Sexually ambivalent? You’re not alone

I begin with a disclaimer

In order to write freely I have to start off by saying that I’m not promising these stories are totally factual or complete fiction. Maybe these things happened, maybe not. Having said that, I want to talk about why I started the blog.

How did I fall in love with a man who was mostly gay?

Before I started writing online I was in love with a man who was mostly gay. That feeling should never have developed between us. A working girl introduced me to him bc she owed me a favor. He was an easy date. All he wanted was to watch videos. Not porn but high fashion shows. That was much preferable to what many guys wanted to pay a woman to do. It was nice work if you could get it. Had she told me he was gay before we met? Or did I figure it out when I went on and on about how sexy the pro football players were when they ran and maneuvered and he said, “oh yeah, don’t they have the best asses in the world?” Later he claimed he was only being agreeable bc I was a guest and had admitted nothing at that time.

We entered into a relationship without any respect for each other. I suppose turmoil was inevitable

Yeah, right, like he EVER was agreeable with me. He was totally loving but only bc he only had to be nice for a couple of days, that’s what I think now. We spent time together, got attached, resented needing each other, turned mean, then silent, until reconciliation. Repeat. He agonized over his desire for men and I set about the task of reassuring him. I was secretly thrilled to have such an important position in his life. He needed me to tell him he was ok so he could feel ok temporarily. I promised him that fantasies about consenting adults were not weird and he could set aside his morally inflexible roots–Boston-raised, Irish Catholic with 8 siblings who all lived in the same neighborhood as his widowed mom.His heritage was full of long standing unhappy marriages. Absentee father’s who came home in time to be fed dinner and go to bed. Mom overburdened by a newborn every 18 months for over a decade. This was life until the kids grew up, you got old and died and there was no deviation allowed. Racism and homophobia were so normal the people didn’t even know they were prejudiced. My friend was haunted by things that were said when people who looked like me left the room. He knew the names they’d call him bc he used to use those words himself. He had felt guilty about the verbal gay bashing he participated in as a youth. To object to that kind of talk was so unthinkable, no one ever thought of it. My friend knew that to live a life that was full of same sex intimacy he would have to leave. But you know how it is. You can take the guy out if South Boston but you can’t take South Boston out of the guy.

People told me stuff when they didn’t have to care about impressing me–an outcast

My street experience had shown me many men who gave no indication of engaging in off track sexual behavior totally engaged in off track sexual behavior. I knew from what men shared with me that social taboos were strictly obeyed, but not the way rule makers expected. Instead of never doing anything forbidden, men never speak of doing anything forbidden. The men I knew, clients, ok, tricks, were not like women. Women always told on themselves while they made their confidant vow to keep the secret. Then that woman would tell the next, all the while swearing her to secrecy, too. And so on. Not men. Not the ones I met anyway. Men did not expect other men to hold their secrets. They felt no need to tell their peers that they stopped downtown at 5:00 a.m. to pick up transgender street sex workers who were dressed like women but treated the paying trick like a female, you know what I mean. The men I knew told me bc what I thought did not matter bc I had no one who listened to me. But other than me, men never breathed a word about their sexual adventures. As a result, the reluctant and ashamed bisexual had no idea that just bc a sex act was socially unacceptable did not mean it was uncommon. Secret street sex in downtown Honolulu happened all the time with everyday guys. But what my friend did not know couldn’t help him.

Socially unacceptable did not equal uncommon.


My poor…friend? Significant other? I never knew what to call him…he was so torn. Straight? Gay? He thought he had to make a permanent commitment, sealed with a public proclamation. I tried to convince him it didn’t matter what people he never saw might or might not be thinking of him but I could never put his fear of being wrong to rest. He kept asking if I thought he was weird. He couldn’t let go of me, which I honestly loved. I did not mind that he constantly sought my approval with plaintive questions following a description of what he had done or wanted to do. “Is that normal?” Or, “do you think that’s alright?” I reassured him honestly, based upon what I had heard from tricks, that lots of men like men who are obviously men dressed as women. I must have heard five separate times, “I am not gay, I just like ****.” None of these guys knew others shared their feelings. Until I told told my friend. His doubts eased a bit.

And what of that resentment he felt over needing me? After weekends where the world contained only the two of us, he’d punish me for being important to him by ignoring me. I preferred it when he was verbally abusive. I was ugly to. He called upon his Bostonian racism to hurt me, I hit him with anti gay insults I did not mean, although the words accurately reflected my desperation to make him feel me, good or bad. I wanted something I said to matter to him. I wanted him to see me with such intensity the desire was akin to the craving of addiction. There was an ever present feeling that I simply must have him or there would be consequences so dire I refused to even imagine what could happen. So we fought…with words I hope we only partially meant. Then we came together again. The whole cycle was about a week and a half. An eternity passed between when he started the silent treatment and when he blessed me by returning a text with “bring beer.” I could breathe again.

It ain’t over til it’s over and then it is really, truly done

We went along this comfortably tumultuous, well worn path for a year and a half. We might have continued this predictable pattern indefinitely. Until–the door slammed shut. I woke up and found him dead on my kitchen floor the Sunday after his beloved Patriots made it into the Superbowl. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. His legs looked so very uncomfortable folded beneath him. But he was beyond feeling anything. His heart gave out, it would later be determined. All the people who speculated that I must have killed him somehow were disappointed I wasn’t arrested. And I, well, I had one small but of goodness to grasp.We had had a good night, those last hours of his life. I know it was good, not bc I made the judgment for myself. And not bc he told me how happy he was with me, with us…but bc he pointed out how happy my cat was that we were getting along. The cat seemed quite pleased that we were having such a good time. The cat was indeed in bed with us and she did seem comfortable.

A gay pick up scene was no biggie

He had come over late Saturday night, that final night, ltexting me to come down to the parking lot. Meaning he didn’t have the money to pay the cab. The fare was only $7 from his place by Straub Hospital to mine on the outskirts of Waikiki but he had spent all of his money drinking on a pivotal football day. I knew he wasn’t just watching the game at the Rum Fire bar at a Waikiki hotel. He had been on the prowl. He tried to establish a connection with a male tourist all afternoon. But in the end the tourist turned him down. The guy he tried to pick up in the Waikiki hotel bar decided to stay with his wife and work on his marriage bc his wife had grown uncomfortable with another man in their conjugal bed. She wanted them to stop going with strange men. Had the couple said yes I would probably have been invited too. My friend really wanted the guy but he said he invited the couple bc he was not entirely able to admit to himself his true motive. But I knew. I am proud of how I handled what turned out to be his last hours on earth. He experienced total acceptance of who he was. No big, dramatic reveal about what’s REALLY going on. Just me asking, “the guy didn’t want to drop by?” And that was it. Casual, normal, like, so anyway what else is new? Nonchalance is integral to acceptance.

I hope to die the same way

He died in peace with a woman and cat who loved him and I dare say he loved us too. I know he loved the cat. Me, I think so, but I am unsure.

The original purpose of this blog

My shared experiences gave him comfort and made him feel connected to others. Even when these others were men from my past who he would never meet. Writing gets around the limits of space and time. It can comfort us by bringing people from long ago into someone’s heart in the present. Could my writing provide peace to another in turmoil? I decided to try to use the academic skills gifted to me by my Harvard education to interpret my street life and tell the stories that comfort, elucidate, and failing that, entertain. Thus, this blog was born. The title changed several times when I misjudged what words would get me banned from mainstream sites like Facebook, Reddit, etc…but the site address stayed the same: Today I’m going with Honolulu Street Life–a trusted insider tells All. Now you know what all I will be talking about. And why

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