Gay Man

 I’m thinking about the apparently affluent lifestyle a certain gay man has to enjoy, on the internet, while I’m wondering whether he’ll show up at my doorstep. It’s only a moment’s unnecessary paranoia, probably from a childhood that won’t go away. I’ll be fine. It doesn’t having anything to do with reality. Not much chance of coming here, really.

I rejected the man’s spoken idea over the web, from word one.

Just as soon as he made his approach over my instant messaging system, I was speaking my disinclination to comply with anything sexual. I sent a clear message, right up front. I wasn’t unkind, nor did I ridicule. He wanted to play counselor by instant message, and that was OK.

After all was said and done, he was feeling amorous.

He had probably embarrassed himself by being so forward when he should have been more suttle with me, being so forward with his request for a hug ruined a pleasant evening with a man he didn’t even know. I would think so. He had an afterthought when we finished enjoying a very pleasant conversation. I was impressed with him.

He doesn’t know were I live, don’t be absurd.

If he has anything, besides my name, he has my IP address, and that won’t do him any good. He attended a significant school in the Mid-West and listened clinically to things I had to say. The man drew me out when I seemed estranged from my own story. He complimented me on my educational background. It was more my bibliography than my education, though I let the point slide.

There were a couple of occasions of sexual abuse in my past, when I was still little. I find those occasions returning to me whenever I go through certain things in adulthood.

Then he came out of the closet at me over instant message.

All guess work behind us, he was clearly telling me he’s gay.

He also understood how to carry on a professional counseling session. I noticed that pretty quickly. I could see his professionalism a mile away, as a lifetime patient, myself, with a lifetime chronic chemical imbalance. I’ve gained that much power of powers of observation, over the years on the psychologist’s couch over the years.

I did not have to deal with a counselor who is an amateur, in the groanings of my personal soul. He also knew how to draw me out, to get me to tell him more than I was actually inclined. The counselor, whoever he was, knew darn well what he was doing.

I felt safe enough over the internet, for the moment.

You might say I appreciate his patience, allowing me time to be up front with someone new and different about my therapy highlights. You might say I shared my secrets with him, but I don’t have any secrets anymore, not after twenty years of individual psychotherapy. So many people want to ponder and wonder how open I can get, so easily.

There’s plenty of what make people, people in this common mix of total strangers interacting on the web from all over. I had a close friend, elsewhere, who was a gay man. He seemed significantly lonely, but there’s a limit to what I’m going to do about it. I’m not gay. My friend, with the masculine preferences, used to stay with me in my little flop house, which my landlady didn’t know about.

I knew that guy face to face, down in Baltimore City. He never did frighten me. We both understood where the other was coming from, and exercised a healthy respect for each other. He had a good, strong education, like the instant messaging guy did. I always wondered where this guy went to school? I was in plenty of position to ask him, but I was down and out at the time, eating soup.

I heard he died awhile back? I don’t want to know.

I wonder if the counselor has enough obvious mannerisms, or is accustomed enough to gaining the confidence of little boys, or whether he teaches school somewhere, considering the way he so artfully built my confidence in him. I talked to him at length, and the time had come to wonder about him. It is my privilege to wonder, I think.

That’s another eventuality I don’t really want to know.

Obviously middle aged, since we were on the web. He and I have significantly similar backgrounds, from classic music to classic literature and whatnot. He utilized the same vocabulary that I use. We were both trained in the finest schools east of the Mississippi from when we were young. Maybe he’s a professor, people believe I am sometimes.

He has such impeccable manners. I’m only looking at a computer screen, but I’ve decided that I know. He originates from the finest of homes somewhere in these United States. He has the sophistication of a well-educated gentleman. But he’s not telling me anything more personal. He seems to think I’ve never told my stories before.

He had to ask if we could get together and cuddle in the Mid-West, coming totally out of the closet at me all of a sudden, on my private line on the web. I have not spoken with the man, ever since he made that remark. It’s not that I sit on my judgment throne over him. It’s just that I held my silence after he’d gone on with life. I enjoyed the experience.

I’m really not all that shocked to find out he is gay. That’s one more guy who is off the meat market, in case I decide to put myself on it. I really enjoyed learning all those wonderful things about an entirely different person in the world. I know with the guy who was down and out, like me, on the streets of Baltimore City, he fed me enough to kept me alive. I hear he’s gone too soon.

Advertisements

About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at Amazon.com.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s