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Gordon is a writer and performer. His work has appeared in on-line sites and print magazines in the U. Jan 27 You Hold On: A message to gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgender youth by Max S.

Gordon Upon discovering the family history surrounding her birth: Nobody wants anybody, girl. You have to want yourself. Names have been changed to protect privacy. This article deals with suicide and loss. I was visiting the town he lived in and debated whether or not to contact him. Our relationship had ended badly after college, and I could tell from our phone conversation that he was still angry with me, whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not, and that it would probably take a small miracle for us to reconcile.

The call the year before had been a miracle in itself: Our relationship was like that. That day on the phone we were polite to each other. So much for recovery work. Clearly, at least in his mind, everything that had gone wrong was my fault. I was looking forward to that day. He had a great laugh. When someone dies, all the stuff you hated about them sinks to the bottom, and the good things remain. I remember two weeks after we met, back in I have a boyfriend!

After I got off the phone with him, as I went to the table to blow out the candles and turn off the oven, there was a knock at the door. A man was standing there and confirmed my name because he said had a delivery for me. The box contained a handmade felt hat scented with patchouli oil, perfect for the braving the freezing Michigan winter ahead.

Shawn liked to do that kind of thing all the time, practical jokes to create joy and adventure in the lives of his friends — it was the positive side of his drama. I felt shame, because the same question probably occurred to me the first time I was served the food, but I was gracious enough not to ask it of any of my relatives.

And it was delicious. He apologized for offending. He was bewildered, I was pissed, but eventually we got over it. The following week when I went to visit him, I walked into the small room he was renting and recognized the familiar smells of childhood. I sat down to a meal of black-eyed peas, macaroni and cheese, greens and ribs.

And actually the food was pretty damn good. Then there was the time when I had finals and he came to visit. When I came back, my room was spotless and my laundry was done and folded on my bed. There were, of course, disappointments. We did get back together, several tearful phone conversations, apologies and clarifications later. I made out with a stranger in the bathroom.

The officer made my boyfriend and me get down on our hands and knees and pick up all the broken pieces from the sidewalk. We were both assholes from time to time, but what else could we have been? Where was the rule book that told us, two men now in our twenties, how to be in a relationship with another man?

The so-called normal relationships between our mothers and fathers had been disasters. We were making it up as we went along.

What can I do? I was in my first gay relationship…my first relationship, period. Everyone who knew him was devastated. Maybe he was outraged and trying to prove a point to a lover he was angry at. Maybe if we had gotten together I could have talked to him, and he would have been able to tell me what was wrong before things got that bad. It was a long way from small-town Michigan to Germany and New York. And maybe I was right to ignore his Facebook request the year before; maybe he was crazy and I did what I needed to protect myself.

You have to be crazy to kill yourself, right? My friend had invited me to go dancing on a Sunday morning. Who dances on Sunday morning unless they are in church? He, Kevin, and a mutal friend picked me up and I had the bizarre experience of walking from bright daylight into a dark club at eight in the morning, as lights flashed, house music played, and hundreds of people danced as if it were just after midnight.

When we tired of the booming noise of the club, the four of us went and had breakfast. Kevin sat at the table, his blonde hair falling into his face, trying to keep his head from landing in his plate.

Later, in the back seat on the way home, I asked him how many drugs he had taken that morning. We got in a conversation about his drug history which made my friend, who was driving, uncomfortable. Sometimes, with men, you have to listen with a second ear. Days before I was to come back to the States, my friend had Kevin and me and a co-worker over for dinner.

Kevin was better from his little episode, and his color was back. The dinner party was a bit of a set-up, and I asked Kevin if we could talk in another room for a minute. We sat down and I told him some of my story, which I tried to keep brief. I got rid of everything. I expressed my fear that if he went out with the same group of friends who were still using, there was a good chance that even with the best intentions he would relapse.

I left it alone, because I was having to ask myself, did I want him to be gay because I found him attractive, or because I thought if he dealt with his sexuality honestly, it might help him release some of the self-hate that he was medicating with drugs? Or maybe the whole thing was none of my business. But I had been on that trip, and I had met him. He thanked me again for the talk, we agreed to stay in touch, and I went home to New York. I got an e-mail about two months later.

Kevin was dead from an overdose. In it, he described what an exasperating friend Kevin had been and how he missed him. Not like the rest of us who come from our small towns around the country and have to learn how to be New Yorkers. After a while I wondered if I knew her better than I knew him. He was a constant one-man show.

From the way he went on about his grandmother, I got the feeling that he felt she was the only one who ever really loved him.

Alex had that impish, slightly prodding humor that can annoy you drop by drop, like water torture, until you either beg for relief or give in to him completely. He was a musician and singer, and the way he spoke reminded me of the patter of early vaudeville performers, a time long before his thirty-five years.

I met him in a recovery group, and a day after we met and had dinner with some of the other members, I told him that I found him fascinating. It is rare that you meet another person in life that you consider a true original and I was delighted. To use words like quirky, offbeat, or weird to describe him diminishes the pain that underscored his humor, the hurt behind his desire to make other people laugh, or the mental illness he struggled with.

From the minute I met Alex, I knew that he was fighting for his life. He was semi-estranged from his family, which basically means he hated their guts but still went to their house for dinner once a week. It happened every time, as predictable as his mother serving coffee and deli cookies for dessert.

The only person he claimed to love in his immediate family was his younger sister, and she had died several years before. He carried her picture around with him all the time, and spoke of her almost as often as he did his grandmother.

Alex and I were in a restaurant one night when we were getting to know each other, doing a kind of initiation dance of flirting and aggression, mixed with a lot of humor. Not only did Kevin quote Jewish grandmothers, he quoted black mothers too! It was fun being silly, and we laughed together like eight-year-old boys telling fart jokes, falling out of the booth with hilarity and not caring at all that we were causing a scene.

Then he became defensive. That was until I remembered Nathan was living with AIDS, had recently recovered from a crystal meth addiction, and had spent most of his money, and all of his time, trying to keep himself healthy and alive. Maybe he was appalled and disgusted that Alex committed suicide over what he probably considered the equivalent of a broken fingernail. Maybe it was one of those ugly, incriminating family dinners. Still, whatever was going on in our crazy heads, I was counting on Alex to be in the world — still queer, still different, a beautiful freak.

I hoped his grandmother and his younger sister were waiting for him. I thought he and I were too old for suicide, we had been through all the early insecurity and heartbreak of early gaydom and survived it. When do you stop worrying that the despair may be great enough to consider taking your own life? At least, at this point in my life, there is more love coming from my living than from my dead.

I saw a movie years ago, based on a true story, about a man and a woman who, left behind during a scuba-diving trip while on vacation, are stranded in the ocean in shark-infested waters. They wait for someone to notice they are missing and hope they will be saved.

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More Than Friends



Really pretty oil initiation lesbian sex

Gordon is a writer and performer. His work has appeared in on-line sites and print magazines in the U. Jan 27 You Hold On: A message to gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgender youth by Max S. Gordon Upon discovering the family history surrounding her birth: Nobody wants anybody, girl. You have to want yourself. Names have been changed to protect privacy.

This article deals with suicide and loss. I was visiting the town he lived in and debated whether or not to contact him. Our relationship had ended badly after college, and I could tell from our phone conversation that he was still angry with me, whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not, and that it would probably take a small miracle for us to reconcile.

The call the year before had been a miracle in itself: Our relationship was like that. That day on the phone we were polite to each other. So much for recovery work. Clearly, at least in his mind, everything that had gone wrong was my fault. I was looking forward to that day. He had a great laugh. When someone dies, all the stuff you hated about them sinks to the bottom, and the good things remain. I remember two weeks after we met, back in I have a boyfriend!

After I got off the phone with him, as I went to the table to blow out the candles and turn off the oven, there was a knock at the door. A man was standing there and confirmed my name because he said had a delivery for me.

The box contained a handmade felt hat scented with patchouli oil, perfect for the braving the freezing Michigan winter ahead. Shawn liked to do that kind of thing all the time, practical jokes to create joy and adventure in the lives of his friends — it was the positive side of his drama. I felt shame, because the same question probably occurred to me the first time I was served the food, but I was gracious enough not to ask it of any of my relatives.

And it was delicious. He apologized for offending. He was bewildered, I was pissed, but eventually we got over it. The following week when I went to visit him, I walked into the small room he was renting and recognized the familiar smells of childhood.

I sat down to a meal of black-eyed peas, macaroni and cheese, greens and ribs. And actually the food was pretty damn good. Then there was the time when I had finals and he came to visit. When I came back, my room was spotless and my laundry was done and folded on my bed. There were, of course, disappointments. We did get back together, several tearful phone conversations, apologies and clarifications later. I made out with a stranger in the bathroom.

The officer made my boyfriend and me get down on our hands and knees and pick up all the broken pieces from the sidewalk.

We were both assholes from time to time, but what else could we have been? Where was the rule book that told us, two men now in our twenties, how to be in a relationship with another man? The so-called normal relationships between our mothers and fathers had been disasters. We were making it up as we went along. What can I do? I was in my first gay relationship…my first relationship, period.

Everyone who knew him was devastated. Maybe he was outraged and trying to prove a point to a lover he was angry at. Maybe if we had gotten together I could have talked to him, and he would have been able to tell me what was wrong before things got that bad.

It was a long way from small-town Michigan to Germany and New York. And maybe I was right to ignore his Facebook request the year before; maybe he was crazy and I did what I needed to protect myself. You have to be crazy to kill yourself, right?

My friend had invited me to go dancing on a Sunday morning. Who dances on Sunday morning unless they are in church? He, Kevin, and a mutal friend picked me up and I had the bizarre experience of walking from bright daylight into a dark club at eight in the morning, as lights flashed, house music played, and hundreds of people danced as if it were just after midnight.

When we tired of the booming noise of the club, the four of us went and had breakfast. Kevin sat at the table, his blonde hair falling into his face, trying to keep his head from landing in his plate. Later, in the back seat on the way home, I asked him how many drugs he had taken that morning. We got in a conversation about his drug history which made my friend, who was driving, uncomfortable. Sometimes, with men, you have to listen with a second ear.

Days before I was to come back to the States, my friend had Kevin and me and a co-worker over for dinner. Kevin was better from his little episode, and his color was back. The dinner party was a bit of a set-up, and I asked Kevin if we could talk in another room for a minute.

We sat down and I told him some of my story, which I tried to keep brief. I got rid of everything. I expressed my fear that if he went out with the same group of friends who were still using, there was a good chance that even with the best intentions he would relapse.

I left it alone, because I was having to ask myself, did I want him to be gay because I found him attractive, or because I thought if he dealt with his sexuality honestly, it might help him release some of the self-hate that he was medicating with drugs?

Or maybe the whole thing was none of my business. But I had been on that trip, and I had met him. He thanked me again for the talk, we agreed to stay in touch, and I went home to New York. I got an e-mail about two months later. Kevin was dead from an overdose. In it, he described what an exasperating friend Kevin had been and how he missed him. Not like the rest of us who come from our small towns around the country and have to learn how to be New Yorkers.

After a while I wondered if I knew her better than I knew him. He was a constant one-man show. From the way he went on about his grandmother, I got the feeling that he felt she was the only one who ever really loved him.

Alex had that impish, slightly prodding humor that can annoy you drop by drop, like water torture, until you either beg for relief or give in to him completely. He was a musician and singer, and the way he spoke reminded me of the patter of early vaudeville performers, a time long before his thirty-five years. I met him in a recovery group, and a day after we met and had dinner with some of the other members, I told him that I found him fascinating.

It is rare that you meet another person in life that you consider a true original and I was delighted. To use words like quirky, offbeat, or weird to describe him diminishes the pain that underscored his humor, the hurt behind his desire to make other people laugh, or the mental illness he struggled with. From the minute I met Alex, I knew that he was fighting for his life.

He was semi-estranged from his family, which basically means he hated their guts but still went to their house for dinner once a week. It happened every time, as predictable as his mother serving coffee and deli cookies for dessert. The only person he claimed to love in his immediate family was his younger sister, and she had died several years before. He carried her picture around with him all the time, and spoke of her almost as often as he did his grandmother. Alex and I were in a restaurant one night when we were getting to know each other, doing a kind of initiation dance of flirting and aggression, mixed with a lot of humor.

Not only did Kevin quote Jewish grandmothers, he quoted black mothers too! It was fun being silly, and we laughed together like eight-year-old boys telling fart jokes, falling out of the booth with hilarity and not caring at all that we were causing a scene. Then he became defensive. That was until I remembered Nathan was living with AIDS, had recently recovered from a crystal meth addiction, and had spent most of his money, and all of his time, trying to keep himself healthy and alive.

Maybe he was appalled and disgusted that Alex committed suicide over what he probably considered the equivalent of a broken fingernail. Maybe it was one of those ugly, incriminating family dinners. Still, whatever was going on in our crazy heads, I was counting on Alex to be in the world — still queer, still different, a beautiful freak.

I hoped his grandmother and his younger sister were waiting for him. I thought he and I were too old for suicide, we had been through all the early insecurity and heartbreak of early gaydom and survived it. When do you stop worrying that the despair may be great enough to consider taking your own life?

At least, at this point in my life, there is more love coming from my living than from my dead. I saw a movie years ago, based on a true story, about a man and a woman who, left behind during a scuba-diving trip while on vacation, are stranded in the ocean in shark-infested waters.

They wait for someone to notice they are missing and hope they will be saved.

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5 Comments

  1. He carried her picture around with him all the time, and spoke of her almost as often as he did his grandmother. Everyone who knew him was devastated. I was visiting the town he lived in and debated whether or not to contact him.

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