By the numbers

For $6995 plus airfare, I could enjoy 28 days rehab on an island off the coast of Thailand.  I'm not kidding! An organization called DARA is behind this. Only I could go searching for information on battling addiction and recovery options and get pitched an exotic month in a foreign land. And it says something about me that I would a) think it's a frivolous and a ridiculous idea b) that I should suffer in order to sober up  c) it sounds too good to be true and d) I don't have $7 grand: I don't even have cash available: my checking account is overdrawn, my rent is due.....

Breathe. I read somewhere that concentrating on breathing helps. It's called mindful meditation. And it is working. Breathe.

I came about this as I pondered  4 Stages of Addiction to Recovery Awareness:

1. A willingness to address the issue : I'd say I'm willing. I can't keep going like this.

2. Research and reflection: I've always been pretty good about educating myself about addictions: and now I've begun to reflect how it's affecting me. With so many people gone now, there's no one left but me....and that face in the mirror to talk to. How I'm going to have this support network of friends and family when I have no family is something I'll get to.

3. Exploring Recovery:  I guess that's what I'm doing now...exploring

4. The journey begins: I'm not there yet.

The above was modified from the DARA website.  

A little less easy to digest were 15 things to give up in recovery:

The Need to Always Be Right: not a problem

The Need to Control Things: this won't be so simple

Blaming Other People: I blame only myself.

Listening to 'The Critic'(that negative inner voice)well, perhaps 'blame'  is too harsh.

Being a Critic  : I hope that I've come away from this learning not to judge others

Listening to Self Limiting Beliefs: maybe going to Thailand isn't such an extravagance after all?

Trying to Impress Other People: I've never tried to impress: if anything I've tried to lay low.

Fighting Change: This one is tough....

Labeling Out of Ignorance: I hate labels.

Being Afraid of Life : Fear exists only in the mind, the explanation says. Yes, and my unconscious knows what scares me.....FUCK! Where's Zelda Rubinstein when you need her?

Always Having an Excuse I'm beginning to hate this list

Obsessing about the Past No: I don't do this.

Attachment to Certain Conditions: Recovery is all about developing emotional sobriety (I like that term). Buddha advised his followers to be free from attachment. Ok...I can grasp that.

Living life to Please Other People: To Thine Own Self Be True wrote Mr. Shakespeare. To me this says not to let drugs or addictions of any kind run the show. I may be powerless, but it's my movie, damn it.

 

 

 

Dinner at 8:05. Sex at 8:25. Curtain at 8:29.

What has been the longest session of foreplay (12 months? 18 months?) has now been consummated in the speediest, sexiest, surprising way.

I had gotten a message from 'Swing Time Slammer'. He was going to be in my area on Saturday, and had 3pm open. His profile pic appeared to be of a costumed super-hero. Or super-villain. I wasn't sure. He had on a very snug(and snug where it counts) light blue spandex bodysuit: decorated with numbers and...musical notes.

The presence of bass clef, half notes and threw me.  My first thought was of Van Johnson as The Minstrel on television's Batman. Would 'STS' point then burst into jazz standards? And I may be popular, but I'm not quite so booked that assigning me a specific time is necessary: nor does it turns me on.

Intrigued nevertheless, I called Swing. He thanked me for calling: then said his 3pm was taken and he'd catch me another time.

"Another time?" I was outraged.
"Sorry, my darling. Do you ever get up to Lake Arrowhead?" He did have a sexy voice.
"You expect me to drive up to Lake Arrowhead because that's where you live?"
"No, dear, I don't live there. I'm going to be there next month. I'm free the 13th."

I slammed--the phone down, thankful for a landline and Princess phone to do so.
 
Despite this, Swing Time continued to keep in contact and his boyish charm kept me interested. His face pics showed him sporting a Guy Williams-as-Zorro mask. Perhaps Swing Time was a famous jazz artist.  I could get him on cam and at the proper moment unmask him.

Maybe not. There might be a hefty re-stocking fee if I returned him 'out of the package'.

Out of the blue, he hit me up via IM: was I free the next evening?
Indeed I was, but me, being me... I can't leave well enough alone.
"I'm surprised you're single, Swing Time. You really are quite charming."
"I never said I was single. You assumed such, and as such, assumed incorrectly."

Such news doesn't thrill me, because
a) I'd already taken a shine to Swing
b) I'm the one who gets hurt in these situations
c)I've gone through too many cheating weasels in. relationships.

But hooking up would fulfill some sexual accounting of Swing Time's.  I, in turn, could move on to the next sneaking-behind-their-back SOB. And Swing Time wasn't going to get me without ponying up some perks. And he wasn't fucking my ass either: that's how I get into these romantic disasters.

Swing Time had excellent time management skills. I was to arrive at 6pm. He had to be back home by 12 noon the following day, which meant winding down beginning at 6am.

It was a solid plan, but traffic south towards San Diego isn't great on a Friday. I didn't show up until 9pm. He wasn't as tall as I thought, but he was even more delightful than I expected. For conversation starved me, an intellectual man is the ultimate stimulation.  It was a good thing his super-hero costume was at the cleaners: I'd have ripped it off his body. He was in damn good shape for a married man. I bet this fox could do a fancy fox trot too.
The dinner menu I requested had been delivered and was delicious. Had I not been rather stressed from the day I'd had and the drive, I probably wouldn't have minded the fact that he kept pawing me as if he'd just been rescued from a desert isle. I got a bit snippy: I think I hurt his feelings, and I really didn't mean to do so.
Things got so hot and heavy, instead of breaking at 6am: we headed back to my place where we continued cavorting like sex-crazed hyenas until it was time for him to leave: and I made sure that he did....after fucking him a few more times for good measure. 

But damn it: He didn't fuck me and I still fell in love with him. Drats. I must be losing my resolve.

Ambivalent over Ambivalence

My last post ended with a Declaration of Ambivalence. Apparently, ambivalence is one of the side effects of addiction. My internet research ( my gratitude for the web is immeasurable)in this was prompted by studying Harm Reduction: an alternative to 12 step programs. However, what I'm finding is that 'ambivalence' is in regards to addressing one's addictive behaviors: nothing more.

That's not knocking the importance of forming and implementing a strategy no sirree. My ambivalence is much more widespread: so much so now that getting high, drunk or otherwise 'out' of myself is boring, and I opt out of getting 'out' more often. Yet, I remain unmotivated to take interest in other activities. This blog and the obligation I have to those who follow it, keeps me from being totally withdrawn. I thank you for reading it.

My ambivalence started years ago. Was it a result of 'waking up' to the fact that I had been done with my old career for some time? I was burned out on co-workers and supervisors who coasted along without passion or authenticity, smiling with 'cold teeth'.  I'd accomplished quite a lot and having mastered many games, had no desire to continue to play.
I've not regretted that decision, but my inability to decide if sticking to free-lance work is wise or getting a new career that pays well irritates the hell out of me...and I am very cruel to myself when I don't 'act perfect'. Yet having no one to bounce ideas off of creates a catch-22 of panic for me.

Do I not believe in myself enough to make any new career a success? And, success on whose terms? My old crowd of friends who travel and spend time and money yet still are unhappy? My values have changed there. Peace of mind, freedom of expression without being judged and the ability to be of help to others are most important to me. I feel like I have two of those three down. One remains elusive.

But back to my ambivalence: was it a by-product of my 14 year relationship ending? It needed to end. We had grown apart in so many ways. While I heartily had always supported my ex's dreams and goals, and that he supported mine, dreaming of being a writer, and becoming one are two different matters. As I began writing, selling and seeing books and articles come into existence, something changed. I don't know if my ex ever read one goddamn thing I did. Yet, after our Notary Public witnessed our signatures on paperwork that would dissolve our domestic partnership, I became hysterical.

We had tried to be civil and cordial but devolved into War of the Roses minus the greed for possessions. When my ex moved out he left behind all the pictures of us, all the souvenirs of travel abroad, even the second set of silverware he had bought a month before. I've pondered since then who gets solace? The one who walked away, or the one who went through the pictures (after three years) sorting and throwing away the excess clutter.

But what he left behind was not as bad as what was taken away. Our cat Oscar, was in poor health after a long life.  This marvelous cat had been an abandoned and near death kitten when my ex found him while filming at Los Angeles' Ambassador Hotel. The hotel was a landmark I, actress Diane Keaton and hundreds of others had fought valiantly for years to save from demolition with no success.
After still more arguments, I agreed to have Oscar euthanized: not an easy decision. Upon getting my consent, I was told that although I wanted to be with our cat as his vet assisted his transition out of this world, and that I should be there, I was not going to be allowed this closure.

You might guess that news did not set well with me...and ambivalence was no where to be found. Certainly not when I pulled the 50's Sputnik chandelier my ex-partner loved (and I didn't care for)out of the dining room ceiling. In it's place today hangs a 40's era crystal chandelier that belonged to a deceased friend.

Perhaps I am so ambivalent because in a 3 year period, so much changed so fast and so permanently that I'm simply bankrupt of emotion. How do I correct that? That has to change. Somehow. Sure, I get tired of living...but I'm a skeered o' dying,

Oh Wisconsin: Woe, woe, woe, Wisconsin

If my blog were a television show, this post would be equal to the season finale.

You probably aren't surprised to see Wisconsin in the title above. For about two months now, I get semi-regular updates on Woodsy and Nicely Nice Guy: who apparently are the Liz Taylor and Richard Burton of the Midwest. Screaming at each other under the Chinese lanterns at the Pride Festival. Using bratwursts as billy clubs. Returning sets of keys: then patching things up via multiple orgasms.

Woodsy at long last was promoted at work and now has an assistant, who I'll call Smokey. Despite my insistence that I do not want to hear about the fights and especially not the reconciliations between these bickering babies, Smokey can't seem to keep his mouth shut. I think he may have a crush on Woodsy but when I suggested that, he got pissed. And then, one night after telling me that he and Woodsy had an argument and weren't speaking, he tosses this into our chat.

"You were so fucking hot in those videos Woodsy has.  I can't wait to get into your pants."

Now I know the reason for my Midwest popularity: Woodsy has been showing the videos we made a few years ago around the Great Lakes. In certain situations, this would be fine: except that I'd asked him not to. We weren't making a demo reel or infomercial... well at least I wasn't. This was more of an 'intimate' moment, meaning it was more kissy-face and coo-coo. At least that's how I remember it: I don't have a copy. Oh....and my cat is stretched across the bed snoring while Woodsy and I bounce off the walls.

Smokey was no different than everyone else who watched those videos and told me about it. And like everyone, he was compelled to make this comment.

"I told Woodsy it's clear you are in love with him."

I brought about such insight, and now such embarrassment: all upon myself. I''ll explain. As part five of our, yes, five-part mini-series video concludes,  I walk over to the camera, look directly into it, and with a crack in my voice, say
"Oh, Woodman." 
Camera off.
The End. Made in Hollywood, USA, by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

Woodsy was flying home the next morning. This was our last night together after three days of beautiful synchronicity. I can't explain what it was, but it was real. He had been honest about what he wasn't looking for....but his eyes seemed to contradict that. For me, orphaned at age 12, shuffled about as 'sidekick to a Trust Fund', and watching a disease: first called GRID then AIDS, carry a generation of mentors and suitors away, I have said goodbye to too many people. Like many of you have: this I know.

Perhaps had I turned back to Woodsy and delivered that line, instead of to the camera......
You see, the only person who's watched that video and NOT gotten my subtext, is You know Woo. Smokey was startled when instead of letting him continue, I took his line in the script:


And Woodsy said to you, "Oh, Gee, Really?" The dumb ox.
I added, ' I was. Was in love with him.'

As it so happened,  the next night I got a message from The Ox himself. He had been rushed to the hospital.  Nicely had brought W's cell and laptop over, but apparently had taken the liberty of reading all W's texts and e-mails, thus putting himself and W not on speaking terms. Not having spent the night as a patient in a hospital, Woodsy was scared, alone, and would I call him?

Of course I called him. (I'm pretty dumb too). We talked about an hour and a half. It was lovely. Woodsy wasn't happy with his life and wanted to do something about it.  He needed to get away and think and thought I needed to get away too.

"We should go somewhere. Together."  he suggested. "I have flyer miles. How about Vancouver?"
"Noooo," I replied. "Madrid."
(readers who've been following this for awhile will know I cancelled my Madrid vacation to visit Woodsy in Milwaukee about a month after he visited Los Angeles).

"I lived in Madrid, you always forget that." he said drolly, or maybe it was drowsily. "Tahiti."
"Tahiti?'
"Yeah...it's the South Seas"
"Woodman Marquette McCarthy, I know where the fuck Tahiti is. So what if  my imagination conjured up African natives and safaris?"
"I thought I heard drums." He said.

While my mind kept sending me messages clearly reinforcing that Woodsy was on sedatives, I still floated home on cloud 9. Now, I expected nothing more than airfare, hotel and to guzzle Stoli and Noni Juice cocktails by the gallon: meaning Woodsy was picking up the tab. The key would be to get on that plane before he and Nicely made up. Perhaps at last, Woodsy and I could be friends without love complicating things.

Woodsy was released the next day and while I didn't expect to hear from him, neither did I expect to hear from Smokey....who texted me that he and Woodsy had patched up their argument....and were celebrating by fucking. A couple of hours later, with Woodsy sound asleep. Smokey called me.

As usual, he talked too much, informing me that Woodsy had read to him aloud the last e-mail I sent. After one of the more serious break-ups Woodsy and Nicely had, Woodsy was hurting and I wanted to help, and fingers to keyboard I went. That's all there was to it.  I made some observations about Nicely that weren't exactly polite....not by a long shot...but reinforcing that if Woodsy loved Nicely, to work it out.
The 'work it out' portion of my e-mail was glossed over.  Smokey and Woodsy heartily agreed with my comments that Nicely Nice Guy was Fatal Attraction nuts-especially when a bit airborne. Woodsy so very much agreed with my thoughts, Smokey said, that Woodsy had forwarded my e-mail onward to Nicely. With no explanation or comments.

While I was adjusting to the shock of learning I was being used by the bastardly half of America's Sweethearts, Justice intervened. Smokey got another call. His Native American friend, Nokomis, was to pick him up at Woodsy's. Nokomis had stopped by Nicely's to pick up one peanut butter and one cherry pie to be entered in the Wisconsin State Fair.  Nokomis casually mentioned having to then go over to Woodsy's to collect Smokey.

Woodsy it seems, told Nicely he was staying home-alone-that night. After all, he'd just gotten out of the hospital. What a crummy way to treat Nicely...and punctuating it by using my words!

To learn someone is not who you thought they were is a death beyond all deaths. For a couple of days, I did nothing but sit and think.  Had Woodsy changed, had I misread him, or had I blinded myself to the real person? I thought of how he disliked drama, emotional outbursts and conflict. Yet he caused the conflicts, the drama, and his and my heated exchanges were diplomatic compared to his treatment of Nicely.  Did he care nothing for the feelings of others?

A week went by and I pulled out of the numbness. I wrote to Nicely expressing my sorrow as to the assumptions I'd written, and ended there. He showed a lot more class by accepting my apology. He wrote that he plans to move on. If they love each other, and I thought Woodsy did, I hope they work it out. Really.

Woodsy once told me that should I ever write my memoirs, to speak of him with humor and kindness, not tragedy and sorrow. Perhaps he foresaw this unhappy ending. The night he expressed a desire to take us to Shangri-La away from it all was his finest hour and the last time I heard his voice. I've put the rest: the disappointment, the tears, the 'what if' if not away, then to the side.  I'm not angry. I'm not really heartbroken. I have to move on.

Woodsy is off scot-free. Meanwhile, I have a serious drug problem to deal with. And this is where my situation becomes worrisome.

I don't care anymore.

Witness for the Dead

This is the time of year I usually take a break from all things cyberspace, cruisy, chemically enhancing and convoluted...like alliteration. But I haven't...there's too much to do and so much happening at once.

If there ever was a time to take a vacation it would be now. Almost daily (it seems)  there's another celebrity death:  I've stopped trying to memorialize at length those that have impacted me more than others but briefly:

Helen Gurley Brown's 1982 book Having It All...you could say that I'm in the situation I am in by following her advice a little too closely.

Nora Ephron wrote sophisticated screenplays that appealed to all on the most simplistic of situations: romance and love. We all know how I feel about those two subjects.

I had the pleasure of meeting actress Celeste Holm and her 40 years younger opera singer husband 3 years ago. They adored each other. Ann Rutherford was in the category of good acquaintance....and a ball of energy and fire up into her 90s.

I wanted Ben Gazzara to be my father after seeing him in this ABC Movie of the Week when I was 10.

I mourned openly for Whitney Houston this spring and her final film, Sparkle opens this weekend. Donna Summer sang the soundtrack of my junior high and high school years. I spent many a New Year's Eve back then watching Dick Clark. Mike Nesmith may have grown up in Dallas and yes, his mother did invent Liquid Paper but it was Davy Jones who appeared on The Brady Bunch.

With my extended circle of friends and acquaintances I'm averaging about one loss per month, but 5 have passed so far in August. Adam Faust  who I'd last yakked with 4 or 6 weeks ago, was visiting his family in NYC and suffered a heart attack in his sleep. Adam was an adult film star and bright, conversational and sexy beyond belief. He was only 38.

My former writing teacher and yoga instructor wrote me  and said that it is the responsibility of the living to bear witness for the dead. I had to look that concept up. It means to respect them, remember them and take lessons from their lives. If telling you a bit about them and their place in my life respects and remembers them, then it is a privilege to do so.

At the rate things are going, I'm going to have a lot of lessons ahead of me.

Death, Take a Holiday!

It seems like a never ending stream of departures to the afterlife these days, with enough celebrities to fill three seasons of  "The Love Boat" should it set sail down the River Styx.

Even back during 1985-89, when AIDS and HIV wiped out a generation of men I looked on as mentors, I don't recall so many people dying so quickly. Or is it the internet that makes everything seem so much quicker.

I sit at my desk in Los Angeles, looking east. My cats are asleep on the floor: the sun is shining only the way it can above the Hollywood Hill. I am alive, yet I feel so very numb. I reflect on the latest three deaths in my life. Oddly, each of their names started with 'S'.

Sean was a big bear of a man in Vancouver, who loved to play with his model helicopters. He was the kind of person you could just sit quietly with, doing your own thing, yet be content in his presence without having to say a word.

Sylvester was a fan of my writing, and a provocative and gifted artist, but he carried the cross of bi-polar disorder and other challenges. He also played the piano beautifully.

Saul was an accomplished drummer, a captivating personality with a childlike wonder about him...that could become a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions.

I feel it is my duty to tell you that I will miss these men, who not so very long ago, I would joke, debate, argue and interact with. Once upon a time they caroused and charmed in a world I called Cyber-Cafe Society. I am saddened to know they are gone, and yet I am not surprised.

I don't think much will surprise me ever again.

Chik-Fed-Up-With-It

The below is a pared down version of an email I wrote to a friend on Facebook.

I signed up for Facebook to keep up with people and generally relax and have a good time. I have over 300 'likes' and I don't go back and review to see what's politically correct. I've eaten at Chik-Fil-A since high school, liked their food, commend them for closing Sundays: not for religious reasons but because it demonstrates that a service industry business can shut down for a day and still be profitable. I was following their corporate donations as that story developed and had not been eating there...not in response to their actions (at that time) but because I hadn't walked over that way. I'm disappointed in their loud mouth owner but I do respect his right to free speech. 

I don't appreciate you getting my name from whatever site, group or fucking witch hunt 'Bigotry on a Biscuit' is, and publicly shaming me on your page without a) calling my attention to the fact that I had liked them, asking me why, and perhaps educating me if I didn't know. I also lost out on a job from an editor who also went off on me--but who is also involved heavily in fundraising for the Catholic Church: I'm not quite sure where she gets to be right and I am wrong. In my opinion, CFA is the whipping post of the moment, just like Target and Best Buy were last year. 
Then, before I could craft a reply to you (I first went through my 'likes' page and 'unliked' CFA) you pulled your post. And now you don't remember why I could be upset. I guess I'm the only one on your list who either paid attention or overreacts. My FB account is set up to forward stuff to my email: your wall post came through before you deleted it.  

I've grown very weary of a world where George W. Bush's 'Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists' has drilled down to the individual level. 
I think education and a little fact finding first has long term benefits. Share that with your immature and hateful friend *************whose writing hand I'd like to scrub with soap...if he remembers what he wrote that is.

If I'm pushed into a 'you are with us or against us' situation: I'll choose to opt out, as I am now. 

I sat across from Chik-Fil-A and watched both gay rights demonstrators and supporters of the fast food chain's owner peacefully try to out-scream each other. I thought of all the suffering in the world, the people who would go to bed hungry, wishing they had a chicken sandwich, or a piece of bread. I looked at this well-heeled crowd and thought:

Is that all that matters in the world? The views of the owner of a chicken sandwich joint?
I never felt so detached from life than at that moment.

The Case of the Missing Blogs

I started blogging on NastyKinkPigs during the Fall of 2010. At that time, I was on the site site regularly, and by extension, writing about my misadventures was the perfect self-analysis.

In addition to my hook-ups/romances/cyber-goofs, I threw in links for recovery sites, news reports: whatever seemed to come down the pike. I tried peering into the looking glass of metaphysics....but found it too difficult to explain in writing. NKP was ahead of it's time and quite comprehensive: offering pics, vids, camming, blogs, stories, classifieds and a sense of community.

I expected my writing to be the equivalent of a wet blanket on a box of fireworks, but something different happened. People wrote back how much they appreciated my words, my openness, my willingness to laugh at myself. I was humbled. I still am.

Blogging on a social network isn't without problems. Upgrades to th NKP site resulted in the loss of all my saved emails there. I didn't even think about saving copies..until they went away. One dark and task oriented night, I dutifully copied my blogs and filed them away.

Although the feedback was great and the target demographic was right there, I decided to move to Blogger last August. I felt there was a larger audience interested in what an alternate lifestyle within a alternate lifestyle looked like. There are thousands who wouldn't dream of logging into websites such as NKP, or Adam4Adam, BarebackRT, Manhunt. I can't blame them. I don't use those sites.
 

For a minuteI thought about posting here AND on NKP, but the platform they use isn't conducive to a cut and paste from Microsoft Word, and what should have been easy became quite tedious. So aside from a few random crossover posts, I've been quite content here.

I've only been back to NKP infrequently the last few months. My profile had vanished during a systems upgrade. I replaced it. My music, consisting of movie musical songs, jazz and classic vocals vanished on another upgrade

The last time I went into my online blog folder: I noticed about 15 blogs were missing. Given how the site upgrades had scrapped saved emails, my music files and my profile on separate occasions, I was surprised the blogs had survived this long.

But then I noticed which blogs were missing. Any that related to the not-so-chic aspects of partying: the former ICU2 buddy arrested for making child pornography-all missing. The  numerous times I sobbed over Woodsy in Times New Roman format-vanished

There's not much I can do about what's lost: I plan to re-post the 2010/11 entries here so we have the blog is in one location.  In the interim, the NKP blog remains as sort of a historical record of another time, another place.

I didn't set out to be a voice for a group, but reports are in that I have. And I thank you for taking this journey with me.