365 Days Of Me: January 4 -- Try Me

All too often, I completely forget who it is that I'm talking to.  I get into a mode where I just started talking, and I forget that some of my life experience, while true and sincere, completely shock and in some cases disgust the person I'm trying to entertain.  To make things worse, I am sometimes completely oblivious to their aversion to my shocking dialogue, and I don't notice that I am making them uncomfortable until they are clumsily attempting to change the subject.

There are those, while conservative in nature, are a bit more tactful either because they know me well, or in a way they find my stories enthralling, living vicariously though my stories.  

One woman said to me, "Oh, William.  I don't know how you live the way you do, but I love you for it."

Even after 14 years, I still have a way of shocking my own husband on occasion.  

For instance, one afternoon I was watching television in my hotel room when I was out on the road at a Bear Run when my phone started to vibrate.  I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was my husband calling me and I hastily picked it up.

"Hi hon," I whispered, "give me a second, 'kay?"

I climbed out of bed, and moved quickly to the door to take the conversation outside.  

Once there, I said in a normal tone, "Okay, hon.  Sorry about that.  What's up?"

There was an awkward pause, and he said, "Uh, was I interrupting anything?"

"Not with me.  I was just watching TV." I said.

"Oh," he said, "well then why..."

I grinned, knowing what his reaction would be, and said, "Roomies were having a four way on the other bed."

Another pause, then Bill said, "And what were *you* doing?"

"I was watching Law and Order."

Yet another pause, then he said, "You have *got* to be kidding me."

"Well, I had it muted and the closed captioning on. I didn't want to be rude or anything, but I was there first, and they all came in just when it was getting interesting." I said, watching a handsome Bear attempting, and failing, to get his keycard to work further down the hallway.

"And they didn't mind?" Bill said, a bit incredulously.

"They asked if I wanted to join, I said no, but I wouldn't mind finishing my show.  Didn't seem to bother them in the slightest, so..." I said.

The Bear down the hallway cursed, looked at the room number, then tried the next door, which worked on the first try.  He looked at me, hopeful that I hadn't noticed.  I just smiled and waved.  He frowned and went into his room.  

Bill and I discussed how things were going, and I told him about my plans for the evening, which involved going to the bar with friends.  After about 10 minutes of discussion, I could hear through the door that the four-gy was reaching a fever pitch, and soon the room would be mine again.

I told Bill as much, and he made a snarky comment about me getting the leftovers, we said our "love you"s and our goodbyes.  

I went back into the room to find that they were indeed done, and I asked if everyone had a good time, and if anyone was interested in grabbing some dinner.

When it comes to anything sexual in nature, I guess I am somewhat desensitized for the most part.  Don't get me wrong, I can get a bit uncomfortable, but those are extreme circumstances that only happen when I am caught off guard.

---

One of the first boyfriends I had was a chronic masturbator.  We met at a youth center for gay teens, and just started hanging out, which lead to dating.

While he never did so in public, chances were almost 100 percent that if it were just him and me alone having a conversation, his fly would be open, and he would just be diddling away.  The first time he did this, I thought it was an invitation to sex, but when I made a move, he seemed surprised.  That was when I realized that he wasn't really even aware that he was doing it.

As I said before, he didn't do it *all* the time, and it was the sort of thing I could more or less ignore since he played with himself without pausing in his conversation, which I found admirable.  

After dating for a few weeks, he decided that it was time for me to meet his parents, which he seemed apprehensive about.  I had asked him why on a few occasions, and he said that he didn't want to talk about it, at least not yet.  I couldn't figure out for the life of me what could be so awkward for a guy who could sit and masturbate in front of his boyfriend while we talked about video games and our favorite songs on the radio.

I didn't push the issue too far, but I did let him know that whatever it was about his parents that made him uncomfortable, I understood.  While at the time I called it love, I know how it was just a youthful affection that I had for the guy, both of us not even 17 yet.  

If I had made a guess, I would have said that either one or both of his parents were racists, or neither of them knew that their son was a homosexual.  Or maybe he thought I would blab about the diddling thing, which I wouldn't, of course.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

One Wednesday afternoon, out of the blue, he pulled away from our daily makeout session in my station wagon (ironically, the only time his hand wasn't in his pants), and told me that if I wanted to meet his parents, I could do so that night.

"What changed your mind?" I asked him.

He sat back, smiled and said, "I think I can trust you now."

It was an odd statement, but he answered the question I had in my mind before I had a chance to even open my mouth.

"My father dresses in women's clothing." he said, or rather, he blurted out.  

I just cocked my head, and I giggled at this, feeling bad as I did so.  I was only laughing at how benign this revelation seemed after all of the scenarios I had come up with in my head, from Serial Killer Family, to Mafia Crime Lord in the Witness Protection Program.

I told him that it didn't matter to me, and he looked at me as if he expected me to say that.  It was also very apparent that he didn't really believe me, his eyes saying, "Yeah?  Well, we'll see."

It was around 4 in the afternoon, and he said that it would probably be best if we arrived after dinner since his mother would be perturbed at the unexpected company.  He asked me to drop him off at home, so I would know where it was, and I went back home to shower and make myself presentable to meet my boyfriends parents.

---

On the outside, the house itself was plain, and a bit run down in spots, as were all of the houses in the neighborhood, but that was alright.  Having spent many years living near the airport, I discovered that it wasn't the outside of the house that should cause concern.

Before I had a chance to ring the doorbell, the door opened and there stood my boyfriend, nervous, but smiling.  He let me in and I found myself standing in the living room of the small house.  The walls were quaintly decorated in a very outdated fashion, and the carpet had probably been there since the mid 60s, but the house smelled clean and everything was tidy from what I could see.  

"William," my boyfriend said, "These are my parents."  

There were two recliners facing fairly new TV which was playing a game show.  In the recliner farthest from where I was standing, sat a bird like woman with a severe face. She was knitting, and she gave me a looked up and down without missing a beat with her fingers.  After giving me the once over, she smiled and said, "Hello there.  Welcome to our home.", then she went right back to her knitting.

I didn't take this as a slight, only because her demeanor was less dismissive, and more concentration on the task at hand.  Her jaw was set and her eyes seemed to focus so hard on the two points that were clicking like mad that I thought she was trying to set the yarn on fire.  

In the other recliner sat my boyfriend's father, who looked like a cross between Benny Hill and Winston Churchill.  I was just a pace or two away from him, and he craned his neck to look at me, since it was apparent that while his recliner rocked, it didn't swivel around.  He gave me the friendliest smile and reach his hand toward me so I could shake it, and his handshake was as sincere as his greeting.

"Well, you're the fella I've heard so much about." he said with a booming, friendly voice which made it very difficult not to like him immensely.

This introduction almost, *almost* drew attention away from the fact that his grown man was sitting in a purple nightgown that had a slightly wrinkled sheen to it.  It was a spaghetti strap, and it ended right in the middle of his thighs with a white, lacey trim.

The man let go of my hand, and my boyfriend put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Sorry, we don't have a couch anymore, so let's just sit on the floor."

I had no problem with that, so we sat near the TV, where some contestant was grimacing at a wrong answer he had just uttered.

We sat with our backs to the TV, and my boyfriend took my hand sweetly as I introduced myself.  As I did, I saw that my boyfriend's mother just kept knitting, as if she had a deadline to keep, and failure was not an option.  She never looked up, and  the click click click of the knitting needles was almost hypnotic.

Seeing this, I directed the conversation to the man of the house, but even then I found myself at a loss for words. It wasn't the nightgown that was the problem, because once the initial impression was made, it was easy for me to overlook.  What gave  me pause was the fact that his rather impressive scrotum was hanging out between his legs, perfectly framed around that white line of lace.  I glanced at the sack, and I turned to my boyfriend who just sort of shrugged and I just went along with it.  

The conversation wasn't anything exceptional, except when I revealed that my mother was from Germany, and I got to explain to my boyfriend's father what it was like being raised by someone who didn't come from this country.

"Boy," he said, shaking his head, "I bet that makes things interesting at your house."

I smiled at the monumental irony of that statement and said, "Well, it has its moments."

The conversation sort of dried up after that, and my boyfriend tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I wanted to watch TV with them.  I have never been big on watching TV as a group, but it was the least I could do.  Besides, I really wanted something to focus my attention on.  As I turned around, he took his hand and put it in mine, and I couldn't help but smile at the sweetness of it.

We watched a sitcom, one that I think lasted only a few weeks before being cancelled, but you couldn't tell it was a bad by laughter that was coming out of my boyfriend and his father.  I laughed along with them, but only so I wouldn't seem out of place any more than I already was, when I felt the hand that was clutching mine slip away.  Our palms has been sweating, and I had thought about doing the same thing just a few moments before.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him do it, but my brain refused to believe that it was happening.  The sudden jerk of the button of his jeans being freed, and the sharp rip of a zipper being pulled down.  

He wouldn't, would he?  Here?  Now?  

I guess my naive mind thought that there was no way these evening could get any stranger, but it did.  I finally turned to find that my boyfriends eyes were glued to the TV, but his hand was glued to his cock.  I looked at the TV so I wouldn't look like I was staring.

From behind me, I heard his father's booming voice say, "It's OK.  You get used to it after a while.  We don't try to stop him anymore...."

"As long as he doesn't make a mess of it." his mother said, the clicking never stopping for a second.  There was a few seconds of strange silence as I processed what she had said, and my soul cringed.

I sat there, stunned that this awkward situation had just become worse.  I wanted to leave, if for no other reason than to gather my senses and emotions at what I was experiencing.  I thought I was just meeting a transvestite father, but *this* was a whole different scenario than I was expecting.  

My boyfriend just kept on going through the next segment of the show, and through the commercials as well.  All the while, he and his father laughed along with the canned laughter of the sitcom, but this time I didn't join in.  I didn't find any of this funny, mostly because all emotions had shut down to keep me from expressing one that would get me in trouble.

At one point, my boyfriend's father farted so loud that I jumped at least 2 inches into the air.  The man apologized for the first one, and assumed that the apology carried over for each following one, of which there were three.

I just sat there, all around me there was diddle, diddle, poot, grunt, click, click, click.  A mind blowingly awkward symphony of strangeness that was endearing in a way.  At least, I would have found it endearing if I had a way to prepare for it mentally.

I think it was the farting that was the cue for my boyfriend to notice that I was getting more than a little uncomfortable.  He asked me when I needed to be back home, and I lied saying that I was probably past curfew.  His dad told me the time, and I acted as though I was cutting it close, and I should go.

I thanked his parents for a lovely evening, his mother only glancing up to smile, his father shaking my hand again.  My boyfriend saw me out, and we went out onto the front steps.  He closed the door behind him and said, "Sorry about the farting.  He does that a lot.  I think it's his gall bladder or spleen, or....something."

I laughed at that, which broke my own tension now that I was outside where things were relatively normal again.  I told him that my stepdad was the same, and that I understood.  I told him I had to go, and his face turned serious.

"You are going to break up with me now, aren't you?" he said.

I was very surprised to discover that despite everything that happened, that thought never even crossed my mind.  I was definitely uncomfortable, but at the same time, I was instinctively able to separate the antics of his parents from his own antics.  All things considered, as long as he didn't start pulling his pud in the produce section of the grocery store, there was definite potential for a semi-long term courtship.

Not only that, but I felt that I had a lot to think about after meeting his parents.  I wanted to know what was up with his mother's knitting, and I wondered how long his father had been comfortable sitting in a nightgown in front of his wife.  Had she always known?  Did she catch him one day?  These are things I wanted to know so I could put them into my mental encyclopedia, where I put all kinds of information about interesting people I have met.  That way, when a similar situation arose (just part of it, now the whole shebang, which is a lot going on with the diddling, laughing, knitting and farting) I would be able to roll with it and move on, rather than destroy any chance to learn even more from the situation.  To me, that's what living is all about.

I kissed him goodbye, a deep kiss meant to reassure him that I was being sincere, and I went home.

---

Three days later, he broke up with me in my station wagon when I went to pick him up to go grab something to eat.  At first, his reasons were because he wasn't ready for a relationship, and his parents agreed that he was too young, but I could tell that was a lie, and I told him so.

"If you don't want to tell me why, that's fine.  But please don't make stuff up to spare my feelings.  Especially if you're parents never really said that.  They are good people and I don't think they said that at all." I said.

The Wagon was parked in front of his house, and he was sitting in the passenger seat, and he never really looked up from his hands as he spoke.  When I called him on his lie, he cringed a bit, and I knew then that he realized he had been caught.

He looked at me, almost as if he were about to cry, and said, "I don't think I can deal with always wondering how much is too much.  I didn't think you would last 5 minutes the other night, but you stuck through it.  But the whole time I kept wondering if you were going to get up and just walk out.  God knows we gave you enough reasons."

I wanted to tell him that every family was weird in one way or the other.  His family just did so openly and without apologies, and that was something to be commended.  There were no secrets or hangups, and that meant there was little tension to speak of.  That is, of course, until someone else came over. 

For a moment, I thought that there might be hope.  If there was some way that I could convince him that he had me pegged all wrong, and that it wasn't too much, we could get back to being boyfriends.  But it didn't take long for me to realize that it didn't matter what I said, he would always think that we would break up at any moment, and he wanted to end things on his terms to save his feelings.  As selfish as that sounded, I couldn't say that I wouldn't do the same given the circumstances.

He and I went to different schools and I knew that chances were good that I would never see him again, so we went to dinner anyway, and tried to act as normal as possible.  The night with his parents was awkward, yes, but I could handle that.  What I experienced in that restaurant was much worse by far.  

Afterwards, I took him home, and the goodbye felt very final.  I hated to see him go, but deep down I knew it was overall for the best.  We hadn't been together long enough for me to shed tears over it, but there was a dent in my heart after this emotional fender bender.  

I pulled away and looked up into the rear view mirror to see him standing there, on his front stoop, watching me drive away.  It was the last time I ever saw him.  I didn't cry then, but now the memory breaks my heart a little.  

---

The same woman who marveled at my interesting life later asked me if I had ever wished that my life was a little more boring.  The thought of that scares me to death.  Every interesting experience I have ever had, and that I will have in the future, gives me something to think about and learn.

When I used to live in the city, I was constantly surrounded by noise.  When I moved here in this quiet city, I lived in state of constant tension.  The constant quiet made every little noise that occurred terrifying.  The click of the heater kicking on, the sound of rain hitting the windowpane, even a sudden cough from my husband, would put me into fits of panic like I had rarely experienced before.

That's how I imagine my life would be if suddenly, things got too...quiet...so to speak.  I would grow accustomed to the seeing the same people, doing the same things every day, and the first time I would meet someone who was startlingly interesting, I wouldn't have the casual fascination I have now.  My comfort zone will have shifted, and I probably remove myself from the sitaution as quickly as I could.

At least, that's how I imagine it.  I hope it never comes to that.

In the meantime, I still smile when someone says to me, "I don't wanna tell you. You'll think it's weird."  I have no way of expressing to them to tell me anyway, and that I was ready to learn something.  All I can do is smile, say, "Try me.", and hope for the best.  

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