The Sun is my favorite magazine. It goes on the back of the toilet and I get through one before the next month's issue arrives. There's a section called "Readers Write," which is exactly what it sounds like. The editors give Upcoming Topics, (Deadline / Publication Date), i.e.,Blood / June 1 / December 2008
Saying Yes / July 1 / January 2009
Instructions / (etc.)
The Dinner Table
Faith
Moving
and writers write something autobiographical.
While S was away this summer, I got inspired toward the end of June to write an entry for the "Saying Yes" topic. I didn't send it off, though, because I didn't want to do so without getting S's opinion on it first. And also because I was a little bit insecure about it. I changed the names, but that doesn't really change the recognizability of the characters, at least not to me.
But this is my blog. I can do what I want.
---
S & I didn't call each other "lovers anymore, though we played the happy gay couple onstage, singing silly and sweet love songs about and to each other for Unitarian churches, retirement homes and folk audiences all over the country. Our bond was strong onstage, but offstage we had a hard time communicating and hadn't had a physical relationship for about half of the eight years we'd been together.
Then we met R, a charming, good-looking transient who happened upon one of our performances in a California desert town. S and I both fell in love with R almost immediately. Within a month, the ten-year younger man and his dog had moved into our twenty-foot trailer and was traveling the country with us, appearing as the odd tag-along to our fans, causing more than a couple twisted necks and awkward questions. Some family members and friends didn't take to him right away; the ones who said something assumed he was taking advantage of us.
What outsiders didn't see was the transformation that was happening in our personal lives. S and I still had our communication problems, but we were working toward mending them. We also started having a physical relationship again, which always included our new young lover. Not to sound too shallow, R also introduced us to meditation, introduced us to Buddhist writers like Pema Chödrön, introductions that transformed our head-butting into more compassionate attempts at communication.
R told us early on around the fold-out dining table that he says "Yes" whenever possible. "Yes" got us all in bed together, "yes" gave us other options for living and laughing and loving together. S and I were finally able to say to each other that we were tired of performing the act that we'd kept going for nearly ten years, admitted that we were doing it more for our audiences than for ourselves.
Our ménage à trois was not without its difficulties, particularly the ones caused by the decision early on to always be as honest as possible. The relationship lasted a year-and-a-half. Six months before the end I said that I wanted a break from performing and a break from the relationship. We had to remain together most of the final six months because of previous engagements, and also to try to figure out what we would each do when we went our separate ways.
R and I tried to get back together several times but it never worked, mostly because I was afraid to say yes. Five years later, I learned that R had broken up with his current boyfriend and believed that all of the depression I had suffered would be healed if only R would give me one more chance.
I traveled to see him in the flesh and over the course of our day-and-a-half together I realized that R's only real interest in me was to say goodbye for good, and perhaps to help me start healing once and for all.
I returned home and the reality slowly sank in. I had a lot of help with healing from my "best friend" S, with whom I share my home and my life. We aren't lovers -- haven't been since we went our separate ways -- but we are closer now than we have ever been in the sixteen years we've known each other. It's hard to describe our relationship to people, even to the ones who've known us a long time. S found a clever word to describe it one time, but I can't remember what it was. Whatever it is -- partners, roommates, best friends -- it's pretty serious.
Yes, I imagine we'll grow old together.
Then we met R, a charming, good-looking transient who happened upon one of our performances in a California desert town. S and I both fell in love with R almost immediately. Within a month, the ten-year younger man and his dog had moved into our twenty-foot trailer and was traveling the country with us, appearing as the odd tag-along to our fans, causing more than a couple twisted necks and awkward questions. Some family members and friends didn't take to him right away; the ones who said something assumed he was taking advantage of us.
What outsiders didn't see was the transformation that was happening in our personal lives. S and I still had our communication problems, but we were working toward mending them. We also started having a physical relationship again, which always included our new young lover. Not to sound too shallow, R also introduced us to meditation, introduced us to Buddhist writers like Pema Chödrön, introductions that transformed our head-butting into more compassionate attempts at communication.
R told us early on around the fold-out dining table that he says "Yes" whenever possible. "Yes" got us all in bed together, "yes" gave us other options for living and laughing and loving together. S and I were finally able to say to each other that we were tired of performing the act that we'd kept going for nearly ten years, admitted that we were doing it more for our audiences than for ourselves.
Our ménage à trois was not without its difficulties, particularly the ones caused by the decision early on to always be as honest as possible. The relationship lasted a year-and-a-half. Six months before the end I said that I wanted a break from performing and a break from the relationship. We had to remain together most of the final six months because of previous engagements, and also to try to figure out what we would each do when we went our separate ways.
R and I tried to get back together several times but it never worked, mostly because I was afraid to say yes. Five years later, I learned that R had broken up with his current boyfriend and believed that all of the depression I had suffered would be healed if only R would give me one more chance.
I traveled to see him in the flesh and over the course of our day-and-a-half together I realized that R's only real interest in me was to say goodbye for good, and perhaps to help me start healing once and for all.
I returned home and the reality slowly sank in. I had a lot of help with healing from my "best friend" S, with whom I share my home and my life. We aren't lovers -- haven't been since we went our separate ways -- but we are closer now than we have ever been in the sixteen years we've known each other. It's hard to describe our relationship to people, even to the ones who've known us a long time. S found a clever word to describe it one time, but I can't remember what it was. Whatever it is -- partners, roommates, best friends -- it's pretty serious.
Yes, I imagine we'll grow old together.
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