A post in which I take an adjustment day*

Which actually turned into another wallowing day, I guess.

When I got up this morning, I decided I had moved in to acceptance. I also decided that I just needed a day to get my thoughts in order and write them out. I needed to kind of get my head together before I faced the world at large. I spent a portion of the day today writing the last three posts (and this one). I'd like to be the kind of person who doesn't burden others with his troubles and will suffer nobly in silence, but I'm not. One of the reasons I have such a great support network is that I need it. If I'm hurting, I'm actually pretty shameless about it - I'll reach out and whine.

Of course I am not going to let myself die of cancer if there is a treatment. I have other things to live for. I have family who loves me. I'd like to see Cole grow up and become the fine man he's sure to be. I'd like to see Ava married, and meet the man who's going to try to tame her. There is my service to the Kindred. I've been saying lately that if I never have another partner, then a lifetime in service to the Kindred will not be a lifetime wasted. Apparently the Universe has decided to call my bluff.

I've adjusted to many indignities in this life. I suppose if I have to adjust to being an incontinent eunuch I can do that. I don't want to, but I guess I can. I can't allow myself the pablum of "nerve-sparing" surgery. I know it's supposed to exist, but I know of only one situation where it worked. That guy was not in my family. I think they just tell men that to make them feel better before surgery - to give them some hope to hang on to. I have to prepare for the worst here, and then if things turn out not so badly I'll celebrate. But right now, I have to deal in reality.

I was remembering a visit I made to my Grandmother S after she suffered from a crippling stroke. She was in rehabilitation and facing the fact that she wouldn't be able to care for herself any longer. This was her nightmare come true - absolutely the worst thing she could imagine. I was trying to put this in some kind of context for her, because she was lamenting the fact that God didn't just let her die - she was ready to go rather than endure the indignity. I suggested that maybe there were lessons she needed to learn in this condition. I realize today just how very cold a comfort that was. I received a chirpy, upbeat email today from a very well-meaning friend (he had read the Friday post) which, if I could have reached him, I would have printed, spat on, wadded up, and shoved down his throat with grim cheerfulness and determination. The ironies just abound.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I was thinking that maybe God was stripping Grandma of her pride before he called her home, perfecting her soul of faults because she was otherwise such a good Christian; and the importance of her independence was a type of pride. What a smarmy little prick I was. I'm so glad I had the good sense not to articulate that particular little brainstorm. So maybe God has decided to strip me of my vanity. Maybe my sexuality was too important to me, and so it's to be taken from me. If so, God, that's way harsh. I'm not criticizing the Big Guy, and I know there are certainly worse fates to be subjected to, but man, way to hit me where I live.

I am forced to face up today to how rooted my self-esteem and maleness are in my sexual function. I've always been quietly (and at times not so quietly) derisive of men who need big truck tires, knives, or long guns as compensation for or expression of their masculinity. I felt that I could quietly laugh up my sleeve, because when it came down to brass tacks (i.e. between the sheets) I felt that I could hold my own with pretty much anyone. Everyone didn't have to know that, and it usually didn't bother me if someone didn't get close enough to find out, because I could think if he only knew what he's missing... but I held that belief close, and it shored up my esteem in a way that seems rather pathetic and embarrassing now. However superior I thought I was, it all boils down to the same thing. On some deep primal level, I believe that what makes me a man is my dick. And the fates have chosen to just pull that rug out from under me. Would that some big ole tires would make me feel better.

But of course it's more than that. I had really hoped that I might have another shot at love while I'm here. As bad as Michael and I fucked things up, I would really liked to belong to someone again, love someone again in that special way. I feel that I have so much to give, but they're gifts destined to remain unopened and unappreciated. I've been worried about my packaging, meanwhile now I'm not going to have any content. And trust me, whatever the packaging, whatever the allure, however engaging and charming, a dickless top man is pretty fucking worthless. I can't kid myself here. I can't imagine a guy who would take on an incontinent and impotent man. If this turns out to be what I fear, then that means I'm single for the rest of my days.

Another buddy contacted me online today. Of course I let him come over, and I enjoyed myself. George had a blast. But it's kind of like partying on the Titanic (long, cylindrical, doomed, destined to go down and all).

I'm going to do everything I'm supposed to do. I'll get a second opinion if the diagnosis is bad. I'll find the best surgeon if I need one. I'll do everything I can to save a life that seems to be destined to lose all spark and zest. I'll wonder why at times, but I'll do it. And I'm sure I'll find some enjoyment out of life. I'll knit tea cosies for the poor or something that will make me feel that my life has meaning.

Geez is this pathetic or what?

***

I ended up watching Sunset Boulevard for most of the afternoon today. The movie, the making of, and a scene-by-scene commentary. Strange that I should identify with a doomed half-crazy person who wasn't nearly as old as she felt, who had an exaggerated and dramatic sense of her own importance, and who was worried about losing her appeal isn't it? I can't imagine why.

Perhaps I'll end up as a creepy old queer, running around in my dusty little mill house in a tattered jock strap, long forgotten by the gay world. Eventually, someone will call the cops and they'll come to get me from the crazy-house (hopefully I won't kill anyone with a symbolic long gun). Perhaps when those strong young men come to haul me away, I'll be insane enough to think that my glory days have returned - the admirers of old are back for an orgy. My mania will enfold me. I'll do a monologue to George as I come down the stairs.

"And after this orgy there'll be another and another! This is my life. There's only you, and me, and all those wonderful assholes out there in the dark." Fade on me, brandishing two heavily-lubed fingers at the camera.

Or maybe I'll just be burned at the stake (again ironic symbolism) after my gay card is revoked for writing really, really bad satire of a beloved gay classic. That would be short n' sweet anyway.