Saturday, February 02, 2013


I wrote that last post a long time ago. And never published it. Because I was embarrassed by it. Embarrassed at how idiotic it would sound to others. Embarrassed because I did an awful job of articulating exactly how I felt. It does not capture anything close to the intensity and confusion my (not so) brief obsession left me with.

But I've been re-watching the Kevin and Scotty series of videos on YouTube. So I remember again.

I can't get over the scene where, after punching the waiter Scotty cheated with, Kevin and Scotty talk in the office. I can't get over how Kevin screams, seemingly at Scotty, but really just in pain. His expressions make my heart twist. TV has always been an escape, and something about the drama in that situation grabs a hold of me in a way I can't explain, in a way that makes me feel part of it. (I don't doubt that my personal dalliances with unfaithfulness play some part. I think I see a little of myself in Kevin's reactions.)

A very good friend of mine told me a long time ago that I couldn't live without drama in my life, and I suppose, in particular, in my love life. I wonder if he was right, and that was part of the reason I lost the only person I've ever really been in love with.

It was strange, looking back, holding hands with the boy I kissed in New York. After kissing him and making out a little on the stoop of some building, we were, by mutual agreement, headed for some privacy to our friend's place in a cab. And in the cab, it was strange, holding hands for those few moments. Holding hands without fear or anxiety. Feeling excited but comfortable. Being okay wanting something, and being okay feeling like I had it in that instant. Feeling that he liked me, too. It was strange. It was strange that it was nice. It was strange because I didn't expect to ever feel that again.

It's not strange that it amounted to nothing and left me, charitably speaking, disappointed, and honestly speaking, more than a little hurt.

I think I lose myself so easily in the world of Kevin because it's a world where such a perfectly imperfect man can exist and where he can love and forgive and be honest.

It is strange to me knowing that I'd still want the New York boy if I let myself. (And if you know me at all, you know that "letting myself" is not a concept I like.) It is not strange to me that I want a fictional gay man.

After all, if reality is any indicator, Kevin probably wouldn't want to "even be my friend" either.


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