lifeless. I’m still here in Chicago, finishing another semester of seminary, two more sermons added to my repertoire, still getting hitched in 4 months, still struggling to make sense of it all.

She’s not the only person who has been on my mind. I’ve been growing closer to a friend of mind – closer than I ever really have to a straight male peer, especially one who is completely affirming of my identity. Lately, I’ve realized I may have been becoming too dependent on his friendship. I may also simply be paranoid, but having had boundary issues in the past, I’m hypersensitive about how I interact with people, especially men.

In the realm of gay men, it’s not uncommon for even the most platonic of relationships to have hints of sexual tension, flirtation, or even varying degrees of physical intimacy. Being someone who’s identified physical touch as one of his primary love languages, and who has also seen sex/sexuality play a role in numerous relationships/friendships, I know this to be far too true.

Throw a straight man into my world, and everything gets turned upside down. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good hug more than most, but it’s hard to always know how to stop there. Why am I so hell-bent on touch, on affection? What does healthy physical affection look like? Have I really become such a stereotype of the “gay community”? And what it is about the “straight man” that is so alluring, enticing?

I know this is a disjointed post, but these are the things on my mind and heart right now. I’ve already lost one best friend to death this year… I don’t think I could bear to lose one due to self-sabotage. This is one area in which I’m aware of my own faults and brokenness. I’m an extremist to the core. When I first started experimenting sexually, I did a pendulum swing from having sex to wanting to go to an Exodus conference and jump back into reparative therapy. I’d go from wanting no sexual contact at all to wanting it in binge amounts. I’d go from feeling full of life, vibrant, joyful to wanting to take a razor to my wrists (a pendulum swing I still struggle with). And here I am swinging between accepting myself and loving my partner to envying the straight guy and the “normal” life he can have to wanting a healthy platonic relationship to transition into a sexual one.

I’m in a vulnerable place right now, more so than I’ve been in for awhile. Not completely sure what to do about it. I’ve got two more papers to write before my semester is officially finished. I’m not seeing my blood family for Christmas. I’m fighting against body image issues and eating disorder symptoms again. I’m chain smoking. I’m using sex more as a means to detach and distract rather than to focus, show love, and connect. I’m torn between exploding and putting everything out on the table and shutting down, holing myself up, and hiding from the world and everyone I love. I’ve not written a post this transparent in awhile… hoping it doesn’t backfire on me, especially with those I love most. But I need to put this out there, and let some of it go…