The best thing about feeling romantically rejected is that those Trembling Blue Stars (and all the magnificent melancholic music that comprises my library) records sound even better. They always sound lovely, but at times like these I can feel them, a soft buzz of bitter consolation through my frail body. (side note, “All I’m Doing is Losing” may be the best saddest song ever)
The worst thing is the inertia, the distraction from matters at hand. I have an article to write about LGBT asylum, a personal statement to construct for the University of Chicago. It is infinitely more important that I impress EDGE readers and the admissions committee at one of my top picks of programs, yet this guy, a decade my junior, for whom I have fallen keeps imposing himself on my thoughts. Am I such a poor gauge? He seemed to want more time with me, asking to come in. Days have passed, and he hasn’t responded to my concession of affection. We talked, in general terms, about dating and romantic passion over Indian buffet. He explained he prefers ‘cold cuddles’ to inflamed embraces. I sort of concurred but said ‘casual cuddles’ seemed like a more apt description. I had no idea how to tell him in the car (not in the restaurant; this is not a French film, alas) that I wanted to be the guy he cold cuddled and with whom he balanced passion and reason, so I took the chickenshit route, and emailed him when I got home. He has not responded. I should know; I only check my phone and email every 7 minutes.Fucker.
Not to dwell on failings, but it seems I’m operating with a serious deficit when it comes to men (or boys) and technology. Both trick me into thinking we have an understanding, a harmony of sorts, then deviate without contrition. This darn alarm clock I bought for my NY trip refuses to be set, yet it goes off every hour on the hour.
The ultimate, much-anticipated interview for my asylum/refuge article finally happened Friday morning. I spoke, via skype, to Neil Grungras of ORAM, a leading expert on LGBT refugee resettlement – and attorney who has devoted his life to this. First, we bonded over Turkey a bit. He joked that he fell in love with a hot Turk (I asked how he initially got involved with this work). He is a genuine, big-hearted dude. But listening to the recording later I couldn’t keep from cringing while listening to myself. Ugh. I have got to be more conscious of the way I speak, to sound more professional. I sound juvenile and ludicrous. Still, I’m grateful for the interview and that I was bold enough to tell him I am trying to make this work my focus in future graduate studies and that I would like to have a sustained relationship with ORAM.
I also desire a sustained relationship with NYC. My five days there were pretty blissful. It was my first time staying in Brooklyn, at Glen’s flat across from Prospect Park. I found autumn there, astounding yellows and oranges seeming to ensconce….My talks with faculty at Fordham and Rutgers were fruitful, encouraging. Both schools have disappointing campuses (Columbia’s campus is much more impressive but don’t think I’ll be applying there), but they have great programs, with opportunities for refugee work. There is a great deal I could write about my time there, but because I am writing about boys this time around, I’ll say that it was nice not to think about Stephen during that time and that I made minor friendly/lustful connections with a Lucas, Larry, and Lawrence. I seem to have a sort of beginner’s luck with guys in NYC. I guess I should be looking for L guys from now on, though it would be kind of strange to have something with someone who has the same name as my father. Lucas was an incredibly friendly Taiwanese-American guy who toured me around Prospect Park, explaining its contrivance and construction, then treated me to heaps of dumplings at his popular East Village restaurant, Dumpling Man (pumpkin and banana dumplings! yes, please!). We saw “Blue is the Warmest Color”, the much-hyped French film with an astonishingly long and explicit lesbian sex scene, together at BAM and loved it. I could tell he was disappointed I opted to crash in his room with a Japanese style door instead of in his bed. I would have been happy cuddling with him but couldn’t really imagine more than that; chemistry is a bitch.
Lawrence, a cute Filipino guy I met at The Cock, was the only guy I got naked with. He is as skinny as me (I almost never connect with skinny guys), a 22 yr old (for some reason, I attract either guys ten years my junior or ten years my senior, never my own age) Parson’s fashion graduate. I doubt I would be long term potential with a fashion major, but they apparently make great flings! He is adorable, pulled me from the seedy Cock to his favorite Village gay bar, The Boiler Room. I could say more, but that’s enough frivolity for now.