Michael called Sunday afternoon.

The conversation started out pleasantly enough with the customary greetings and salutations — hi, how have you been — and then quickly took a turn I really never saw coming.

“My oldest son is starting school down there in the fall so when I bring him down, I figured that would give us a chance to talk and figure out where we go from here.”

*Record Scratch*

Huh? Say ‘gain? First syllable, sounds like…?

“Not sure I follow, Michael…”

“We need to talk about where we are as a couple, figure out what’s next for us.”

While I have never written about the incident that caused me to leave Michael’s apartment and never return, suffice it to say that once I closed that door behind me and took off running, I never once thought about going back. Ever.

“I’m just going to be blunt about this, Michael — there isn’t an ‘us’ any more. I’ve been seeing someone for over a year and have no intention of cheating on him or breaking things off.”

“I see.” I could hear the wheels of manipulation turning in his head. “I assume you’re open to the idea of remaining friends?”

Before I had carefully thought where that was headed, I offered a weak affirmative.

“Great. It’ll be nice to have a place to stay when I visit my son.”

I could almost see the cunning grin on his face as he mentally high-fived himself  for getting the better of me once again.

“Um, no,” I replied, my mind racing to undo things. “I don’t think that’s an option here. My guy and I are living together*…”

Silence. Lengthy silence.

Finally he spoke. “Oh. Well, tell him I’m envious — not jealous — and that I wish the two of you all the happiness in the world. Until you fuck things up like you always do.”

I pretty much had nothing left to say after that and neither did he. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, we exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

In the interest of full disclosure, I later told Tristan about our conversation.

“Michael…your ex? I’ll kick his ass,” he said, a stern look crossing his face. “He needs to keep his hands off  my man or he’ll be picking his cumbersome ass up off the ground.”

Which made me giggle, because the thought of anyone — especially Tristan —  kicking someone’s ass over me is, well, giggle worthy.

Men.

I’ll never understand them.
____________________

* This was a bold faced lie. We are not, nor have we made any plans for co-habitation, but it was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment. And I immediately felt horrible and dishonest after I said it.

Without going into an explanation, suffice it to say that the catalyst that led to the end of the relationship between Michael and myself was profoundly disturbing and left me with some serious questions about the sort of situations I allow myself to be put in and the possible dangers inherent to them.

So it was a bit disconcerting this morning as I sat here feeling somewhat positive about recent events in my life and thinking maybe there was a chance I could find a reasonable facsimile of contentment when I saw that Michael had sent me an e-mail.

I manuevered my mouse to “delete”.

And paused.

Curiosity killed the cat, folks.

Only satisfaction brought it back.

So I opened it.

Bad move.

It started out simply enough:  I’ve been promoted, I’ve moved, blah blah blah.  You know, the usual stuff you tell someone you haven’t been in touch with for a while.  But like any good trap, it used its seeming innocuousness to lure you into a false sense of security before springing out catching you unawares.

This particular snare came in the closing lines of the e-mail:

Are you ready to begin being confident enough to be unsure again?   Like me, you want quality in your life.  Let’s take some time to explore where we lost our thread and find our way back to one another.  I understand the part of you that no one else ever will and we both know you like where I can take you.

And even though I don’t want to get back together, I don’t know how to tell him that I’ve moved on and met someone else.  It’s not that I think he’d do anything; I have have no fears in that regard.  No, it is something most of you will find even more bizarre, I think.

It’s that despite what went down I don’t want to hurt him.

And before anyone asks — no, I’m not still in love with him.  But underneath this bitchy exterior, I’ve never been one to purposely hurt someone, especially someone I once cared for.

So I’m asking you guys:  how can I tell him that I’ve met someone else without sounding like a heartless bastard…?

The first year Gregg and I were together, I made his favorite meal and gave him a Valentine’s card. He scarfed down his food, opened the card, skimmed it, then pitched it in the garbage before announcing he’d had a rough day and was going to bed early.

That was the first of many rules I learned in our relationship and I never gave him another Valentine’s card.

The first year Michael and I were together, he sent me a Valentine’s card with a simple inscription:

Come spend the day with me and let me show you how good we can be together.

I felt both surprise (I’d never gotten a Valentine’s card before) and guilt (I hadn’t gotten a card for him based on my previous experiences with Gregg).

The second year Michael and I were together, I got him a card and a teeny tiny box of his favorite chocolates (he was on a diet). He took one look at the card and pitched it on the desk.

“Please tell me we aren’t going to fall into those preconceived bullshit notions of what’s expected of us.”

“Nope,” I replied, completely unsure of what line I had just crossed.

The lesson I learned from all this? When it comes to men, forget the sentimental stuff — just drop to your knees and let them blow a load of peckersnot on your tonsils. Dispensing a good face fuck is all they really need to know you care. (And from the conversations I’ve heard in the breakroom at work, I’m pretty sure this goes for straight men too.)
_________

Now stay tuned for a bonus post!

The writer’s block is still with me, so I’m just going to throw out some more shit and see what sticks. Here goes…

~ Tonight’s date with Coffee Guy has been postponed until tomorrow night as he has a work function tonight that he forgot about. No worries — I now have an additional 24 hours to fucking stress over the “should I or shouldn’t I hold his hand/kiss him/suck his dick?” dilemma. At this point, I am honestly horned up enough to skip the hand holding, give him a quick peck, then drop to my knees and unzip him with my teeth before swallowing his cock.

~ My doctor has a terrific sense of humor which I am guessing goes unappreciated by some of his patients (re: parents who subscribe to that whole stupid fucking “it takes a village” piece of shit philosophy). Witness:

~ BIG BROTHER is accepting applications and I am busy filling mine out. Some of the questions are so goddamn weird, I (once again) have no clue how to answer them. Describe your perfect day. Huh? Who is your hero? Say again. And then that whole “Why would you make the ultimate house-guest?” thing. Um, because I’m Dirk fucking Mancuso, that’s why. Somehow, that doesn’t seem like a proper response…

~ coughcough talked to Michael on Saturday coughcough

~ Randy had a meeting yesterday during which he announced some changes being made (i.e. 3/4 of his immediate managerial staff is being sent to other branches and their replacements are a bunch of glassy eyed mouth breathers — or 6 of one, half dozen of the other). It was your standard “change is good” meeting up until the moment when he totally lost it and started crying. That’s right — crying. Everyone just stood there, unable to look away as gigantic dinner plate sized tears fell and through hitched breath he told everyone how much he appreciated all the hard work we do on a daily basis. While some walked away feeling sorry for him, I merely felt shame that he was unable to control himself better. That kind of display has no place at work. Sorry, but that’s how I feel.

~ Do you ever feel like just giving everything away and starting over? Or just not having anything at all? That’s where I’m at right now.

That’s all I got — Dirk Mancuso, over and out.

The envelope sits by the computer for months, the keys safely inside. Dirk hasn’t looked inside since the day he opened it. He knows he should send them back, but it has become a case of if you don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist.

And in a very real sense, despite seeing it every day, it does cease to be real to Dirk.

Then out of the blue, Michael calls him one day in June. The conversation is amicable, full of awkward silences and nervous laughs, neither acknowledging the fact that they were once much more than friends. Michael talks of the ever turbulent relationship with the wife he cannot live with yet cannot seem to divorce and Dirk listens. He wants to tell Michael that after 6 years of living apart, it’s time to shit or get off the pot but he doesn’t. It’s not any of his business anymore.

Finally, Michael turns the spotlight onto the elephant in the room, asking if Dirk knows how they lost the thread that brought them together. Dirk knows, but after all the time that has passed sees no point in dredging it up — it will help no one. Michael persists.

“Where do ‘we’ fit in the history of Dirk? Our bondage play…who does that evoke? If you would agree to come back for 6 months, I would use everything at my disposal — sex, bondage, discipline, hypnosis, behavior modification — you wouldn’t recognize yourself at the end of that time. You would act, feel, look, conduct yourself like a whole other person at that point. I think we’d both like that…”

Dirk chooses not to acknowledge the offer on the table — they both know it will not be accepted. He had known there would be such an offer…he just thought it would be himself making it. Another awkward silence follows. Michael tries to circumvent the sting of the rejection by saying he guesses his little joke was meant to be funny but apparently failed. The conversation dies a slow, withering death from there and after a few more failed attempts to jump start it, Michael wishes him well in things and says he’d like to stay in touch. Dirk returns the good wishes and says he’d like to know how things are going for Michael, too.

Dirk hangs up and despite the knowledge that ending things was the right thing for him, he feels guilty. He wonders if Michael will ever find someone that will love him the way he longs for. If Michael will ever stop posturing long enough to be himself and realize that that’s enough. And he wonders if by not going back to Michael, he’s thrown away his only chance not to spend his life alone.

And then in early August, he receives an IM:

I’m going to be moving to a better location for work and I will need the keys back to avoid losing the $150 key deposit. I’d appreciate you sending them registered/insured. I’d be happy to reimburse you.

Reading the message, Dirk feels a sense of real loss for the first time. Even though they haven’t seen each other in nearly a year, there continues to be a persistent sense of something lost, of things left unfinished. Perhaps even more, there is a profound sense of of grief that the apartment where they spent so many hours together will forever be lost to him. In many ways, the apartment and the security he felt there seems to be a greater loss than the relationship itself, which seems saddest of all to Dirk.

Dirk returns the keys, insuring them but unable to send them certified for some reason even the postal clerk cannot explain. Back home, he sends Michael an e-mail telling him the keys are en route and asking him to send confirmation of their arrival so that in case they go lost, actions can be taken to make an insurance claim.

A day passes.

Then a week.

Dirk calls and leaves another message asking Michael to call or e-mail regarding the status of the keys.

Again, days pass.

After 3 more weeks, Dirk makes one final effort but receives no reply. Inexplicably, Dirk’s feelings are hurt. He knows he should accept that the part of his life with Michael is over, but he was naive enough to believe they could part on good terms, remaining at least civil with one another. Obviously Dirk lives in a world of his own where the sky is a brilliant blue every day and the clouds are particularly fluffy.

And so after 30 days, he throws away the postal receipt.

8 o’clock on a Saturday night and the age old question: what’s a gurl to wear?

Whilst Dr. Sparky immediately threw together an ensemble (and pressed it!) in a matter of minutes, I was torn. Jeans, black tee, and ebony Sketchers aside, there were bigger questions: collar or no collar? Cuffs or no cuffs? These are important fashion matters at IML, people — what you wear says a lot and may determine whether or not you wake up the next morning chained to a radiator with jumper cables attached to your nipples. Eventually I decided to go sans leather and we were off to meet the third member of our party.

Upon arriving, the first stop of the evening was the event sponsored by The Pup Zone. For those of youwho have not heard of this phenomenon, “puppies” are adults who get some sort of sexual satisfaction from taking on the role of a dog. They wear collars and led around on leashes by their owners. The advanced “pups” don leather mitts which effectively turn their hands into paws and rubber or leather dog hoods which make them resemble their canine counterparts. To complete their transformation, many insert a butt plug with a dog tail to wag.

The “event” is really nothing more than a room full of Masters and their pups putting on a show for onlookers. They bark, they yip, they sit up and beg, they roll over and let you scratch their tummies, they play with dog toys. And yes, they sniff your crotch. It’s really one of those things where once you’ve seen about 5 minutes of it, you seen about all there is to see. I am a firm believer in the whole “whatever trips your trigger as long as it is between two consenting adults, it’s legal, and no one gets hurt” thing, but I have to say that the whole puppy trip has an undercurrent of creepiness that leaves me feeling a little dirty. I can’t really say why (maybe because I am reminded of the freaky guy in the dog mask in THE SHINING — the book, not the Stanley Kubrick travesty), but for my money the whole thing has a very limited appeal.

Please note that the following photos are very dark because the lights were low in the room for some reason. The first shot is of the puppies playing in the center of the room. The second is of a pup wearing a “BOOT SLUT” tee on his back waiting for me to scratch his tummy. For all I know he is still waiting.

In my attempts to get a better photo of the festivities for my faithful readers, I slowly began making my way counterclockwise around the room. As I reached the midway point, I found myself beside a large pillar with a fellow slightly taller than me blocking my view. Undaunted, I stepped around the pole and found myself standing behind Michael.

Give me a fucking break!

Seriously, in a city the size of Chicago, at a venue with literally thousands of people in attendance, what were the odds I would find myself within spitting distance of my ex? (In all honesty, I have to admit, I’d had a feeling I’d run into him at some point during the weekend, but I thought maybe that was just extreme paranoia.)

Faced with the choice between getting you guys more pics or bolting like a little bitch, I said “screw the readers” and dashed out of the room like the sissy boy I am. As chance would have it, my friends had already had their fill of the show as well and so it was onto other things. They went down the hall to the Onyx Dance while I went downstairs to the main ballroom to mix and mingle and drink.

A few beers later, I was sufficiently over my near run-in with Michael and began wandering about. I witnessed some hot men making out on the stairs, a trailer trash sub and his dominatrix wife putting on a flogging display for a crowd of onlookers, and 2 really cute guys dressed like BMX bikers with their hands down each others’ pants. And then there was the guy running around in a diaper all night. (Again, no complaints about the pic — the lights were down low to help facilitate hook-ups I think. Men like me need all the fucking help we can get.)

Deciding that the ex had probably moved on, I made my way back to the Dance to see how things were going. Let me state for the record that I do not dance. I am the whitest white boy in the history of ever and I possess nary a move. Unable to spot the rest of my party, I wandered down the hall to the bathroom. Upon exiting, I passed by the pup room and stepped back in to see how the show would end (the presentation was over at midnight).

While I was watching the final minutes of pomp and pageantry that would not be leaving the AKC without sleep, I heard a baritone “hello.”

Turning, I saw a distinguished gentleman in his mid 40s beside me dressed as some sort of commandant (I’m guessing German or British).

“What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”

Oy. What’s a sexy man like you doing uttering corny shit like that?

He introduced himself as David and asked if I had ever engaged in puppy play (no), if I had any interest (no, again), and if I knew anything about the pup movement (no, and don’t really care to.) David explained that it was one of the fastest growing aspects of the leather community and that it had really exploded in the last couple of years. Fascinating.

With things beginning to wrap up, I think David made what might constitute a “move.”

“Buy you a beer?” he asked.

Never one to turn down a free beer, I said sure.

“First, you’ll need to eat a treat from my hand,” he replied, taking a graham cracker Scooby Doo brand “Scooby Snack” from a bowl on the table behind us.

I looked at him.

“Kneel, boy,” he said, holding the treat in his black leather gloved hand.

Short on pride and long on thirst, I knelt and accepted the stale treat.

“Good boy!” David smiled. It really was a shame he was such a freak, because the man was conjuring up some serious comparisons to Ben Stein and that had me hard. (What?!?!?! I’m not ashamed to say I’ve always secretly thought he was hot — I imagine a salt and pepper furred chest and the heart of a wild man beats beneath that 3-piece suit of his. And that voice! Yummy.)

True to his word, he bought me a beer. Well, 3 beers to be exact. Or I think it was 3 — I sort of lost track after a while. And after he went out for a smoke, I lost track of him, too. And so I wandered amidst the hairy harnessed hunks until 2-ish and then we caught a cab back back to the apartment.

3 hours later I was heading for the train station.

It seemed like a pretty decent weekend until I arrived home and found the body.

To Be Concluded…

*THEN:

I was threading my way through the crowd back when I saw Michael at the bar talking to another man. A huge man — 6′6 and 250 easy.

“Dirk, this is Gerald,” Michael said, handing me a beer. “He was wondering if we would be interested in a 3-way tonight.”

I looked from Michael to Gerald and back. He was serious.

“I’d like to fuck you while you’re blowing your boyfriend,” Gerald stated, his eyes looking me over. “I think we’d have fun.”

I looked to Michael, sipping his beer and watching me intently. Obviously he was as interested in my response as Gerald.

“Um…wow.” I started laughing nervously. “That is…really flattering, but I don’t have sex with people I don’t know…so I’m going to have to take a pass.”

“S’cool. Michael, let me know if he changes his mind.”

Michael nodded and Gerald disappeared into the crowd.

“What the hell was that?” I asked when he was gone.

“Gerald wanted to know if I’d let him fuck you. I told him I’d have to be present and it would be your call.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “How long have you known that guy?”

“I don’t know him. He said he’d been watching us and when you went to use the bathroom he came over and started talking.”
_____

*NOW:

And yet somehow, I was shocked a few months later when Michael told me about his desire to bring a third man into our relationship personally. I guess hindsight is 20/20.

Either that or I am just one incredibly dense faggot.

You be the judge.

I sat down all prepared to write about my dinner with Gregg last month when the e-mail arrived.

Being the nosey little bitch I am, I couldn’t focus on anything but the e-mail. Who was it from? Was it from BIG BROTHER? Had they come to their senses and realized they couldn’t spend the summer without me? Or was it from my sweet John? Had he come to his senses and realized he couldn’t spend the rest of his life without me?

Alas, it was from neither.

It was from Michael.

The majority of what he wrote is really neither here nor there. A lot of wanting to get back together to see what is possible, re-establishing what we mean to one another, having hot man-sex, blah blah bitty bitty blah blah. There was also some stuff about something I did that was inconsiderate (his word) which “fucked up my sleep and made me feel as though I wasn’t the most important person in your life. I want to matter!”

But buried deep within the 16 paragraph electronic communication was one sentence that left me feeling sick to my stomach.

“Got tested for all of the best STDs last month, and came up negative on all counts!”

Awesome fucking possum, dude.

We stopped seeing each other in November and in the space of 4 months you have reason to get checked for shit so you can offer up your “clean” slate to me as a selling point?

Jesus H. Christ.

And the sad part is, I have to admit it is tempting. I mean you throw that in with his being separated from a wife he never intends to divorce and wanting to bring a third man into our relationship permanently, and his stock is through the fucking roof. Not.

Sighhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I swear I am thisclose to going straight.

That was what Michael wanted to tell me over dinner last night.

In other news, the chicken was succulent and the twice baked potato was delicious.

After dinner, I had the tremendous pleasure of attending CAGED DAMES at the Bailiwick Theater. I was not disappointed. If you enjoy comedy or musicals or women in prison, you’ll love it. If you’re like me and love all three, you’ll be as giddy as a schoolgirl and want to see it again.

David Cerda — who wrote the book, lyrics and music — is an absolute blast as Warden Hope Jenkins and the rest of the cast is hilarious. A special nod to BC Kalz as my favorite caged dame, B-movie star Sheila Mercury — what I wouldn’t give for a production revolving around one of Sheila’s films…”Mermaids Go To Dental School”, anyone?

The production also afforded me opportunity to meet fellow blogger, drummer for the show, and all around nice guy Aaron, who was kind enough to introduce me to Mr. Cerda after the show.

If you’re in the Chicago area, take an evening and spend it with the dames. If you don’t live in the city, make an effort to see it anyway — I travelled 2 hours just to see this and it was worth every second. So run, skate, fly, moonwalk, or make like a fucking hobo and hop a freight train, but seriously get out there and show some love and support for this talented group of folks.

Finally, Mailbag Monday returns on November 13th with open topics. Anything goes, people, so get those thought noggins going and whip up some questions. You have 9 days — 9 days!!! — to come up with the wildest, weirdest, most lascivious and tantalizing questions you can fashion. As always, send them to dirk.mancuso@gmail.com and include MAILBAG MONDAY in the subject line.

This is not a “poor me” post — I just need to get some shit off my chest before I either say the wrong thing to someone or fucking explode.

First, as I have stated here numerous times, I love Halloween. So for the last couple of years, I’ve been heading to Chicago for the Halsted Street Halloween parade. The costumes are fantastic and the atmosphere is friendly. And all fucking year, Thad and I have been planning to go. What was going to make it even better was this year, I was going to go for a few days and take in CAGED DAMES at the same time. Halloween and a women in prison musical! Did I die and go to fucking heaven?

But then at the beginning of the month, Mama M came down with a serious ass staph infection. No problem. A parade and a play pale in comparison to someone’s health. Not to sound all pompous but I did what I always do, I stepped up and fixed shit.

I got Old Boy’s son to put his ass in a senior home for a while then I brought the worst patient in the world home and learned how to administer the antibiotics myself. Which turned out to be unbelievably easy. Even for a needle-phobe like me.

So, Mama M was feeling better and I started looking into the options of going to Chicago overnight on two seperate nights. I’d be gone a total of 18 hours each time. 10 of which she would sleep. And miracle of miracles, it looked like things were going to work out. A friend offered to come over and learn how to give the meds to my mom and Thad was all jazzed about going to the parade.

Yeah, I know…too fucking good to be true.

Last Thursday, the plans started to get a little hinky.

First up, Thad’s super hunky travelling businessman boyfriend, James, gets the week off and calls to let him know. At the same time, another of his friends is in town for Halloween and needed a place to crash. And while Thad had been planning on my coming up, the prospect of 4 guys in the condo — even for a night — seemed a little too much like treading on Thad’s good will. Especially since I know how seldom those two fellas in love get time together — I’ve been there and pretended not to hear the bedroom acrobatics coming from the other room once before. So I told T to enjoy his time with J and I would make other arrangements.

Cue a voicemail from Michael.

“Halloween is next week and I know you love the parade so I was thinking if you need a place to stay…well, there’s always room for you here.”

It’d been a while since I’d heard his voice, and I have to admit it made me a little nostalgic. We parted on good terms and so I thought, why not? I still care for him; we just differed in what we wanted from the relationship. As far as I am concerned we’re still friends.

So I called him back and left a voicemail saying I would like to take him up on his offer and would get into town Tuesday afternoon about 1 and would be leaving at 7 the next morning.

I got this voicemail on Saturday night:

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about us — about what you want — and I’d like to sit down and talk about things.”

Now, I know some of you have opinions regarding our relationship and I am not blind to its many faults either, but you aren’t with someone for nearly two years and just turn the feelings off. Or at least I don’t. So I call him and we arrange to have an early dinner before the parade. Sounds good, he says. So I bought a train ticket for Halloween morning.

Sunday night I got this message:

“Dirk, look…the place is a mess, I have a lot going on right now, and I won’t be able to be a good host. Why don’t we wait until sometime between next week and Thanksgiving when we can enjoy a couple of days together and you don’t have to rush back home the next morning?”

Okay. That sounds reasonable. Except for the part where there won’t be a fucking Halloween parade next week. Okay, no worries — I already have my ticket, I’ll just get a room when I get up there.

Then Monday rolled around. While I was in the shower, the game of phone tag took another turn:

“You know, I’ve been thinking about it and we can get together or not get together. I don’t mean to sound like I don’t care, I just have a lot going on. The place is a mess and I am embarrassed to have you see it like this. But you do what you want.”

Well, what I wanted to do was go to a parade and enjoy myself. Hold the fucking drama, please.

Meanwhile, I had called my friend to make arrangements on Saturday to show him how to adminster my mother’s meds. Saturday wasn’t convenient. Turns out Sunday wasn’t either. Oh, and Monday was really busy. Tuesday morning was the last chance before my train which was leaving at 10:30am.

Well, after calling 3 times that morning and getting no answer, I realized my plans were shot all to hell. 10:30am came and went and so did my train.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not upset I missed the parade because I of my mother. I’m pissed off that a friend I have done everything but bleed for fucked me over like that. I have loaned him my car for days, loaned him money (some of which he has never paid back), taken his ass to the airport on a moment’s notice, and watched his dogs and kids more times than I can count. All I asked for was him to administer the meds on Tuesday night and the home health care nurse would take care of the Wednesday morning dose when she came to take blood. It would have been less than 30 minutes out of his day, trip to and from the house included. And if he hadn’t offered, I would never have asked on my own.

At 1pm, my friend pulled up at my mother’s house where I was raking the yard.

“I thought you were going to Chicago…”

“Well, I was, but you never showed up to learn how to do the meds and I wasn’t comfortable leaving you to do that without instructions,” I replied.

“Dirk, I’d have figured it out. You need to get away. You still going on Thursday?”

“I’d like to. Do you have time to learn how to do the meds this afternoon or tomorrow morning?”

“Maybe tomorrow. I have some stuff to do today…” And with that he was gone.

So my favorite day of the year — which I originally took vacation to enjoy — was spent raking leaves, pondering the mystery of what Michael wants to talk about, and, because I had nothing else to do, going in to work for a few hours after all.

What’s that?

Halloween will come again next year, Michael and I will eventually have that talk of his, I’m lucky to have a friend at all, and I’m a big fat stinky diarrhea butthead pussy-boy whiner?

You’re right.

Thanks for helping me put things into perspective.