I got off work yesterday a bit early because the guy whose code I’m testing
was out sick, and I was doing none-too-well myself with a headache that I’d
had all day. So, a quick e-mail to my supe, and I was out the door.
Driving over to Gordon’s, I was listening to a Talking Heads compilation
CD called “Sand in the Vaseline, Part One.” It’s a terrific look
at the first half of their career. I had “Psycho Killer” blasting in
my stereo with the windows down, the sunroof open, and the sun shone down
upon me, and the streaming air blew my beard and hair into an even curlier
mess than normal. That headache was giving way to a sense of contentment.
Gordon, and his husband, Chuck, have been dear friends since we met all
those years ago. Gosh, it must have been back in 1995 or so. They
have been friends, brothers, and dads, sometimes all at the same time. Chuck
in in New Orleans until Monday, so I knew that Gordon would be home alone
- well, really, he’s such a gracious and glorious host, that it was entirely
possible that he wouldn’t be alone, but I had a feeling that I should be
there, so off I was.
I got to their place to find Gordon sitting in his office, talking to
Steve, one of his tenants, about something related to OS X. I so didn’t
want to talk about computers, though, and just tuned it out. Steve
took off for somewhere, and then Gordon and I sat around chit-chatting about
this-and-that and what-cha-ma-call-it and what-not, whos-dis, and other assorted
hyphenations. That was when the gin started.
Now, for those of you who don’t know, Gordon and I have a special relationship
to gin, especially Tanqueray and its upscale cousin “10.” So
we had a couple of coctails, and went for a swim.
I had never been naked in front of Gordon before. Oh, the occasional
flash of skin when one is walking from the bath to the bedroom, but that
hardly compares to standing unabashedly unclothed for the first time in front
of someone.
Well, it’s more about the my current state of body image. I just
am not happy with how I look, how I feel, and those things have worn me down
a bit. But I decided, fuck it, this is Gordon, who has accepted me
for who I am, who loves me, and if I can’t be naked in front of my closest
friends, well, no need to think about that.
Anyway, it was a splendiferous evening, warm, the gardenias were releasing
their perfume, the moon was full, the water was cool but not cold, and the
gin had done its magic – I was relaxed and feeling fine. That was when Gordon brought out the skunk weed.
A couple of tokes later, and we were beyond the reach of most mortals.
Gordon was feeling particularly chatty, and I was engrossed in the
mirror-smooth surface of the pool. I kept experiencing the water in
three ways: as a mirror, as itself, and as a lens magnifying the newly plastered
bottom of the pool. At first, I would see one, then another aspect
of it, then another, but then it coalesced into one-in-three.
So, we started walking around his yard. It was around 2330 or so,
and their moonlit garden is completely different and intriguing. The
world transformed into ethereal silver, colours faded and even gone, drowned
in the light of the moon. Gordon was showing me the dahlias and the
spectacular rose garden, with almost 100 plants, it really is quite a site.
Around the yard and the house, there were wonderful sights and smells.
We went into the house to get another cocktail; suddenly we were outside
in the front yard, standing naked in his driveway, examining the potted plants and the tree dahlias given to him by Lynn
Ludwig. It was a strange site indeed. Two naked hairy men standing
in the public space of the property, for all the world to see. But
it was as quiet as a tomb, with just the buzzing of the Avenue on
the other
side of the house through their hedgewall, no neighbors stirred.
We completed our nighttime garden tour, and went back into the back yard, sat down, and giggled over how silly it all was. Gordon
then was taking me into the bunkhouse, affectionately called (can I hear
you all say it before I write it?) the spunkhouse, to show me how comfy the
bunks were. I had the opportunity last weekend to try it out, but demurred.
I wanted to stay inside the house.
The bunkhouse is an outbuilding that was on the property when they bought
the place. I suppose it should more properly be called a cabana, but
it’s really two rooms: a bath room with toilet, lavatory, shower, and it’s
own tiny water heater, and the bunkroom, with four bunk beds. Gordon
and Chuck entertain quite a bit, and the two guest bedrooms just aren’t enough
for overnight visitors sometimes, so they build this overflow sleeping chamber
from this cabana. The matresses were made of medical grade foam (wheelchair
foam, Gordon called it) and was surprisingly firm yet had a delicious amount
of give. We laid there, each to our own rack, talking about what sort
of episodes might have gone on in there.
Then we went inside, where it was now 0100, watched a bit of the tivo, and then off to bed. I missed Rick terribly, but I suppose I need to get used to sleeping alone again.
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