Of hugs and pens

More self-defeating. Let's get to it.

The fortunate thing about this story is that it's far in the past. I do think about it sometimes and wonder what might have been, but oh well.

Let's go back to, oh, say, the mid 2000s. I was at the local bear bar enjoying beer bust and the eye candy. One guy I had never seen before particularly caught my eye. Great smile, positive energy, very handsome, very chubby, and as I soon found out, very open to hugs. I kept him in mind. He was, of course, in a great relationship, but the other guy was also cool, not jealous. And thus ends part 1 of this story.

A few years later, I join Denver Gay Men's Chorus for the second time. A bit shy this time, since the last time I was in was a social disaster, which for several reasons we won't get into at this time. Anyhow, said big boy was in as well. We chat from time to time, and that's about it.

We also see each other at the local bear bar, and at one point end up making out a bit. Does not go over well with my man, who comes over to me and pushes his lips on me in a very forceful, angry manner. (Notice I did not say kiss. This was...weird.) Oops. Lesson learned, I guess. I thought we were more open about this sort of thing. At least, we had actually had a discussion about opening things up, right? Hmm. Maybe not. (Or maybe not yet. It's hard for me to remember years later when things happened.)

A day or two after this, my man expresses his desire for me not to be friends with said big guy. To the point where he wants me to tell him so at rehearsal. Oof. This sucks. But I follow through with his wishes, tell big guy that we are not to be friends, and that is that. It feels supremely weird to say this. Like, I'm a kid and my man is my daddy telling me who I can and can't play with at the playground? Ugh.

Up at a choral retreat a few weeks later, I encounter big guy pouring drinks at a party. He is cordial as he asks me what I'd like to drink, and he pours it for me. That is all. It's forced and doesn't feel right to either of us. But I'm cordial too. I can't figure out how to say I'm sorry, or if it would even be appropriate, if it would open up a weird conversation that I wouldn't know how to end. So I just leave it at that. And I leave the choir within a few months.

I see him and his man out on the town from time to time, and it's from a distance. I get a chance to talk to his man sometimes, and at one point he allows as how his man (perhaps his husband at this point in the story) definitely has struggled with this issue as well. So not fun all around.

Finally, years later, as my relationship with my man has a few tenuous, sad months to last, I go to a pen convention, because I've long loved calligraphy, and figured it might be cool to see it. Well, as it turns out, the big boy also loves pens. He's there. And at one point, he comes up to me, standing right next to me, seeming to look at pens, but I'm sure he's there to say hi and just show he's a friend. And I debate. Finally, I just walk away and out of the pen convention.

I didn't debate whether to be friendly or not. I debated on whether to talk to him or not. I would have said something along the lines of, "I know you're here to say hi and to be a friend, but we both know I'm not near your level. I'm not really worth being a friend with. You deserve better." And at that point, I would have walked out. But I chose to say nothing.

Needless to say, since that point, we have not interacted. I see his posts on IG and FB from time to time. They are always professional and positive—he is a philanthropist and I think an event coordinator, a past winner of a local business journal's "40 under 40" award—and I sometimes think I missed out on something. He has also since lost a lot of weight for the sake of health. It's sad sometimes to think of what might have been. Or maybe this was the right decision. At any rate, the decision has been made, and I don't see a way back. It is fortunate, however, that I don't dwell on it. But my response to this situation, I think, reflects a sad side of me.