I once hooked up with a punkish-looking guy with a shaved head, tattoos and convincing blue-collar swagger (this was before those insignia became trendy). I don't think I had ever slept with a skinhead before, though I had always found the look attractive. I had had the obligatory gay fantasies about tying up and having my way with a hot neo-Nazi.
When we went back to his place, it was filled with beautiful mid-century furniture and art. He had a fine eye - I was impressed with his sense of style. And he turned me on to the body art of the Papua, New Guinea natives - he had a big book on his coffee table.
We were well-suited sexually: he was a total face-down-on-the-bed-ass-in-the-air bottom. And he was a pretty good cocksucker, but after I came in his mouth, he would jump up from the bed, race over to the bathroom, and I would hear the water running as he violently rinsed out his mouth (he was HIV negative and naturally didn't trust that I was too). It was a bit deflating and unromantic. Not that I expected him to swallow, but he could have been a bit more discreet about the whole thing.
Anyway, I really liked him and I thought there was some potential. We dated for a few weeks, and it seemed to be going well, when suddenly, for no apparent reason, he stopped returning my phone calls. I left an angry message on his answering machine, and never heard from him again.
Later I would see him out from time to time, and note with satisfaction his embarrassment when he saw me. I could tell he was still attracted, but I, of course, the Guinness-world-record grudge-holder, would act as though he didn't exist (I've gotten better about letting go of grudges since then).
Those last two paragraphs could be repeated and applied verbatim for a hundred short-term love affairs of mine. I don't know why, but I'm still somewhat flabbergasted and hurt when the pattern recurs. But I no longer take it nearly so personally; at least, not for so long. And, at any rate, it's good fodder for therapy sessions.
After the recent experience with Alfonso (not his real name, though if I were as vindictive as I would like to be, I would use his real first, middle and last name and post his picture, phone number and address), I told my therapist that that was it, no more, I've sworn off dating, and I'm just going to concentrate on being an ultralounge playboy, seguing as gracefully as I can into dirty old manhood. At this moment I still maintain this conviction, but I have some doubt as to whether I will be able to avoid slipping into the same tired drama again.
But here I've drifted off into my self-soup, when actually what I wanted to record here was a certain image: I took a walk in the park with the skinhead one day, and when we passed the lawn bowling green, the mature, dignified, gentle men and women players were there, playing in their spotless white garments, rolling the black balls firmly, gently, precisely, deliberately, with no excess of emotion, no hollering, no great shows of triumph or disappointment - but rather, in Zen fashion, simply noting where the ball stopped.
We watched together for a few moments, and the skinhead said that he intended, at some time in the near future, to put on his own white garments and join the lawn bowlers in their game. He was absolutely serious about it, there was no irony in his tone, and I could tell that he had the highest respect for the players and the game and the spectacle. I admired him for being so certain about something that seemed so improbable, and I pictured him out there on the lawn, his pale round hairless head integrating itself harmoniously into that beautiful dance of white, green and black.
