When Sleeping Dogs Wake

When I arrived at my doctor's office this morning, I walked into a waiting room so jam-packed with gay men that, for a brief moment, I thought I'd stumbled into a time warp and found myself returned to Sunday Tea Dance at the Sea Monster. But then again, the whole day has had that sort of "Twilight Zone"-ish feel to it. I awoke in a foggy shmear this morning, stumbled out of bed and into the shower, where I tried, without much success, to wash the weariness away. At least I smelled good when I climbed into the van and headed for my tri-monthly bloodletting at the medical lab (conveniently located inside my doctor's office). After fighting my way through an interminable brigade of heavy traffic, I made the eight mile drive to the doctor's office in 35 minutes. Luckily, as soon as I entered, a man was called back to see the doctor, and I was able to grab his seat before anyone else could react. Apparently, my reflexes were working better than I'd imagined. After determining that I hadn't been previously acquainted with any of the waiters in the waiting room, I thumbed through a copy of the Advocate. Suddenly, the door opened and a vaguely familiar figure entered the office and walked to the reception desk. He spoke his name in a loud, clear voice and I stopped reading. Surely, that name was ringing big time bells, but what...when...where? And, soon enough, it came to me, and the comparison to the Sea Monster seemed like a premonition that I should have heeded. He had put on a few pounds, in muscular bulk, not fat, had grown a neatly trimmed beard, he had a few more wrinkles, and had his hair colored the same unlikely shade of dark brown that I remembered from before, but--it was, indeed, the man with whom I had a history that was not something I looked upon with much fondness. I'd often wondered what had become of him. It had been six long years since we'd last seen one another, or by mutual consent, even spoken. And here he was. Still mortified by several unfortunate incidents that cut brief what had looked to be a promising series of one-night stands, I buried my face behind the Advocate and prayed that my name would soon be called to come back to the lab. And, indeed, a name was called, but it wasn't mine, so I peeked surreptitiously over the Advocate and watched the man approach the seat that had just been vacated, right next to mine! Holy Mary, Mother of God, I thought, get me out of this mess! You see, our history, and the memories thereof, do not serve me well to this day, and I thought I'd die if he said anything at all to me. He could have said hello, and I'd have fallen flat on the floor from horror and shame.

To make a long story short, and to eliminate some of the messier details, we had a monumentally fantastic first encounter one night when he picked me up at the Ft. Lauderdale Eagle, which, thanks to the homophobic, piece-of-shit mayor of Ft. Lauderdale, has moved on to provide a more incognito-like, private membership service in an inconspicuous location in Pompano Beach. At any rate, we had a really good time, but then, it was a given that we were both taking a walk on the wild side and not inclined to attach any romantic expectations on the situation. A few days later, we arranged for another rendezvous at his apartment. Suffice it to say that the action was a lot of steamy fun until it got rather out of hand and his uber-expensive comforter became a repository of all manner of accoutrements and bodily fluids that I managed to upend. He was clearly not pleased but tried to put on a game face. However, the fun was finished. We went ahead and had lunch at a local eatery, after which I expected never to see him again. BUT...he apparently had some silly notion of chivalry. I'd arranged for him and several of his friends to have front row seats to a performance of "Mamma Mia" (on its first of many subsequent go-rounds in Ft. Lauderdale) and he insisted that I accompany them. So, to break the ice, we got really stoned, had dinner at a Thai restaurant in Wilton Manors, and attended the show--which was, of course, a lot of fun--especially for two stoned queens. Expecting to be taken home, I was, instead, taken back to his apartment, where it soon became evident that his chivalry was not going to extend as far as he'd hoped. If we'd had a crane, he wouldn't have been able to get that big boy to rise. Feeling a bit chivalrous myself (and stoned again, to boot), I offered to top him to see if that might make things better. He quickly ix-nayed my offer, saying he was simply too fucked up to get it up. However, I was pretty sure that the horrific memories of our last encounter was still lurking not far below his way-too-pretty surface. So I slunk home, thinking that was that, and glad that things didn't end too badly. I mean, we hardly knew each other, really, but still, I hate it when you wind up being on bad terms with someone you barely even know. We had a lot in common, after all, and there could have been a decent friendship come out of it. Could have been. If I hadn't been hanging on to a deep sense of humiliation and content never to see the man again. However, the Fates, as is so often the case, were not kind.

I was at the Sea Monster one night, tagging along with my then-roommate, who was only marginally less drunk than I. At some point, a man walked up to me, got right in my face, and accused me of fucking his boyfriend. I was appalled and declared that I didn't know what he was talking about. When he mentioned the name of the man from the above paragraph, my face must have immediately registered, oh yeah, hiiiimmmmmm. And then, thwack! He slapped me right across the face, the same way that Faye Dunaway/Joan Crawford slapped Diana Scarwid/Christina Crawford in "Mommy Dearest". At that moment, my eyes flew open with such fury that the doors of the club simply must have slammed shut as the fire hoses unwound themselves and prepared to hose down the unrepentant mischief-makers a la "Carrie". I flung myself onto the unfortunate drunkard and down we went, with me pummeling him in the sodden heap we'd become. Immediately, two burly arms wrapped around me, dragging me off the man, lifting me off the floor, and carrying me out the door, where I was deposited rather gingerly, all things considered, on the stoop by the bouncer, who told me to go home. I won't delve further into the events that followed. Let's just say that the police were involved, profanities were exchanged, guns were drawn, and it was only due to the intervention of my now-sober roommate that I wasn't carted off to the hoosegow.

I don't know exactly when my "friend" was informed of my fisticuffs with his "boyfriend" (not), but it didn't take long for the gossip to make the rounds. He called me to explain that the guy was crazy and that they weren't lovers. Oh yes, and to ask if I could meet him at the softball tournaments on the following Sunday. Well, being the ass that I sometimes am, I figured that he just wanted to have a friendly chat and, perhaps, buy me a hot dog or something (which was probably the case), so I didn't think much about it when I went out the Saturday night prior and engaged in some unsavory (but very satisfactory) activities that left me profoundly relieved and with a neck covered in hickies! I managed to drag myself home at 11:00 a.m. on that Sunday, showered, and was at the softball field by 12:00. I still didn't think that this was going to be much of anything, so I didn't make any efforts to hide the hickies. It wouldn't have done much good, anyhow, since it looked like all the Brides of Dracula had feasted long and hard on my neck. Yet, when he finally walked over, his smile quickly evaporated in... shock? ...horror? disgust? I'll never know. He said a few curt, pseudo-friendly words and was off with his friends. And, at that moment, I felt, once again, totally humiliated in his presence. And I vowed, then and there, that that would be the last time. And it was. That was the last time I saw him. Until today.

As I sat in my chair in the waiting room of the doctor's office, trying to somehow fold the magazine over my face, I could feel his eyes on me. In fact, I gave a rapid eye dart in his direction, and caught him looking, but he quickly returned to the magazine that he was pretending to read. I haven't changed much physically, so I'm sure he was trying to place me. Who is that guy? I could almost hear the words going through his mind. I'm not sure if he'd figured it out or not, but when the receptionist did, indeed, finally call my name, I glanced over to see him peek, wide-eyed over his magazine. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I thought, he remembers! I fled from the waiting room in such haste that I'm surprised I didn't leave char-broiled footprints behind in the carpet. Luckily, I was escorted to another smaller waiting room in the back, to wait with the other candidates for blood withdrawal, so it took even more time before I was called up. Afterwards, I took my time getting back to the waiting room, sashaying past various examination areas with the desultory insousiance of Prissy singing "Just a few more days for to tote the weary load...". Dear God, don't let him still be sitting out there! When I ascertained that he was nowhere in sight, I hurried through the door and raced down the hallway to the elevator. Of course, the elevator that I first summoned was out of order, according to the woman waiting for another, so I stood with her, glaring grimly at the UP/DOWN button and hoping that the man I was hoping to avoid wouldn't arrive before I was able to depart. The elevator doors swung open and I leapt in with the grace and speed of a gazelle, shortly being deposited on the ground floor, where I made my way to the van with a mixture of high adrenaline, relief, and a certain puzzlement at my behavior. For God's sake, it's been six years! If he's still upset about that stuff--admittedly not my best moments--then it's his problem, not mine. And yet, it was my problem--it is my problem. Otherwise I wouldn't have reacted like a moose in Sarah Palin's rifle scope when confronted with this man's presence in the doctor's office. I have to say that I was definitely shaken (not stirred). Humiliation can be profoundly humbling, but it can also be silly and needless, and I wish now that I'd reacted in a more civil way to someone who once tried to make the best of an (increasingly) bad, albeit (mercifully) brief situation. Maybe I'll see him again sometime in my doctor's office and maybe I'll try to be gracious and not act like the lunatic that he almost certainly thinks that I am. Of course, acts such as that always seem to backfire in these type of situations. For me anyway. By trying to put my best foot forward, it will undoubtedly wind up in my mouth. Maybe it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.