The Truffaut Test

It had been a lovely evening, doomed from the start.

We met, as is my wont, online. Gaybay.com, I think.
If that isn't a site, it should be. We'll bid on each other.
The ones that don't sell get bumped to the end of the line and
have to lower their reserve price. He was from Chicago. I've lived in Chicago! It must be fate.
(Add that to the list which includes: I'm human, you're human;
we're both single and rapidly approaching middle-age -
we should get together! OMG!)

So we set a dinner date for Saturday night. What the hell.
My social calendar was open. It always is. Dinner sounded good.
And he looked cute in his thumbnail photo. They always do.

The great thing about inviting someone over is that is
inspires me to clean as I would ordinarily not do for myself.
The tub got scoured. I washed off the gunk that accumulates
on the Sonic Care toothbrush. I was thorough. I even bought
new aromatherapy soap for the seashell soapdish.
(I elaborate: it's rectangular ceramic.)

I've had a lot of quality solitary time over the
Christmas holiday and had been re-watching "The 400 Blows"
with and without commentary. So I was really in no mood to
be sociable. I kept looking around for a movie camera to stare
into, freeze framing my romantic ambiguity. It worked so well
for Leaud. Alas we were alone in the Chinese restaurant.
I had recommended it - it's right up the street, affordable,
doesn't suck. I do know a couple of people who have been ill
after eating there, however. So it was chancy. Oh, he's a great
guy. A good potential friend. It was just one of those things
that one day I may finally realize: we all look vastly different
in real life from our online photos. And the harsh overhead
lighting didn't help his case. I took sex off the menu and hoped
he wouldn't ask for dessert.

I'd bought a bottle of Merlot as promised. That part of the
evening I was looking forward to. I even held out hope that a slight
buzz might make us both more sexually appealing. But no.
He was too friendly. Too nice. (I hearken back to another blind
date where I had been accused of being "too nice." I should have
slapped him and had my way... "Too nice? I'll show you too nice! How's that rug burn feel?")

The real problem, the wine told me, was the movie. My date
eyeballed - touched! - the Antoine Doinel boxed set of DVDs.
Impeccable conversationalist, I asked if he was familiar with
Truffaut. Not so much. I'm no film snob, but... come on.
The real awakening for me had been the second viewing accompanied
by reminiscences from Truffaut's childhood friend and co-conspirator,
Robert Lachenay. Watching the familiar story unfold with additional
insight from this remarkable man humbled me as it brought back
memories of a dear friend, long lost to time and geography and
circumstance. I miss him. Had we lived in Paris during the
occupation, we may very well have developed into New Wave
filmmakers. In our own way, I suppose we have. And I'm glad I've
hung onto his letters all these years. I may be called upon one day
to supply biographical material on a DVD commentary.

I wish Truffaut had left his hero on the beach staring into
the camera, his future uncertain. But now I have four more
movies to watch.

I'd Love to Kiss Ya -

I'm sorry. I can't have sex with you.
Oh, I think we both know the reasons.
You're a swell guy, really. Nice smile. I think
maybe you're sincere. But come on... You're not
going to be as good as I am. No one ever is.
That and, if you get really into it I might confuse
that for passion. Like - you really like me.
Maybe I put too much emotion into these things.
I can't help it - a romantic at heart. I love to make out.
Frankly, sex I can do without. A bit of a letdown, really,
after the endless emails, Manhunt hunts, browsing craigslist,
gay.com, ebay...

I've been thru this enough to know the routine. We'll have sex,
you'll jump up after asking for a towel, clean up, get dressed.
Maybe we'll exchange a few pleasantries: "Man, I sure needed that";
"Thanks. What was your name again?"
Or not. Please try not to disturb my neighbors on your way out.

You won't call. That would be bad form. Frankly, I'd prefer that
you not contact me again. It's been fun, but... I don't expect this
to grow into a committed relationship. And if you do keep in touch,
well then it just gets messy: I'll expect a phone call/email/
unannounced visit every now and then. How does once a week sound?

I understand your need for "discretion."
I totally accept your situation - married/partnered, incredibly
and neurotically closeted, whatever. If we were both more
realistic and in touch with our feelings and motives we probably
would have just jerked off and avoided this whole thing.

Or maybe you're healthier and more well adjusted than I am.
I'm reminded - give me a moment here, can you? - of that
magnificent young gymast I met in LA decades ago. My first,
really, successful hookup. Met him on the phone. He drove up
from Long Beach, a good hour each way. So good looking, I was
intimidated. He wasn't. I started undressing him and felt my
knees get weak. But I digress. Point being, he was clearly brought
up differently than I was. He was OK with it. In fact, his parents
and girlfriend knew about this side of him. They probably all had my
phone number and address... I was surprised they hadn't come up
with him to check me out. Again, I digress.

If I think this is all natural, healthy, recreational sex between two
normal, healthy, consenting adults... well... I don't think I can go
through with it. I need that element of taboo to really, uh, perform.
It would be better if we both felt just awful afterwards and pledged
never to do it again. Until the next time.

Oh, what the hell. Let's get naked.

Life is a Butt Print (In the Grass)

It comes to me, sometimes, during rare, fleeting moments like this;
quiet meditative glimpses of acceptance. I recall one such episode
in Massachussetts. As I stood out on a back porch, cool misty rain
lightly surrounding me, I closed my eyes and dared to exhale: all
is right with the world. (And yeah, I will mix my tenses if I want.)
If there is a God, He is in His heaven and I am at peace. I accept
myself and surrender to this moment.

Then I hear how New Age-y I sound. Wayne Dyer appears before
me, a floating disembodied bald head and I snap back to reality: I am
working way too for too little and truly have no idea of my place on
this earth. I do, however, harbor significant thoughts of my
inisignificance in the universe.

Where was I? Oh - my butt print. In the grass. It's a bit of a trek to
the nearest laundromat. I hadn't brought anything along to read - no
room in the laundry/book bag. And it felt wrong somehow to not
be totally present for my laundry. ("When doing laundry, just do laundry." -
Zen saying.) The grass outside beckoned, lined by trees. There was even
a little alcove seemingly just right for meditation. So, I did. A few
moments, counting breaths. In. Out. Repeat.

Ants scurrying all around me. I respected their business while also
worrying they might scurry up my leg and nibble on my penis. (You
knew I had to get the word penis in there...) Still, ants have much to
teach us. Regard their bizzy-ness: do you really think each is
constantly mindful of his purpose on earth? I think it's so much random
scrambling about, searching, exploring, mindless labor, in fact. I empathize
with urgent grasping. The next Thing. Blade to blade, crumb to crumb.
How many heavy, awkward objects have I hauled back to any given second
story apartment; semi-circular, two tiered coffee tables of indeterminate
vintage. That sort of thing. Panting, sweating, never a thought to the
cumulative psychic damage of giving in, once more, to my need for More.

I did have cool bachelor pads, tho.

So, the ants. Fear of being bit. Especially on my dick. I mean, come on.
And it was probably time to check on the laundry. I like this particular
laundromat, but that's a different story. I stood up, crouched, and
went on observing my Teachers. Where my butt once smashed them, blades
of grass slowly bounced back to life. And I thought, hmmm, there's
a lesson here. You leave your butt print and life goes on as it always has.

That doesn't sound nearly as profound as I'd hoped.

Sorry this wasn't sexy.

Who the Hell Are We?

You don't know? Then what the hell are you doing here?

"Homoneurotic," a long standing performing tradition from
the depths of Tucson, AZ, has taken a long distance hiatus.
One of us remains, the other has fled to the frigid northeast
for higher education and some serious chilling out.

Meanwhile -- you have found our blog. Our respite. Our depository for
new material and old, for late night scribblings and myriad
literary pursuits we're not even aware of yet. We love to write,
we love to be read. But mostly, we love to click "Publish."

What follows is an ever changing compendium of fiction,
prose, porn, poetry, short novels, novel ideas,
rejected novel ideas, standup comedy that hasn't stood up yet
and screenplays. Don't forget the screenplays.

Read on... if you dare.

Zen and the Art of Sensual Massage

When did textbooks get so damned expensive? Fifty dollars for spiral bound photocopies?
Seriously?

I blew into this sleepy little college town with just enough money left for a Walmart dresser
and a jar of peanut butter. Okay, I exaggerate. But not much. Boxes everywhere, the cat
pan tucked into a corner of the kitchen, the familiar pang of hunger coupled with fear in
my stomach. Two weeks before school starts. What's a starving grad student to do?

When all else fails - including my own worst attempts at budgeting and planning ahead - I
turn to craigslist. Dot com. "Erotic Services" having long ago been deleted due to a series
of unfortunate killings, one gets creative. Man Seeking Man? Barter? For Hire? I got creative,
which is easy for me when I'm desperately poor. I gotta eat. And those textbooks won't buy
themselves. (I thought the graduate assistantship covered everything, dammit!)

It all makes sense, ultimately: that my higher education would involve my lower, survival
skills. It's a good opportunity to feel superior as well - toiling away on less fit, more or less
successful men than I. It's easy to reconcile "bodywork" as healing touch. Therapy. And
it is... The fact that the man beneath me is usually grinding his hips into the mattress I
can generally ignore. He's aroused; good for him! I'm just here to knead out these, uh,
tense muscles. Hey! That's my dick you've got in your mouth - what the? Oh, allright...
just don't strain your neck.

An admirer of Joe Orton's titillating diaries, I promise more details to come...