Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  “Not really,” I replied. Just then, a group of girls gathered directly behind me at the bar. Their shrill laughter sent shock waves through my body directly toward my bladder, almost to the point that I thought I might pee my pants if another one erupted into hysterics. “It’s really loud in here. Do you mind if we go somewhere else?” I asked.

  “You read my mind,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  I sighed with relief.

  Outside, the sky was orange and purple. It was still quite humid, and the streets were busy with people. Since I had to pee badly, I quickly scanned the neighborhood. Across the street there was a new Austrian restaurant, Klee. I had been there a few weeks ago and remembered they had a private restroom. I suggested we sit at the bar and have appetizers. Chad agreed.

  Klee’s décor reminded me of a lounge at a ski resort, with dark wood walls and a white tiled bar. Soft music played in the background, and the lighting was warm and dim. It was a refreshing change of atmosphere from Kanvas. Once we were settled at the bar, I excused myself to use the restroom.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked as I hurried off.

  I was slightly tipsy by then, so I asked Chad to order me a cosmo, though I knew that even gay men considered it a girly drink.

  Live a little. What do you care? He lives in Boston.

  The restroom at Klee was exactly as I remembered: a single-occupancy toilet. Plus, there was a bolt lock on the door, not some cheap hook. I hated restrooms where only some tiny latch inserted into a little metal loop and anyone with the strength of a toddler could burst through. A good restaurant, in my opinion, should have a private bathroom with a proper lock. That’s just common courtesy.

  Once inside, I began the ritual: I unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down to my ankles. Then I began chanting, “Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin.” When no urine came, I reached out my hand and pressed it up against the door, even though it was sturdy. This relaxed me. Meanwhile, I continued to chant, but still no urine. Beads of sweat collected on my forehead. I kept imagining Chad waiting for me at the bar, wondering what was taking so long. My chanting quickened. “Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin.” Years of experience taught me that there was a small window of opportunity before this escalated into a full-blown panic attack. I had to urinate now, so with my free hand, I began to twist my nipple, gently first, then harder, tighter, until I felt a surge of electricity shoot down from my nipple to the tip of my penis. All at once, like magic, a switch flipped and the urine flowed.

  When I returned, Chad was waiting. His smile didn’t fade the entire night.

  “Here’s your cosmopolitan,” he said, sliding the pink drink over to me.

  “Thank you. I know what you’re thinking. He’s gay and drinks cosmos. How cliché?”

  “I drink cosmos all the time. Besides, being gay means you don’t have to apologize for liking them.”

  “Good answer, Chad,” I said, motioning for the bartender. “Do you eat carbs?”

  He laughed. “Of course.”

  “Good, because they’re known for their pizza here. I hope you like bacon?”

  Chad made a yummy sound. “I love bacon.”

  Now I noticed Chad was drinking wine. “Are you a wine person?”

  “I like white wine. I know red wine is better for you because it contains tannins, which are good for your heart, but I find red wine stains my teeth. Would you like to try it?”

  “What did you swallow, a wine encyclopedia before you came out tonight?” I joked as I sipped from Chad’s glass. An immediate wave of relief washed over me once I tasted the alcohol. I felt relaxed, realizing Chad wasn’t crazy, or at least he hadn’t shown me that side of himself just yet.

  “Do you taste the buttery notes?” he asked. I shook my head. He laughed. “Don’t feel bad, neither do I. I’m just repeating what the bartender told me.”

  “What is a buttery note anyway?”

  “I’m not quite sure, but this wine tastes delicious.” While Chad spoke, I felt myself leaning in toward him. Our legs were inches apart on bar stools. As the conversation went on, I lightly brushed my knee up against his. He continued, “I’ve been single for a while now. I actually don’t mind being alone, but that’s not to say I wouldn’t want to be in a relationship if the right guy came around.” Unlike the other men I’d dated recently, Chad seemed unpretentious, and his honesty was endearing. When the bartender approached us for refills, I placed my hand over my glass. I asked for water.

  Our server arrived with our pizza and set down two small white plates. “This looks delicious,” said Chad, serving each of us a slice. Throughout the rest of the evening, we carried on as though we’d been friends for years, but this false sense of security was short-lived: we’d soon paid the bill and left the restaurant.

  Walking home, I remembered that Chad didn’t live in Manhattan, and that made saying good night even more difficult. Before we reached my apartment, I quickly ran through a mental checklist of all the reasons why I shouldn’t date Chad:

  1. I would have to commute up to Boston every other weekend to see him.

  2. I’d worry he was cheating on me if we were apart for long stretches of time.

  3. I’d just started my own practice and needed to be in New York.

  4. I won’t move to Boston!

  By the time we arrived at my building, I still hadn’t persuaded myself why I shouldn’t date this single, smart, handsome doctor. Anyone with an IQ above 50 would have jumped at the opportunity or left the right man for the wrong reasons. Yet I was not like everyone else. In the past, I’d often dated the wrong man, so how could I tell when a good one came along? In the end, I kissed Chad in front of my building in a dark corner where even the doorman couldn’t see us. Chad smiled and said good-bye. I rushed upstairs to my apartment and burst through the terrace door. Leaning over the rail as far as I could, I watched Chad walk back to Tenth Avenue and hail a taxi. Standing there as it pulled away, I wondered whether I’d ever see him again.

  Chad returned to Boston that Monday. We e-mailed each other sporadically, but I never offered to visit him. Several weeks later, he wrote to ask whether I was interested in going on another date. My actions must have been confusing. In an e-mail, I wrote: “I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t begin a long-distance relationship right now.” I hesitated briefly, remembering those blue eyes, that perfect, beautiful smile, and his easygoing nature, but in the end, I bit my lip and pressed SEND.

  CHAPTER 3

  Kitten Tartare

  IN NOVEMBER 2007, a cardiologist named Ed offered to introduce me to a best-selling author whom I will refer to as Dean. “He’s a great guy, a little eccentric but very sweet. He could give you advice on your book. I’ll talk to him if you like?” I didn’t refuse this opportunity because I was a fan of his writing. His offer also helped to lift my spirits. It had been three months since my last conversation with Chad, and I was worried I’d made a big mistake.

  My cousin Alex had presented Dean’s first book to me years earlier, and in handing it to me, said, “Read this. It’s the story of our lives.” Of course, it wasn’t exactly, but Dean and I did share one thing in common—we were both victims of childhood sexual abuse. What interested me most about his books was that he didn’t shy away from the grotesque reality of life, and best of all, he was openly gay. This made him even more accessible to me because my sexuality was something I’d struggled with until my late twenties.

  Ed fulfilled his promise and made the introduction online. Later that afternoon, I received an e-mail from Dean himself. I was sitting in my office when I read it. I could hear Gloria in the reception area arguing with a patient who was refusing to pay his bill. Quietly, I pushed away from my desk, whirled across the floor on my chair, and closed the door gently so that I could read Dean’s e-mail again without being disturbed.

  My first reaction was to print his e-mail so that I could enlarge it on the office copy machine and then hang it in my wait
ing room like a piece of art. Immediately, I called Eric to brag. “Oh, look at you,” he quipped. “I guess you think you’re gonna have fancy new author friends to go along with your fancy new book? Well, I don’t think so. You tell Dean that the job of best friend is already taken.”

  “Get serious,” I replied.

  But later, as I reviewed lab results in my office after hours, I glanced over at my dark computer. Gently nudging the mouse awakened the screen to reveal Dean’s e-mail still open from earlier that day. I hadn’t yet responded. Wanting to impress him, I’d agonized for hours, making several attempts but deleting them once I’d read them aloud. Finally, I settled for something succinct. “Thank you so much. I’m very excited. Any advice you can offer me would be greatly appreciated.”

  The next day, I arrived at work and discovered another e-mail from Dean waiting for me. I was like a child on Christmas morning as I opened his message and read through it with the giddy anticipation of getting exactly what I wished for.

  Over the next few weeks, we exchanged e-mails regularly. His recommendations on how to promote my book were very helpful, but it was his outrageous comments and inappropriate suggestions that interested me more. Dean thought I should get as much publicity as possible. He subscribed to the notion that there was no such thing as bad publicity, even if it included pictures of me getting hand jobs from patients.

  His e-mails had a frantic, maniacal quality, as though he was writing in a desperate race to empty his in-box. Words were often misspelled. Others were in all caps for emphasis. Sentences ended abruptly, while others ran on without punctuation. With each new e-mail I read, his words began to take shape in my mind. After several weeks, I could actually hear his voice in my head, shouting at the keyboard, as his hands failed to type fast enough to keep up with his dictation.

  I, on the other hand, struggled over each response, checking my spelling and grammar as if he was going to correct it. Then, each time I sent off an e-mail, my pessimism kicked in, and I prepared myself for the possibility that he wouldn’t write back. To my surprise, in a day or two another e-mail always arrived. It was easy for me to fall into this trap. I didn’t really know Dean, except for what I’d read in magazines and in his books. To me he was a celebrity and now someone who had taken an interest in me. I found that very exciting. Yet, there was a little voice in the back of my head warning me not to put so much trust in someone I’d never met, but I didn’t listen. After several more exchanges, I began writing to him every day. Eventually, he asked me more direct personal questions such as, why was I still single? (A question I despised.)

  I wrote back my standard response: “I guess I haven’t met the right guy yet.”

  He wasted no time telling me that finding a husband should be my first goal. When he was single, that was all he thought about, but as he put it, he was more high-maintenance, so I should have an easier time finding someone.

  With each new correspondence, I felt a thin connective tissue forming between us, like an invisible umbilical cord. I found myself telling him secrets I had told only my previous therapists or Eric. I was convinced that if I was completely honest—revealed my most personal details—then he wouldn’t become bored with me and stop writing. So, without ever discussing this with Dean, I embarked on my own quid pro quo in the hopes of maintaining his interest. My scheme was that he would then confide in me, and I would slowly reel myself into his world, clinging to and collecting that connective tissue like a ball of yarn.

  I wrote, “I find myself attracted to the same big, hairy, domineering guys. All I want to do is get them to like me, and, then, once I do, I end up feeling trapped. Once my last boyfriend and I broke up, I decided to take a break from dating. I gave myself one year to be single. That turned into three. Now I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m not good at maintaining a relationship. And please don’t call it a fear of intimacy. I go on dates. It’s just that I find myself wishing I was home watching television before I’m finished with my appetizer. I know it’s hard to have it all, but then again, I don’t think I’m asking for too much. The last date I had was with a terrific doctor named Chad, but he lives in Boston. Are there no decent men in Manhattan?”

  The next afternoon, while eating sushi at my desk, I nearly choked on a California roll when Dean’s screen name popped up in my mailbox. According to Dean, honesty, bluntness, and the brutal naked truth were all he cared about. He appreciated my frankness, and for that, he presented me with his own personal e-mail address, which began with the words kitten tartare, on the condition I promise never to share it with anyone, including my best friend, agent, or even the pope. If I did, he said he would cut me out of his life forever.

  The wasabi inflamed my nostrils as it seared through the lining of my esophagus, but I didn’t feel anything except bliss. Dean agreed that “on paper,” he didn’t think I was asking for too much. Unfortunately, in Manhattan—specifically in the gay community—there was always another guy who was hotter than the one you just dated. Manhattan could be a revolving door. He pointed out that when you meet a guy and it’s going well and things begin to feel real, something happens. A first fight, for example. That’s when you see a side to him you hadn’t seen before, and so begins the process of compromise. In Manhattan you don’t have to compromise. You just get rid of him and find another guy who doesn’t have that particular problem. You trade up—and that becomes addictive. Everybody says, “I’m not looking for a perfect guy,” but that’s a lie. Everybody is. Dean predicted I would meet someone through my book. Whether a reader or someone I might meet promoting it—he bet this would happen.

  “Predictions,” I wrote. “I love it. Do you have a crystal ball or do you see visions? I use a Magic 8-Ball myself. I don’t think love is in the cards for me. I’m damaged goods, have been ever since I was molested by my Scoutmaster. After two years, I told my parents, but the assistant Scoutmasters advised them not to go to the police. Even after I stopped seeing him, I still rode my bicycle past his house, hoping to run into him. Isn’t that fucked up? Now as an adult, I just keep repeating this cycle of dating men who initially pay me little attention and then disposing of them when they finally do.”

  That evening, I returned to my apartment after a tedious day at work and began my nightly ritual: ordering Chinese takeout (roast pork egg foo yung), opening a bottle of wine, and chatting on the Internet. Once I’d finished writing my book, I spent most nights sitting on the edge of my bed and flipping through my favorite websites designed to entice desperate, single gay men. I returned to these sites nightly with mounting hopelessness, yet once I logged on and the parade of eligible gay men appeared on my screen, I was suddenly filled with anticipation.

  Maybe tonight that special someone is waiting for me?

  It was an addiction, but I convinced myself it was just a distraction that kept me away from bars and dance clubs. Framing it that way helped me to look past my loneliness, which was as cold and palpable as the congealing egg foo yung sitting on my lap. Slowly that loneliness grew bitter with each passing day, until eventually, as I scrolled through the seemingly endless photographs of men, I found myself passing judgment. Although I wanted to remain open-minded, it was impossible, particularly when someone’s main photo was a close-up of his penis or, better yet, his anus. It struck me as peculiar that someone would want to introduce himself in such a way. So I was left to assume that Musclestudtop’s penis was his best attribute as was Hungry-bottomboy’s anus. I was sure I was searching for men in the wrong places.

  Often, I thought about registering on a legitimate dating site, but I always abandoned the idea, telling myself I was too good for that. Subconsciously I knew that if I enrolled on a site where you couldn’t post a naked picture of your genitals, then I might possibly meet someone normal. Opening myself up to that possibility was terrifying.

  That night, I was slightly more irritable than usual because Dean hadn’t responded to my last e-mail. By 11:00 P.M., I signed off my com
puter, saying good night to all the men I had been chatting with. I threw the remaining egg foo yung in the trash, stacked the dirty bowl in the dishwasher, and dropped the empty bottle of chardonnay discreetly into the recycle bin down the hall. Once again, it was off to bed after a night of Chinese takeout and online dating, both of which left me feeling at first satiated but then tired and famished a few hours later.

  The next morning, it was raining. I didn’t wake up early enough to go to the gym, so I took my time getting dressed for work. Once I arrived at my office, I began another ritual: signing on to the computer, collecting the lab reports from the printer, and sipping coffee at my desk. In my in-box there was an e-mail from Dean. Sitting back in my chair, coffee in hand, I closed my eyes and smiled.

  CHAPTER 4

  Second Time’s the Charm

  BY THE BEGINNING OF JANUARY 2008, my life continued to change dramatically. My book, The Advocate Guide to Gay Men’s Health and Wellness, was finally published, and I was about to embark on a book tour. My publicist, Len, informed me that I was going to be on the cover of several gay magazines, and nearly everyone who knew me shared my enthusiasm that I had achieved my lifelong dream of becoming a writer. The day I received the first bound book from the publisher, I held it in my hands and thought, If I die at this very moment, then at least I have something more than just my medical license to leave behind.

  That year also marked Chad’s return to New York. He wrote me after New Year’s, saying he’d moved to an apartment two blocks away. His e-mail also included an invitation to dinner.