Category: Reminiscence and Reflection

One Year of Planet SOMA

Damn! A whole year online. Actually a little more, since the experimental Planet SOMA went up in early February 1996. I never thought that (a) I’d still be doing this so obsessively a year later or (b) that I’d be approaching my 100,000th visitor by now. All I can say is a very big “thanks” to everyone who has stopped by, written words of support, offered suggestions, wished me well when I was sick and when my car became charcoal, or even told me I was dead wrong about something. Special thanks to all those who have linked me to your own sites or otherwise pointed people in my direction. It’s been tons of fun.

(NOTE: The actual start date of Planet SOMA was 13 January 1996. 2 March was celebrated as the anniversary for the first few years because of some milestone I’ve since forgotten, maybe the addition of the hot counter.)

Reflections on Leaving Kinko’s

It’s all over: the party, the final day, everything. After seven years, four months (to the day, incidentally), I am no longer empoyed. It feels, I must say, really fucking strange. No more voice mail, no more stessed-out whiny yuppie babies, no more lines and corporate double-talk.

To its credit, I was always treated well. I never really felt “fucked over”, I advanced pretty far before complete burnout hit, and my last boss was great for letting me (a) do my job with minimal second-guessing and (b) supporting me in the pursuit my own interests. I’ve made friends from coast to coast.

Neither our regional manager nor our owner bothered to call me and wish me well after seven years of working together very closely. On the other hand, my Payroll administrator, who I’ve met one time and who I love, called the day before I left. Hooray for the rank and file!

Sex, Love, and Relationships

When I was coming out at age 17, a major theme in my writing was that sex and love were essentially the same thing…there was (and could be) no difference between the two. “How can you be with someone if there’s no love?”, I asked. “How can gay men be so promiscuous?” “Sex without love is meaningless.” I was very young and idealistic. I was later to find that sex and love were not necessarily related in any way.

As I aged, I began taking to heart the 70’s texts which were the only ones available in the Greensboro Public Library . Gay relationships did not need to “ape” heterosexual marriage. A relationship not based in total freedom and mired in jealousy and suspicion is invalid from the onset. Queers are free to develop new concepts where love is concerned. Even now, I don’t disagree; I’ve developed a whole lifestyle based on divorcing the concept of sex and love. It has suited me well for many years.

Or has it? Sometimes I think I have rendered myself incapable of having a relationship based on love, trust, and (assorted gods forbid) monogamy. I tell myself repeatedly that this is not what I want.

I spent a lot of time alone as a kid, and I’ve continued doing so as an adult. In junior high and — to a lesser extent –high school, I was not what you would describe as popular. Most of my weekends were spent alone, reading, driving around aimlessly, and immersed in thought. A positive result of this is that I’ve become quite comfortable with my own company. I don’t need someone around in order to complete every little activity like eating, going to a movie, traveling, etc. In fact, I often prefer to do many of these things alone. Unfortunately, the experience has also left some of my critical social skills a bit lacking.

Also, I am selfish by nature — blame it on being an only child if you like — and I often see myself as totally unwilling to commit myself to another person. This is not necessarily a bad thing, because I shouldn’t expect anyone else to do the same for me. But there’s a paradox here. Sometimes I do find myself willing to commit, and then I expect the return, which is often not forthcoming.

Is it any wonder the longest “relationship” of my life lasted a scant six months? It’s a very unusual thing when i find myself willing to commit to a relationship, and when I do this, I tend to expect a more than satisfactory return on my emotional investment. If I’m going to suffer and pine away, I want the other person to suffer and pine away just as much. If I’m going to break all my own rules and get completely “hooked”, I expect the same in return. No wonder things get so strange; life and relationships just don’t work that way.

Of course, communication is a big factor. I often complain that “I don’t know where I stand”. I think this is a pretty universal problem; there is precious little actual communication in most relationships. In my case, I realize that it stems from my inability to let myself show traces of vulnerability by actually admitting how involved I am. So how can I fault someone else for not doing the same thing? Also, I have a big fear of screwing things up by over-analyzing and of scaring other people off by “talking about it too much”, even though I realize I’m screwing up even more by NOT talking. Maybe I’m too worried about causing the other person problems to pay attention to the wear and tear I’m exposing myself to.

Why can’t sex just be sex? What’s wrong with a series of “fuck buddies” with whom you may also share friendship, but not necessarily traditional “love”? I’ve always thought I’d grow old with a few good, non-sexual friends and get my urges taken care of on the side. I have really high standards for the people I call my “friends”; very few manage to make it for the long haul. But what happens when someone meets these standards and there’s also a “romantic” connection? Is it time to re-evaluate the concept that the people I really like and the people I have sex with should be completely separate? Is it not possible that I’m not always after “the wrong boy”?

Obviously I have a lot on my mind right now, and while this current round of analysis may have been triggered by a specific scenario, it’s a pattern I often ponder, and obviously worry about as well. Boys will continue to come and go, but will I allow myself to keep them around for a while?

Here’s the story

The short version:

Basically I’m just like thousands of other queers who grew up in the hinterland and made the move to the big city for a more interesting life. I’m 31 years old, employed as an operations manager at Kinko’s, and live in San Francisco’s schizophrenic South of Market Area. I am currently single, and don’t necessarily want that to change. Interested parties are welcome to try, but be forewarned: I smoke, I eat meat, and I drink the occasional beer(s), but I avoid other drugs and have a low tolerance for heavy stoners and speed freaks. I tend toward cynicism and irony, but I’m not really mean-spirited. And I can cook if I have to, but I will not wash dishes. Ask my roommate.

The longer version:

My life story starts in the scenic vista known as Greensboro, North Carolina . I was a cute kid. I’m not sure what happened. My parents are incredibly sane, still married to each other, and I’m still on friendly terms with them.

I was an only child, and I remain a spoiled brat. I traveled a fair amount as a child, but lived at the same house until I moved out. My parents still live there. I’m pure middle-class WASP; there’s just no way around it.

I spent most of my elementary years in a frightening Southern Baptist school. My parents weren’t particularly religious; they just weren’t too fond of the Greensboro public schools. Ever since I finally saw “the light” and got the hell out at 12, I’ve had a major thing about Bible-thumping Fundamentalists who preach hate in the name of “Christian love”.

I spent my unpleasant and unpopular junior high years at Allen Jr. High, where the biggest discovery I made was the beauty of naked boys in the locker room. Alas, it was “look but don’t touch”.

High school was a little better. I had regular classes at Smith High School and TV and Graphics classes at Weaver Education Center. I went through my drug/booze phase in the 10th grade, my generic high school kid who works at McDonald’s in my junior year, and my pretentious intellectual philosopher phase in my senior year. Plus the boys were cuter in high school; see for yourself .

My senior year (1982) was also the year I “came out” and boy was I obnoxious about it. I told everyone, had a major chip on my shoulder, and may have single-handedly invented political correctness and newspeak (sorry…). This was also the year that I came to know my three best and oldest friends, Jeff, Duncan, and Stan.

That summer I began my three years at WUAG-FM, the radio station at UNC-Greensboro , and began greatly expanding my interest in music which was outside the mainstream. This was the period where I was an occasional club DJ, and was also the time when Danny Elfman rode in the front seat of my car. I also did the campus politics thing, Gay Students Association, and learned how to drink (again).

After a little more than two years at UNCG, three things combined to make my life really wierd: I fell in love with the wrong boy, realized I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, and started doing the club scene too much. End result: I stopped going to classes and flunked out of school with a 3.3 average. (I didn’t get the boy either.)

So began five bad years. I worked for a crappy retail company for three of them, moved first to Myrtle Beach, S.C . and then to Charlotte, N.C. (my adopted hometown), drank a lot, experienced genteel poverty, and learned how to manage a skate/surf shop. This, I guess was where my fascination/fetish for skaters began…it continues to this day. If he’s scruffy and wearing Airwalks , I’m there.

By 1989, I’d had enough, moved back to my parents’ house in Greensboro and went back to school full time. I did better this time, graduating with a double major in Geography and Sociology (concentrated in Urban Studies), and working part-time at Kinko’s . I’m still working there, only now it’s full-time and I’m management.

In 1991, I visited San Francisco for the first time. The next year I moved here (a lot of people have this reaction). It is a good and wonderful place, where the scenery is good, the weather is perfect, and the boys are sleazy. It’s the first city in which I’ve ever felt truly at home. I even have a cool roommate, Dan , whom I haven’t killed even after almost four years.

In San Francisco, I have experienced many things and many boys and have somehow managed to develop at least a hint of an identity in the process. I’ve done the slut thing and the romance thing (and have decided I like something in between…for example a boyfriend who will venture to Blow Buddies with me and then come home and curl up next to me where he belongs…)

I’ve made lots of friends at work, at play, and lately, on line as well. My good friend Troy fulfills the roles of Duncan and Jeff in their absence, and he’s been doing a particularly good job given my recent set of job-related (and other) neuroses. My North Carolina connections Steve, Todd, Tim, Lori (a recent migrant), and Kevin (who I also work with) bring me liver pudding and barbecue when they can. James, who’s the chef at Bruno’s, would feed me if I’d return his videos. All in all, life is good. Join the crowd. Send me a note.

[Recreated from my earliest surviving site archive.]