I saw two gay men sitting at the bar of a nice restaurant in Austin. They were drinking a matched set of martinis and completely engrossed in their conversation. Something about their posture and the way they were interacting made me think that they truly cared for each other.
I thought to myself, “I bet they can talk about anything.”
In that moment I found myself wishing that I could sit at the bar with a gay man and talk. We would sip martinis, and I could tell him whatever I wanted. I would cry, I think, and I would talk about how I feel in my worst and best moments. And he would care for me in that soft and vulnerable way that I have only known with women. I would be weak, but he would count my weakness as an endearment. I would be as a child, and he would love that glimpse into my soul.
I would let my feminine side step out of the deep darkness. I would give her a name and pull up a bar stool for her. And he would hand her a martini. She would join us in conversation and be so wise, and so ancient, and so happy to see the light of day.
“Look at me!” I would say. “I feel like a whole person.”
“Good for you,” he would say, wisely, and make a subtle gesture to the bartender for another drink.
When the time was right I would confess my sins and the sins of Christian people. “Bless me, brother, for I have sinned against you, I and the people of my faith. I am a Baptist preacher, and I have been broken for such a long time.”
Our heads would bend close to each other because I would be sobbing and talking in such a quiet whisper. And he would forgive me. I know he would because he would care about me. He would pronounce absolution with mock seriousness, making the sign of the cross like the pope. And absolution would be like the olive at the bottom of the glass. It would have a flavor all its own, a sigh of relief, a marking of the end, a signal that it is time for another round.
I stared at the gay men and their martinis like a hungry child looking into the window of a bakery. I stared because I sense that I am missing something I used to have long ago, before the darkness fell over me and I drove her into the deep.
Poor fractured family of men. Why have we been so afraid? Why have we never learned to care for each other?
rlp
This little essay has an interesting history. It is the product of a daydream I had in a restaurant in Austin and a conversation that took place in the comments of Dave Cullen's blog. After my conversation with Dave, I let the writer part of me go to work on the daydream.
Jung said that daydreams are much like the dreams we have at night, meaning this little ditty is mostly about me and not a commentary on the inherent nurturing strengths of gay or straight men.
