Post Bear -R u kidding me?

 It’s hard for a Bear out there….or is it? I guess that would be depending on what category of bear you put yourself in. What’s that? You didn’t realize there are different categories of bears?  Oh yes my friend.  Diversity is epidemic in the Bear Community and there are some men out there that have a REAL problem with it. They call themselves Post Bear.

The Post Bear long for the day where hirsute men with average and heavyset builds could hang together in an easygoing environment where beer was served and there would be a ballgame on the tube. They could grope and paw at each other and sneak in a kiss and- hey- who knows- maybe there would be a hook up after the game. Now wait a minute- since when did that stop?

It’s not that those days are gone exactly, it’s just become a different terrain. The intimacy is gone. The social gatherings hosted at peoples houses- generated by feeling uncomfortable in a bar or club with the insidious clone perfection standard of the 70s and early 80s-rarely happen. In most cases they aren’t needed due to the popularity of Bear Runs. A Bear Run is a 3 to 5 day event held where all forms of Bears can convene and cavort in a (relatively)  twink- free sexually charged environment.  Zaftig, furry, men from all over the world build their vacations around Bear Runs. (If there was some way to harness the sexual energy and convert it into electricity, you could probably provide power to the Eastern Seaboard for a year or more.)  Imagine- if you will-A bunch of homosexual men who have spent the last 11 months sexless in a remote part of one of those square states in the middle of the US, gathering all together in a place that’s clothing optional and serves alcohol - I can assure you- the combo is nothing less than a conflagration and definitely worth the price of admission.

It’s not the same though. –so say the Post Bears. The boys that show up to Bear Runs now are younger and thinner.  The creation of the “Muscle Bear”: the very masculine very well muscled version of the species- has added even more significant changes to the Bear Community. Slowly the chunkier guys slipped out of the limelight. Twinks thought Musclebears were hot so they showed up where the Muscle Bears went and the guys with a 40PLUSinch waistline didn’t have room to move with all those Twinks and Muscle Bears taking up all that space!  Now the big men weren’t the only game in town, and what’s worse, they began to feel SELF-CONSCIOUS of their size. They got mad. They were there FIRST!!! So the bigger men all got together and decided to not…get together anymore and they stayed at home. They threw away their Bear Wear and they never said Grrrr or Woof and secretly went on diets and exercised more. They eschewed all things Ursine. They let the world know that they had gone…. “Post Bear”

Well something had to give after months and months of all that ridiculous diet and exercise crap. Eventually they started to return to the Lairs that they knew so well…..But It got confusing. You’d hear how a Bear hooked up with a skinny twink and they were “gasp” ..DATING!!! The big guys got even more bewildered when they befriended the Muscle Bears. It all started when a very burly, very buffed Dude cracked a very funny joke about Caprica on the Syfy Channel –  the Post Bears were mesmerized! Then they all eagerly discussed the entire Call of Duty Gamer series and lasting friendships were created!!

Here’s the thing fellas. “Post Bears” are the stuff of unicorns and Big Foot. They have not organized. A coupla guys bitched about how everything had gone bear crazy and they missed the days of the origins of the movement. If you find yourself being negative about high profile bears and the endless commercialization- quit bitching. Change is good. Get out there and “come out” as a bear and do something good for the community. Show them you’re happy and they can be too.

OR – you can call a few buds and meet at a Twink Bar, ask them to turn on the Game and make out with each other, and have a few laughs..

An Actor prepares for test results

I awake nearly every morning with a feeling that there is never enough time to cram all this living in. I have almost forgotten what it feels like to sit still and take in what is happening around me. I try to remind myself that all this hurrying around is meaningless if I can’t absorb the beauty of that flower over there -or contemplate the history of a certain building or why the young boy riding the bus with me is looking so wistful at the moment. It feels to me that -in an instant I will find myself sitting in a wheelchair, staring out of a window in a nursing home wondering -how the hell did I get here? Wasn’t it yesterday that I was an excited 25 year old man boarding a plane for the very first time, and moving to the the Untied States biggest Gay Mecca?

Now, nearly 25 years later, I have found someone to help me slow down and take a moment. My partner Orlando and I were strolling down a San Francisco street, late Friday afternoon in the NOPA district, while fervently seeking a place to grab a bite to eat. I had been fasting all day due to the CT scan I just had and was ravenous. I emailed my Doctor the day before and asked if there was anything else I needed to do to prepare for the CT scan -other than just show up. He wrote back that I probably shouldn’t eat anything and water should be fine. I interpreted that as- I shouldn’t eat anything for the whole day.  My Doctor was trying to determine the cause of my headaches that I had been experiencing for nearly a month since I had moved to Oakland from San Francisco. The headaches had begun to occur just prior to the move. (For those of you thinking that my current environment may be harmful to my health, be aware that the mold situation in the place I had lived in for over 10 years was potentially far more harmful to me.) Orlando hustled me along and then slowed down. “Sorry.” he said, “ I was in New York mode.” 

“It’s okay” I said and stopped to peruse a Vietnamese restaurant Menu.

“Do you want to eat here or the Sushi place that’s  supposed to be just on the next block?” he asked while consulting his phone. I pondered this a bit wondering if I should adhere to my “Flat Belly Solution Diet” that I was currently on or just make it a “cheat day”. I figured, if I just avoided wheat gluten and sugar, I would be fine in nearly any Asian restaurant. I had been eating like this for almost 2 weeks and already was noticing my pants were more comfortable around the waist. The eating plan began due to two reasons: my Doctor had noticed it one of my earlier visits to him. “ I see you have gained quite a bit of weight since I last saw you Paul-Andrew.” He lowered his little chin and adjusted his glasses which seemed to convey non-verbally-”and what do you plan to do about it?” I explained that Orlando and I liked our pizza, and ice cream-particularly Ben and Jerry’s Cinnabun Flavor. We had both deemed it one of the most wondrous creations on earth-worthy of worshipping. Yet Orlando went on a diet first-dropping a dramatic 40lbs in just 30 days. It was the same program that he had done before he had met me and dropped an even more jaw dropping 80lbs 2 years ago. Somehow during the nearly 2 years we had been dating - he gained 40 odd pounds back. It could have been all those pork roasts and pasta that I fed him...maybe. Now it was my turn to find my waistline back to it’s 33” circumference. He measured his weight loss in pounds and I kept track of mine in clothing sizes.

We chose the Vietnamese restaurant. Unsure what oils were being used and what -if anything-was organic, it became a semi cheat day.  I was allowed rice, and chicken on my plan and I ordered a green papaya salad. The most incriminating item was an appetizer of small fried egg roles. I didn’t consider the spring rolls since my calorie intake for the day had been zero thus far. Orlando and I shared everything because it was only 4:30pm and there was a chance we may eat dinner at 8:00. He had asked me if I had wanted him to come down to be with me while I had the CT scan the weekend before. Originally, I had thought it was silly for him to do that, but then I chose to play the needy-boyfriend-card and asked if the offer was still on the table when we Skyped earlier that week. He agreed to meet me at the hospital.My last memories of a CT scan or CAT scan as they are also called-was at age 13.

Debilitating eye-watering headaches had begun when I was outside playing croquet with my foster sister in the summer of “76”. My brother Matthew, 5 years my senior, had been diagnosed with a brain tumor at 14. He died at 15. That was sometime in “74”.  My parents became numb with the thought that they may lose another child to this disease. My mother couldn’t bear to go through the testing required to determine the cause of my headaches, but my father called upon his stoic New England reserves to bring me to the  same hospital that Matthew had been to so many times before. I do recall that the old man had a devil of a time that day. He was unaccustomed to showing grief-or any sign of emotion indicating weakness. He also had great difficulty showing physical affection. (That all changed when he hit 70 btw) 

I don’t remember much of it but I remember the technician explaining everything to me in a clear calm voice. They injected a liter of something into my arm that would give them a better x-ray picture. I thought my arm was going to freeze and break at the shoulder. I was slowly moved by some conveyer belt like thingy and there was an awful lot of light and an awful lot of noise. I was truly frightened. The results yielded nothing out of the ordinary. My headaches had to do with turning 13 and extremely competitive croquet games with my foster sister. I suspect my parents were quite irritated with me for putting them through that hell but I don’t recall being treated differently.

My recent CT scan was a piece of cake. The only discomfort was starving myself for an entire day. The tech was a sassy black girl who had a sense of humor and was young enough to be my daughter. She must’ve thought I knew all about CT scans because all she told me was “ Now Don’t move” after I stuck my head into the washing machine. It wasn’t as loud as I recalled but it wasn’t all that quiet either. I shut my eyes the whole time. Orlando’s eyes flew open in surprise when I emerged from the room that housed the machine. “That was fast!”
I enthusiastically agreed.
“They didn’t make you wear a hospital gown?”
“Nope..They just scanned my brain”

After the Vietnamese mini late afternoon break-fast, we headed back to this car. Orlando and I were quiet. The next day he would have a job interview that hopefully would land him a job here in the Bay Area. This would mean we would live together. Huge changes were on the horizon for the both of us and I was of course imagining how or IF the results of the CT scan would affect our futures. A ridiculous vision of Greta Garbo coughing weakly on a bed came to my mind while Orlando sobbed hysterically at her bedside. Greta Garbo??

“Hey.” He said softly as he grabbed me gently by the elbow. “I feel like I rush you too much. I don’t want you to feel rushed or hurried.” He kissed me on the temple. “I love you.”

“ I love you too” I said almost before he finished saying it. I never ever wanted him to question it.

“ So the traffic will be pretty awful.”( I now lived in Oakland ) He asked, “ You wanna go have a drink until it dies down?”

“mm No..not really” My belly was full of food and we were meeting ‘Drew the next night for a Happy Hour extravaganza anyway. I didn’t think our livers could handle two evenings in a row of cocktailing. “Let’s just go home.”  I was grateful to have him to curl up with on the couch that night. The traffic wasn’t all that bad either...oh and the latest CT findings were as unremarkable as they had been 34 years ago. No croquet and adolescence to blame but simply being middle aged and neurotic...and not finding enough time to do all this living and loving.

An Actor prepares for Cohabitation

The great transition has occurred. I am officially no longer a San Franciscan and now an inhabitant of the much maligned city of Oakland Ca. I did not leave my heart in San Francisco. I left willingly. The need to create a new image was stronger than maintaining the local San Francisco Celebutante identity that I often desperately clung to. The moldy in law, West of Twin Peaks San Francisco, has been traded in for a very warm, very dry studio apartment with hardwood floors located in the pretty , sunshine filled Lake Merritt district of Oakland.

The day of the move was more of an emotional toll then a physical one. The movers couldn’t have been more charming and efficient. The length of the experience was relatively brief and Orlando was secretly relieved that I had hired men to move my couch and over 35 boxes up three flights of stairs. To me there really wasn’t an option, but he suffers under the delusion that well…he can do it all. He is also “frugal” and paying movers really wouldn’t cross his mind to begin with.  I knew I would need everything to go smoothly that day because …I would be a neurotic sloppy mess.  I awoke having an anxiety attack of monumental proportions –or I was hungover. It didn’t seem as clear to me as it did to Orlando. He opted for hung over as he catalogued the vodka and wine I had consumed at an impromptu Farewell Teresita party the night before. My skull was throbbing and I kept gagging but was unable to vomit. Orlando looked at me torn between wanting to comfort me and also trying the tough love routine. The move was going to happen whether I was ready or not. He’d been clear. My brains felt as if they were going to implode right then and there.  My blood pressure was sky high but at that point I was completely unaware of it.

I stood around looking distressed while the Lando Bear would try to help the movers with whatever he could.  I’d try to distract myself by stuffing more of my past in the garbage and listlessly scrubbing the interior of the fridge.  The glamorous San Francisco Actor was gradually fading away as each box went up into the moving truck. No more trotting off to a café and getting a latte while a kindly elder Gay, who had survived the AIDS crisis, would toddle up to me and tell me what a wonderful actor I am, and how much he had enjoyed my work through the years. There would be a considerable decline in capricious, last-minute Happy hours at the Midnight Sun with Drewsie. It was official. I was maudlin. I gagged a bit –like a cat with a hairball which made Orlando glance balefully at me. I tried to get my shit together before he became completely disgusted with me. I tried my best...but no matter how I looked at it, saying I lived in Oakland didn’t seem to have the same cache that saying I lived in San Francisco had. Point of fact-Now when I DO tell people I live in Oakland, their brows furrow and they immediately ask about the safety of my neighborhood.  When I was shopping in Macy’s in Redding Ca on a recent visit to the Lando bear, the sales associate just looked at me with pity when I told her where I lived.

Arrival to “The Mayfair”, (yes my building has a NAME and it’s called, “The Mayfair”. To make this even better , I’ll tell you the street I live on is just off of “Grand” Ave. Aint that Grand?)  was indeed welcoming. The weekend property manager, Mindy, was just unlocking the office door as we arrived before the movers. She resembles a red-haired, adorable Cabbage Patch kid. She smiled her dimpled grin and said, “Welcome Home!” in a lovely whiskey soaked alto. She noticed that I was a bit on the edge and rubbed my arm letting me know that it would all be over soon.  It was Mindy who kind of sold me on living at The Mayfair in the first place. She is a ballsy earthy, young woman and her humor is dryly pragmatic.

I found The Mayfair a few weeks prior to this move in, by sheer happenstance. I called and spoke to the weekday property manager, Lila - all because my Face book friend, Robert, had suggested I give her a call to see if anything was available.  Now a current SF resident, Robert had once loved living in the building back in the 90s and had very fond memories of the building and the neighborhood. Lila answered the phone in her mellifluous voice and told me – as a matter of fact –yes there was an apartment available! The apartment was not going to be ready to be viewed until Sunday but Orlando and I had showed up on Saturday because of my addled brain. I had gotten confused. Luckily-this turned out to be a happy mistake.

Mindy greeted us warmly that day and let us know the apartment wouldn’t be ready for viewing until Sunday_ BUT she said the current resident was pretty easy going and wouldn’t mind having us take a look. This turned out to be absolutely true. The young man gave off a “Clerks” vibe but was equipped with a far more sophisticated vocabulary and personality. The bathroom needed a deep clean – hey he seemed straight and single so what did I expect? I noticed the apartment was very bright and warm and had a gargantuan closet that almost qualified as a small room.

Residents were wandering in and out of the building and it seemed everyone had a dog. Orlando and I glanced wide eyed at each other because we had both been discussing adopting a Labradoodle once we lived together. A pet friendly building is a rarity in this day and age. We thought the Studio a tad small but the goal was to find a place for me in the first place so there really wasn’t a problem. Yet O and I planned to live together soon. We asked about the availability of One Bedrooms in the building. How often did they free up? Mindy said about every six months-sometimes less. She then generously offered to show us HER apartment. The place was great and roomy. Dining room/Living Room/Bedroom and Kitchen /Bath – It seemed IDEAL!!!! Mindy concluded the tour by showing us the view from the top of the building. Breathtaking O and I did a little mental conferring. We liked the building. The next day we were there to get our name on the list even before Mindy had finished walking her dog. When Mindy finished meeting with us there were at least 5 other couples waiting to take a look at the place.

Now here I was-moving in. I now lived in a building that housed over 80 other people and was over 80 years old….What’s more – I was a resident of a city I swore I’d never reside in! Oakland! 

Allow me to reintroduce myself -A little P.A. 101

Let’s review – shall we?  P.A. Cooley 101
It’s been a while I know I know so allow me to REINTRODUCE MYSELF…
Hello, my name is P.A. Cooley. I am 47 years old. I stand at 5’7 and three quarters of an inch. (I often lie and say I am 5’8”.)   I weigh 210 pounds. I am not lying about that. I am a chunky guy without question.  I don’t have a problem with my size. I am a self-proclaimed Pin Up Cub, but I highly doubt anyone has a picture of me taped on the inside door of their locker. I have successfully deluded myself into thinking other men and maybe some women like looking at partially clad photographs of me and my body. I actually think I am attractive, BUT I might just have a Narcissistic personality disorder. I am figuring it out currently.

 Not only have I become an unorthodox cyber centerfold model but I am also trying to redefine myself as a writer after identifying myself as an actor for the last 37 years of my life. I’ve been thinking “humorist” may be my correct title. Writer seems so lofty. The only thing I have published is this blog. I have a long way to go and I appreciate you taking the time to read this. ( I especially appreciate it if you already know me and don’t require this tutorial.)

I haven’t completely abstained from being on stage. Occasionally  I still enjoy acting and performing,  but I have let go of the “dream” that keeps actor’s going. I am talking about Oscar worthy, Tony award winning success. I am also speaking of the dream when an actor no longer has to live with seven other people and eat cornflakes for breakfast. Currently  I live alone in a moldy in-law with an embittered angry ghost who sometimes makes his presence known. (Oh yes- I “sense” dead people.)   When he was alive he was my landlord. My current landlord is the quiet, melancholy executor of his estate. The executor isn’t bitter or angry, but he does seem unhappy. I am not sure why. I don’t think he’s too thrilled to be the executor of my landlord’s estate.
I am dating someone -although “dating” seems to not have the gravity of the relationship I have developed. I am engaged to be engaged... His name is Orlando and he is very nice to me. It is my sincere hope to grow old with him. I call him the Lando Bear. We met on a website where Gay men who identify themselves with all things Ursine meet.  Currently we live 3 hours by car apart from each other. I don’t own a car so it takes me significantly longer to visit him by train and bus. I am pretty much over the commute, but willing to endure it to spend time with him. He’s cute.  We have seen each other almost every weekend for two years.  He makes up for it by visiting me down here more than I go up to see him.
I live in the exciting and expensive city of San Francisco and he lives in a town in the High Desert of North State California.  It’s called “the High Desert” even though it has beautiful pines and snow capped mountains everywhere, but much of the year it’s as hot as the Sahara. Well…it feels that way to me.  Nine months out of the year when I walk around outdoors up there I feel like a 3 ton Dragon is sitting on my chest spraying fire all around me.

Orlando and I are in the process of trying to find a way to live together so I can get out of the haunted moldy in law and he can move away from the dragon. After much discussion we decided together he would move down to expensive and exciting San Francisco with me.  He is a sensible sort and knew he couldn’t do it without finding a job first.  That was almost a year ago.  Instead of dreaming of making it big in show biz, I NOW dream about finding a nice affordable 2 bedroom bungalow in Berkeley  with enough room for a friendly Golden  Labradoodle  named Sarah, and the Lando Bear and myself. Sarah doesn’t really exist yet, but if you could read my mind you could see she’s a great dog! Lately I have been dreaming of a fat very old Silver Grey Tiger tabby named Hairrison too.  My dreams of fame and fortune have been traded in for something more attainable…and quite possibly better!

I work five days a week with the elderly and find it very rewarding. These men and women are extremely frail and sick. Ten years ago they would call where I worked a Nursing Home. Times have changed and the tainted industry needed a new twist so now they are all called Skilled Nursing Facilities now. Regardless of the moniker, there’s a lot of hospice work associated with where I work so it’s kind of “God’s waiting room” no matter what you call it.  I also market the facility which also allows for a great deal of creativity and varied routines. Like most jobs it has its up days and down days, but even the down days reveal something to me about life and love and the purpose of humanity, so I often feel more enlightened on the down days than I did on the up days. Every day I deal with mortality and aging and more importantly family dynamics.  I see pain and fear in people’s eyes but I also see hope and -on a great day- joy. I live for those days.

  My compulsion to ease people of their pain has for better or worse spilled over to my co-workers too. I worry about my boss and my morbidly obese co-worker who are both so good to me, but can’t seem to be good to them-selves. I guess that is my lot in life. My Dad used to tell me when I was young that he thought I was going to be a psychiatrist. I always knew when he was sad and would crawl up on his lap and hold his face in my hands and ask, “What’s the matter Daddy?”  (Don’t worry…I stopped doing that when I turned 17).  I feel I actually have the ability to make people feel better about them-selves. I can cheer them on and give them the incentive they need to make their own dreams come true.  My methods may not appear gentle or loving to most, but I honestly don’t think you can move forward in your life until you can look pain directly in the eye and give it hell. Most troubled people would rather not look at pain in their live and I can’t really blame them. Yet dealing with reality will help you in the long run because well…it’s reality. Reality is the hand you were dealt.  Avoiding it could seriously keep you from realizing your dreams or potential.  I am not a licensed therapist. I am empathetic and intelligent.  I am trying to figure out my place in the world just like you are.

Lately I have been doing something fun on Facebook which has grown to something interesting.   On my status I asked people if I could help them by dispensing advice. I called it Ask-A-Cub. (Those of you who told me 47 is too old to be identified as a Cub –get with the program. I addressed this in my first blog for cryin out loud! ) I also tried to make it funny which many of my Facebook cronies had fun with- being quite amusing in their own right. Then something truly gratifying happened. I got some serious questions sent privately to me in my Facebook Inbox.  “Why can’t I find a date in San Francisco?”, “Am I crazy just because I believe in God?”  and “ How will I know if I will be a good Father?”  At first I was overwhelmed.  I got questions out of my realm of experience, but I knew I could take a page out of Dear Abby’s column and refer them to people more qualified than I to answer their query. I love connecting and helping. It’s almost as good as a sold out house standing ovation…almost.

I can’t help everyone and I can’t even get them to go in the right direction for help. Sometimes it makes no sense to try and get someone to see the truth. Sometimes the chemicals in your brain really fuck with your reality and no amount of medicine or talk therapy can alleviate your pain because you weren’t wired to accept things they way they are. Those people are diagnosable.  I can’t help those people. I hate that. I hate that a lot.
Ask A Cub is here for you. How can I help?

An actor accepts an apology

The other day began like most days at my job. As some of you know, I work in a lovely Non Profit Skilled Nursing Facility in Berkeley Ca as an Admissions Director. When people are thinking of placing their parents, Grandparents, or friends in our facility, I am the first one that they will meet. I guide them through the facility showcasing what makes us different from others. I have been doing this patter for almost four years. I enjoy my job very much. I am one of the odd ones that enjoys socializing about difficult subjects that most don’t want to deal with. The subject that I can talk ad infinitum about is the end of life.

On this particular day I had gotten excited about a new idea. A resident at our facility who was a seamstress for a living was beginning to lose her passion for crocheting. She slept more often and rarely felt like interacting with anyone. I was watching Project Runway at home one night and felt that this might give her the pep she needed. I remembered she had watched an old industrial documentary on the history of fashion, so I thought she would think that Project Runway would be a hoot. I went to her room that following morning to discuss it with her. She showed interest at the idea, so I smugly trotted down to the Activities department to inform them to find a season of PR on Net Flix for our resident. I was met by Erika from Activities, who informed me that I had customers. She wrinkled her nose and changed “customers” to “clients” and seemed happy with that label instead.

There were three of them. A woman in her late forties and her brother and sister who were in their 30s. They all wore the familiar pinched expressions of the truly stressed out and frightened. The older of the three, Sarah, extended her hand, cool and professional, and introduced herself and her siblings. She was clearly in charge and her siblings seemed perfectly fine with her in that role. I had trouble shaking her hand because I was juggling a cup of Green Tea and my morning snack of a hardboiled egg. I repeated their names and promptly forgot the siblings. Sarah was the one that seemed to require all the attention so I focused on her. We gathered in my office to discuss the situation that brought them to our facility. Their mother was dying of leukemia and they were looking for us as a hospice house. Since our facility did not offer rehab we were taking more and more hospice cases. One of the hospice organizations that we have a relationship with had recommended us. I was filling out an Inquiry form for our records and asked Sarah for her phone number. She paused. “ May we just see a room?” I took a little mental breath. This was not a good sign. She didn’t trust me. I tried to shake off the irritation but it remained. “ It’s just a formality - for this form...I won’t be contacting you unless you decide to proceed with admitting your mother.” She looked unmoved and repeated that they would like to see a room. I looked down at the paper and looked back at her with quite possibly the most insincere smile one could do. “Of course.” I said   with the vaguest hint of dismissiveness. Where was this coming from? This was not my usual course of action. I usually recognized the grieving and the pain and tried to ameliorate it. Was it the two cups of coffee I had that morning? It wasn’t so long ago that a similar situation had occurred and I all but hugged the daughter within five minutes of knowing her!
Things went from bad to worse. Sarah realized she had caught me off guard and went in for the kill. I started to boast about our amazing activities program ( which it really is) and realized what a stupid gaff that was. The woman was going to be in her bed dying! She wouldn’t have interest in indoor “lawn” bowling or a sing-a-long. What was I thinking?? Sarah was clear it was a hospice case, but I continually began to explain how an elder could actually live and grow and change at our facility. I caught myself again and simply took them to the room. Sarah became a battering ram of questions and the unthinkable happened.

She made me nervous.

My voice haltingly explained the amenities to the room. She asked about Staff to Resident ratio and since it continually evolves due to the population of the facility, I explained we staff as needed. She wanted numbers. I didn’t do numbers. She asked about the cost of the room and good lord..I forgot the cost of the room! A price I had been quoting for nearly a year, everyday, 6 times a day, flew out of my head. I was appalled at my stupidity. The whole thing felt remarkably like being on stage and feeling completely unprepared. I used to do this thing where I was delivering lines to another actor on stage and then I would “say” the next line in my head and not “hear” what the other actor was saying. Quite often I would simply, “go up”. This is the term used when an actor forgets his or her lines. It took a while before I learned that one had to listen to the actor on stage and “be in the moment” instead of thinking ahead of what I had to do. Sure enough...that’s exactly what was happening here.

I went back to the office bewildered at how such a simple tour had gone downhill. I had been in this situation dozens of times and never felt so rattled as this. I could barely hand her the brochures without my hand shaking. She scrutinized the price I had forgotten. “That’s not what is on your website.” she blazed at me. Now wait just a goddam minute. I changed that price myself. I knew I had done it. “Really?? Would you mind just waiting a minute? May I check that while you are here?”  I sat at my desk and brought up the website. It matched what was written on the price list. She paused. I felt slightly empowered, but more importantly I figured out what was going on. I watched her face begin to droop with fatigue. She was fighting for her mother. She wanted the absolute best situation for her so she could feel good about bringing her here. She wanted to do right by her. I began to feel sorry for whomever had to deal with me as I tried to find a  nice place for my mother to die. It was brief but Sarah and I connected for a second. She told me very softly, “ It’s hard ....ya know?” The grief was a fresh sharp bleeding scrape and quite a ways from being ready to heal. I was in the moment. I reached up and squeezed her hand quickly, not too familiar and said, “ I know”  She smiled sadly, “ You have a beautiful facility.” I thanked her and she gathered her mute mournful siblings and went in search of the perfect place for her mother to die. I doubted that she would find it.

An Actor makes some resolutions - sorta

I pledge to do a sit up once in a while

New Year’s  resolutions completely overwhelm me. I feel compelled to make them, yet I resent having to make them at all since I go to great lengths to be in a constant state of reinvention ANYWAY. Sometimes when I reinvent myself I do repeats. I return to being P.A. Cooley –Actor and don’t spend nearly enough time being PA the Writer. My Lando Bear is good at reminding me when to be creative. ( He pointed out that I hadn’t completed the SHowmance series.) I love writing, but I am reluctant to have anyone tell me how to do it. –oh hell I am about to be 47 and I am reluctant to have ANYONE tell me how to do ANYTHING. I grudgingly admit I need guidance in the craft of writing. I know my sentence construction is like something out of “Nightmare on Elm Street.” Anyway- here’s what I came up with so far. 

Resolution # 1- I WILL write more! Lucky you! You get to read stories about my eating habits and my wonderful family and friends, (who I promise to discuss in a tactful and discreet manner), and of course my penis!

Resolution # 2- I will embrace change in all its forms. Now this is not all that different from my normal way of cruising through life. Change is GOOD. I always had a bit of a problem with scary and sad changes. Who doesn’t? My most recent dark hour, it was revealed to me who my true friends were-as well as what great support my family can be. So worst time in life =best lesson learned. Living is change. “Go with the flow” as my dear mother says.

Resolution #3 –I will learn more about others. I am fascinated by people and how they come to certain decisions. I want to know why that woman thought it was a good idea to wear that extremely unflattering outfit. I want to know why nice seemingly intelligent people fall in love with mean incredibly stupid people.  When I have learned that their decision process is not helping the world to be a better place, you can help me figure out what to do with them.   

Resolution # 4-I will look more visually appealing…but maybe I’m there already…hmmm (looks up at the ceiling for a moment and looks back down  at his Vodka Gibson and sips it thoughtfully.) I’ll have to give this resolution some more thought.

Resolution # 5-I will start a website. What exactly will the website have on it? Well probably lots of provocative photos of me. Hush up don’t tell Momma. I will promote events that friends are doing. My writing will be there and cool things I find that I think you will get a kick out of --especially if it’s related to food or weird fashion choices.

Showmance Finale

 

I trotted down the stairs of my railroad flat on Guerrero to let Jack in. He was breathless and excited coming in from the night. He carried a large paper grocery bag filled with clothing and a boom box. Since he had been in my apartment before, he zipped by me, navigating the familiar cluttered stairs with ease, and up to the landing but stopped and set his items down at the top of the stairs and said, “Whoa!” and zipped back down to scoop me up and bury his nose in my neck. “Damn!” he said as he pulled back. “ You smell deeeeeelicious!” True I did at that. I had showered with Mango scented soap and perfumed with Vanilla cologne. I knew he had a sweet tooth. He smelled like...well..how a boy smelled; kinda sweaty but not too bad, and cookies, and coffee...that he had eaten- I guess- at the Cafe. Tonight’s seduction had the potential of being like shooting fish in a barrel. Then again-maybe he was one of these self-actualized straight men that had zero hang ups? I thought about it. Naw!

“What’s in the bag?” I pushed it slightly with my toe. He grinned his enormously tooth-filled grin and grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me down the hall into the dining room/living room. He pulled clothing out and several sheets of paper with writing on them. He carefully laid out each item on the couch. There was a baseball cap, a white crew neck t-shirt, a pair of black Converse high tops, a pair of denim board shorts with a design on them that looked like graffiti-and lastly a pack of cigarettes. “ Please put this on.” he asked.

“What?” I was thrown. “Why?”

“It’s the outfit you wore when we were first fell in love-well when Austin met Ralph and fell in love. See! I wrote it all down here. Go ahead and read it and we can re-enact it to help with our sense memory.” I scanned the pages he handed to me. He had penned a very detailed account of our two characters attending a dance party in Central Park on Gay Pride in New York City. They met and started dancing to a song by The Cure called simply “Love Song” ...which he had brought a cassette tape of. (Hey it was the early 90’s)

“Whenever I’m alone with you...you make me feel like I am whole again”  I looked at him as he hummed it. He came up real close and said softly, “ Will you please put the clothes on?” He kind of hypnotized me with his big chocolatey pools fringed with long lashes. I dazedly wandered into my bed room to change. I was still a little inebriated but not at the slurring or stumbling point but that could easily change with one tiny swig. The toughest part was the high tops. I never wore sneakers like that so they felt peculiar and I thought I was going to trip over my feet as I returned to the dining room/living room. I don’t think I looked particular sexy.

He lit up when I arrived. He had changed too! Into a pair of jeans that hung seductively off his hips and a wife beater that hugged every curve of perfectly sculpted, taut swimmer’s frame. I looked at his muscular arms, chest and shoulders and had an awful lot of trouble trying to string two words together in my mind. His shiny jet black hair hung loosely around his brow. I tried to look at his eyes, but kept drifting back to his nipples as they poked out happily against the ribbed fabric of the tank top. He smiled and said, “Ready?” Some common sense reached out to me from this bubbling cauldron of desire I was turning into. “ I dunno Jack...I’ve been drinking. I just don’t want to...make a mistake.” He looked surprised. It was pretty obvious I was afraid of falling hopelessly in love with him but I caught myself. “ I mean...isn’t it a threat to your sobriety? Being around someone else who is intoxicated?”

“-Hey!”  he said and placed a forefinger against my lips to shush me. Wait .a thought flashed in my brain..didn’t straight boys always have a problem remembering to wash their hands after they went to the bathroom? I pulled his finger away from my lips. He said, “ Let me worry about that P.A. You are not responsible for my actions.” hmph How very AA. I reached for my Bloody Screw. “You’re telling me this is okay?” as I took that fatal swig, stuffing any common sense I had in me so far down that it had a snowball’s chance in HADES of ever surfacing during the remainder of the night. He leaned forward and didn’t sniff the glass but sniffed my lips instead, narrowly brushing them with his own as he did this. “MMMM!” he murmured. A light smile danced on his sensuous mouth. “ Vodka! very nice! You can relax..I was always a Whiskey and Bourbon guy” I laughed an absurdly sounding giggle. OF COURSE he was a Whiskey and Bourbon guy...that made ALLL of this Okay!!!

He reviewed the scenario. “ Okay. Gay Pride. A beautiful sunny slightly cloudy day in Central Park. We bumped into each other while we were at the beer booth with friends but just cruised each other first”

“Who taught you ‘cruised’??”

“Al Pacino” he shot back at me. “ Wait! We almost forgot the rest of your look.”  He put the baseball cap on me backwards and took the pack of cigarettes and rolled them up into my left sleeve and then proceeded to roll up my right sleeve. “Sheesh” I said, “Such details!”

“ It’s important to me.”

“ okay okay-relax” When his brows went up like a disappointed Labrador I had to give in. He put the cassette in the boom box and pressed play. When he bent over to do that he showed a slightly fuzzy plumber’s crack. I felt my Mr. Happy jump in my shorts. The music started to play and I heard the singers sultry promises of love. He swayed and I shuffled my feet around, trying not to trip on the sneakers. He looked at me after disengaging from some ecstasy that the music transported him to and his face was different. He looked hungry and it was kind of scary in a way. He held his hand out to me. I wavered but took it. He slowly reeled me in holding me close to him while our hips swayed to the music. Our noses were beginning to touch and ever so gently our bottom lips brushed together. I got brave and reached up and caressed his unshaven cheek. He held my hand and kissed my palm. I fell into those huge brown eyes -and I was the hungry one. I just kissed him firmly, holding the back of his head  and he slowly yielded his mouth to my tongue and let out a little moan. “ Wow” he whispered, “Kissing a guy is so different!” Mr. Happy was unabashedly throbbing in my pants. Jack grinned and traced the outline of my cock through my shorts and let out another soft, “Wow!” I thought it was pretty amazing that he found kissing me a unique experience because -quite frankly- kissing him was different then kissing other men. He was gentle like a tentative but cooperative young girl (with stubble) about to lose her virginity. I know I know - How the hell would PA know what THAT feels like?? Don’t worry - we will save that story for another blog. - Back to Jack

We tumbled on to the couch and fumbled with clothing and kissing and licking. He was clearly having a great time. I, on the other hand, was falling in love HARD!!! That mixed with my sexual drive was making me unstoppable. I was determined that we were going to do everything before the night was over...then maybe take a nap and do it again. I nibbled, I licked, I squeezed and dry humped and soon we were naked and headed down to my bedroom.  I looked upward and thanked God that my room mate was out for the evening and flung him on to the Futon. “Man you are forceful!!! Are all guys as hardcore as you are?” I resisted the impulse to yip with laughter and said, “Well with most women...not all..they don’t like it rough.” Another absurd thought that I was an authority on sex with women as a 27 homosexual. I continued, “ Guys think about sex way more and are so horny so ...you can be a little rougher with each other. Women are more intellectual about sex..but It doesn’t mean you can’t be tender too. “ I leaned down to demonstrate and he interrupted asking me, “ Hey - can I suck your cock?”

“Um sure...go for it.”

He grasped me and proceeded to mouth and suck it. It was a little clumsy but pleasurable -I told him how to watch his teeth by folding your lips over them. He did this for a total of 3 minutes and then spit  and went “Yuk! I don’t like giving head. - Hey...will you fuck me? But start slow okay? My girlfriend always starts slow and then I can take it as hard as you want.”

Wait...back that up...” Girlfriend!!!?” I squawked.

“yup..she’s not a he/she or anything. She does it with a dildo.” I almost lost my hard on hearing that but then he saw what was happening and started kissing me very very passionately and I was good to go again. He got on his hands and knees to assume the position- Alrighty THEN! I slipped on the condom from the large box under my bed and lathered it with lubricant and proceeded to prep Jack using my fingers and extra dollops of lube.

He squeaked, “ hey it’s cold!”

“Sorry, I’ll warm it up for you” and gave him a quasi prostate massage that made him whimper and groan.  -I was a tad nervous about what a straight guy’s version of deep “before sex” cleaning would be, but Jack seemed to be prepared for deep investigation. That porn star girlfriend of his taught him well. I prepared to enter and slipped just the tip in. Here’s when I have to tell you that I am as averagely endowed as average can be. No Pornstar career for me. Nude scenes on stage freak me out because Mr. Happy is quite shy. The last play I did nude, I am sure the audience wondered if I even HAD a penis. Remembering my lines and getting semi-erect on stage is difficult for me, and if there is a draft from off stage -well... forget it.  However one on one, when Mr. Happy is genuinely Happy...he shows it and gets the job done. At the time Mr. Happy was Happy with what Jack presented to him but, I only managed to insert the tip in when Jack let out a incredibly LOUD caterwaul that the whole building heard I am sure. Its not like the tip of my penis is a beer can, and I entered as gently as I could. He shook the hell out of my futon. I thought he might’ve been having a stroke.. but he was apparently experiencing an orgasm. “Um....you okay...? “ ,I asked.

He flipped over on his back and panted.. “ Oh...MY...God!” he gasped. “That was fucking amazing!!!”

“Really?” I was bewildered as to how he could’ve attained orgasm from what I did. I was on my knees to his right while Mr. Happy strained to go back to the nice warm place he just tried to slide into. I peeled off the condom and Jack looked over at Mr. Happy and pursed his lips and looked uncomfortable. “ Um...You want help to...?” he gestured at his wet stomach. I lay next to him and instructed him to kiss me. He did as he was told while I took care of Mr. Happy with Mr. Handy. His passion and excitement had cooled considerably and his kisses were even more passive than before. I felt him trying to focus on the task at hand. Eventually Mr. Handy did the job and that seemed to fascinate Jack for it’s duration. Then he grabbed the towel and hopped off the bed.  “That was fun eh?”

Well - the end of the evening was about as cliche as cliche could be. I was left amazed and wondered what the hell just happened to me. Jack called out as he merrily dashed down the stairs. “ THANKS PA! The scene’s gonna be GREAT!”

 I put on my robe and poured another drink. What the hell was he talking about? Our character’s never do anything remotely loving or sexual on stage. He’s sweet and good looking and my character is a one dimensional nasty bitch to him until the bitter end. Why did he need to...? Oh well. I ended up pining after him hoping for another encounter after rehearsals or performances but he wasn’t remotely interested. Which infuriated me and there was absolutely no reason for me to “act” when it came to being cruel to his character on stage..hey!.... wait just a darn minute!!!! No wonder Kate Bornstein, (famous tranny writer/performer who reviewed the play for the Bay Area Reporter), wrote about me. “ I hope P.A. Cooley really isn’t that way!”

I was a real bitch...and it made me a star.