This summer’s greatest guilty pleasure in my happily-cloistered world was John Duff, who started the season off with the glorious ‘Be Your Girl’, kept things hot with follow-up ‘Forgotten How To F@ck‘ and is now coasting through the end of the season with ‘Hoe Is Life’ featuring the legendary Lillias White. He spent the summer traveling and performing, from Pride shows in Chicago and New York to a celebrated residency in Provincetown, and his music has made an ideal soundtrack to the sunny season. Stay tuned for his upcoming ‘Clothes Back On’ to see how he enters the fall.
Rene Farias is an artist who has managed to turn the quiet and seemingly insignificant turns of a day into an erotic expiration of beauty and inspiration. Living out his creative endeavors across social media, he produces work that is as scintillating in its finished state as it is in the process of being made. While Farias has the power and talent to make something beautiful of the smaller moments, his work also explores other-worldly creatures and fantasies, letting loose with images of wild hybrids merging man and beast, minotaur and mermaids, and fabled fairies. In some pieces he treats the human body like an architectural structure – a train runs through the tunnels of two human cavities – while in others trios of embracing men with wings find their legs morphing into multiple squid-like arms. A surreal gorgeousness imbues many of his pieces, bending the mind of the viewer as they try to navigate whether what they are in fact seeing is what they think they are seeing. It’s the greatest trick an artist can conjure, and the trickiest display of talent a human can execute. Farias earns his first Dazzler of the Day thanks to a consistent outpouring of work that makes us think and feel and marvel. Check out his website here.
“I’m cuban artist living in Miami. I like to explore the human eroticism and break taboos and stereotypes. There is no better way to assert ideas than through art. Mermaids, minotaurs, fairies, snakes, butterflies; recurring elements in my work that serve to accentuate the contrast between masculine strength and the fragility and delicacy that nature and mythology offer us. I really hope you enjoy my little piece of the world.” ~ Rene Farias
If anyone is still looking for a Pride anthem at this late date, check out ‘Be Your Girl’ by John Duff, which takes us back to the gloriously melodic whirling days of carefree disco and delicious pop hookery. Duff has made a few of these bops, and several eye-popping videos to go along with them, easily earning this Dazzler of the Day crowning just in time to end Pride Month on a high note.
A few people I know make a habit of reading the obituaries. I’ve never done that. I don’t even like reading the obituaries of loved ones I’ve known. Even the better renditions that artfully weave words and stories as more of a tribute than documentation of someone’s death are often difficult to read. I think I’ve always been rather commonly afraid of death, up until last year when I had no choice but to face it and confront it.
Every once in a while, however, an obituary comes along to capture my heart, and remind me of the importance of honoring those we have lost, especially when it comes with a posthumous revelation that may make a difference for certain ones going through similar struggles. In this case, the end of Edward Thomas Ryan’s obituary did what he felt he couldn’t do for all his lived days:
Edward wanted to share the following: “I must tell you one more thing. I was Gay all my life: thru grade school, thru High School, thru College, thru Life. I was in a loving and caring relationship with Paul Cavagnaro of North Greenbush. He was the love of my life. We had 25 great years together. Paul died in 1994 from a medical Procedure gone wrong. I’ll be buried next to Paul. I’m sorry for not having the courage to come out as Gay. I was afraid of being ostracized: by Family, Friends, and Co-Workers. Seeing how people like me were treated, I just could not do it. Now that my secret is known, I’ll forever Rest in Peace.”
At first it was heartbreaking to read. I’ve known men like Edward. They carry a hollowed-out, haunted desperation to some of their days and actions, while somehow managing to be braver and stronger than I could ever imagine having to be. I wonder at an entire life lived within the proverbial confines of the closet, a life lived with subterfuge and secrets, and what moments of freedom men like Edward might have known, grasped at, lived for… It always crushes the soul a little to dwell upon what kind of world would allow for such an existence – and what kind of people would want to suppress or force someone to be something other than what they truly are.
And then I feel grateful. Grateful for having had the fortune and privilege and fortitude to come out when I was young, when I was still finding my way and growing into the person I was born to be. Grateful for the existence of Pride Month, for others who paved the way without such fortune and privilege. Grateful for being able to surround myself with people who would never think of suppressing or forcing anyone to be someone they weren’t. And grateful for the Edwards of the world – especially Edward Thomas Ryan – who did in death what he felt he could not do in life, becoming at last the person he was born to be, and reminding us of our own history.
As the problematic world of AI artwork swirls around us, it’s good to re-enforce the idea that I and so many others hold, which is that the artwork produced by human hands and our greatest living artists will never be successfully duplicated by any program, no matter how advanced. Human passion cannot and will not be reproduced by artificial intelligence; it will always ring hollow, because humans innately recognize and resonate with the work of another human. That brings us to this Dazzler of the Day, which goes to Daniel W. Green, an artist whose work bleeds with the fiery passion and exuberance that can only be produced by a real person invigorated and inspired by real life. Green specializes in oil paintings, many of which focus on the male form. Witness his work progress as seen in one example below (there are many, as Green is wondrously prolific). Check out more on the Dan Green Male Art page as well as his eBay page to purchase his work.
Much like this gratuitously-shirtless post of male celebrities, this post narrows in on those shirtless male celebs who happen to identify as LGBTQ+. The gays came to slay, starting with Jim Verraros, whose recent renaissance has been sparked by the anthemic dance club knock-out ‘Take My Bow’ – a welcome return to the musical landscape by the ‘Do Not Disturb’ singer.
During my days and nights of drinking, it wasn’t the physical hangover that bummed me out from time to time (though those did hurt, especially the tail-whip ones, wherein just when you thought you were ok, a wave of nausea came on like the last minute tail-whip of that demon in ‘Lord of the Rings‘ that took Gandalf the Gray) it was the emotional hangovers that left me confused and scared and defeated. One of the things that made quitting drinking an easy choice was the determination to never again waste a morning – particularly a summer morning – lost in that hazy fog. One need not quit drinking entirely to avoid such a state – one just needs to avoid drinking to excess. My past was all about the excess, so I fell prey to losing many a morning.
If there’s a cure for this I don’t want it, I don’t want it If there’s a remedy I’ll run from it, from it
Think about it all the time Never let it out of my mind ‘Cause I love you…
Turning this into a musical moment for summer involves injecting a bit of Diana Ross disco into the scene, which lends its own fabulousness with nary a drop of liquor. It begins in slow fashion, the way one typically wakes, with or without a hangover to be honest, and slowly insinuates the embrace of losing oneself to love, and the regret or recreation of falling in such a way. Reminiscent of sweaty fever-dreams, and the secretive desires that summer holds within the folds of her gossamer wardrobe, the song is a hypnotic exploration of the morning-after, whatever the night before might have been.
To that end, it is magical – an extended musical trail that rises and falls, offering twists and turns and the ultimate disco-abandon of Ms. Ross at the dawn of the 1980’s. Summer is the best time to lose oneself to the decadence and debauchery that youth affords, and I have absolutely no regrets about digging deeply into that lavender haze.
‘Cause, if there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it Don’t want it (love to love you, sweet) Love to love you, sweet
Sweet love, I love you Sweet love, need love Bad love, sweet love hangover I don’t want no cure Sweet love, love hangover Love hangover
You may have heard that this is the 20th year of ALANILAGAN.com, and as such I’m going to start culling a few ‘Top Twenty’ lists from the archives in celebration of such a milestone. (Who knows if I might make to another?) We’ll begin with one that is close to my musical heart: the Top Twenty Madonna Timelines. (These are not in any strict order, as it’s too difficult to rank that, they are just twenty notable timelines.)
The Madonna Timeline has been a regular installment here wherein I dissect a specific Madonna song (chosen randomly by the ‘Shuffle’ feature) and go into whatever memories or background I have of the song, when it was released, and/or what it has come to mean to me over the years. For a long time, I could date my life based on what Madonna era was happening, but failing memory and lack of indelible career moments have largely left that in the past. Here’s a reminder of some of my favorites.
1. Drowned World/Substitute for Love ~ This is my favorite Madonna song (with the caveat that such a preposterous proclamation is always subject to change – but this one has stayed at the top of my list since it came out in 1998, and as much as I adore her I don’t see Madonna topping this one anytime sooner or later). The opening track of her best album to date (the miraculous ‘Ray of Light’) this song ushered in one of the greatest Madonna eras ever. It was once again about the music, and this music came with layered nuance, lyrical poignance, and introspective grace. It was an emotional reckoning, highlighted by this compelling track, which seduces the listener with a calm and languid beginning then ruminates on the price of love and fame and the search for something more before culminating in one of the most powerful bridges she has ever written.
2. Vogue ~ Madonna has always been about fun and glamour, and nowhere is that more evident than in her classic anthem ‘Vogue’. From the opening command of ‘Strike a pose!’ to the quasi-rap litany of Hollywood royalty, this is Madonna at the crux of fabulous and campy in an ode and an invitation to the gay balls of the late 80’s. It also inspired a major timeline sprinkled with Oscar Wilde quotes and gay memories galore.
3. Like A Prayer ~ The rarefied upper-echelon of Madonna’s catalog contains many iconic moments and the crowning jewel of her musical oeuvre has to be ‘Like A Prayer’. For substance, style, and transformative musical transcendence, this remains Madonna’s most majestic move, and it has endured for decades with good reason.
4. Erotica ~ Sex and sin and seduction, oh my! A turning point in Madonna’s career formed a valuable and necessary life-lesson for me, laying the groundwork for my own creative expression.
5. Turn Up the Radio ~ Losing oneself in a pop song is one of Madonna’s most enduring hat-tricks, and a large reason why some of us have never been able to quit her. ‘Turn Up the Radio’ starts off as a stellar slice of escapist pop music, until you realize by the bridge she is desperately doing all that she can to simply survive (“We gotta have fun, if that’s all that we do”).
8. Crazy For You ~ One of my very first crushes forms the narrative portion of this Madonna Timeline, and for that reason it holds a special place in my heart.
9. Secret ~ The Madonna song that will forever be linked with the memory of the first man I ever kissed, ‘Secret’ is heartbreaking on a personal level, and healing in the same way.
12. Express Yourself ~ Another moment in Madonna history is also one of the most self-empowering songs ever written, and this take-charge anthem is a potent blast of pop perfection (cue the horny horn break).
13. Ray of Light ~ Exploding out of the spring and summer of 1998, the lead track to Madonna’s greatest album ‘Ray of Light’ is a roaring revelation of celebratory abandon and realization – the zenith of Madonna’s dance-pop evolution, even if she had no hand in actually writing the song. The timeline is always a fun memory, as it brings me back to a night in Boston when, fueled by a cocktail of something called ‘Liquid Cocaine’, I sped through Copley Square on roller-blades with a long black cloak flowing in my wake.
14. Messiah ~ Despite her ‘Something to Remember’ collection, Madonna has never truly been appreciated for her ballads, which is criminal, as they form the compelling contrast and anchors of so many of her albums. This selection from the somewhat-messy ‘Rebel Heart’ opus echoes other brilliant balladry such as ‘Falling Free’, ‘Promise to Try’, ‘I’ll Remember’ and ‘I Want You’.
15. True Blue – An ode to old-fashioned romance and sweet, hopeful innocence, this frothy confection of ear candy goes down easy and rekindles a simpler time in life.
16. Live to Tell~ The best songs of Madonna transcend the limitations of pop music, allowing multiple readings and layers of interpretation. ‘Live to Tell’ hints at secrets and betrayals, survival and destruction, and is one of Madonna’s most serious and powerful ballads.
17. Secret Garden ~ Closing out the sexual kaleidoscope of ‘Erotica’, this glorious glimpse of a metaphorical musical garden found flowering and fruition and little to nothing to do with fucking. A precursor to cocky clickbait.
18. You’ll See ~ Turning romantic tragedy to independent triumph, ‘You’ll See’ was pegged as the ‘I Will Survive’ of its day, and it came at a time when my own romantic adventures were just beginning.
19. Survival – Opening her deceptively-soft-focused ‘Bedtime Stories’ album (one of the most unexpectedly-pivotal albums in her career, lowering expectations as it repositioned her as an artist who would endure rather than burn-out in a blaze of glory) this track and timeline found both Madonna and myself in a fascinating state of flux.
Taking a picture of a picture and playing with reflections can reveal a portal into the past. The young man in the forefront is all of 18 years old, while the older, grayer man in shadow, looking like he is peering amusedly over his shoulder, is heading toward 48. Three decades of difference and wondering at the world around them is revealed in this single shot. It’s easy to say that with age comes wisdom, and largely that may prove to be true, but when I look back at myself at that time, there was a certain wisdom inherent in innocence and not knowing things that carried its own weight and import. Of course, that was often overshadowed by the misguided pride and exuberance of youth, and the unabashed revelry one finds upon returning home for the summer after a year at college.
On my headphones, and originating from a walkman we once had to carry in our hands, this Janet Jackson song, ‘Love Will Never Do (Without You)’ played its booming melody and Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis magnificence. With a video gorgeously directed by Herb Ritts, complete with more than a few erotic undertones (and some homoerotic ones for those looking really hard) this song became a summer anthem for me, and still brings me back to those carefree days…
Our friends think we’re opposites Falling in and out of love They’ve all said we’d never last Still, we manage to stay together
May had arrived in all its heady glory. Faced with the luxurious prospect of three summer months of freedom, my Virgo nature also understood it needed some sort of structure and plan to feel completely comfortable, and so I started a daily jogging regime, followed by a swim in the pool. It kept track of the days, provided a basic blueprint around which to organize a day, and kept me in shape.
While I would never quite be devastatingly cute enough to be a proper twink, I teetered on the brink of twinkdom on my best days, and in the warped, overcompensating method of finding self-confidence through faking it, I flagrantly began to revel in my youth in the way everyone should during its brief years of dominance. The robust confidence that came after a single year away at school left me feeling undeservedly superior and slightly smug, and I’m just thankful I didn’t turn into a total monster.
Pounding the pavement as delicately as I could muster while jogging (and doing my best to avoid shin splints) I embraced the warm days and looked forward to traveling around my small hometown, which felt even smaller after a year’s glimpse at more expansive places. Halfway through these runs I’d doff my shirt, as much for pleasure as it was for comfort – the sun felt wonderful, especially when I recalled practically crying when the 20th snowstorm of the year barreled across the campus of Brandeis just a few short, and cold, months earlier. It was also a relief to be freed from sweaty clothing – nipple-chafing is a very real and painful thing – I don’t care how deeply one might enjoy some nipple-play. There was also something vain in it – the body and mind wanting to reveal themselves for reasons that went back centuries, and it felt as primal as it did imposed by a society that celebrated sex for all its selling points.
There’s no easy explanation for it But whenever there’s a problem We always work it out somehow Work it out somehow
They said it wouldn’t last We had to prove them wrong ‘Cause I’ve learned in the past That love would never do without you
Sprinting into the final days of my teenage years, I yearned for adulthood before realizing I had already entered it – the body advancing so much sooner than the mind. In-between girlfriends, and not quite having arrived at boyfriends yet, my love for this song was questionable given my relative inexperience in all things having to do with romance. Yet it spoke to me, and in a powerful way, and every summer that followed I would return to its spell, happily entranced by the notion of love, even if I had no love affair of my own to set to its music.
Other guys have tried before To replace you as my lover Never did I have a doubt Boy, it’s you I can’t do without
I feel better when I have you near me ‘Cause no other love around Has quite the same, ooh, ooh Like you do, do, do, do babe
Winding my way back home, I slowed as I neared our block, beginning the cool down that would culminate with a dip in the pool, dousing the fire that burned all about the body – a delicious denouement to the only work I had to do that summer. It was an indulgence – a harmless decadence that took place mostly in my mind because all of this happened in solitude. After years of doubting myself, and having others doubt me, it felt like a beginning of something else – a more genuine sort of self-love, of learning that I could be ok on my own. I didn’t see it then, but this song would not end up being the soundtrack to some great romance with anyone else – it would be the giddy and surprisingly reliable accompaniment to the love affair we should all be having with ourselves.
They said it wouldn’t last We had to prove them wrong ‘Cause I’ve learned in the past That love would never do without you
And so that May passed all too quickly – and that brief time in which I thought I was hot shit, and maybe I was, would prove to wither like so many spring blossoms that weren’t designed to last in the heat. Did I make the most of it? For the most part, yes. Do I wish I had realized more fully what a lovely thing it was to be young? Yes. That too. Do I miss the underlying wonder, panic and worry at not knowing what I should be doing and not knowing what I wanted to be doing? Not a bit, because it still fuels me to this day.
As for this song, it’s still a bop, still a summer dream, still a portal to the lusty month of May, when a young man once ran away from his youth, on the hunt for love.
(They said it wouldn’t last) (They said) hey (They said it wouldn’t) what do you want? (They said it wouldn’t last)
If you believe in love, sing (Love will never do) (Love will never do without you)
The May sweeps period of television used to be when the shows put out their best rating-grabbers, often ending with a dramatic cliffhanger to keep people talking and guessing for the rest of the summer, hopefully enough to insist that they return in the fall. I loved the drama of it all, and I have no shame in aging myself to say that I was just coming into childhood cognizance when the big cliffhanger of the 80’s left everyone wondering ‘Who killed J.R.?’ on ‘Dallas’. In fact, that whole scenario informed a substantial part of what I would later do in life in that I would do my damndest to be the person who was on everyone’s lips, the guy who, if knocked off, would inspire a frenzy of suspects too numerous to narrow down because he’d created such a stir his entire life. It’s not easy to cull that kind of broad and sustained hatred, not the kind that makes people actively want to kill you – but that didn’t stop me from trying, whether intentionally or subconsciously. All these years later, I remember J.R., but not the would-be killer, because sometimes that’s how life works. The villains get all the glory, even when they become the victims; I learned that dangerous lesson and ran with it the wrong way.
The cliffhanger from this previous post found my much-younger self having just procured the phone number of a gentleman who was the first person to show any interest one following the fallout from the first man who kissed me. That fallout was more damaging than originally understood, and if there is any excuse to offer for my bratty behavior, it’s that. And it still won’t exonerate my guilt at how I treated another human being. Back then, I simply didn’t care. Not about him, and certainly not about myself.
Once upon there was light in my life
Now there’s only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart…
Back to that train platform on a glorious spring afternoon, where I stared down at the name and phone number written by a man I’d not even exchanged a word with on the train. In neat block figures, it was such a simple and seemingly-insignificant thing, but at that pre-internet time it was the only way I would have of finding out who he might be, the only way of making a tenuous connection. Fate and destiny and luck and coincidence informed so much of our lives before it was all so readily available online. It made things more difficult in many ways, but oh so much richer and more meaningful. It was as if the stars guided us rather than manipulated keystrokes to research and become who we thought someone might want us to be. All I had to go on was his smile, already fading in my mind’s memory, a name and a phone number. And somehow it was enough.
Never one to indulge in playing the hard-to-get games (as later suitors would unfortunately discover) I only waited a few hours to call him, because there was never any question on whether I would call. (Cliffhanger my ass.) The question was what I would say or do when I did call.
Without deliberately intending to do so, I kept my aloofness and distance, mainly from habit but also from the recent wounds that part of me realized hadn’t even started to heal. When I dialed the number from my dorm room, it was more of a dare to myself, a challenge to get back into the dating pool, and a gauntlet to see how bad I might be.
That spring and summer I was completely channeling Linda Fiorentino’s ferocious character in ‘The Last Seduction’ (not at all a worthy romantic aspiration by any stretch of the imagination) – my heart was on guard and safely barricaded from the previous fall’s romantic fiasco, and this gentleman, sweet as he might be, would pay the price of stumbling into such wayward behavior.
I don’t remember much about that first phone call. He had a deep voice and sounded slightly nervous. He still lived at home with his parents and was in Boston for an interview I think. He was also apparently not out yet, and in the debilitating way I had back then of comparing anything and everything, I realized that I had the upper hand there. I would give him his first book of gay literature, bring him to his first Broadway play, and introduce him to a world of pants entirely bereft of pleats. More than that, I would rain down emotional hell-fire, mental manipulation, and just plain meanness and cruelty. It would amaze me how much a young man could get away with when someone was taken with his beauty, especially when he never felt beautiful.
With just a few scant weeks before the end of that spring semester, it seemed futile to me to start a new relationship, especially when I’d be away for the entire summer, but somehow we managed to meet at least once or twice, taking a couple of steamy car-rides and pausing for parking-lot make-out sessions where I felt keenly that he was way more into me than I would ever be into him. That was good though, in the warped way my mind was processing romance at the time. Better to be the object of desire and have some say in the way things went. At the end of it all, I gave him my home phone number, and throughout the ensuing spring and summer we’d share sporadic phone calls. I remember visiting friends in Rochester and sneaking out to the car on a rainy May night to call him. It was raining and ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ came on the radio and I wondered at what I was doing. Every call was a dangled promise, a dare to keep thinking of me – of us, if we could fathom such a term at sun an early point – and he held on, seemingly as lonely as I would never admit myself to be.
I’d told him about a gay novel I’d just read and he sought it out and read it, and the idea that I might have such influence on another person made him suddenly repellant to me. His pronouncement that he might be falling in love, pulled forcefully from his lips with the blunt lack of precision by my immature guile, only emboldened me to be cold and dismissive. Not seeing myself as worthy of being loved, I derided anyone else who saw the opposite. Yes, I was that far lost, that fucked-up. And the more I pushed him away, the crueler I could be, the more we both inadvertently played into ‘The Rules’. By the time I returned in the fall, torturing him by phone felt like a cozy habit, and when he presented me with a poster of the cover of the book I’d suggested to him, his earnest hope of pleasing me carried the whiff of everything repulsive to me. I hated myself instantly for feeling that, but knew no other way around it, or any way to hide it.
When met with such disdain, he didn’t fight or flee, but rather tried to wrap his head around it. I could see him sometimes trying to work it out in his head, and feel even more contemptuous annoyance toward him for that. Far from my finest moment, this wasn’t helping me heal, or helping me move on, and rather than be honest and cut it all off, I kept it going, trying to be sweet and kind when I saw his hurt, trying to temper and reconcile the lack of respect I had for him with the genuine kindness he tried to show me. To my detriment and shame, I strung him along as a plaything rather than anyone serious, discarding his feelings in a way strikingly similar to how I’d been treated a year or so before. It was so obvious I made myself sick seeing it all play out, and so I treated him even worse, seeing what horrendous things I could say and get away with, defiling and degrading him in and out of the bedroom. There was nothing precious about such a power play, and something in me knew it would harden my heart in ways that might not be undoable, but I didn’t care.
I’ll write about the rest some other night, later in spring, when the dander is up again – when I don’t need to sleep for the start of another week…
It was only a partial eclipse, but it was enough to cast a spell of shadow across my afternoon walk back to the dorm. Near the end of my first year at Brandeis, we were in the midst of a celebrated annual eclipse – I looked it up, and it happened on May 10, 1994. I remember it distinctly; I was under the newly-leafed-out maple trees near Hassenfeld – my dorm building – when the event was happening, and while I noticed a slight dimming of the day, what I saw more vividly were the shadows of crescents on the path before me. It struck me how frightening such a phenomenon might have appeared to centuries of people before me. Knowing what was happening rendered it more intriguing than frightening, and I took a few photos of the shadows. Somewhere those photos are in an old shoe box, waiting to be excavated on a day when there’s time for such boredom.
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit lonely And you’re never coming ’round
It would be a year later when a thumping dance cover of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ by Nicki French would take the gay scene by spring storm, and it formed the soundtrack to the adventures with the second man I ever kissed. That’s the memory at work here, and it’s fitting that an actual eclipse kicked it off.
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit tired Of listening to the sound of my tears
At the tail end of my sophomore year at Brandeis, I’d mostly given up on men before I even really started. The first guy who ever kissed me had proven to be more damaging than I realized at the time; his harrowing and haunting hold on me, no matter how much I disputed and denied it, was dangerously informing all the kisses that followed. And maybe I was a little more reckless than I should have been. Whatever the case, it was a warm spring afternoon as I waited for the commuter rail at Porter Square, which would take me back to my dorm room at Brandeis.
I don’t recall what I’d done in Boston that day, but I do remember the tall, blonde-haired gentleman who stood across from me in pleated olive pants (two hapless strikes in one bad pair of trousers). He’d noticed me too – I was keenly aware of such things – and I saw he held his gaze a little longer than necessary. In an age before Grinder and social media, this was how gay men met. It was a veiled world of codes and subtle cadences – entire histories and desires could be read in a few furtive glances, interest gleaned from the slightest nod or hesitation.
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit nervous That the best of all the years have gone by
After Tom, I wasn’t really looking for men, in spite of how I talked and carried myself. It was easier to be saucy and sordid than genuine and vulnerable. Safer too. When he watched me my gaze was anywhere other than back at him. Nobody played aloof better than me and already it felt less like playing and more like the life I was actively and desperately carving out for myself. With practiced sighs of boredom, I wanted to appear as though I wanted to be anywhere other than where I was – mostly people left you alone that way.
(Whenever I indulge in looking back, the closest I come to regret is in thinking of how disdainful I could be to the world, and how much I pushed myself to being alone when it was the last thing I really wanted.)
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit terrified And then I see the look in your eyes
We were both early for the train, and there were only a few other people around, so this went on for some time. Feeling his eyes on me was a different sensation than the usual notice I would garner from my sartorial arsenal. It wasn’t interest in a coat or a bag or a pair of shoes – it was interest in my person, in the physical shell of my body. I felt him size up my hair and face, my chest, the spread of my thighs as I sat on a rigid bench across from him. I felt him notice every motion of my hands, every shuffle of my feet. A few times I would pause and deliberately catch him staring to which he averted his eyes, pretending it wasn’t happening. Such games we once played, such silly wastes of time.
The advance of commuters was upon us, and more people filled the little waiting area. I shifted my backpack onto my lap as people squeezed onto the bench beside me. He continued to stare and study, drinking me up as I drank up his interest, until it was finally apparent what was happening. At last I looked into his eyes for a moment, holding on a little longer than almost any other man would have done for another man. He broke first, and smiled broadly before a quick chuckle that shook his shoulders slightly. I smiled back, but briefly, not quite willing, or, quite frankly, knowing, what to do next, other than keep my distance.
(Turn around, bright eyes) Every now and then I fall apart (Turn around, bright eyes) Every now and then I fall apart
Pushing the memory of that first kiss from my mind, I let the smile leave my face and took out a book. It struck me that the man had nothing with him – not a bag or briefcase, not a coat or jacket – only the billowy pockets of his pleated pants, and perhaps one on the front of his white baggy button-down shirt. What brought him to Boston on such a day, what had he done to land him at Porter Square, and where might he be going? Despite the fear, despite the past, I was suddenly interested, piqued by his surreptitious engagement with the college-age young man I was then.
The rumbling of the commuter rail left us scrambling up to the platform, and I followed him at a distance – keeping him just far enough away to not appear overly-zealous. He sat near the front of the car, and lots of seats were available for the taking. I took one a few rows back, where I could see him still but he couldn’t see me. I would be in control this time – if this ended up being a time.
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit restless And I dream of something wild
He turned around to look at me, then beyond me, just once. And then I saw him take out a scrap of paper from his pocket, and a pen, and scribble something down.
The conductor called out Belmont, as the train tilted to its side – the memorable mark of Belmont in my mind – then we righted and resumed our journey. Next stop was Waverley, then Waltham, and as we neared the Brandeis/Roberts stop I wondered if this was all in my mind. I would have to walk by the man on my way out, and my brain was scrambling how to play it – and whether to bother playing it at all. Equally enchanted and exhausted by how humans seemed to have to work to connect, I felt a flash of utter defeat and hopelessness, and a relief at a life of solitude. And then something came over me as I slung my backpack over my shoulder and marched down the aisle.
And I need you now tonight And I need you more than ever And if you only hold me tight We’ll be holding on forever And we’ll only be making it right ‘Cause we’ll never be wrong
I can’t describe what was happening as I walked toward the exit before the train had even come to its Brandeis/Roberts stop – whether it was a surge of adrenaline as I felt my heart thumping in my chest, or a last grasp at what might be something romantic. He was directly to my right, sitting by himself in a double-seat, and he looked up at me – the first time he would ever look up at me given his height – and I was about to let it all go when my body abruptly stopped. I turned to face him, and in one smooth, deft motion I unfurled the palm of my hand, into which he placed the piece of paper with his phone number on it. Closing my hand around it, I continued to the exit without saying a word. All these years later, it’s still probably the smoothest, scariest, and best-executed move of any of my romantic endeavors.
Clutching it madly, I walked away from the train platform without looking up at any of the passing windows, and only when it was gone entirely from view did I hurriedly open it up and gaze down upon his name and number.
Together we can take it to the end of the line Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time (all of the time)
I don’t know what to do and I’m always in the dark We’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks
I really need you tonight Forever’s gonna start tonight (Forever’s gonna start tonight)
Once upon a time I was falling in love But now I’m only falling apart There’s nothing I can do A total eclipse of the heart
Did I call him? That’s a story for another post, as this has gone entirely more moody than a Saturday blog post should ever be. I promise to tell the rest when the dander isn’t up…
Entering my twentieth year of ALANILAGAN.com, I’m feeling my age. Sad case in point: I spent Saturday evening scoping out heating pads for a strained neck (which is much better today, so the heat hit just right). I’m also in need of a pill box, as a number of my friends are, to keep track of everything. My hair is finally more salt than pepper, and my body is continually telling me that salt is so much worse than pepper (hence the blood pressure meds that I need in a pic box so I don’t forget to take one, or, perhaps worse, forget that I’ve already taken one). So yeah, that’s where we are in our fabulous progression toward death.
That said, I’m embracing the brighter side of getting older, and I see it in the progression of posts over the last twenty years. I don’t usually go back further than a couple of years, as some of the shit I’ve written is, well, shit. But every one of those cringe-worthy moments brought us to this point, and I’m not all that unhappy about it. Regret is a waste of emotional space, and I’d rather fill that place with hope and promise. After all, it’s Easter Fucking Sunday, and despite scary bunnies shrouded in purple tulle, I’m filed with the reason for the season. Nobody beats the Riz!
For all those with extra Easter time on their hands, here are a few posts that might jingle the memory bells. Now I’m mixing Christian holidays and making a muck of this place again…
Back when I was on the cusp of becoming a teenager, this cheeky song by Samantha Fox battled Madonna’s ‘Crazy For You’ on the Top Ten at Ten on our local radio station. I’m not sure how that happened, as they were released at such different times, but things worked differently in the 80’s. I was very much an 80’s child, for better and mostly worse, and I was just coming into my own, waking to the world around me and my place and presence in it. On the radio every other song was about sex, and while I had no idea what sex was, what a virgin might be, and how love did and didn’t always fit into the equation, I was fascinated by the forbidden aspect of it, the way it made the adults squirm whenever I would bring it up.
Full moon in the city and the night was young I was hungry for love, I was hungry for fun I was hunting you down, and I was the bait When I saw you there, I didn’t need to hesitate
The rainy month of March when this song first came out was filled with the usual paradoxes of this time of the year. Easter and Lent collided with the coming of spring, and all the birds and bees and dirty deeds that the less-spiritual part of the world got up into whenever spring arrived. On the windows of my bedroom, or the windows of the backseat of the car, I watched water droplets shape and warp the world. This song spoke to me with its over-the-top cheesiness, appealing to my love of the dramatic and histrionic, with more than a touch of sleaze. If Madonna’s ‘Crazy For You’ was the sweet little sister, innocently opining about a kiss and no more, ‘Touch Me’ was the sexier, raunchier cousin leading me into the night. Just a tween, I had no idea what any of it meant, nor any desire to learn. Instead, I felt the pangs of longing and yearning, the ache of a first crush on a boy who lived several streets away, and I had no idea why.
This is the night, this is the night This is the time, we’ve got to get it right…
Touch me, touch me, I want to feel your body Your heartbeat next to mine (this is the night) Touch me, touch me now… Touch me, touch me now…
When Samantha Fox sang this song, and whispers of her topless poses in certain scandalous magazines reached the boys, they felt something I simply didn’t. Immune to the charms of her ample cleavage, I had no desire to get into her ripped jeans either, but I watched other boys as they watched her, and I envied her transfixing hold on them. How could I cast such a spell? How to craft and conjure such rapt enchantment?
Hot and cold emotion, confusing my brain I could not decide between pleasure and pain Like a tramp in the night, I was begging for you To treat my body like you wanted to
This is the night, this is the night This is the time, we’ve got to get it right…
Touch me, touch me, I want to feel your body Your heartbeat next to mine (this is the night) Touch me, touch me now… Touch me, touch me now…
Later, years later, I would re-listen to this song and be horrified at the thought of me blaring it in the car while my parents gamely alternated between this and ‘Crazy For You’. It was just music and melody to me – the words meant nothing – but there was something primal and raw in it that appealed to my barely-burgeoning nature. As a tween, it wasn’t in any way sexual to me, just a bop on the radio that elicited thrills because I could see the reaction to it, not because I felt anything myself.
As a young gay man, that certainly changed over the years, but that’s another story for another song and blog post. This is just a quaint memory of S-S-S-S-Samantha Fox… because naughty girls need love (DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH) too.
Touch me, touch me now… Touch me, touch me now, yeah…
Touch me, touch me, I want to feel your body Your heartbeat next to mine (this is the night) ‘Cause I want your body, all the time…
I grew up in a world where I couldn’t see myself or anyone like me anywhere in my little/large world. There were no other bi-racial kids in my classes at McNulty Elementary School. There were no gay couples in the books I read or the television shows we were allowed to watch. There were no other boys who loved gardening and Madonna and ‘The Facts of Life‘. Having grown up in the 80’s and 90’s, I didn’t have the internet as news source or creative outlet. Two decades ago the world looked and felt like a very different place. It was a time before FaceBook or Instagram or Twitter or social media as we now know it.
This website became a daily diary, framed by the confines and freedom of being in a public all-access format. It became a place to bare the body and the soul – both equally terrifying and thrilling, and both in the service of attempting to find some greater meaning at work. As the years progressed, it became less about me and more about the process of finding oneself, and what had been working in my life. I went from cocktails to mocktails, from naked and nude to a contemplative mood, and from loathing kids to doting on my niece and nephew and godson. My friends and family, along with the people who were going along for the online ride, became this little community of characters which in turn became part of the story of ALANILAGAN.com.
Twenty years later, I’m still finding joy and fulfillment in telling our stories.
