Last year, I wrote a very personal poem, Famished. I was trying to get to the core of why I was not more proactive in my search for love and a relationship. My conclusion: I wasn't looking for any kind of love . . . I was looking for someone to volunteer themselves. The point being that one can be proactive, acquire relations like commodities, and manipulate a circumstance out of the resources provided . . . but the act of acquisition and manipulation means that one can never believe in that love. The only true love is that which is volunteered . . . no quid pro quo. At least, that's what Famished sought to express (I'll get back to you on the validity of such a philosophy, later).
During the poetry workshop, it came time for me to read the poem to my eight peers and then analyze its strength and weaknesses. I scanned the poem quickly, and realized that I had to vocally express the italicized text at the culmination of the poem as Onomatopoeia. More specifically, when I read the words "I ache" it had to sound like real ache.
Well don't you just know that at that very moment, I verklempt myself. I did in fact ache and I knew it. Suddenly, I could not talk, and felt a pesky tear welling in the corner of my eye. Nevertheless, the tiny room of nine people surrounding me gaped in silence . . . waiting for me to begin. Panic. I was either going to break down in a broom closet with nine colleagues, or I was going to swallow this emotion and man one out for the team. Tick, tick, tick. Oh, no. I wasn't pulling it off. I looked up to the facilitator, Todd Boss and in the only voice I could muster said, "I'm having that poetry workshop moment. Can someone else read."
No problem. We were off. Someone else took over, and I had two minutes to pull it together. But my wavering voice and red face was the elephant in a very small room.
I was filled with self-loathing. I'd spent all this time and money to get to the Key West Literary Seminar, to get feedback . . . and now no one was going to say anything . . . because they were trapped in a very small room with a weepy gay guy.
When the poem was finished being read, I immediately, in as perky a voice as possible, apologized. "Let me have it. Please! I need your honest feedback." They were poets and good people. No problem. We proceeded, and I survived . . . but now aware that Famished had cut me deeper than I ever realized, or would let myself realize.
After workshop, I found my friends and told them as much as I've told you. They did not know the poem or its connotations. Intellectually, they rationalized: Let it go. Move on. It's fine.
So, we all went out to dinner . . . a reading at the San Carlos Club . . . and then for fun, decided to take in one of Key West's many stripper bars.
I don't mention this to titillate. Heavens! If you've ever met me, you'd know what a prude I am. In any event, I find myself, a 43 year old gay man, in a stripper bar on Duvall Street drinking a 4$ bottle of water, and watching the strippers (in this case men) gyrate for their grateful audience. My beautiful friend Lizz, got undue attention from them, and ate it up! It was hard to tell who was putting on the show for whom. They were in love with her. One stripper keeps waving to me to come hither. I wondered if he thought I was Lizz's husband. I was sure he was going to ask me if I was okay with the titillation and benign physical interaction. He, a good looking physical specimen of the Russian gymnastic team - wearing not but silken red underwear, pulls me aside, in a niche in the bar with a drape. "Yes?"
In a thick Russian accent, he asked me if I would like to [censored for your protection and mine] . . . for $20.
$20. I said $20. And remember, I'm FAMISHED!!
I realized that I was living in that moment that I'd only heard about in Sunday School and ABC after-school specials. For a brief flash: What a bargain! $20!
No, no, no. Um. No, no, no, no, no. I could not live with myself if I became that person. But here I was in the position of rejecting the hottest hooker this side of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I leaned to his ear, and over the regular throbbing of the distant electronica whispered, "You are very beautiful, but I have never paid for that . . . and I cannot start now. Be well."
I slipped out of the drape, back into the bar and skittered back over to my friends. "How are you?" They asked . . . really meaning, what did the Russian want?
I thought to myself. Um, not so famished after all!
My second moment of humiliation came from famed poet Billy Collins. My beloved and flirtatious friend Lizz had secured his complete attention during the social at the Key West Customs House Museum. They'd been talking for about 15 minutes, when I decided that Lizz could be my introduction. Billy Collins teaches during the winter semester at Rollins College in Orlando, and it might be an organic opportunity to introduce myself, tell him we are neighbors and broker future acquaintance. I stepped up to Billy and Lizz, who were laughing and talking about racy stuff (which I will skip - discretion being the better part of valor).
"Hello Mr. Collins, my name is Drew." I smiled and held out my hand. Without a beat he replied:
"Somehow, I believe you." he retorted and turned back to Lizz without further adieu.
I stood there blinking . . .
Not really wanting to meet him anymore, I admitted to myself that I was probably cramping his style with Lizz . . . (But still?)
I left with another story to tell . . . and so did Lizz . . . but not Billy.
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