Hey Stan, great thread idea. Here's mine -- part of a story I wrote a while back.
True Love: Dialogues of a Divorced Couple
I think I might fucking puke. This is the thought that keeps going through my head. It’s a cool clear night, and it’s raining stars. Literally. They’re falling from the sky one by one, meteorites racing toward the ground at the speed of -- well, fuck -- meteorites. Noble things, racing toward the earth, burning furies extinguishing themselves in a blaze of fucking brilliance, cascading through the dark and obliterating themselves in the gravity of the parking lot outside my apartment. I’m sitting on the patio right now, the patio of the apartment where I live alone, and -- and fuck, I think I’ve had too much to drink, smoked too much. The sky is spinning and the stars are bursting, and the meteorites are streaking toward my patio, and I really have had too much to drink. Fucking hell, I’m wasted. And it’s all about a boy.
It’s always about a boy now. The boy, in fact. The blond-haired, blue-eyed angel who loves me more than anyone, in this fucked-up world, deserves to be loved. Possibly the one, if you believe those lines. He’s the boy who would marry me if I asked him to, the boy who might love me more unconditionally than sin if I were willing, the boy who wants to take me to Paris and Switzerland and all the beautiful places in this world. The boy who I was going to break up with last night, but ended up fucking instead. The boy.
* * *
“What are you going to do, then?”
She said this between bites of spinach lasagna at the little Italian café down the street earlier this afternoon, before the stars began bursting from the sky. We went there because it once was our favorite restaurant, because I knew he hated Italian and we’d never run into him there, and because I needed to drink and the place was in stumbling distance to my apartment. The question was clear, to the point, a rational inquiry in a conversation dominated by the inane and sometimes neurotic ramblings and rants and confessions of a slightly drunken gay guy who wants more than anything else in the world not to be a faggot, drunken or otherwise.
“Question of the year, my love,” I shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”
“Do you love him?” There’s no malice here; it’s only been four months, almost to the day, since we broke up, and she’s asking as a matter of record, determined to help me sort a few things out. I wonder for the billionth time why I had to be gay and why I couldn’t have stayed happily married to her.
“I thought I did.” I shrugged again; I’m doing a lot of that lately, it seems.
It’s a true enough assessment, though. Three months ago, when I met the boy, I thought I was in love again. We hit it off immediately; after dinner two nights in a row and a string of e-mails and text messages, I took him to bed, tried things I’d only dreamed of doing before, and never looked back. That was then, though, and I was new at the whole thing. Newly divorced, newly in pain and seeking solace, and newly euphoric at the prospects of no longer living the lie I’d lived for ever since I could remember, I fell for the blond-haired, blue eyed boy who came up and introduced himself at the coffee shop.
When you live the better part of your life in denial, when you push away the nagging realization that you’re gay, and when you spend your days trying madly to convince yourself and everyone around you that you’re a normal, functional member of the hetero hegemony, only to suddenly make that breakthrough and realize you like cock, something clicks. It is liberating, finally acknowledging the inevitable. There is peace. There is solace. I wasn’t about to go out and become a rainbow-wearing, pride-parading, lisp-affecting, flaming faggot, but I was ready to embrace that component of my person, I though. And the first boy that came along, that showed interest and compassion and a similar eagerness to embrace that realization, I thought was the perfect match, the perfect completion that I’d been waiting for, knowingly or otherwise, forever.
And now I’m studiously avoiding his calls. He’s dialed my cell four times this evening already, and left two voice messages. The dog got out the gate when he came by and I wasn’t there, he said, and he spent half an hour getting her home. The dog. Home. It wasn’t spoken, only implied, but it wasn’t my dog, my home. It was a possessive dog, a possessive home, as if he’d already moved in and we were living in a state of co-habital white-picket-fence bliss, and that bugs me now. And he sounded a little snippy in the message, a “hey babe where the fuck are you?!” tone that implied he should know where I was, had a right to demand my whereabouts.
That’s the heart of it, I guess. He wants in, deeper, and I’ve bottomed out.