Secrets Of A Gay Marine Porn Star (48 page)

But she didn’t want to talk about any of that. I suppose politicians have to be forward-thinking and not dwell on the distant past. Like the lesson that Trent Lott learned. So I changed the subject. I asked her where she had been during September 11. She said she was getting her hair done at the time. Finally, I decided to be bold and discuss my old familiar topic.

“Well, Senator,” I began, “you know the Service Members Legal Defense Network is mounting a campaign to overturn ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’”

She looked aghast. “Why are you doing that? The military has never been more popular than it is right now…now’s not the time.” I saw her point. We were at war and Republicans were in charge of all three branches of government. But she was one of the ones on
our
side. If she didn’t think we had a chance, things must really be bad.

At the next table was Hillary Clinton. It was exciting. Arlen Specter was in the room, as well as Chuck Hagel. Half of me was saying,
I love this! I’m a political junkie.
The other half was saying,
I don’t want to be here.

Senator Feinstein took us back to her office. We got to ride on the subway that only senators get to take. At this point, I had given up trying to wow her with my knowledge of politics or her history, so I switched to safe, innocuous topics.

“Do you miss San Francisco?” I asked.

Her mood noticeably brightened. “Yes I do, very much,” she said. “But we just bought a house here, so I enjoy that as well. I enjoy gardening and taking care of my flowers.”

“That must be therapeutic for you,” I said reflexively.

Finally, her eyes caught mine. I had connected with her. I understood the importance and the need every human has for something to take their mind off the chaotic and tortured world out there. And I had communicated to her that I understood she was human and had the same needs the rest of us had. Or maybe she just liked gardening.

The following morning I attended a California constituent’s breakfast for about one hundred people hosted by Senator Feinstein. The day before the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals had handed down a ruling that the phrase “under God” was unconstitutional in the Pledge of Allegiance. I sort of agreed with their decision, although I had never much thought about it. When Senator Feinstein entered the room for the breakfast, she put her hand over her heart and had everyone say the “Pledge of Allegiance” with her as she placed special emphasis on the phrase “under God.”

I stood with the crowd, placed my right hand over my heart and recited the pledge along with the senator.
And she’s one of the liberals
was all I could think.

After we left DC, Brandon and I went to New York for Gay Pride and the Pier Party. It was my first circuit party in a very long time. I didn’t enjoy it at all. Brandon wanted to do that. I didn’t want to go, but I went with him, maybe for old time’s sake. Would he ever love me again?

We returned home to California and I went back to work, as my disability leave was up. The two of us attended therapy a few more times, but I realized “we” were over. Brandon did not want to be with me. He said I had effectively ended our relationship a year earlier on the cruise in the Mediterranean when I wanted to have sex with all those other people. Through therapy I learned that he had a lot of resentment toward me. That was a surprise to me. For someone who prided himself on being as sensitive to other people as I did, I had sure missed a lot of obvious clues about my own husband…now ex-husband.

I’ve read that a relationship has a personality. I don’t know if that’s just total bullshit or not, but I do know that, as with some people, you sometimes can’t tell a relationship’s cause of death without an autopsy. After the breakup, I realized just how much my identity was totally wrapped up in being half of the Brandon-Rich partnership. I think we both may have lost ourselves in the relationship and, in the end, that was a big cause of why it ended. We suffocated ourselves with each other and ultimately we asphyxiated the relationship.

When Brandon told me he wanted to break up, I plunged back down into the deepest depression I’d ever been in—even before my suicide attempt. It was that bad. In retrospect I realize a huge mistake I made is that Brandon and I continued living together. Sleeping in the same bed.

Finally, one day in August I said, “Brandon, you’ve got to move your desk out of the spare bedroom (where he had his office set up). I’m going to start sleeping in the spare room on the futon.”

I went to bed that first night by myself. I was too depressed to even cry. But I didn’t sleep. I was surprised when Brandon came home and knocked on my door. I hoped that maybe he was about to admit what a big mistake he had made and that he wanted me back. Maybe our breakup, symbolized by the separate bedrooms, was too much for him.

Instead, he was hysterical. “What’s wrong with Buster?”

“Oh no!” I cried, jumping up. I found Buster lying on the kitchen floor. I scooped him up in my arms and I could tell he was about to die. He had been ill recently, and I suppose we had known it was only matter of time, but he had been so important to us, neither of us wanted to admit it. He had an appointment with the vet the following week, but we could tell that would now be too late. This little guy wasn’t going to make it. Brandon was up against the wall crying his eyes out, otherwise immobilized by shock and fear.

I held Buster in my arms, petted his little head, and said, “Buster, we love you.” And he took his last breath.

I thought,
There are millions of people in the world who have much worse problems than I have. But I don’t see how I could feel much more awful than I do right now
. This little dog had gotten me through so many dark days. I had named my column after him, the column that had started this whole process from my progay piece, to the
New York Times
, to
The Advocate
.

When he died, something in me changed. I thought,
You know, if this little dog, so full of enthusiasm and vitality, could enjoy life the way he did, then I can find a way to do it, too
.

Statistically, people who attempt suicide are much more prone to attempt it again. According to the Centers for Disease Control, the first indication that someone might be suicidal is that they have previously attempted it. I understand that now. When you try to kill yourself, you cross a line in your mind. You break through a barrier that will be gone forever. The next time is infinitely easier than the first.

I had crossed this line. I was no longer afraid of death. I had discovered just how fucking simple it is to end it all. How wonderfully easy it is to know that with one quick—and if done correctly—painless action, I can end all my problems at once.
It just seems so easy after the first try.
That becomes a powerful thought.

But after Buster’s death, I now started to feel an opposite force—a new desire not to kill myself, not to give in to this inner pain. It was a daily struggle, and some days were worse than others. And when I thought that I wasn’t going to make it, I began to see how God, who I would come to know simply as my Higher Power, or HP, was taking care of me.

I still wasn’t ready to resume my relationship with my family. I hadn’t spoken to my parents or any of my relatives in months, and just the very thought of it depressed me. I would call my mom and we would talk on and on about her problems and she would ask me about my job, but my job was all we could talk about in my life. She didn’t want to know anything about my personal life, so we never discussed it. It’s as if all I did was work. Which was turning out to be true these days.

She sent me an e-mail that consisted solely of a joke someone had forwarded her.

“A lone Marine stood at the exterior gate to the White House,” the joke began. “An elderly vet in his World War II uniform walks up to the Marine and says ‘Son, I want to see Mr. Clinton.’ The Marine says politely, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Clinton no longer lives here.’ The old vet walks away. The next day the vet returns to the same Marine and says the same thing. Again, the Marine responds, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Clinton no longer lives here.’ Finally, on the third day, the crusty vet approaches the same Marine and repeats his request. The Marine, growing slightly impatient this time, responds, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but as I told you yesterday and the day before, Mr. Clinton no longer lives at the White House.’ The old vet smiled at the young Marine and replied, ‘I know that, son. I just like hearing you say it!’”

I was livid. In June I had politely asked my mom to refrain from communicating with me because Brandon and I were having difficulty, a request she had never acknowledged. Now, she sends me this piece of garbage. Because my doctors had taken me completely off my medication at this point, my emotional reaction bordered on the hysterical.

Angrily, I pounded on the computer keyboard. “Two months ago I explained to you that I was having problems with my relationship. Communicating with you doesn’t help so I asked you to give me some peace for a while. INSTEAD, you send me an e-mail which you KNOW I will find offensive! Let me say it again, Mother, don’t write me, don’t call me, don’t e-mail me, don’t come visit me!”

Without a second thought, I hit the “send” button. Maybe I would never see my family again, I thought. Right now, I couldn’t think about that. There was just too much else in my life stressing me out. I still didn’t like my job, my relationship was dead, and so was my dog. And I was fat.

By Labor Day weekend, I hadn’t left the house in over two months except to go to work or to see the shrink. Needing to get away, I hopped in my Mazda and drove to Laguna Beach to visit my friends there for the long weekend. Jake Hirsch, my friend who had visited me when I had been in the hospital, had invited me to spend the weekend with him and his boyfriend, Chris.

We stopped at the grocery store to pick up necessities for the beach. While standing in line to pay, I suddenly remembered something.

“Shit, I forgot to bring anything to read.”

“Why do you need anything to read, girl, when there’s hot boys to look at on the beach!” said Jake.

Truth was, I didn’t want to look at men. I was too unattractive to draw any men to me, so why look at what I couldn’t possibly have. I grabbed a copy of a tabloid.

“The
Globe
?” asked Jake. “Three years of law school and you’re going to read the
Globe
?”

“Hey, it’s got Madonna, Cher, and Whitney, all on the same cover. I’d lose my gay card if I passed this up!”

Having satisfied Jack with that answer, we proceeded to the beach. We passed by our good friend Dante. He looked at me and exclaimed, “My God, Rich, what have you
done
to yourself? Why did you let yourself go like this?”

“Gee, thanks, Dante!” Jake said on my behalf.

I laughed it off. “Don’t worry about it. When I get to be seventy, I’m going to say whatever comes to my mind too.”

Dante grabbed me in a bear hug and laughed. “You know I love you, right? But hey, you gotta get to the gym! While you’re still young! I mean look at me, I go to the gym, and I look pretty good, but not as good as I did a few years ago!”

I walked across the beach where hundreds of southern California’s gay men were gathering to bask in the sun for a day. Dante was right. I didn’t have too many years left where looking young and attractive was an option. I looked down as my gut jiggled over the waistband of my swimming shorts. Yuck! I looked hideous.

I plopped down in the middle of my friends and hoped no one I knew would come by. I knew how vicious these queens could be.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a hot guy passing from right to left along the edge of the surf.
Shit
, I thought,
where’d he come from?

Jake saw who I was looking at. “He’s headed this way.”

Crap! I buried my face in the
Globe
. There’s no way this six foot tall, blond muscle man was going to come over to me.

“He’s almost here, Rich.” Jake squinted to block out the sun. “You know who he looks like, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“He’s a supersized version of Brandon!” Chris agreed.

Supersized Brandon dropped down on the sand three feet in front of me. He didn’t have a towel or backpack or any other beach supplies, just a tight bathing suit. He took off his shirt to use to lie on, in the sand.

He faced me, positioning his back to the beach. I glanced over the top of the tabloid and saw him staring with a half-grin.

“The
Globe
?” he asked. “Are you seriously reading the
Globe
?”

I liked the tone in his voice. He sounded smart and confident, but not in a cocky or egocentric way.

I gave him what I hoped was a handsome smile. “Well, yes. I mean, did you know that Whitney Houston has snorted so much coke that she has a hole in her nose? If I hadn’t read this, I might have missed out on that priceless piece of information.”

He laughed and looked around the beach. “Whitney sounds like some of the gay men I’ve known.”

“I think she might actually
be
a gay man in drag. Notice how you never see her and RuPaul on the same stage at the same time? And only a gay man would take all this shit from Bobby Brown.”

To my shock, the guy moved closer to me. He extended his arm. “Hi, my name’s Troy.”

Troy was two years older than I was but had been so successful in his real estate business that he had retired. He lived in Florida but was in California for a diving trip to Catalina Island. To occupy his time in retirement, he was studying to be some kind of a therapist and was going to begin a rehabilitation clinic or program at an established clinic for gay men with sexual addictions. I wondered about his experience with this issue.

“Every guy I’ve ever been in a relationship with me has cheated on me,” he said. “And I want to know why. I want to know why they do it, and why I am attracted to them.” His pain was obvious.