I prefer the company of men; always have. When I was a little girl Jimmy Terhune and I spent hours playing around the base of the huge willow tree in my back yard pretending to build campfires and smoke peace pipes. I've a vague memory of the two of us stripped naked in the bathtub with my mother working herself and us into a lather while listing all the horrible consequences that other less fortunate children have suffered after playing with gasoline.
The neighborhood was over run with girls who had transitioned from the "baby" stage up to the "Big Kid" stage that one graduated into upon enrolling in kindergarten. Jimmy and I were still "babies" and this left us behind while the "big Kids" went to school. Any Freudian would have a heyday with fact that all of my memories of Jimmy involve the bathroom; taking turns peeing and discussing our confusion over the fuss about the difference between boys and girls. We didn't understand. We both sat, something came out, we cleaned up and flushed. What's there to fuss about? It was always at about this point in the conversation that my mother stepped in with her hand on her hip, exasperation in her voice, "...what do you think you are doing?"
After I went off to kindergarten Jimmy and I drifted apart, he had a year yet before the leap into Big kiddom. In the early years of elementary, Chris Cannday and I bonded over the shared habit of breaking our graham crackers into tiny bits as to stretch out the pleasure of snack time, We shared deep affection for the orange drink in the wax paper cartons and during nap time I tried to move my mat as close to chris as possible without being noticed.
When the other Kris (kowalsky) made a scene after I asked him to sit when he stood in my way while watching the movie about butterflies and bees, Mrs. Havener sent the two of us to the hallway. I remember Chris looking at me with the deepest sympathy. Kris Kowlasky was a pain in everybodies ass. I sobbed uncontrollably in the hall until the big Kowalsky suggested we play relay race between the door and the spot where the teacher told us that were were not to move, not even a muscle. I thought I may have had Kowalsky all wrong, that maybe he was ok until I caught a glimpse of Ms. Havenver's wild angry eye watching us through the little glass window of the door. The additional humiliation of being dragged into the cloak room in front of the whole kindergarten class sent me into hysterical sobs that soaked my shirt and began dripping and creating a pool of tears at my feet. When the other kids were dismissed for lunch I sat hugging my knees and gasping for breath while they filed past me one by one. My pal Chris was the only one to stop and ask me what was wrong.
Mrs.Havener had to tell him to go on home so she could beg me to stop crying before she would release me to my mother all shudders and hiccups. Chris and I spent many a recess swinging in unison insisting to anyone who dared claim friendship positioning that they hadn't a chance of coming between Chris and me.
For the next few years back home in the neighborhood I was integrated into the "big kids" group of girls, yet at school my buddies were still predominantly boys.
There was Mike, with whom I bonded over the ability to draw scary pictures of Dracula, complete with bloody fangs and bleeding victims. When I fell ill with the chicken pox, Mike's get well card was a crazy scary monster carrying his limp victim off into the woods. It was awesome. Alfonso and I laughed at anyone who tried to make race an issue. We couldn't see the difference and we never asked to touch each-other's hair. Bruce sang and played the piano like Stevie Wonder and he had a kick ass collection of Godzilla action figures. We had a great partnerships as I was a rock star at making fire breath for them out of paper coated heavy with and red, yellow and orange crayola. I was also freakishly skilled in the art of making up lyrics for songs that he wanted to sing, i.e. Hendrix, "...excuse me, while I kiss this guy..." or "Brian died last night, he died of ca an cer, he left his girlfriend in a heap and made his teammates cry..." Yeah, we were a team. I bet he wishes I could go with him on the European cruise for which he is now the featured performer.
When hormones kicked in at around the fourth or fifth grade, I drifted in a void. I was awkward and pudgy. While the other girls were developing breasts, I was developing acne, oily hair, and pushing maximum density. I wasn't cool or pretty enough for the girls or the boys..
The last year of high school and my first year away at college I became more interesting to boys. Suddenly boys looked at me differently; sexually. This is also when I became the little darling of all the gay boys. I don't think of myself as the fag hag, as they are usually the tag-alongs; the girls who wanted the gay boys to like them. Instead they followed me. I loved being pursued and I never felt a need or maybe I just didn't know how to reject any of the attention. The flattery was intoxicating and new. I loved the friendship, the camaraderie and the sexual interest was added bonus for my barely existent self esteem. However, I wasn't prepared for what some boys would expect from me if I returned any attention.
I spoke openly with anyone, said yes to any request for hanging out or dating, imagine I was a flirt, a master of sexual posturing. In my mind I was learning about people, making friendships... I was easy to talk to , an open book, and some boys whom I was only interested in as friends misinterpreted my intentions and became angry; all but calling me a tease. I probably was a tease and sometimes it caught up with me like a bad episode of 90210. It was a bit uncomfortable the night of some outdoor concert sitting on a blanket with one boy holding my hand that was propping me up behind my back when when another boy who didn't see the hand holding flopped down to join us and laid his head on my hip just as the boy I wanted for kissing alked by and stopped to confirm time and place for a date. Awkward. I loved it, hated it, didn't know how to set boundaries.
I maintain a few of those relationships. My best friends, the ones I love and trust the most are men. I don't know why I covet them more than my relationships with women. Most of my friendships with women have fallen apart since I divorced.
I'm living an odd paradox in respect to men at the moment. I open up easily, exposing every weakness, at the same time I'm on defense, ready to block any blow, suspicious of all motives while opening the door and beckoning to come in.
I am confused as to how to manage. Before I was in this state of my life I thought I would have rules, clear and restrictive, rules that would make life simple. All of the rules, the red flags that I am supposed to beware of and turn away from are the same red flags that wave on my camp. At the age forty five I don't think I would trust anyone without baggage anymore than I trust those with a trunk full.
Since the divorce I've had silly, awful, frightening and beautiful moments with the men I've encountered. The one regret that I've experienced with those who have come and gone is that we could not maintain a friendly platonic relationship. It's a shame that we've much companionship and support to offer, yet some weird boy/girl mojo doesn't allow for that simple option.
At the moment I'm trying to balance several relationships. One with the older gentleman who is as grateful as I for an intelligent breakfast companion. The distant adventurer, who's distance is often both physical and emotional. It was a silly of me to think I wouldn't suffer a good deal of melancholy and angst over both forms of distance. Locally I'm beginning to be asked out fairly regularly. I've been turning offers down, but there have been men with whom I'd like to hang out. I don't think most have been the type to get the whole platonic thing, so I say no, for now.
Simplicity. I don't understand how to achieve that in any area of my life. I wish it were as easy of picking it up from the drug store.
Letting it be, letting go, gets me nowhere.
