Absence really does makes the heart grow fonder. I gave my roommate and boy-friend Bryce a firm handshake, a pat on the shoulder and we drank a few beers (and swallowed two Vicodin) upon my return last night.
Full disclosure for the few of you who have noticed my being away. I said goodbye to Transitions Retreat yesterday. I carried my knapsack full of prescription bottles. My farewell gift bag included Ambien, Xanax and Klonopin. (I'm no long supposed to discuss gift bags, they're now just gifts or bags but not both. The words together create a phrase more used among certain circles. i.e. hair dressers and party planners than by guys like me, a reformed party planner, of sorts.)
You see, my dudes, I've been living a life of indulgences for far too long. It struck me at 5:30 a.m. on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving in the backroom of an East Village bar surrounded by nameless, drunk, leering men of a certain lifestyle choice.
My family was visiting all the way from Georgia, but I had no time for their love. Frequent calls from them went ignored in favor of the companionship of drooling serpents, temptation and hanging apples ripe for plucking. I was an instrument of the Goat-Boi, his lavender hoof branded my forehead as a sinner. No longer. Hallelujah!
I am rinsed clean of all sin which once clung to me like the filthy stink of three leather daddies, Cuban cigars, strong cologne and engine grease, after a long, sweaty work-over under the axles of a broken down Chevy pick-up truck. It's the kind of stink that lingers all day long. You can smell it under your work clothes. It's exciting and arousing. That's the kind of stink it was.
I have been cleansed by the powerful spray of Jesus' holy hose! Transitions Retreat doesn't have a baptism tub as bathing is for sissies. They have a garden hose which is used for cleansing sin.
My Transitions sponsor (or Trannie as we jokingly call each other), Blaire St. Christof McMartin, suggested I move into a halfway home instead of my apartment with my friend Bryce. But my place in Clinton Hill is just so fabul-- nice that I couldn't resist returning to such a comfortable abode.
My boy-friend is gay, but I am not. Yes, Bryce and I are still boy-friends, but … he is friend enough to disregard the boy part as I embark on this inspiring journey of self-renewal, honesty and khaki pants paired with blue button down shirts.
I am still Gayest Neil. Gay means happy. And I deserve to be the Happiest Neil possible.
My Transition is complete. Now begins the journey. I love you all, but not in that way.