Hello lehdies,

Well things have been going well with Mr. Sargent and I dare say I find myself falling hopelessly head over ankles in love with him. I feel like a love sick child: I love his smell, his hair, his body, his netherworlds, cuddles, kisses, the way he refers to his ex’s as former Ms. Sargents, and all the other garden variety joys of Mr. Sargent. 

I’m not blind to him —- he isn’t perfect (lets not get on the age difference thing). The thing we are working on right now is holding my hand in public. I understand that 48 years isn’t easily deprogrammed over night; however, like I told Kevin “it’s the price of admission.” That conversation followed somewhat like this:

Kevin: well to tell you the truth I never really did that with any of the other guys I dated

AJ: that’s the same argument as “i’m not racist to just that group, i’m racist to everyone.” That just means you haven’t been a good partner to all your ex’s. What goes through your head when we hold hands?

Kevin: I don’t know. 

AJ: I doubt that you don’t know what’s going through your head

Kevin: I need time to think about it

AJ: fair

I think in the grand-scheme of partner complaints it’s tiny……not tiny enough that I would overlook it and ignore it….but tiny. 

Spending Boxing Day with him on the island was really beautiful. He picked me up in Nanimo and we drove into downtown Victoria to stay with his lonely friend Steve who was kind enough to give us his bed to sleep in. His place was just like Kevin’s in that the decor was a bit sparse at best. Steve just moved there a year ago from Vancouver and apparently he is only into dating black guys. My first thoughts…….”so you choose Victoria?” Not my first inclination if that was my persuasion; however, to each their own. 

The night there was just sublime. His kisses, the way he stands over me on his arms like a silverback gorilla (not everyone’s definition of sexy amazingness…but it’s mine), and the way he holds me. I just don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed sex with someone more in my life (yes we were trash and played around in his friend’s bed). Waking up in the morning and seeing the light on his face, studying his lips, his crevices, his essence — enchantingly intoxicating. I find this strange sadness when he isn’t around which is bizarre as I don’t even like how that sounds; it sounds infantile to me… and such are the flavors of love. 

I haven’t yet said “I love you” but God knows I’ve wanted to let it slide off my tongue. I feel it within me but I don’t want to cause him apprehension.  

Yours in loving the fall down the rabbit hole,

~Adj

Anyways, Kevin asked if he could give me his number (which I though was impressively forward) and I said that I wanted to give him mine as well. After the exchange of digits we both left. About an hour later, he texted me saying he really enjoyed kissing me and asked if I would be up for wine the next night. I showed up and the rest has been history for the last few weeks.

How does 20 enter the picture?

Well a week or so into things I got into the topic of age with him

AJ: so I know that there is an age difference with us; how old do you think I am?

Kevin: has that question ever lead to good things?

AJ: Guess

Kevin: It’s hard to tell because your head is shaved but I would guess late twenties but probably early thirties.

AJ: 28. My guess for you is 36

Kevin: oh you’re very kind

AJ: 38?

Kevin: actually, I just turned 48

AJ’s internal thoughts:  who ever thought that the best sex of my life would be with a geriatric? And it wasn’t 19 years or 21 years, it had to be 20 — that number has been haunting me for a year! Blerg.

That was a bit of a whirlwind moment. I think I was so shocked because he plays volleyball for hours at a time, he goes on 14K runs, and he just doesn’t look like he is approaching 50. It made me somewhat sad in that moment because 20 years is so much time to be with someone; we could have 20 years, but not 20 more.

I had said a year or two ago that I would never consider letting myself fall for someone more that ten years older than me as I saw Anne and Richard with their 17 year age difference. They were friends with my grandparents and for ages he would say “Anne keeps me young” which was true; however, the universe seeks a balance. When Richard turned 80 and was sick/hospitalized, she was in her 60s and still ready to travel the world. She had to stick by his side for years taking care of him and he aged her faster. When he got dementia she became an alcoholic which lead to complications and her dying before him. I thought of their story as one of the most tragic I had ever been exposed to.

Kevin is many things that I’ve asked the universe for: caring, an introvert, a top, self-sufficient and financially stable, funny, nerdy, he smells amazing, he has a BEAUTIFUL body, he has love languages of physical touch and service, etc. Who thought that the universe would deliver it all wrapped in a life lesson?

I don’t know where our path will lead to; however, I’m glad our paths have crossed. For now, i’m content to fall down the rabbit hole and see where it leads.

That’s it folks

~Adj

PS – random numerology story: Kevin and I were on the couch and I said that we were very different in our approach with family as I’m more the type to say “I’m showing up October 3rd so be ready.” He was weirded out that I choose that day in random conversation as it’s his birthday. In also awkward news, if you scroll down you will see that I wrote the post about 20 haunting me on October 3. Randomness and PS: duly noted universe.

Today in my night class our professor posed a very interesting question to the class: why do we share our self with others and how do we choose to be shown? It was in the context of self-portraiture; however, I think as a more generalized question that it’s quite interesting to ruminate on it.

Why do we blog? Why do we share our innermost thoughts from mere tweets to pontificated exposes? What is achieved for our self and for those to whom it is shared with? Is it community recognition and validation if even for moments? Is it just trying to leave a record of our existence?

I’ve been thinking about that in the context of our fame obsessed culture where recognition from the larger society seems to be tantamount.  Do we blog and tweet because we secretly hope that we are ‘discovered’ for our unique view/vantage point? Do we do it merely to leave a mark on the wall, which acts as a digital carving to say ‘I was here’? Is it out of our desire to not be part of the beehive collective, to feel unique when really that’s statistically both impossible and likely?

Why do we publicly share our self?

We are social creatures and we make sense and meaning by sharing; however, that can be done through conversation. When it comes to permanent records of thoughts and identity (images, writing, etc), why do we have the urge to leave a remembrance? Something is achieved, peculiar to each person, which is different from pure sense making vis-a-vi conversation. By sharing ourselves online, we leave a permanent manipulation of how we choose to be seen: did I look fat in the picture? Did I use big enough words as to sound intelligent? etc lame etc. We project a chosen, edited, and stylized self.

So why am I blogging?

I’ve found it hard lately because it has felt like an exercise in self-indulgence: who really wants to hear my thoughts? Am I just doing this so that they have good material for my eulogy? Etc. The art class has got my mind going though and luckily for you, as well as my chosen, edited, and stylized portrayal of identity, I’m blogging tonight without answers.

I’m okay with that.

~AJ

It’s been a crazy week: started art class, worked with Darren and Jeff on Jpals, and started gay curling. It’s surreal that i’m finally going  back to art after a 10 year off-course interlude with higher education. It was always my 18 year old escapist fantasy to move to New York and become a photographer; however, the desire to not be a starving artist took me towards my family’s drug of choice: stability.

After three years and every excuse in the book, I finally registered for an art class. Well, actually, I registered for a grad course and got placed #20 on the waitlist for VISA 180. Don’t ask me how, but 20 spots opened and I got into the course. The number 20 shows up again: surprise. Get this, I got into the class just in time for the first class: September 20th!

Darren has a theory about life which is that when we are on the right path that everything is easy; it’s when we are fighting against our path that life throws bricks and brick-walls against us. I couldn’t agree more. Anyways, it feels good to be in the course and to be finally doing the thing which I’ve put off for so long. I think selling paintings helped me to get the confidence that “it’s not just your friends that like your work, you may have a talent worth pursuing here.” I guess to me it always feels like fortuitous accidents when i’m painting; like somehow that looks good by it’s own accord and my skill is in knowing to not paint over that good part.

Speaking of the universe and things which are easy, Jpals is slowly chugging along. On my way over to the business meeting at Darren’s it was so random as I hit every green light on the way over; I literally didn’t wait at a single intersection the whole time: it’s easy when you’re on the right path. We got all the features sorted out and now it’s off to the developers. If this could pan out into any kind of financial ouputs then (a) amazing, and (b) she’s buying an apartment!

Speaking of moving, I told myself that in November I’m giving notice and moving into a place with a dishwasher; an essential modern convenience which is currently preventing me from throwing dinner parties (first world problems). I’ve done the best I can with my current apartment; however, as I sit here freezing my little typing fingers off (they haven’t turned on the building heat for the winter and so I have the oven set to high with the door open) I think to myself: can I not afford better? The answer is that she can and he will.

I checked out Matt Appletons building but it’s literally the personification of a BBQ Bud. It’s got ZERO personality, as well as the most macabre elevator that seemed to have mastered the almost impossible task of being so boring that it’s not even worth talking about. You have to be in it to fully understand but it’s literally incomprehensibly drab: wood paneling, no interesting features, and too small to be cramped but too large to be spacious. Bizarre. My first thoughts as I stepped into the elevator were: this is the most uninteresting and uninspiring space that I’ve ever had the displeasure of stepping into. Its vapid nature actually makes it somewhat amazing.

His building would be a step up from my current place though as it has a dishwasher, concrete framing, tons of natural light, and a magnificent view. The dining area is a little cramped and the whole thing is sickly carpeted minus the kitchen and bathroom; however, nothing is perfect. Who knows, if Jpals takes off she may move from the 1950s bedbug motel to 2011 penthouse madness! Don’t doubt her skillz.

Anyways, that’s a life update for now

Hugs and love

~AJ

The main lobby was horrifically drab. The white walls were spruced up only by a crooked picture of a sailing boat and a few magazines on the side-table from what appeared to be 1994. It was in a surprising state of interior design disrepair considering the area. From the lobby, he took me through a large blue fire door and up a single set of stairs to his apartment.

The first thing that struck me about Mike’s place was the lack of dust. This man OBVIOUSLY had OCD as there wasn’t an ounce of grime ANYWHERE!!! He was a decor minimalist but he shared the same sense of passion that I had for large oversized wood furniture. I admit that at this point I had crazy shag-n-shack daydreams: he’s clean (check); in the event that we ever had a life merger it would be done with relative stylistic ease (check); he is cute (check); he has a stead job (check); i’m being ridiculous for even walking down this strain of logic (check) .

He poured me a glass of white wine which I think was expensive (he seemed like a wine aficionado) but tasted just about as dry as the Sahara desert. With puckered lips, I thanked him for the wine and then we sat down on the couch. I can’t remember exactly what we started talking about; however, he started to play with my hand and I was returning the favor. He moved closer and started playing with my foot but then said ‘your socks are a little damp, I think you may need new shoes’ which totally annoyed me as I had literally just bought new socks that day to impress (so white!) and that’s his comment? Who says that? Anyways, it wasn’t enough to call spilled milk over; at most it was a fleeting moment of annoyance.

I found that we didn’t have a ton to say to each other so roughly 5 minutes into the hand tickles we both just went in for the kiss (just because your minds aren’t into each other it doesn’t mean that your bodies aren’t). Shirts came off, followed by pants, and then not far behind that my dignity. JOKES! I think sex is a healthy and natural thing that doesn’t require a wedding ring for admittance. We made out on the couch for a while before parlaying into the bedroom.

Again, everything in the room was immaculate and perfectly white (to the point of intimidation — is he going to be combing the bed of my body hairs when I leave?). We started to fool around and he had told me earlier that he was really into rimming — thus I was sure to have a shower before heading over. Anyways, I’m sorry that it’s too much information for the average North American readers; however,  it’s my life, and my choice to share, and c’est la vie. The point of the share is that afterwards he didn’t want to kiss me! I’m like, “I showered and I don’t mind” but for him it was as if once that act had been done then only ‘non-mouth-to-face’ things could be done to me from that point forward (which is hella unsexy). The whole thing reeked of OCD rules/frameworks of thinking and I thought……UGH. Anyways, the whole thing ended up being fine with the exception of him not having condoms (who has someone over late and doesn’t have condoms?) so it wasn’t the full smorgasbord of a hook-up. I think he was going for the ‘I don’t have any but I’m clean’ thing but I beat him to the chase with ‘well that’s fine if that’s off the table…there’s other stuff we can do.’ He also pulled out poppers and tried to get me to take a whiff which I just didn’t find classy. I mean, eating ass and not having condoms is one thing; however, poppers on a first date just shows no tact

I didn’t stay the night. He had been robbed by his last hook-up (three months ago [again classiness to the max]) and I could tell her was super nervous about me staying there so I took my leave and came back over the bridge on he night bus (more classiness considering he had a car! [ps omg do I need a car as there is no dignity in taking a night bus post a hook-up]).

It was overall a ‘meh’ experience but goes to show that a tall, classless, cute, clean, and well-paid bear just isn’t enough: you need ‘connection.’

I am single because I want to be. I’m single because I refuse to just be with someone. I’m single because I want someone who I want to desperately be around.

Till then….

Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream

~AJ

My question: why do I attract all the later-in-life-comeouts?

I’ll post you all an update after the date tonight aka drinks at his place at 9:30.

~AJ

We did this this last weekend and yours truly makes a cameo as Janice Dickenson

Hey gals,

I noticed the bed-bug post has taken a lot of digital hits so I wanted to take a moment to let you all know that……it gets better! There are roughly 3 stages to recovery:

1) (1-2 months post having them) This period is known as the hyper-sensitive horror phase.  Every itch scratches up a potential nightmare; it wouldn’t matter if you were in the midst of a wedding proposal: itch = stop and check for mark of the red death. Not jokes. I looked like a crazy person on the bus when I got a slight tingle on my leg and I hiked up my pants to see if something had crawled up (this was especially irritating as I had taken the cumbersome precaution of not sitting — tired legs were better than itchy ones). If you are in this stage, you likely have your bed-posts either sitting in trays of water or you have sticky-pad rat-traps on the bottom of them. Your bed is pulled away from the wall (otherwise you’re subverting the work of the water trays and giving direct access to the bed) and you don’t want to hook-up with randoms (as you don’t want people to see the awkwardness of the bed and you quite frankly don’t want the possibility of bed-bugs being tracked in). At this phase, you probably have a half-written letter to your landlord explaining the benefits of periodically bringing in a sniffer dog.

2) (2-6 months) I call this phase bi-polar normalcy. You return to sitting on public transit; however, you wear some form of easily washable clothing when you go to a movie theatre just in case you itch and end up needing to do an emergency launder (which you may end up doing just for anxiety reducing reasons). Likely, you have been able to start discussing things other than bed-bugs with those that you have disclosed to (much to their appreciation). You haven’t dropped off the letter to the landlord yet about the dog; however, you’ve considered taking a pest control course (it would just be cheaper for future) or getting a dog for training purposes (I mean if you are going to be getting a dog anyways why not?).

3) (6 months – 1 year) With a year behind you life is sooooooo much better. You know that they can be treated and successfully killed. You still check out articles online; however, you generally try to avoid the subject (it feels like, in a weird way, that you would be welcoming back that energy into your life). You have probably told more people about the horrors of your bed-bug nightmare as you now have the line “I had bed-bugs a year ago” to calm people down so that they don’t think they will contract the STI (socially-transmittable-infestation). You can resist the urge to check on itches (to a large extent) and the bed is back up against the wall. The adhesive on the sticky traps have dusted over and finally come off.

IT GETS BETTER! I send out hugs to each of you that has slept in your tub, cried, been mentally exhausted, and become a general basket case to friends and loved ones. The zombie-like existence will end and you will get a good nights sleep; you will no longer get a panic attack with the presence of an itch. I don’t know why these bugs are so shat-sauce but I still remember the words of the pest control operator “no-one likes pests but there is something about bed-bugs, they get inside people’s heads like none of the others do.” Lets be grateful that they aren’t ‘just part of life’ and that we live in a country where they are solved and not seen from again for years at a time (or possibly ever again [if you are luckier than I was]). For those living in third world countries where these things are permanently part of life I have only the wise words of Antoine Dodson: Hide ya kids hide yo wife!…….(and burn ya bed!)

Good luck my infested friends across the globe,

~AJ

Currently, i’m reading Irvin D Yalom’s ‘Staring at the Sun’ for psychology book club — a book about death and dying. I was reading this part that I found really beautiful (pg 154): “My father almost died from a coronary when he was 46. It happened in the middle of the night. I, fourteen years old, was terrified, and my mother was so distraught that she cast about for some explanation, someone to blame for this stroke of fate. I was the available target, and she let me know that I – with my unruliness, my disrespect, my disruption of the house-hold – was wholly responsible for the this catastrophe. More than once that evening, as my father writhed with pain, she screamed at me, “You’ve killed him!” Twelve years later, when I was on the analytic couch, my description of this event resulted in an unusual momentary outburst of tenderness from Olive Smith, my ultra-orthodox Freudian psychoanalyst, who clucked her tongue, tsk, tsk, as she leaned toward me and said, “How awful. How terible that must have been for you.” Of her thoughtful, dense, and carefully worded interpretations, I remember nary a one. But her reaching out in the caring moment – that I cherish even now, almost fifty years later.’

As I read that an old memory started its engine and drove out of memory lane and into my consciousness thoughts. I remember being at tea with Lisa Dockman and this guy was at the front counter being cumbersomely 19 and straight. In talking with his friend, he boasted about how something or other was SO GAY! I looked up at Lisa and we both gave each other a knowing and discrediting eye-roll. Why do straight-men get the right to be so obnoxiously unaware of their derogatory, despicable, and stratifying language? Ugh. Anyways, we went back to studying when up walked the very brazen, bold, and outspoken Tamara Larter.

Tamara: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY!!!

Straight-ignoramus: ugh……what?

Tamara: *pushes him backwards* I SAID WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY!?!

Straight-ignoramus: what the fucks your problem?

Tamara: you were just calling things gay. You’re being fucking offensive you stupid fuck and then you have the audacity to ask what my problem is? You’re the one with the fucking problem BUDDY!

Straight-ignoramus: *fearing she may rip his eyelids out* woah sorry.

The guys took off and I was slightly shell shocked: I had just witnessed seeing an ally in action. Why hadn’t I said something? Was homophobia just the proverbial water in which fish are unaware?

Tamara: *walks over to me and lisa at the table* I’m so sorry you had to hear that kind of shit AJ. It’s not fair.

Unexpectedly, she hugged me and I started to well up in tears without abandon or control. Why was I crying? I knew. It was because she was right. It wasn’t fair that I had to hear my identity disrespected in public and that everyone sipped away on their tea as if nothing was amiss — totally unaware that an offense had even occurred. Social messaging and learning had occur by calling the guy out on his language – for those listening and for the guy she spoke to: being ignorant and blissfully unaware can have ramifications. A moral stance had been taken. Someone had said: THIS SHIT ISN’T RIGHT!!! Reality begins to shifts in those moments as it awakens in us a knowing: a call to action, a self-determination, and a right to what is universally just.

She is probably unaware of how she rippled into my life in a special and meaningful way within that moment. I hold a special place in my heart for her: for the lessons learned in that moment, for lending her voice against social violence, and for living life in the fearless pursuit of compassion.

That memory, and that moment, is precious to me and I thank her for that gift.

I’ve realized as I write this that I need to share this with her. Another idea in the book is how many people wait for a eulogy to finally speak up the meaning that someone has provided. I think it’s important to let the living know that their existence mattered.

Tell someone.

Today Uncle Eddy died.

Sad.