I had noticed this some years ago. It wasn't until recently, as I was counting the number of men named Josh that Ben knows, I was reminded of the oddity. I wonder if this holds true for many people....
I have dated a large number of people who had a variance of the same name. That name is Steve. Clairee Blecher's declaration in 1989 aside, this is odd. In San Francisco alone, of the nearly 1 dozen men I have dated in the past 17 years, 5 of them have been named Steve.
Stephen and I were in a relationship that started more than ten years ago, and continues today, however, it now being the ex-partner relationship paradigm that gays, for all of there misgivings and relationship woes, have actually gotten right.
There was my first boyfriend in SF. Steve. He was Jewish [my first, and thus far only, seder]. The most memorable aspect about that Steve was that he had a dating check-list. He had a wide variety of 'types' that he wanted to date. I was the bear. His next boyfriend was wheelchair bound. [No hating here. That man was HOT. I was envious that I didn't meet him first].
There was Stephan. European. Young. HIV+. Troubled. Emotionally unavailable but damn the sex was good. He ended that short stent by sending me a Hallmark Card in which he wrote his goodbye. The card had 5 poodle dogs in different colors on the front and a "thank you" on the inside. I was baffled.
Estephan. Beautiful body. Well endowed. Funny. Sweet. And, the last time I tried being a top in a relationship.
And lastly, in so many ways, Steve. Though I profess this blog to be 100% truth most of the time, and dropping to 80% when I want to practice a poetic license, I do not change the names of people nor soften the events to protect people and their, a, 'good name'. I tell the truth. If someone wants to bitch, then let see what happens. However, there is an exception to every rule, and lets just say that I fully and totally opt out discussing this bastard simply to protect my own hide. No need to reopen that can of worms. Let's just say, "He is a lovely woman."
Prior to SF, there was the Steve that I met in a dinner in Evansville, IN. It was raining on an autumn night. I walked into the Tennessean for a cup of coffee. This guy was sitting at the counter. We chatted. He offered me a ride. We had sex in the back his car. It was my first exposure to the scent of Lagerfeld. I still become sexually charged when I'm near that cologne. That sweet smell, the steamy windows, the care and gentleness of an older man. OK, Macy's run later today.
There was Steve the poker player, Steve, the arcade guy, Steve, the hippy who lived in a tent, but, then, there was the first Steve. I will always remember, the first Steve.
I was attending Indiana University. It was March, 1978, just after my 19th birthday. I had left the Wilkie Quad to buy some staple items from the store. I was in no rush. The weather was wet, but warmer than that cold winter had let us feel for some time. In my grocery bag was a six pack of sodas, laundry detergent, a couple packages of Twinkies and a Hustler Magazine. At that point in my life, I would be more embarrassed to be found with a Hustler Magazine. Today, I would blush at the reveal of the Twinkies.
It was a very strange time for me. I was not out to myself, much less anyone else. I was a virgin. I did not fine sexual excitement in looking at the pictures of nude women, but I was very aroused to look at the pictures of nude women having sex with men. I told myself I was into looking at the act of sex. Today I know I was into looking at the naked men, but, back then, I just could not process that information. It wasn't that I was purposely hiding or denying that I was gay, it was that I hadn't explored anything about sex other than being alone in the bathtub for an extra ten minutes. And, besides, I was working so hard at trying to fit into society that I was just trying to find a girl to date so I would be like everyone else.
That March night, I took the long way back to the quad, just because I was enjoying the weather. But soon I realized I was lugging a heavy bag of stuff and I was a good 30 min walk from home. As I was crossing the outer boarder of Dunn Meadow, I saw a campus bus pull up to the stop. I started running. People got off, the bus started to pull away. I yelled as loud as I could, "Hey", but the bus kept going. As the "Hey" left my lips, one of the disembarked passengers whipped his head around and looked at me. It was very odd. He was a good distance from me, going in the opposite direction, but, he had turned when I yelled. I remember standing there thinking to myself, "Why did that guy look?" and then, all of the sudden, he turned and looked at me again.
For being as naive and foolish as I was, I caught on that there was something in that look. For reasons I may guess and question today, but then, for which I had no idea why, I followed him. Not quickly, not with any purpose, but, if only to ponder what that look meant.... bam, he turned again. My stomach flipped. My feet knew to keep walking, my mind knew to keep questioning, and my glands knew to keep pumping hormones.
Two blocks from the bust stop, he turned right onto Fess Street. My feet followed. Being off the main drag, this street was a black mirror from the wetness of the midwestern transition from winter to summer. The street lights reflected a diffused light that mirrored, too, my emotions and desires and reservations that were, for the first time, coming to my cognitive surface. Nothing sharp and in focus, just diffused and unclear.
My feet following and his head turning, kept up for several blocks. And then, as suddenly as the confusion and excitement appeared, it left. My mind snapped and asked myself what I was doing? I was now much further from home, still had hold of this heavy bag, and I am following a stranger for no good reason. The sidewalk's path darkened, I could no longer see the guy in front of me, my emotional stupor ended. I turned up 13th and started for home. It was only a half a block before I noted movement to my left. I saw this tall, tight curly blond, well built bus rider sprinting through the back yards of houses trying to get in front of me. I am now confused, and, in hindsight, aroused, and not sure of myself or the situation... I simply turn around and head back towards Fess Street.
As I approach the corner, he steps out of the shadows, having sprinted back to Fess Street himself, and waits for me to approach. "Hi". "Hey" I say. Silence.
Kirk: Hey, I'm looking for 7th street. I have an appointment tomorrow and I was trying to find it. Any idea how to get there?
Bus Rider: Sure, come on. I'll show you.
The moving conversation was akward. He said he was a local, not attending school. Said he was just hanging out. By the time we made it back to Dunn Meadow, all discussion about 7th Street was lost. He kept saying, "I've got a place to show you." Every time I relive this story, I am amazed that at this point in this experience I am not having any thoughts of a sexual context. I am sure I was overpowered by the hormnones that my body was producing in those moments, but, not once did a consideration of possible sexual activity enter my mind. I was clueless as to what we were doing, what his intentions were, what my intentions were, or where we were going. All I knew was that I needed to follow him.
As we crossed Dunn Meadow he took me towards the wooded section near the garage enterance of the Ballantine Building. He kept telling me to follow him, and to keep up. We entered the wooded grove and soon we were under the building itself. It was a section of the ramp that was built from one street level to the next. Though it was obvious this place was visited often, we were alone and totally hidden from passersby. It was within the next moment when my lifelong defense of denial failed. I bent over to sit my grocery bag down and as I straightened up I remember asking myself, "I wonder if he will kiss me?" And then he was there, in front of me, putting his hands on my hips, pulling me in for the first kiss of, what in a moment was to be defined as, my young queer life. I let him guide me throgh the next ten minutes. His kisses, his touches, his movements, his desires. He reached down and placed his hand below my belt. I reached for him as well, following his lead. I could feel his hardness beneath his corduroy jeans. As he lead me to the wall, he undid my pants and proceeded to introducement to maturity. A few minutes later and with only sight hesitation, I returned his favor.
As I physically fumbled with new levels of testosterone I turned him and attempted to enter him, but neither of us were prepared for this. I not knowing how to execute and he in the mood for satisfaction, not teaching. We did both finish. And, as one would expect this story to end, as soon as the hormonal rush was over, so was his caring and concern. He made quick flight, insturcting me to stay behind for five minuets before I left. I have never forgotten standing in that arched way, looking out from the dark of the cavernous abyss into the lighter wooded patch, and saying to myself.... "In an hour I am going to be really disappointed and depressed and mad at myself for doing this, but right now, at this moment, I am the happiest I have ever been."
I have seen him three times since that night. The first was a month later, as I was in the Student Union. I saw him studying. My heart soared. I attempted to follow him but lost him by the bakery [Best Gingerbread men ever!].
A few weeks after that, I was at my buddy Bruce's dorm room. We were headed out, but he was changing so I stepped out into the hall. I saw [I lie to you not] Steve, a guy from Michigan who I had a class with the first semester. He lived on Bruce's floor. Steve called over, we chatted for a couple minutes, and then he said, "Hey, Kirk, I want you to me my roommate. His name is Steve, too" I lean in, and there he was. Lying on his bed reading. The Bus Rider. He looks up from his book and with no reaction nor any emotion says, "Yea, we already met." and goes back to reading.
The last time I saw him was on the evening before my leaving IU that first year. He was backing out of the parking lot. I was with Bruce. Bruce called out, saying, "Hey, I'll see ya next year." In a dejected look to Bruce and with a lot of sadness Steve said, "No you won't, I am going to Purdue." Then he shifted his looked to me, locked with my eyes, closed his door and pulled away.
It has been a long road from Bloomington to San Francisco. I have had to invest large amounts of resources to bring myself to a point where I can consistently live in the moment as if standing at the Ballantine arch with the abyss behind me, the lighted woods in front of me and my living life in that moment of happiness and not in the fear of what the next hour will bring.
I have dated a large number of people who had a variance of the same name. That name is Steve. Clairee Blecher's declaration in 1989 aside, this is odd. In San Francisco alone, of the nearly 1 dozen men I have dated in the past 17 years, 5 of them have been named Steve.
Stephen and I were in a relationship that started more than ten years ago, and continues today, however, it now being the ex-partner relationship paradigm that gays, for all of there misgivings and relationship woes, have actually gotten right.
There was my first boyfriend in SF. Steve. He was Jewish [my first, and thus far only, seder]. The most memorable aspect about that Steve was that he had a dating check-list. He had a wide variety of 'types' that he wanted to date. I was the bear. His next boyfriend was wheelchair bound. [No hating here. That man was HOT. I was envious that I didn't meet him first].
There was Stephan. European. Young. HIV+. Troubled. Emotionally unavailable but damn the sex was good. He ended that short stent by sending me a Hallmark Card in which he wrote his goodbye. The card had 5 poodle dogs in different colors on the front and a "thank you" on the inside. I was baffled.
Estephan. Beautiful body. Well endowed. Funny. Sweet. And, the last time I tried being a top in a relationship.
And lastly, in so many ways, Steve. Though I profess this blog to be 100% truth most of the time, and dropping to 80% when I want to practice a poetic license, I do not change the names of people nor soften the events to protect people and their, a, 'good name'. I tell the truth. If someone wants to bitch, then let see what happens. However, there is an exception to every rule, and lets just say that I fully and totally opt out discussing this bastard simply to protect my own hide. No need to reopen that can of worms. Let's just say, "He is a lovely woman."
Prior to SF, there was the Steve that I met in a dinner in Evansville, IN. It was raining on an autumn night. I walked into the Tennessean for a cup of coffee. This guy was sitting at the counter. We chatted. He offered me a ride. We had sex in the back his car. It was my first exposure to the scent of Lagerfeld. I still become sexually charged when I'm near that cologne. That sweet smell, the steamy windows, the care and gentleness of an older man. OK, Macy's run later today.
There was Steve the poker player, Steve, the arcade guy, Steve, the hippy who lived in a tent, but, then, there was the first Steve. I will always remember, the first Steve.
I was attending Indiana University. It was March, 1978, just after my 19th birthday. I had left the Wilkie Quad to buy some staple items from the store. I was in no rush. The weather was wet, but warmer than that cold winter had let us feel for some time. In my grocery bag was a six pack of sodas, laundry detergent, a couple packages of Twinkies and a Hustler Magazine. At that point in my life, I would be more embarrassed to be found with a Hustler Magazine. Today, I would blush at the reveal of the Twinkies.
It was a very strange time for me. I was not out to myself, much less anyone else. I was a virgin. I did not fine sexual excitement in looking at the pictures of nude women, but I was very aroused to look at the pictures of nude women having sex with men. I told myself I was into looking at the act of sex. Today I know I was into looking at the naked men, but, back then, I just could not process that information. It wasn't that I was purposely hiding or denying that I was gay, it was that I hadn't explored anything about sex other than being alone in the bathtub for an extra ten minutes. And, besides, I was working so hard at trying to fit into society that I was just trying to find a girl to date so I would be like everyone else.
That March night, I took the long way back to the quad, just because I was enjoying the weather. But soon I realized I was lugging a heavy bag of stuff and I was a good 30 min walk from home. As I was crossing the outer boarder of Dunn Meadow, I saw a campus bus pull up to the stop. I started running. People got off, the bus started to pull away. I yelled as loud as I could, "Hey", but the bus kept going. As the "Hey" left my lips, one of the disembarked passengers whipped his head around and looked at me. It was very odd. He was a good distance from me, going in the opposite direction, but, he had turned when I yelled. I remember standing there thinking to myself, "Why did that guy look?" and then, all of the sudden, he turned and looked at me again.
For being as naive and foolish as I was, I caught on that there was something in that look. For reasons I may guess and question today, but then, for which I had no idea why, I followed him. Not quickly, not with any purpose, but, if only to ponder what that look meant.... bam, he turned again. My stomach flipped. My feet knew to keep walking, my mind knew to keep questioning, and my glands knew to keep pumping hormones.
Two blocks from the bust stop, he turned right onto Fess Street. My feet followed. Being off the main drag, this street was a black mirror from the wetness of the midwestern transition from winter to summer. The street lights reflected a diffused light that mirrored, too, my emotions and desires and reservations that were, for the first time, coming to my cognitive surface. Nothing sharp and in focus, just diffused and unclear.
My feet following and his head turning, kept up for several blocks. And then, as suddenly as the confusion and excitement appeared, it left. My mind snapped and asked myself what I was doing? I was now much further from home, still had hold of this heavy bag, and I am following a stranger for no good reason. The sidewalk's path darkened, I could no longer see the guy in front of me, my emotional stupor ended. I turned up 13th and started for home. It was only a half a block before I noted movement to my left. I saw this tall, tight curly blond, well built bus rider sprinting through the back yards of houses trying to get in front of me. I am now confused, and, in hindsight, aroused, and not sure of myself or the situation... I simply turn around and head back towards Fess Street.
As I approach the corner, he steps out of the shadows, having sprinted back to Fess Street himself, and waits for me to approach. "Hi". "Hey" I say. Silence.
Kirk: Hey, I'm looking for 7th street. I have an appointment tomorrow and I was trying to find it. Any idea how to get there?
Bus Rider: Sure, come on. I'll show you.
The moving conversation was akward. He said he was a local, not attending school. Said he was just hanging out. By the time we made it back to Dunn Meadow, all discussion about 7th Street was lost. He kept saying, "I've got a place to show you." Every time I relive this story, I am amazed that at this point in this experience I am not having any thoughts of a sexual context. I am sure I was overpowered by the hormnones that my body was producing in those moments, but, not once did a consideration of possible sexual activity enter my mind. I was clueless as to what we were doing, what his intentions were, what my intentions were, or where we were going. All I knew was that I needed to follow him.
As we crossed Dunn Meadow he took me towards the wooded section near the garage enterance of the Ballantine Building. He kept telling me to follow him, and to keep up. We entered the wooded grove and soon we were under the building itself. It was a section of the ramp that was built from one street level to the next. Though it was obvious this place was visited often, we were alone and totally hidden from passersby. It was within the next moment when my lifelong defense of denial failed. I bent over to sit my grocery bag down and as I straightened up I remember asking myself, "I wonder if he will kiss me?" And then he was there, in front of me, putting his hands on my hips, pulling me in for the first kiss of, what in a moment was to be defined as, my young queer life. I let him guide me throgh the next ten minutes. His kisses, his touches, his movements, his desires. He reached down and placed his hand below my belt. I reached for him as well, following his lead. I could feel his hardness beneath his corduroy jeans. As he lead me to the wall, he undid my pants and proceeded to introducement to maturity. A few minutes later and with only sight hesitation, I returned his favor. As I physically fumbled with new levels of testosterone I turned him and attempted to enter him, but neither of us were prepared for this. I not knowing how to execute and he in the mood for satisfaction, not teaching. We did both finish. And, as one would expect this story to end, as soon as the hormonal rush was over, so was his caring and concern. He made quick flight, insturcting me to stay behind for five minuets before I left. I have never forgotten standing in that arched way, looking out from the dark of the cavernous abyss into the lighter wooded patch, and saying to myself.... "In an hour I am going to be really disappointed and depressed and mad at myself for doing this, but right now, at this moment, I am the happiest I have ever been."
I have seen him three times since that night. The first was a month later, as I was in the Student Union. I saw him studying. My heart soared. I attempted to follow him but lost him by the bakery [Best Gingerbread men ever!].
A few weeks after that, I was at my buddy Bruce's dorm room. We were headed out, but he was changing so I stepped out into the hall. I saw [I lie to you not] Steve, a guy from Michigan who I had a class with the first semester. He lived on Bruce's floor. Steve called over, we chatted for a couple minutes, and then he said, "Hey, Kirk, I want you to me my roommate. His name is Steve, too" I lean in, and there he was. Lying on his bed reading. The Bus Rider. He looks up from his book and with no reaction nor any emotion says, "Yea, we already met." and goes back to reading.
The last time I saw him was on the evening before my leaving IU that first year. He was backing out of the parking lot. I was with Bruce. Bruce called out, saying, "Hey, I'll see ya next year." In a dejected look to Bruce and with a lot of sadness Steve said, "No you won't, I am going to Purdue." Then he shifted his looked to me, locked with my eyes, closed his door and pulled away.
It has been a long road from Bloomington to San Francisco. I have had to invest large amounts of resources to bring myself to a point where I can consistently live in the moment as if standing at the Ballantine arch with the abyss behind me, the lighted woods in front of me and my living life in that moment of happiness and not in the fear of what the next hour will bring.
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