Date #98: Boston Harbor

For years I've been trying to write a play called Boston Harbor. Most people who write--any kind of writing--have a project like Boston Harbor in the back of their minds. It never seems to get written even though the author knows exactly what it's about and may even have some ideas about characterization and story elements.

And yet, the play just never seems to get written.

For a long time now, Boston Harbor has almost been a private joke with myself (the coolest kind of jokes, of course). I've tried everything I can think of, but as soon as I type Boston Harbor on the title page, I usually never get much further than that.

The ironic thing is that I know exactly what the play is about--because I lived it.

(I know, that might be the corniest line of all time, but it's true.)

So when it was time to step out of Rhode Island and try my luck in a new location; I decided revisiting old stomping grounds might be the best idea.

Allow me to explain.

When I was in high school, I spent two very eye-opening summers living with my gay uncle in Boston. How those years formed who I am today--Well, let's just say I might be making comments about girls asses and watching golf on television if it weren't for those two summers.

Oh, and before you all comment on what a cliched name I picked for a gay guy, my uncle's name really is--

ME: Uncle Will?

He hates when I call him "Uncle Will." He's my Dad's stepbrother and he's only six years older than me. After graduating high school, he decided to forgo college and move to the big city, much to my grandparents' chagrin.

It was then that he and I concocted a plan to have me stay with him for the summer so he would have someone to hang out with in the city until he got accustomed to living there. I told my mother I was going to a theater camp, when really I was just hanging out with my uncle and learning the ups and downs of homo-dom.

When my uncle opens the door, he looks even better than when I last saw him. I'm not sure how creepy this is to say about your six-year-age-difference-semi-non-blood-related uncle, but...well...he's a hottie.

Imagine Will Kemp or just click on this: http://www.blogdecine.com/images/will%20Kemp.jpg

That's what opened the door to the apartment I had made my way to with a duffel bag full of enough clothes for a two-day stay.

UNCLE WILL: Can I help you?
ME: Yes, I'm looking for a guy named Will. Apparently I'm his son.
UNCLE WILL: Wow, good to know the sperm takes. Unfortunately I'm dying.
ME: Of what?
UNCLE WILL: Lokianis disease.
ME: Which is?
UNCLE WILL: It's what happens when you're repeatedly called 'Uncle' at the young age of 25.
ME: You're 28.
UNCLE WILL: I know. The doctors are completely stupefied.

It took us this much banter before I was able to give him a hug and enter the apartment.

VOICE: Is that the little horndog?

The voice belonged to Jeff, my uncle's boyfriend. They'd been seriously dating since my last summer in Boston, although they'd done the typical up-and-down, open relationship, drama drama, menage a you-don't-wanna-know thing that most gay couples do, so I wouldn't exactly say I look up to them, but I do adore Jeff.

He's spunky--and really, who can you call spunky anymore?

Upon exiting the kitchen, he grabbed me at the waist and spun me around, even though I'm a good six inches taller than he is.

ME: I feel like I'm being molested by a munchkin.

He dropped me, causing me to stumble.

JEFF: Still got that quick wit, huh?
UNCLE WILL: Family jewel.
JEFF: Oh, that's the jewel, is it? I was wondering what it was.
UNCLE WILL: In Jeff's family it's their sterling sense of racism.
ME: Question, you two, when's your sixtieth anniversary? Because I want to make sure I can book Lawrence Welk.

This got me a punch on both arms from the munchkin and my uncle.

ME: So I'm here--who is it you're setting me up with?

The reason I decided to go to Boston in the first place was an e-mail I got a little while back from Will and Jeff telling me they had found me the perfect guy.

He's cute, he's funny, he's got a great job, and something about him just seems like it would click with you.

Admittedly, I'd kind of discarded the e-mail until recently when I decided looking passing up a potential soulmate might not be the wisest decision.

The best part? He works in a library! Just like you!

Wow, should I start picking out china patterns now?

JEFF: I just mean you can talk about books.
ME: Because solid conversations about literature are the foundation of any good relationship.
JEFF: Maybe not me and your uncles since I like Tolstoy and he's illiterate--
WILL: Hey!
JEFF: --But it can be a starting point.

And so, with more trepidation than I've felt in awhile--probably because I didn't have homefield advantage--I embarked on my date.

I met Ian at a little Italian restaurant that Jeff thought would be fantastic as a meeting place. I don't know what I was expecting, but when Ian walked through the door I was a little taken aback at how stunning he was.

That's right, stunning--in that academic sort of way which I just love. (Imagine Wesley from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.)

To make him even more Wesley-ish, he was from Britain. Jeff chose to let me in on this at the last minute when I was getting cold feet.

JEFF: Kevin, he's British.
ME: Jeff!
JEFF: What?
ME: I can't go out on a date with a British guy!
JEFF: Why not?
ME: I'll be putty in his hands!
JEFF: Oh, come on.
ME: I'm serious! Everything sounds hotter when it's said with a British accent.
JEFF: That's not true.

(I affected a British accent.)

ME: It appears the dog urinated on grandma.
JEFF: Wow, that does sound hot.
ME: See!

By that time, I couldn't back out. Although as soon as Ian and I were seated, I was wishing I could focus on something other than how hot every word he said sounded.

IAN: So I understand you're quite into books?
ME: Well, not quite. I mean, I am, but--I'm sorry, what was the question?

I needed to get my head on straight.

ME: I do enjoy books, yes.
IAN: Are you reading anything currently?
ME: I don't suppose you know Armistead Maupin?
IAN: You mean Tales of the City?
ME: Yes!
IAN: Isn't it required reading for homosexuals nowadays?
ME: Maybe back in the 70's it was, but he just put a new book out.
IAN: Michael Tolliver Lives. I'm actually reading it now.
ME: No way! I just finished it.
IAN: Fabulous, isn't it?

Uh oh.

ME: Well, um...I do love the series, but--
IAN: You don't like the book?
ME: I was just...really disappointed.
IAN: Why?
ME: Well, you have to understand, Michael Tolliver was my first gay crush. I saw the PBS mini-series back when I was still in high school and when he did that underwear contest--
IAN: You don't have to go any further. I still try to TIVO that on lonely nights.

Okay, so far, so good. It's just a discussion. It's not an argument.

ME: I know he was a representation of Armistead Maupin, but now that Armistead Maupin's getting on in life, Michael's gone from being a sweet, innocent, adorable Southern boy to a cynical old queen in an open relationship who wears cock rings and dates a guy young enough to be his son.
IAN: Don't knock it. That may be you some day.
ME: Absolutely not. That will not be me.
IAN: I'm sure neither Armistead nor Michael thought it would be them either. I think it's great that he's honest enough to write the way he does. It can't be easy admitting that he has to take Viagra or the side effects of H.I.V. medication.

God, he was making a good argument. It was pissing me off.

ME: I do admire his honesty, but I think his banishment of monogamy is a little bit depressing coming from a gay icon.
IAN: He didn't ask to be a gay icon.
ME: Nobody does--

Okay, maybe Diana Ross.

ME: --But the point is, it only makes the gay community look bad to have one of its more prominent figures dismissing monogamy and then wondering why we're not allowed to get married.
IAN: I don't see your point.
ME: Marriage kind of hinders on monogamy, doesn't it?
IAN: Apparently you've never met my family.

That was cute, but I'm in the middle of a point.

ME: The point is--
IAN: It's not him talking, though. It's the character.
ME: But the character is clearly him.
IAN: So you don't find anything redeeming about the book?
ME: No! I loved the book!
IAN: I would hate to hear about one you disliked.
ME: I guess I just...I had--
IAN: You had a crush on someone who existed as a fictional character in his 20's in the 70's--moreso as a fictional character in his 20's in the 70's as portrayed by an actor in a 90's miniseries--and now he's an autobiographical character in his 50's and you suddenly don't identify with him as an object of lust anymore, is that so surprising?
ME: Well...no...but--
IAN: And because you're worried that he is what being a gay man in his 50's means, when really--it's just what being a gay man who grew up in the 70's and 80's is. Our generation might be completely different from that when we're in our 50's.

Wow, he somehow made me feel vindicated and won the argument at the same time.

I might be in love.

IAN: I guess my question is, why do you still love the book then?
ME: I liked the term he coined 'A confederacy of survivors.' The fact that that's how he views himself and his friends.
IAN: I liked the line 'I don't need a lover--only five good friends.'
ME: Perfect. Perfect line.

Brian, Turner, Dwight, Nick, and Scooter.

IAN: Is that all you liked about the book?
ME: No. I also liked that he seemed to be able to tell the story of his life--to show how he got from point A to point Z--even though I wasn't too thrilled with point Z. I liked that he cleared up all the loose ends without putting a bow on the end of anything, and that he just sort of...honored his life and the lives of his friends.
IAN: You sound a tad envious.

It was then that I told him about the never-finished (hell, never even really started) Boston Harbor.

IAN: Did you ever think maybe the reason you can't start the story is because it isn't finished yet? You're not even 23 yet, right?
ME: Not for another twelve days.
IAN: You see, you've got to give it more time.
ME: I just...I've been working on this other project--about dating. And I'm worried it won't have that nice definitive ending--or any kind of an ending at all, even. I set out expecting one thing and--
IAN: That was your first mistake. Expectation. You should just let the chips fall where they may.
ME: Easy for you to say. You didn't go on a date with someone who bit your nipples.
IAN: Pardon?
ME: Wow, this is good pasta.

After the dinner, we walked around Boston and seemed to be getting along really nicely--or quite nicely, some might say...

Then Ian dropped the bomb.

IAN: Kevin, I have to admit--I'm a bit like Michael.
ME: You wear a cock ring?
IAN: Aside from that--I don't really believe in monogamy.
ME: Oh...
IAN: I'm sorry. I thought I should mention it since you seem to be so adamant about it.
ME: I'm just adamant about eventual monogamy. Not giving it up on it.
IAN: Oh, but I never believed in it in the first place.
ME: Then why do you date?
IAN: Because I love dating. I love meeting new people. I love sex with those new people.
ME: Gotcha.
IAN: Not that I'm slutty.
ME: Oh, I'm really not one to judge.
IAN: I just thought I'd tell you, since you seem really sweet.
ME: Thank you. You seem like a nice guy yourself--aside from the fact that you're going to die alone.

He laughed--thank God--and hugged me...and then we had sex.

Just kidding.

(But seriously, that accent kills me.)

I went back to Jeff and Will's and relayed the story of my date to them. Will chastised me for spending a good portion of the evening condemning a fictional gay man in his 50's, but then he smiled and said "Only my nephew" which was his way of saying "I love you." Jeff apologized for not fixing me up with someone more long-term oriented, but I told him not to sweat it, and we all ate a late-nite meal of toast and scrambled eggs.

FRIEND: So your road trip episode was a total failure.
ME: I wouldn't say that.
FRIEND: I would! You didn't even f**k the Brit!
ME: It's July. I'm too patriotic to have sex with the former enemy.
FRIEND: He looked like Wesley?
ME: Spitting image.
FRIEND: Call me Benedict Arnold.

Well, that was fun, but this thing needs to end where it began--at home.

Providence, I'm coming home.

FRIEND: Oh yeah, the hour drive is really epic.
ME: F**k off, Benedict.