Manhattan Mondays

Something happens to you in Manhattan.

If you're a Manhattan transplant, meaning you grew up somewhere else and moved here, inevitably, something fundamentally changes about you. It's hard to pin down to one particular behavior or action. No new distinct habit or trait suddenly pops up, it's very subtle. Perhaps it's your attitude, your routine, your experiences, your job or outlook. Sometimes it happens to all of that, but in very small, unnoticeable ways.

The changes aren't consistant also. It really depends on where you are when they emerge and suddenly you realize you had a very Manhattan reaction. Sometimes you mysteriously find yourself on the UES thinking "How the hell did I end up here in my Gap coat and last season's Sketcher's Sneakers?!?" You're in Chinatown thinking, "Where the hell am I? The West Village is easier to navigate." In Inwood going "Who knew there was anything past Columbia?!?" Suddenly you realize you're different. When did your entire existence get crammed into seven square miles of millions of people piled on top of each other? When did life get so good?

A lot of people come to New York City to experience that part that "never sleeps." They come with big dollars, or big dreams. Their Friday night starts at 4:00 and ends Monday morning when they stumble back into work. It's all museums and glamour, fashion and fiasco. Not for me. I sleep. I eat at grimy diners. I wear Old Navy. The only vice I take part in on a regular basis, is sex. That's New York City's greatest gift to me, all the hot, horny men. Yet inside of me there is this maternal, rural instinct from my upbringing that calls me back into the fold of relationships. A desire to nest, albeit in a studio with amazing leaded glass windows and a great eclectic jumble of furniture. This urge is what keeps me in on the weekends. I refuse to buy into the amateur nights at the clubs and bars on the weekend. I go out and experience the city on Mondays. It's nice to live in a place that just doens't sleep on the weekends, but is awake and alive everynight of the week.

My first Monday night story is not a thrilling one. I'm no Carrie Bradshaw running around town with my three fabulous high powered friends taking in the sites, going to the latest clubs and lavishing in my success and designer shoes. I'm gay, middle class, struggling with poor complexion and friends that are just as real as I am. The nice thing about my friends and I is that, despite our normality, we're completely abnormal.

My story starts with my best friend Shawna. Shawna and I are old college buddies. Now 34, VP of Production at an advertising agency, even though she has not changed much since I first met her around 15 years ago. She's still spunky, funky, passionate, caring, wise, intelligent and just all around fabulous. I, on the other hand, have changed a lot. My journey from straight Christian boy to gay Manhattanite was rocky and in the end, my true personality emerged. Now, we're closer than ever and two peas in a pod. We share our neurosis, our dreams, our crazy sex-capades, and our yearning for that elusive boyfiend that provides companionship and love without making us sacrifice our very strong sense of self. We are at the point where we can get together and watch movies, eat take out or simple "meals in a box," and burp and fart in front of each other with the ease of an old married couple.

During Monday's movie and tacos, I came to realize that I have a bad attitude. I used to be a positive person. Always saw the bright side of things. Always saw the glass half full. Now I realize that I talk more out of my ass than anything else. Even with my best friend I find myself saying "dickish" things, dumb things, uniformed things. What has happened? I could blame it on those inevitable NYC changes, but I think this is deeper. Manhattan is really the catalyst. It exposes your insides faster and more strongly than anything else. You might think that Manhattan is a city of anonymity, but you can't hide anything here. It doesn't take long to figure out if you have what it takes to survive in this city. Many times I get confused by all the emotions pouring out of me. I'm afraid that the ugliness and anger that pops out from time to time is the 'real' me. I suppose that's why I am always reaching backwards to pre-fifth grade. That was life. Coloring, books, stories, laughing, imagination, freedom, games. Life was a menagerie of arts and crafts, make believe, hugs and smiles, pumpkin carving and spur of the moment Easter egg hunts.

My friend was nice enough to not point out that I was making an ass of myself with my comments and my left field observations. She mearly ignored me and gave me a few strange looks. She's comfortable enough to fart in front of me and yet capable of reminding me of my less than nice behavior with a simple glance.

I know I can't get back to the past, but Monday was a reminder that my piss poor attitude isn't helping me get any closer to a happier future. I rolled out of my friends house and walked home through the chilly March air. I had my iPod going full blast with some groovy jazz music and strutted down the street like I was in a movie with my own personalized soundtrack. New York was rolling under my feet, cute boys were looking my way and all was right with the world again. I had a better attitude and the city was responding.

My phone rang at that point, it was the latest guy I had been out with the past weekend. We met on Saturday, online. It was supposed to be just a fuck. A quickie. It turned out to be so much more. The sex was intense. I walked in and he turned me around right away. He nibbled on my neck and quickly had me naked. A half hour later, after an intense screw, we were naked, cuddling and talking. We had so much in common. We connected. The best thing about him, is that he really liked me. I'm a big guy, and not often seen as a sexual object in the gay world. Most gay men like muscle bunnies or twinks, not a 200+ pound six foot tall guy. Except him. We spend a big part of the next afternoon together also. We made love, napped and ended up at dinner. I liked him. He craved companionship like I did.

He wanted to talk, so I agreed to walk over to a coffee shop and chat. We had a great time sharing and talking about politics, philosophy and our past lives and loves. As we left, I could feel it coming. He was trying to tell me something, but what he didn't realize is that I had already guessed. He was HIV positive. This was the first time I had ever gone out with anyone who was Poz. I never knew how I would react. I didn't know if it was something I could handle. As soon as he told me about his status, I had the realization that it wasn't about me. It was about him. I was a side line player. This was an illness that affected his body. He approached me with truthfulness and a fear or rejection. It was tender and brave. I was proud of him. The conversation that ensued is something of a blur. I hope I was empathetic, and sensitive. We walked back and forth between our apartments talking. Sharing deep emotions.

We ended up outside of my apartment and I invited him up. I could tell he was tempted, but he said no. He needed to go home. I curled up alone that night, not sure of what just happened. I couldn't tell if I was going to hear from him again or if he wanted to see me. We hadn't spent much time together but the conversations and sex were amazing. I know what I wanted.

That's Manhattan for you. Life can change so quickly. Last week I was single and over sexed, this week I am lying in bed dreaming about a sweet guy who desperately wants to be held and loved.