Jeremy was a boyfriend from my Atlanta days. He was gorgeous. Tall, dark, body to die for. And to the patrons at SwingingRichards, he was known as "Logan."
I don't recommend dating strippers.
While I was in college, I worked part time doing season subscription sales for the symphony. Yes, I was THAT guy. Calling during Jeopardy or when you "had just sat down to dinner." Honestly, has anyone "sat down to dinner" since 1983?
But I was good. I was one of the top sellers in the office. And while I had no interest in classical music at the time, I became quite the expert for those ten weeks that winter.
When you do cold calls soliciting people for money, you have to become someone else. You have to develop a very thick skin. And most importantly, you have to "sell."
One night while we were all having a smoke break, the manager walked Jeremy out and introduced him to the group. All jaws dropped. It had been so long since fresh blood had been introduced into our shark infested waters. I turned to the other resident homosexuals and with a warning and death-stare, said, "Mine."
I trained him. He was dreadful. I don't think he sold any subscriptions his first week. But we found ourselves sitting across the room, facing each other and the game was afoot. A smile here, a wink there. On smoke breaks he would take my cigarette from my hand and share it.
But something wasn't right. I couldn't put my finger on it. I began to wonder, "is THIS when I'm supposed to ask him out?" but something didn't feel right. It's like he was into me, but he WASN'T into me. I remember telling a friend of mine about it at Blake's and Steven commented, "kind of like a hooker."
Oh my God. He was a hooker. That had to be it.
In the midst of this possible revelation, I received a phone call from Jeremy asking if I could come pick him up. As luck would have it, he was four blocks away and his... get ready for this... BOYFRIEND was throwing all of his stuff out the window and onto the street below.
We've all seen the movies of people screaming and throwing things over balconies. I've never seen that happen in real life. But apparently it happens in gay-gentrified Atlanta townhouses.
When I arrived, the boyfriend was tossing shirts out the window. It was kind of like that scene inAmerican Beauty where Thora Birch (and that guy whose career just imploded following that movie) stand transfixed at a plastic bag. Only I watched as a Hugo Boss white button down gently floated on the breeze coming from Piedmont Park.
I collected Jeremy and his stuff. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with him. And that's always awkward. "I know you have no home, but where can I take you? Cause you can't live with me."
Then it hit me: I can have a live-in boyfriend!
My roommate was out of town for the week, so I took him back to my place. It's amazing how fast you can go from, "so, you had a boyfriend and oh yeah, he just happen to be throwing everything you own onto 10th Street" to sex on the roof of your apartment high-rise. Just two hours after collecting my new boyfriend and consummating our relationship for most of Midtown Atlanta to see, we were moving his stuff into my bedroom. I thought, if nothing else, I can hide him. My roommate will never know. It will be like a gay Diary of Anne Frank.
As it got close to dinner time, I, being hungry from the days events, turned to my concubine and inquired, "what shall we do for dinner?"
"Oh, I have to go to work."
"The office is closed tonight. It's Saturday."
"There's something you need to know about me. I'm a dancer."
"Like... for the ballet?"
"No. Like Elizabeth Berkley in Showgirls."
My mind did a jump cut of thoughts including, A) I am NOT going to flop around in our pool like that. B) What was wrong with her ass in that movie? C) I miss Saved By the Bell. And D) Hold the phone, Alexander Graham Bell.... She was a STRIPPER.
"Uh.... Oh." That's all I was able to get out.
He shouldered his little Nike athletic bag and was on his way to work. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity wondering if THAT would be my world. "Have fun at the office, honey!"
A few hours later, while on a break, he called. "What are you doing?"
He wanted me to come watch him. I, being a masochist and the only person in North America to really enjoy Eyes Wide Shut grabbed my keys and was out the door.
As I've said before, I don't like porn. It just makes me laugh. I scrutinize the plot, dialogue, and acting. When I hear people talk about a porn performer's performance, I get creeped out. I have friends that have done porn. I don't judge them. In fact, I love hearing their stories.
Because it's an ACT. It's about the "sell." It's about power. It's about seduction that is completely one-sided. At Swinging Richard's, most of the guys are gay for pay and students from nearby Georgia Tech. But for those ten seconds you are shoving a dollar bill precariously close to a stripper's hot pocket, they are yours and YOU are the only person in their world. That kiss they give you? That's because they know you're going to come back and give them a five dollar bill in the next song when they are only in a g-string.
And that breathy "thanks, baby" that comes after you've just dropped six bucks? That's because they want a ten dollar bill when they're not wearing anything more than a smile in the last song of the set.
I watched as Logan, my Jeremy, came out to Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus" in nothing more than combat boots, shorts, a boy scout shirt and a hat. Three songs later, my live-in boyfriend was shaking his money maker inches from the faces of paying customers.
I watched as my new live-in boyfriend went off to the "champagne room" with men. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with couples. I watched as he gave lapdances to men as I sat at the next table.
Oddly enough, I wasn't turned off by any of this. In a weird way, it was a huge turn on. Psychologically I began to worry that something was seriously wrong with me, but for the moment I was totally into it.
While he paid out the doorman, I sat in the parking lot with the girlfriends of three of the dancers and the boyfriend of another. Was this to be my new family!? Would we have dinner parties and share recipes? Go on shopping trips to buy our partners g-strings and body bronzer?
He took me to breakfast at the Waffle House on Northside Avenue at 3:00 AM. Under the blinding fluorescent lights, I was full of questions. He just solemnly kept saying, "it's all an act." "It's all an act." Then he took my hand and told me "I know we've only known each other a few weeks, but I love you, man."
Aw. He loved me!
Did I realize that in the same breath he was saying, "it's all an act" he was also saying, "I love you?" Of course not. Because I have a type. And my type is "stupid."
We got home as the sun was coming up and went to bed. Because he had been drinking too much in the champagne room, Little Jeremy was too tuckered out to do anything. I was too exhausted as well. We talked ourselves to sleep until I woke up around noon, naked and shivering. He had taken all the sheets and covers.
I tried to worm my way under them before finally jerking them so hard he woke up. "You took all the covers."
"My boyfriend tells me that all the time," he said in a half-sleep.
I stayed away for about an hour watching him sleep. "my BOYFRIEND tells me that all the time."
We went to breakfast. We ate in silence. It was like we were already married. While I was concocting ways in my head to break up with him due to his Freudian faux-pas, his boyfriend called him and wanted him to come home.
We went back to my apartment, packed up his stuff, and I took him home.
The boyfriend thanked me for taking him in. I thanked him for taking him back. I drove home, quickly vanquishing the images of me and my stripper boyfriend as we sat in adoption agencies, first day of school, long walks on the beach and of course the Swinging Richards company picnics.
Later that night, he called and asked me on a break from another night of working as a private dancer, "what are you doing?"
I remained "the other man" for about six months. He would get off work and then come over to my place and get off all over again... always stealing the covers. He was living with the boyfriend, but dating me.
It was then that I learned, those that are selfish with the covers are selfish in all areas of their lives.
And come to find out years later... his name wasn't even Jeremy. It was Logan. I vowed in that moment to never have sex with another man who suffered from an identity crisis
Except for that one guy who thought he has Superman.
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