Vanguard: A Miscellany

Tatous, Pt. 1

So I was a little drunk.  I'm a fun drunk, or so my friends tell me.  

We were wasting the Sunday away poolside at a great little gem of a hotel in the Hollywood hills, drinking pitchers of sangrias and swaying back and forth to the amazing music the DJ was spinning from his perch above the pool.  Me, nine of my straights, and one gay friend.  

As it turns out two were sober, the girls had one glass at the most, and the rest of the guys opted out of the two pitches and bought bottles of beer instead.  I had no idea that this was the case as I drank glass after glass thinking I was just doing my share to finish what had been purchased. 

I didn't care.  I was having a good time.  Besides, it wasn't as though I'd have to be on my A game.  There was a dearth of gay prospects in that group, and by dearth I mean me, my friend and the mid 30s twink in the ice blue square cut and the Ellen Degeneres hair don't. No thanks.

The remainder of the crowd was comprised of Hollywood hipsters, actresses (although I'd be hard pressed to actually call adult films truly acting), and what appeared to be a crew of L.A.'s version of New York guineas--hair slicked back with a normal man's month supply of hair product, diamond stud earrings, Swarovski crystal encrusted sunglasses, inordinate amounts of time at the gym, and a propensity for using the word (?) "yo" as noun, pronoun, verb, adjective and adverb.  Don't ask me to demonstrate because I don't, for the life of me, know how they did it.  They just did.

Oh, and they were all inked.  That oh so original tribal tattoo which I've recently come to understand is a not too selective tribe of men and women who find solidarity in having no distinct leader, but depend upon each other to make a statement about their individuality.  Or the name over the heart in perfect cursive of someone very important to them...well at least at one time.  Come to think of it, it was really more of an acquaintance...but still, really important.  

And that's when I saw him.  In the middle of the group of guidos that had taken over the shallow end of the gene pool...er, just pool.  They were doing some weird tribal ritual of getting trashed and markind territory or something, weird alpha male bravado bullshit.  

But there he was, in the middle of it all.  Acting like a jackass like the rest of them.  Tatted up like the rest of them.  But I noticed the tattoos were actually a little different, kind of interesting.  Amidst all the text that covered a lot of his chest and back (including his OWN name on his chest in perfect cursive) were two countries' flags, one on each shoulder with names underneath each one.

He swam to the edge of the pool right next to me, pushed himself up and sat there, feet dangling in the water as he refilled his glass.  OK minus the hair product and tats, he was kind of very hot.  But I didn't care.  I was drunk.  He was straight.  And I asked him, "Dude, what's that city under that one flag tattoo."

"Oh, the flag is the country where my mother is born, and under the flag is the name of the city she was born."

Dumb mother fucker!  And in this case, that applies to both me and him.  Me because this was a big, muscular guy who it turns out was a MMA fighter blackbelted in a number of disciplines.  And him because..."You know that that's spelled with a "Qu" and not a "K", right?"

Surprisingly, he didn't kick my ass.  Surprisingly, his response was "Fuck, you mean a misspelled another tattoo?"

I inspected the second tattoo on his right chest one week later, as he sat on my kitchen counter when he asked me, "Wait, are you gay?"

Fuck You, Maine!

That's all I wanted to say.

Cooties

I recoiled.  As the blind patient thrust his right hand forward, expecting me to catch his grip to steady him and prevent his most certain fall, I recoiled.  And not in the way normal people do, backing up ever so discretely.  No.  As his hand came towards me, flailing haphazardly in great arcs through the air in front of him due to lack of visual direction, I recoiled in that exaggerated Matrix kind of way.  My arms circumscribed circles on either side of me, like backstroking standing up while my back arched impossibly backwards before running to the 85 year old patients side and saving myself from, well...cooties.  That's the technical term for it--cooties.

I had walked into the room about thirty minutes prior and greeted both patient and daughter with a hearty handshake and a pleasant, "Hello, what are we doing for you today?"  The visit had proceeded without incident.  It was just a routine check up.  His blood pressure had finally gotten under control.  Cholesterol was a little on the high side, so I increased his statin dose.  But I was pleased with his level of diabetic control.  I listened to his heart and lungs, checked his feet for possible ulcers.  I wrote out the order for a pneumonia vaccination and, in his case, had no need to refer him for an annual diabetic eye check with an ophthalmologist.  The diabetes had taken his vision years before.  

I closed out his chart on the computer and asked, "So have we taken care of everything today?"  I expected nothing more than to set up a follow up appointment in three months, but was surprised to find the patient asking his daughter to excuse herself and wait outside.  He had a "personal question to ask the doctor."

At one point or another, all of my male diabetic, hypertensive and hyperlipidemic patients ask family to excuse themselves.  And as I re-opened the chart and began to type in the prescription for Viagra, I was, once again surprised.  

The complaint wasn't erectile dysfunction.

He stated clearly and without hesitation, "For the last month, every time I scratch my balls, my fingers smell."  And before he had even completed the sentence, he had risen from his wheelchair, dropped his pants, lifted his scrotum, exposing the undersurface with his left hand, and scratching several times with his right hand as though he were playing a skin cello.

And sure enough, after he felt he had performed his mini sack concerto for a sufficient period of time, he brought his fingers to his nose--to his fucking NOSE and said "see."  As though the demonstration was necessary for me to believe his claim.

He extended his hand out to me, and maybe it was because he was blind.  Or maybe it was because of the diabetes associated nerve damage, but he began to lose balance.

And that's how we get to me doing my best Keanu Reeves impression.  

It all happened so quickly that I'm not sure if he was aware of my avoidance.  Of my sudden not being where my voice was only a second ago.  Of the sound of my dress shoes rapidly clip clopping on the hard examination room floor.  Of how I suddenly reappeared right behind him, supporting his back, avoiding his hand, and gently assisting him to his wheelchair. 

I'm not sure what it's like to be blind.  I've heard that all the other senses are augmented to compensate for the loss.  Not in this case!  Man did not take the hint, cause as I wished him and his daughter well at the completion of the visit, he still stuck his hand for a goodbye handshake.

I just patted him on his back.

Shoot

I turned around, and there he was...standing in front of my bedroom window...naked...and fully, fully, well, excited.  

Well this was an unexpected turn of events. 

I honestly hadn't seen it coming.  I mean sure he had been lounging around on my living room couch.  So what if he had done it wearing only low-rise jeans, 2xist briefs and dog tags?  I became slightly more aware of the possibility when he decided to remain on the couch but thought it may be better without the constraint of jeans.  But the naked?  And erect?  I am, as ever, retarded about such things, and I didn't see that coming.

Not even when we moved upstairs to the bedroom.  Just for a change of venue, and the fact that I wanted him to get off the first floor where the floor to ceiling windows that are, as yet, sans window treatments, could have given the new neighbors more to talk about than I am willing, at this point, to allow.  

And it still didn't register when he plopped himself onto my bed, seductively draping himself with my faux fur throw and running his hands over his washboard abs and chest, chiselled and lightly dusted with fine brown hair.  

I had no idea that we were heading down that path.  

But there he was, standing stark naked in front of my bedroom window for any fortunate onlooker down below to see.  And he just stared at me, eyes locked on mine with a seductive gaze, running his hand slowly down his chest and stomach and inner thigh, but purposefully avoiding "it".  Not that "it" needed it.

All I could think to do was to motion for him to sit on the bed next to me which he promptly did.  And as we sat bare shoulder to bare shoulder, faces so close that I felt his warm breath against my cheek, trying desperately not to stare at..."it" as "it" still stood at full mast, I did the only thing I could think to do...I showed him pictures. 

Cause that's how I do.  I'm the guy who can't close the deal when a hot guy is unexpectedly sitting next to me completely naked with raging wood. 

The thing is, even though we had hung out several times before and nothing more than a friendly hug or innocent goodbye kiss on the lips had occurred, today we were photographer and model.  And I couldn't wrap my head around the situation.

And honestly...I was waiting for him to make the first move.

Yes, I know.  Reason number 2,238 why I am still single. 

Head Over Heels

I'm in love.

In. Love.

Yes, people Van is undeniably, incontrovertibly, unapologetically in love.

And it's great.

What can I say?  I've been away from the blogging thing and other things due in no small part to being head over heels in love.  

God!  How mushy is this?

But that's what it is.  All laid on on the table for the one or two of you who may be left out there.  

Details?  Well there really aren't much.  

It isn't Almost Perfect who turned out to be significantly less than. 

It's certainly not Smooth who I found out after our last "date" a few months back had a boyfriend--of 13 years!  And I quote from his non-private, easily stalkable social networking home page, "I have such a beautiful boyfriend!! I'm very lucky and greatfull (sic) for the past 13 years and look forward to many many more!"  Ugh!  The fact that he can't spell or use commas is a total deal breaker...well if the whole boyfriend of 13 years wasn't already.

Well not a total deal breaker, I guess.  As was proven by the twenty-three year old, bisexual, bachelorette party stripper with the two misspelled tattoos.  That didn't work.

None of those.  This one, this one is perfect.  As perfect as perfect can be.  And it was love at first sight.  That crazy, impossible to be true kind of love.  That inability to understand how life could have been without kind of love.  

And it's a she.  

I am officially Uncle Van.  And how could anyone NOT love this?

 

As for the twenty-three year old bisexual bachelorette party stripper?  It's not so much that is didn't work out as much as it isn't working out.  Mental note: I am not Courteney Cox, and my life isn't Cougartown.  Must have "the talk".  And soon.

Besides what am I supposed to tell my true love when she asks what her uncle's special friend does for a living?

Not So Perfect

In my mind's eye, I saw my jaw drop to the floor, my heart sinking in like fashion.  But I knew outwardly, nothing gave the disappointment away.  

Up until then the night had been perfect.  Even with the initial delays, it was perfect.  It provided just that little bit of conflict, that sense that the fates were somehow standing in the way that built up the anticipation.  I was supposed to pick him up at 5:45.  I had given myself a decent amount of time to get from the west side to WeHo, but still with rush hour traffic, I was going to be late.  I was antsy and starting to get pissed.  I just don't get fucking L.A. traffic.  Why can't people all just drive at a normal pace?!  Fuck!

My phone chimed in a text at the height of my frustration: "Sorry can we make 6.  Still stuck in class."

And then the evening just settled into a groove.  I arrived at his home at 6:15.  He rushed out to greet me in jeans and a hoodie with his chest completely exposed, even hotter than I remembered from our first meeting five days before.  "Come into the bedroom," he yelled.  I walked in on him buttoning up a white button up shirt.  He completed the look with dark jeans, dress shoes and a sport coat--definitely hotter than I remembered.  We lingered at his home for a while.  He'd only been there for a few months and was proud of the changes he'd made.  He gave me a tour of the bedrooms and the redone kitchen and the backyard with recently installed jacuzzi before we decided it was time to go.

The drive to Silverlake was, despite the still molasses slow traffic, pleasant, and it had everything to do with the company.  Even after spending four hours together at the previous Saturday night's party, it turned out we still had a lot to talk about, leaving not a minute of uncomfortable silence on the drive.

We arrived at my friend's art gallery show at around 8:00.  My friend was showcasing a collection of paintings that were contemporary interpretations of ancient deities from various pantheons from Greek to Nordic to Native American.  And we both enjoyed it.  We would take turns guessing which god or goddess we thought was depicted, together studying the choice of color, the mood, the expressions before offering our guess.  I found him to be thoughtful and incisive, and I was even more impressed by his ability to jump into any conversation with the other guests and the artist himself.  We said our goodbyes at about 8:45, and the artist whispered in my ear, "Your date is adorable.  Keep him."

I took him to Kitchen 24 for dinner.  It was ideal--hip and trendy with gourmet takes on old American standards for an affordable price; I didn't want to go too extravagant on a first date.  We were seated at a small table for two, but forced to lean into each other because the restaurant does get a little loud.  And over a turkey burger and a monte cristo sandwich both of which we split and shared, we talked about family and friends and coming out.  And how funny it was to think that we had just met a few days before at a random Hollywood party.

We were at the valet by 10:00, late for me, especially with work in the morning.  After the art show and the dinner, I thought it had been a good first date.  

"Hey it's only 10:00.  Do you want to go to O Bar for a drink?"

Apparently, he wanted to hang out some more, and I was not going to turn that down.  Besides, it was O Bar.  On a Thursday.  More than a handful of acquaintances stopped by to say hello, and a few of them without solicitation whispered into my ear that from a distance, it looked as though the date was going well.  And it was...until he said "I just don't understand dating in this country."  

In Europe, people were either one night stands or exclusively dating.  There isn't the American version of dating with its litany of iterations--"seeing each other", friends with benefits, dating, exclusively dating, in a relationship, in an open relationship, etc.  So he wasn't sure what was going on.  Not what was going on with me, but what was going on with this other guy who, for the last few months, he'd been sort of "seeing."

That's when my jaw dropped and my heart sank.

Bail Out

I'm nervous.  And I'm having second thoughts.

Over the last few months, my practice has been busy.  Besides the schedule crammed with patients for management of chronic issues like diabetes and heart disease, there are the typical "need to be seen today" patients complaining of upper respiratory symptoms or burning on urination.  And besides those patients there has been a spike in a growing number of same day patients complaining of anxiety.

I've never seen it this bad.  In the eight or so years of clinical practice, I've never seen it this bad.  Sure there have always been those who suffer from depression or anxiety, but this is insane.  I saw a fifty two year old woman for a follow up from her hospitalization.  She had been doing so well and had been so proud of herself in the last year and a half, but she fell off the wagon.  She'd been on a one and a half week binge, resulting in a hospitalization for delerium tremens, alcohol withdrawal.  "I needed it.  I needed to drink again.  I didn't know what else to do.  Things are bad.  I'm not happy, and it's gotten worse.  My husband lost his job, and I don't know what to do."

And it's not uncommon.  One of my sweet little old 80+ women, generally very happy and very generous with end of visit hugs broke down in tears as she told of how her daughter and son-in-law have had to move in with her, into the small apartment in which she lives or rather has been forced to live since her home burned down in the November fires.  Or the couple who cried as they told me that they both wanted complete physical exams to make sure they were healthy because soon they would have no more health insurance.  I've been doling out Paxil and Prozac and Pristiq like crazy.  

So in the context of all this, yes I'm nervous.  Nervous about having depleted my savings.  Nervous about whether or not I'm getting in over my head with a mortgage payment.  

I Resolve, Pt. 2

Wow, it's only March.  Two and a half months since I posted my resolutions, the first time I actually have them in print or was determined enough to have them in print.  And how have I done?  Let's review.

Well, number one the finances.  Oh the finances.  I haven't been all that bad, but the G-Star sale kind of threw the clothing budget out the window--jeans, corduroy pants, a couple of hoodies, t-shirts and a trench coat.  Yeah that's blown that budget out of the water.  However, I haven't been spending as much money going out either, but that's not entirely my doing.  Friends have also gone on a strict budget, so those evenings at Katsuya or Wilshire are much fewer and further between.

Two.  Not focusing a lot of time and attention on men with no long term potential.  Wow!  Did I really think that was going to happen?  Let me see: 23 year old with an already sort of boyfriend.  That sounds like a lot of potential right?  Not so much.

The third resolution was charitable work.  Aside from helping friends with various issues, I've volunteered to assist Tree People, an organization that "inspires people to take responsibility for the urban forest" by planting trees in the local parks and mountain forests.  I've done that...once.

And finally I had resolved to save up enough money for a down payment on a home or get into one by the end of the year.  That was lofty!  With my budgetary cutbacks (yes that was tongue in cheek), with my 401K tanking by 40% or greater, with L.A. relatively resistant to the massive drops in home prices that the rest of the nation's home buyers seems to be enjoying, lofty is probably a good description, particularly since as of Friday 3/6/09, I've been in escrow for a loft that I fell in love with since I first laid eyes on it.

Perfect

It was perfect.  The kind of perfect that is found only in movies, only when it's scripted.

It was so perfect that it even took place in the Hollywood Hills, in the perfectly and impeccably designed home of a successful Hollywood screenwriter.  It was so perfect that it took place on February 14, on Valentine's Day, the kind of story one can see telling friends and family over a candlelit dinner recounting the circumstances of their meeting, finishing each other's sentences in their personal tale of "meant to be".

So there I was, on Valentine's Day, another fete to celebrate Single's Awareness Day only this party was specifically for single gay men.  I was there somewhat reluctantly; I'm never good at flirtation, and this was specifically designed for flirtation.  I brought Dutch along for support, as a crutch, as a guarantee that I wouldn't be left alone with no one to talk to.  But it was fine.  We walked in relatively early and straightaway started talking to various guests.

It was one of those Hollywood parties littered with industry heavyweights and their hangers on.  Cute little waiters flitted about the room with martinis in hand.  The unlucky ones were actually serving them.  The lucky ones were drinking them, because tonight, as guests, they were actors! 

I panned the room from the sitting room to the front door.  From the specially designed leather swivel chairs to the Italian tufted sofa to the contemporary but obviously extravagant runner of the foyer, just as the door opened.

That's when he walked in.  I saw the heads turn as he stood caught in a column of light from the recessed light in the entry.  He was stunning with perfectly coiffed hair and perfect skin stretched taught over perfect cheekbones dusted with the perfect amount of stubble.  And he had taste--a white ribbed sweater underneath a distressed white leather motorcycle jacket.  It was more than obvious that he also had a perfect body.

I was mesmerized.  I don't even remember what happened or how much time had passed between that first glance and the introductory handshake.  It may have been seconds; it may have been an hour.  All I know is I saw him enter and then I was shaking his cold hand.  I don't even remember if he'd introduced himself or if someone else had facilitated the introduction.  I was dizzy.  

"I'm Rick.  I'm sorry.  My hands are cold."

"I'm Van," I said as he placed his hand on my cheek to prove just how cold his hands were.  I was just getting over the fact that not only did he have the most hypnotizing smile, but also the most endearing European accent.  

Over the next four hours, we talked.  By the stairwell we talked about his life in Europe.  On the outside deck, we talked about his pursuit of acting, and I pointed out some of the actors and writers present that he might want to talk to.  In the den, as we sat side by side, we talked about music and European politics and travel.  At times, others interrupted, trying to engage him in conversation or just to tell him "You're so adorable."  I politely excused myself, conscious of monopolizing his time, and not wanting him to feel as though I was crowding him.  And yet, every time within minutes, he would find me to continue our conversation.

I admit, I felt uncomfortable and self-conscious, and I did what I am good at--self-sabotage: "With all these industry types here, I just want to make sure you don't feel like you're wasting all your time with me.  You should network a little."

But he didn't allow it.  His response was sweet, "I'm not wasting my time; I WANT to talk to you.  I don't want to make it in this business by kissing the asses of people I'm not interested in.  I want to talk to you."

At the end of the night, he took my phone.  He dialed his number and called himself: "There, you have my number and I have yours."

We left the party together and gave me a hug at my car.  "Call me if you want to hang out."

It was perfect, the perfect meeting.  Perfect like a Hollywood script.

Only the perfect Hollywood script is never this easy.  The perfect Hollywood script is never free of conflict, never free of problems.  And in that sense the rest of the story is Hollywood perfect.

Bawm Chikka

Friday night.  I drove back from West, the bar/restaurant at the Angeleno Hotel.  It was only 9:30, and people were still arriving, but with the exception of the birthday girl herself, I knew only one other person.  And even though I don’t want to say he was boring, I would say he was not interesting.  I think describing someone as boring is pretty shitty.  I’d rather have someone hate me than think of me as boring.  So no, he wasn’t boring…just not interesting. 

Anyway, I’d gotten there at 8:00.  Alone.  My friend was supposed to come with me.  He told me he would earlier in the week.  He told me he had no other plans, and he knew her just as well as I.  And yet there I was, left faking interest as not boring guy droned on and on about stuff I can’t for the life of me remember. 

So I left.  I left, and on the drive home, I called my friend: “Dude, you should have come with.  Tons of hot chicks, just your type.” (And yes, big homo that I am, I am still quite fluent in the dialect of American Straight.)

“Sorry bro.  I just didn’t want to drive that far, and my buddy wanted to hang out.  So we just grabbed sushi and now we’re back at my place.  You should come over.  We’re just drinking beers and later we’re gonna hop in the hot tub.”

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.

Well, not really.

But come on now.  My buddy.  His friend.  Beer.  A hot tub.  Visions of hot man sex danced in my head.  And admittedly, it wasn’t the first time I’d had little man on man fantasies about this particular friend.  He’s hot—tall, blonde surfer boy, athletic.  He does Iron Mans for god’s sakes. 

And so against my better judgement, against my body screaming to just go to bed, I made the thrity minute trek to his house. 

He answered the door with a beer in hand and immediately introduced me to his friend: “This is my buddy Van.  Sorry, dude, but rather than bullshitting around the issue, I’m just gonna out you right now.  Van’s gay, so when we change to get into the hot tub, you’ll know why he’s staring, but make sure you put on a good show.”

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.

Well again, not really.  His friend?  Not so hot.  But again the thought of my friend,  beers, the hot tub?  I must have been smiling because just then he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “This is what I love about Van.  You can fuck with him, and he doesn’t get all bent out of shape.”

I punched him in the arm.  Fucker.

As we drank and waited for the hot tub to warm up, I was given a tour of the house.  It was a new acquisition, and I’m sure the invite was as much to hang out as it was to show off.  And he was justified in doing so.  It was his baby.

And it was pretty awesome.  The back yard was outfitted with an outdoor kitchen/bar area.  There was a pool with a hot tub and outdoor speakers.  The house itself had four bedrooms and three baths.  And the master suite was impressive—a remote controlled fireplace, huge walk in closet, and the bathroom?  It was awesome, just the shower area itself was great—plenty of room for a small party with dual oversized shower heads and a bench with heavy, clear glass doors that all new showers seem to have nowadays.  I admit it.  I was a little jealous.

We finally got into the hot tub.  I had borrowed a pair of board shorts.  His friend, bigger than either of us, just got in with his boxer briefs, and we stayed in…with our beers…until we were pruney.  At 2:00, his friend decided he should go home to his wife, leaving me and my friend alone in the hot tub.

Bawm chikka…yeah, not so much.

We spent another hour in the tub just shooting the shit and just having a great time before deciding it was time to get out.

“Dude, you probably shouldn’t drive home right now.  Just crash here.”

Bawm…nope, still nothing.

We hung out in the kitchen for a bit before I realized that the chlorine was making me itch like a motherfucker. 

“Go rinse that shit off.”

I asked which shower I should use, and after explaining that none of the other showers had towels or soap or anything, he walked me to the master and said “Just use this  one”, opening the clear glass door and turning on the shower for me. 

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.  Only…not so much.

OK, this was a little weird.  But I didn’t question it.  He had left, but had left the bathroom door wide open.  I started to shower for a few seconds before deciding, fuck it, tossing the board shorts aside.  I didn’t give a shit if he could see me in all my glory. 

“Turn the other shower head on.  I’m coming in.”

Didn’t question it.  Just did as I was told.  We stood there back to back, me fully naked and he in his board shorts. 

“No, don’t use that soap.  This one’s better.”  He was a little too chatty during the shower.  And he clearly wasn’t in any rush to get out.  “This shampoo’s really good too.”

Again I just did what I was told, trying to be cool.  Not staring.  Just keeping my face toward the shower head and away from him.

“Hey, no homo or anything, but this is stupid.  I’m losing my shorts.” And with the unmistakable sound of Velcro ripped open, his shorts were tossed to the side.

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.

But yet again, it was like the worst porn ever.  I didn’t want to make a move.  I didn’t want to scare him away, and so we continued chit chatting and rinsing for far longer than anyone would consider necessary. 

Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the porn that was playing in my head out of my head and despite being mildly buzzed, I became excited with nothing to conceal it. 

He noticed and gave out a loud chuckle, “Ha, dude what’s this?” he asked,  reaching down for a grab.

Bawm chikka bawm bawm. 

And seriously, this is a situation only I can fuck up.  I took it as a green light to make a move, so I returned the grab.  He didn’t freak out.  He was mellow, but made his intentions clear: “Hey, I’m sorry.  I’m totally not trying to be a tease or anything, but well you know I’m not gay. “

We finished up after a few minutes as though nothing of circumstance had happened.  Neither of us bothered with clothing or towels or anything.  We just ended up a safe distance from each other, talking on his king sized bed. 

At 4:00, he asked a one word question: “So…?”

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.

Well…sorta.