When Will It Ever End? (Excerpt 5 of 5 from "Opening the Naked Window" - Book 2 of the Memoir Series)

I bet you thought I forgot to post the fifth/final segment/sample from book 2 of the memoir series. No - as promised, this passage takes place in book/season two, chapter/episode 20.

~

July 31, 1995

My dad was unusually chipper when we awoke that morning. He nonchalantly told my mom and I that his mother, Grandma Cassone had passed away and it was like he had seen her like one would see an angel. I was red with anger. I never felt much like an outcast until I dealt with my father's uppity, extended family and I wasn't looking forward to yet another 'Cassone funeral.' I grew tired from a very young age of all the weddings and funerals and weddings and funerals and weddings...you get the picture. We were the only ones who remained behind in Detroit. Aside from my Uncle Don and Grandma Cassone, the rest of them pretty much seemed forgetful of their own humble beginnings. I knew in my hardest of hearts that when it was my father's time, Mom would force me to keep in touch with them. However, I found them all to be a bunch of fake asses and they made my stomach turn on many occasion.

So, we'd be going to yet another funeral and I was certain there would be high drama. You see, Uncle Rosario was the 'black sheep' of the family, had a very bad gambling problem that took all his money and in time sent him crying to my parent's front door late one night. He wanted to stay with us and I heard a bitter, yet understanding display of words from my father. My father wanted nothing to do with Rosario's problem, not Rosario himself, but his problem. I ran into Rosario a few months before Grandma Cassone's death and he told me to tell my father he didn't have a little brother anymore.

My father being the soft hearted man he could be would have been devastated by the notion, so Mom and I decided it would be best to keep that little bit of information from him. What gives, though? Would Rosario not speak to him at their mother's funeral? It would surely be the measure of his manhood if he could over look my father's rejection of him, which my father viewed as helping Rosario more than hurting him, but sock-it-to-me if Rosario didn't utter one word to my father at the funeral or the social that followed. I was quick to inform him he didn't have a 'weird nephew' any longer.

My father was a wreck at the funeral. He just writhed in pain. Mom and I would have even preferred if he hadn't gone, but we knew better than to fight him on it. Hell, it was actually something he wanted to do. My brother, Sean, was great to Mom and I then. He drove us to the funeral. He was the only of my siblings that my dad's extended family took to. Again, aside from Uncle Don and Grandma, my father marrying my mother who had children from a previous marriage was a complete and total no-no. They nosed down at us every chance they had, like my mother was the whore of the Amazon or something. It would really get to me after while, but my mother was better than all of them.

I would be so proud of her, even when I was too young to really figure it out. At all those weddings and funerals, she would always be the one sitting next to Grandma Cassone laughing and carryin' on like two Judy's. And out of all my numerous male cousins it was I who danced with Grandma Cassone first. It was tradition for the youngest grandson to dance with Grandma first. I would laugh to myself thinking they would try to look down on us, but they couldn't be blind and surely saw we were what the backbone of this family was made up of. Hardworking. Middle class. City folk. Not white collar, rich suburbanites - that's what they worked for and became.

I swear if my writing ever takes me anywhere and I get rich and remotely famous one day, I pray I don't ever forget where I've come from, because it can happen. When it does...it's sad. I didn't know my Grandpa Cassone. He died when my father was just 16. However, from all the stories my Dad told of his father, I am sure he would be spinning at the sight of how the family treated us. Not Grandma Cassone, though, she saw beyond the simple mindedness. My siblings were like any of her other grand children. They got Christmas cards with the rest of us. I truly believe there was an unspoken respect for my mother in her eyes. Kinda like those who are last are first.

So, there we are at her funeral. My dad was a wreck. My brother, Sean, and I kept making faces at one another, which made me almost burst into laughter. We would always do that sort of thing, to break the monotony and I was sure my Aunt Donna remembered the time I embarrassed her at my Uncle Steve's funeral. Uncle Steve, like so many men in my family, had a bad history of heart disease and stroke. He had seven heart attacks and when he died; my mother broke my heart at how sad she was. She really respected him and what he had done for his family over the years. He kept them real. This was some years before, when I was just a boy and I remember he was the one that practically raised the family with Grandma Cassone, when Grandpa Cassone got sick and eventually died.

I remember Uncle Steve and I having a very deep conversation about Meryl Streep. It's funny how I remember that so vividly now. He could see I had some sort of talent for acting and he told me to make something of it. Then he went on and on about how great this Meryl Streep would be. It strikes me funny because this was like back when she was in The Deer Hunter. He had an insight about everyday people too, that he got from Grandma Cassone for sure and Uncle Don and my Dad had it too, but the rest of them... You already know. So, Aunt Donna and I were praying by Uncle Steve's casket and it was quiet and I started trying to sniff out this scent that came across my nose.

"What is that?" I said sternly.

Aunt Donna, my Dad's sister-in-law said, "Oh, you must be smelling my perfume."

Then I said, slowly (which added to the hilarity), "I thought it was formaldehyde."

After Aunt Donna and I shared a hysterical laugh, right over Uncle Steve's casket mind you - we thought he would actually bust a gut with us; we were carrying on so much. She 'thanked' me and I never lived it down. You know how something was once funny, but every time you see them and they tell the story again...it isn't funny anymore. So, she of course just had to tell everyone the story over and over again.

What I noticed so much at Grandma Cassone's funeral was what all my dad's siblings obviously did not want to see and that was how sick my father was. Aside from Uncle Don's wife, Aunt Sandra, asking probing questions you would have thought my dad looked normal. That was so not the case. He had to walk with a walker and with my brother's and my help. My mother seemed a bit rebuffed once we got to the car, to go to the cemetery, at their sudden case of nearsightedness. See, what our side of the family is made up of...by the time we got to the cemetery we were all practically in tears from laughter, my father included. I would always throw a sarcastic remark out there to get laughs and Sean was always certain to practically do pratfalls to get a snicker or two - that time he had burned himself with the car's cigarette lighter, trying to get it for my mother.

So, there's my mother bitchin' about my dad's family, my dad trying to talk her down, then I throw out a snarly insult and Sean's screamin' and hollarin' because he burned his finger and didn't quite know where on the car floor that hot cigarette lighter went to. We just all started to laugh and we were once again perceived as the 'weird ones.'

Which was fine with me...

I'd rather be weird than snooty any day of the week.

________________________________________

Opening the Naked Window and other books by Antonio Cassone are available at Amazon >>>>CLICK HERE<<<< and other fine online retailers.

Father's Day (excerpt 3 of 5 from "Opening the Naked Window" book II of the memoir)

Here are passages from book/season two of the memoir series, chapter/episode 17: Father's Day...

~~~~~

What my lives in the theatre, work and school provided was a huge relief from the reality we were facing with my father's steadily, deteriorating health. Oh, but wait - there's more...my grandmother, my dear understanding and giving Googles was seemingly going through the same exact ailments as my father. My mother and I also had to look after my great uncle Ralph, Googles religiously fanatical brother - a World War II vet.

So, I got very little sleep and my mother kept me busy, as I was sole runner for all involved, yet I somehow maintained enough of a business sense to get The Ecstasy complete, rehearse for both The Extravaganza and Lonely, while squeezing in a few much needed dates in between. That was a time when those so-called 'booty calls' meant so much to me, because it provided a great escape from the realities that were haunting me - even if I hadn't realized their pressing reality at the time. Blue and Ken were both great sounding boards for me during our late night, pre-dawn trysts at your local motel.

You see, as I came up, people like Dad and Googles, and even Uncle Ralph seemed indestructible. Sure, I am not stupid, I know people die, but I don't know ...I always thought I would have many years with my loved ones. You know, be blessed like some of my friends, who don't seem to know what they'll be missing when they talk negatively about their parents or grand parents. I shrug my shoulders and shake my head in disbelief when I hear such nonsense because in the scheme of things; we are so pressed for precious time and life is indeed short. Short in a sense that I was brought up to find good in everything and everybody, to pay attention to the details and to accept people for who they are.

A lot of my adult life, I would look at these people who are blessed to be well into their forties and fifties, yet pained by caring for an ill parent or better yet by having their parent's still in their lives. They don't know where I have been and while a friend of mine told me that was a sick way to think, to be jealous of such, I beg to differ. Yet that is the way of the world. What is a burden to one may not be a burden to others and so on. I just wish people could see what I went through. How I felt such a great sense of loss and sunk into a deep depression, - not once or twice, - but three times in my adult life. I am finally finding some sense of joy, but again - IT is a process.

The philosophies were instilled in me at a very young age by my parents, who for the most part, gave all of us kids our share of rough love. Looking back I don't think I would be the person I am today if it weren't for the foundation they laid for me. My father would get on my last nerve, always making me apologize to my mother when we'd argue. Hell, I only argued with her because she raised me to speak my mind. I did so with a sense of jurisprudence and with much conviction. She'd tell me if I thought something was wrong or someone was wrong, I should expose it. And I exposed my parents more often than not to their many oversights. However, my father explained to me one day that my mother also needed to be respected and she in turn would learn to respect me in time. He predicted that she and I would become "Judy's" or the best of friends.

Like he was gonna die or something... get outta here.

*

After many rigorous tests, trips to specialists, chiropractors and many painful, painful days there was a light at the end of my dad's tunnel. That year on Father's Day morning, bright and early at 6:30 am I drove my dad to the hospital for an MRI. I tell you, that was something that probably should have happened month's before, but I digress. What a way to spend Father's Day, which was a day he and I shared many fond memories over the years. That year, we had planned to go to breakfast, the Tiger's baseball game then meet up with Mom for dinner. We went on with our plans and I am glad we did - now.

My father labored through his soon-to-be revelation of a test.

Then we shared a nice breakfast and went to old Tiger Stadium. It was at the ball game that I witnessed my father found some comfort, at least for a little while. For some reason, unbeknownst to me at the time, I really paid attention to his every move that day; his singing the National Anthem and Take Me Out To The Ball Game, his enjoying a hot dog and beer, his telling me the differences in pitches, as he did so many times before, but this time it seemed to be worthy of a listen, his banging the empty seat next to him to cheer the home team on. He recalled how he and I celebrated the Tiger's winning the World Series in 1984 and how he was so happy he got to share that with me in his lifetime. He got to escape for a change and it was a wonderful memory.

*

On the flip side of a good memory...

Two days later, my mother received an urgent call from my dad's doctor. They were to go into his office bright and early the next day. My mother, at her most dramatic I am sure, mustered enough information from Dr. Jeffries to get him to agree to see them that evening. My mother had already grown tired of waiting until "tomorrow" for what she could find out today and spare another night of lost sleep due to worry. Her husband was in pain, whimpering like a damn child and she was downright angry about it. She wanted to know what the hell it could be that a simple blood test or x-ray couldn't pick up. What exactly was it that was making her 'bear' act more like a cub every day?

CANCER...

It was official.

My father had lung cancer; more tests would reveal that it was small cell carcinoma. The reason he was in so much pain, more so than usual for his condition, was that he had huge massive tumors, which had collapsed two of his vertebrae in his spine. Surgery was needed to prevent paralysis. This was very bad news. My mother and I thought my father had passed his highest threshold for pain already, but we would soon find out he hadn't even reached the halfway point.

*

GUILTY...

I was for not really being there as much as I could have been for my parents. The more I heard about my father, the more I saw him suffer, the closer his surgery got, the more I dove head first into rehearsals. I drank myself stupid many nights trying to cope with my biggest fear, which was not so much my father dying as that seemed to be the inevitable. I saw the situation as hopeless and yet I failed to really let the reality of all the implications his impending death would have on my mother and I sink in.

*

One night, I came home and Dad had fallen out of bed. My mother couldn't do anything, but pace the floor and wait for me to get home. My beeper had been blown up on the drive home... The Extravaganza with Miranda's big debut was in three days and I was exhausted from all the energy I was forced to pump out on cue at a moment's notice from any taker at hand. So there I was, lifting my dad off the floor. The bulky weight of him, fighting gravity it took all the strength and patience I could muster to get him back in bed. It was exhausting. My father was crying because he felt ashamed for being so damned helpless. It was heartbreaking.

Then, I no more than caught my breath and my mother told me she hadn't been able to get Googles on the phone. She wanted me to go up to her flat and check on her. I took a chunk of chocolate cake up to her - not realizing what grim reality I was about to face. Upon getting up to her flat, I soon realized that Googles had also fallen. This was becoming more and more of the case and normally she would be able to crawl to the phone or pull herself up onto her bed. That time, on that day of all days, she had fallen down – hard - and couldn't get up. Now, I remind you she was a stickler for her pride and she had soiled herself. She was more worried about that disparaging fact than anything else. I mustered up enough strength to dig in, pick her up and carry her to her bed.

After all, I thought about what I had done to her credit card accounts; this was the least I could do. Guilt is a (expletive deleted for this post)! It will make or break you and will give you the strength to do the unthinkable. You see, I was always trying to do things for her to atone, but this was way beyond anything I had in mind. I will never forget how she clung to me and cried at her rescue. She seemed to have so much to work on with her very soul, at such an old age.

Things were happening way too fast for all of us, and as I changed her soiled nightgown and looked away in respect of her pride, I thought, "What the f--- am I going to do?"

Not "why me?" Never "why me?" That's not good enough for where I come from, from what I am made of, but "what the f--- am I going to do, Lord?"

*

It was the night before The Extravaganza and my dad's tumultuous surgery would follow two days later. I was in quite the foul mood. Gary was kind enough to serve me drink after drink and with each passing cocktail the bitter bitch inside me showed her blistering cold face. I was outdone. I felt a bit betrayed that Diva Kingsley wouldn't be doing my makeup. There I was going through all of this shit with my family and she was no where to be found. I was on the brink of becoming what she was - a female impersonator - and didn't have a clue all of what it took. I still viewed the whole idea as an asinine joke. I still looked down on the likes of them unfavorably, due to Tiger's rejection of me.

I thought back to all the men I did oral favors for, but here I was practically in tears, sweaty and full of stage funk wondering where my favor was. When would I shine? When would a man love me? Just love me. Not want me to f--- and suck, just hold me and love me. I thought about how I had treated so many men so kindly, either with a kind word or gift or deed and how they mistreated me in return or just didn't take notice, or hell even dismissed me by making me feel invisible.

Yet, I wasn't invisible when I was deep throating their manhood.

I certainly wasn't the man my father raised. Or was I? I had so much to say to him, but I couldn't bring it out. As expressive as I can be, again when it was for something or someone important. I was practically speechless and now that night before the opening I was drunk by rehearsal's end. I was drooling, sweaty and enebreated. Allen would be working the door the next night, yeah my third ex. He has been very supportive of me. He had the nerve to look down at me and tell me how disappointed he was. We went to the bathroom and in my drunken state, I pretty much told him to go to hell. I told him that he didn't have a clue what I was going through.

I mean, people go through shit, but I had so much thrown on me at once and all he could do was scold me and make me feel bad. F--- him! I couldn't believe he did that. He always had a way to make people feel common next to him and he wasn't going to make me feel stupid, not that time. I told him he was kicking a dog who was down and to leave me the f--- alone, save it for Marshall (- his new lover of over a year). Then, it turned into an argument that wasn't about what it initially started about. Has that ever happened to you? It's very powerful, if you can manipulate it and I did. It was wonderful.

Instead of hugging me and being a friend to me in a down moment, he thought he would just let me have it.

Well, I wasn't having any part of it and people in the cast and crew were both shocked and appalled at our fierce argument.

None of them could believe I had gotten that drunk on the set.

To hell with them all, I thought.

It was MY show, with MY money and MY ideas and it was MY father who was dying and MY grand mother who was sick and MY mother who was increasingly needier and needier and I needed some f---ing attention!!!!

And I got it, oh boy did I ever...by the time I left them all I had pissed most of them off and had showed my definitive ego.

As I cried in my car, I was afraid I was too drunk to drive home.

I actually questioned myself on whether they would show up and do the show the next night...

and you know what...

{in a whisper} I didn't give a damn...

_______________________________________________

Opening the Naked Window is available for purchase at Amazon >>>>CLICK HERE<<<< and other fine online retailers.

Photo: a restoration I did of my father's high school graduation picture.

Journey from Within/Foreshadowing (Excerpt 2 of 5 from 'Opening the Naked Window' book 2 of the memoir series)

These passages are from book/season two, chapter/episode 7: Journey from Within & 14: Foreshadowing...

~~~~

I have found, especially in my dealings with men, that my expectations have usually been too high. I tended to live in a fantasy world for a long time, until I woke up one day and found out that when push comes to shove: It doesn’t really matter. In the scheme of things, I really could care less. I know what I have to offer to a man or a friend or a family member. Finally, I know who I am and NOW I don't give a fat rat's ass whether you like me or not. How can one NOT like someone who is so damned agreeable all the time?

*

A co-worker's husband recently stumbled across one of these episodes and was angered at the fact that I originally titled my work Chronicles, as such a title should tell a story of Biblical proportions, of a religious nature. Honey, I am here to tell you that it has been judgmental people like him, he who is far from being a saint himself, I am certain, - who have TRIED to hold me back and keep me from keeping my eye on the prize. I am here to testify that my life has been a journey of Biblical proportions - nothing short of a religious experience.

I have danced with the devil, been through loads of shit, only to come out shiny and clean in the end. I have suffered greatly due to unwise decisions, but I don't regret any of it. I feel blessed by all the lessons I’ve learned from a very young age. I have survived time and time again. Now, you tell me, God doesn’t touch somebody blessed like myself - having overcome all the obstacles I have overcome? Please. People have called me a whore. My response – YES! And a blessed one at that. I have been called a FAG, fagot, (expletive deleted for this post), bitch, slut, dinge queen - to my face mind you. I prefer writer/ poet/actor/director/producer/female impersonator/humanitarian, but I digress. I have been laughed at, mocked, poked at, joked about, but mostly ENVIED. Why? Because unlike a lot of people I have crossed paths with - I know full well who I am and that I have a purpose and a place.

I learned a lot of this after my break up with Tiger. He taught me many valuable lessons. You see, years later I realized that Tiger was not the problem with my failed relationship with him - or any other man for that matter. In fact, he and I remain friends - close friends to this day. Talk about steadfastness... After all we went through and all that was said – (we'll come back to that, bear with me as I am on a roll) - I learned just from that fact alone, by looking at my self, my own infidelities and lack of self-esteem. I haven't been in a relationship since then, and the sad day I realized I had never actually been in one was tough, but I finally realize that most men in my lifestyle - or at least in my town - can't keep up with me. The one's I attract usually are there to hold me back in some sort of way.

You see this has been a lifelong experience of constant soul-searching and seeking out the right path. I am so sick of these evangelicals worrying about my soul, as if they're any better than I am. Right. If I am going to burn in hell, it certainly won't be because I am gay or have had relations with men. They are quick to quote the Bible, but slow to realize their own shortcomings - or as I like to call them shortfalls. Basically, people are full of shit - generally and rarely are there those like myself who really, truly give a damn about matters of the heart and soul. Because when push comes to shove people are out or in for themselves.

When I tell you that I have backslid, nobody has done so like me, but I have always found the God in it somewhere. It's kind of creepy the relationship I have with my inner Jesus. He really has a bigger sense of humor than most people give Him credit for. You see He lives in me. I wouldn't have survived all of what I have if He didn't. So, when people's husbands come across my words on a page and pass judgment I take it very personally - it's like you almost want to strike up a debate and educate them about a few things. Why? If I had a dollar for every time I have wasted my breath with the likes of him, this book would be a made movie by now. Besides, I know for sure I will be looking for those precious breaths on my deathbed one day (hopefully not any time soon), to tell somebody how beautiful God is and how grateful I was to live the life I was blessed and put on this earth to live.

*

There was a good friend of mine named Kenneth Dickerson. He and I did shows together in the late '80s. He was an immensely talented actor and musician. He even got a recurring role on a TV sitcom. He was also a very sexual individual. His music, acting and sex were his quests in life. While we never got involved sexually, I was naive and scared to death of him at the time when we were close friends.

We lost touch after those shows. I was working various jobs, doing shows with Why Not Productions and trying to get my schooling together. He moved to California to work and live with the band Mazarati, did TV and film, then joined the Navy -- more men. At first, I missed Ken tremendously, but in time he became a good memory always in my heart.

From time to time, I'd fantasize about he and I being lovers and vowed that if we ever met again, we'd throw caution and everything else to the wind and get naked, wild and wet together.

Well, as it turns out, we all live in a small world. There I was working an office job at the college I went to when I came across his name, address and phone number. We were going to the same school. Excitement filled my heart and suddenly Kenneth became the forefront of most of my thoughts and emotions. First, I pulled up his computer file. He wasn't in any classes that particular semester, but excelled tremendously the prior semester in computer science. Then I pulled his hard file to see his photo. He looked so different, so handsome, and so manly -- that's when I learned he was in the Navy. Hmmm.

For days, I held onto his address and number. Finally, I called him; oh...the number was changed to a non-published one.

Damn.

Well, I decided to write a letter. It was brief. I just told him what I was doing and what I'd like to do. I sealed it, mailed it and prayed. After a few days, I tried to put him out of my mind. I figured it had been so long. He probably thought I was nuts.

Then...a week later, the phone rang. It was a cool, cloudy, lazy Saturday afternoon and I was home -- alone. I answered the phone. It was a voice...deep and sensual, almost alluring. The voice asked for me and I responded. He proceeded to ask me about Kenneth. "A jealous lover?" I thought. Oh, how cute! But much to my dismay, a lover Ted was not. He was Kenneth's caregiver. Huh?

Stunned.

I found out Kenneth was a dying man.

Sweetest Jesus, not Kenneth. Not Kenny. I had plans.

Well, Ted offered to take me to see Kenneth. He said all of his friends and even his own mother had deserted him. Only his younger brother came to see him, but couldn't stand the sight of him.

I took his offer.

On the way to the hospital, he kept telling me to be warned of what I'll see.

I couldn't imagine. I'm like: What's the big issue?

To my misfortune, I soon found out.

I could not believe my eyes.

I could not bear what had happened.

AIDS had ravaged him beyond recognition.

He looked like the covers were enveloping him.

His eyes were big, larger than him it seemed. His face sunken in, he looked sullen.

He looked old.

He looked ...like a dead man breathing.

Sick, sick ...sick. He was the epitome of sick.

I sat there. Ted left me alone with him, in the room. At first, I said nothing. I watched him, watching TV.

Then he turned to me and said, "Can you stand it? If not, you can leave. I won't stop you. Everyone else has walked out that door."

I refused to concur and proceeded to tell him about my shows, our shows, his music, school, life, sex, my crush on him. I talked to him about everything, except AIDS, death and sickness. Those were obvious and impending. Why ponder on it? What would the point be? He told me about the Navy, when he was raped, his TV shows. He looted in the 1992 Los Angeles riot, got a week's worth of groceries -- he was proud of that. He didn't care about the laws he so followed all the time, then -- he figured, a great injustice had been done and he wanted a piece of the pie. It made sense when he put it like that. His last movie was to be in the carnival scene in Poetic Justice. He was so proud to be cast, but he was too sick to do it.

We reminisced about the show we worked on, Why Is That? and how much money we made for that organization. He explained why he moved to California: to escape his stepfather, who had molested him. He said he actually agreed to accept the step dad's advances to save his little brother from the same torment, but he wouldn't be able to save him now. He said he knew I wanted to have sex with him back then, but we never had the opportunity (he would have been my first experience).

Peculiar. He recalled us being alone in my room, but he was worried my father would come upstairs and catch us. He didn't want to disrespect my parents. He remembered being quite fond of my mother.

After an hour and a half, he couldn't eat, was irritated and messed the bed. He was like an eighty year old baby-man. Unbelievable. As I kissed his hand and looked at those humongous eyes of despair and exhaustion, I thought a body is just a body -- a loan from our creator.

Two days later, I went to my doctor for my yearly physical and got tested for HIV. I always get tested at my annual check-up and encourage my friends to do the same. But this time it was different. I've known HIV+ people. I've known people who had died from AIDS. The HIV+ people are still alive, healthy looking, but this time it was personal. This time was the first time, of too many times in my life, I have witnessed somebody dying or somebody affected by this global killer with no conscience.

Ten days later, on October 14, 1994, Kenneth died.

Ted called and told me.

Silence.

A hush came over me.

I thought of nothing else.

When I got my negative results that following Monday, I cried tears of relief.

Sure, Kenneth was promiscuous.

He'd be the first to admit it, but only because he was abused and lonely.

I was angry!

Not at Kenneth, but at God.

So much hurt in his life -- misery.

What a way to die.

Ravaged! Skin and bones...

All because he made unwise decisions?

Not to hurt anyone, but to not be lonely...to be loved.

I prayed to the very God I was angry with.

I argued with God.

I said, "Hey! I've been there. Lord, you know I have had my share of dates...men, SEX!"

"I have even paid for it!"

"I've done it on the railroad tracks, in the bed, in the alley, in a car, even in a church. What about me? Is this gonna be my way out of this f***ed up world YOU created? To wither down to nothing? A mere reflection of one's self. Kenneth's clock just had to stop now. He was only 25 years old. 25! Pissing and shitting all over himself. Dying and lonely...all alone."

Ted wanted me to go to the funeral, but I couldn't.

Ted said, "You're not the first one to walk out that door."

But that's not the way it was going down.

It was too much.

It was like I went from an overjoyed high to an ultimate low.

Little did I know that one year to the day after Kenneth died, my father would die and my insanely naive life as I knew it would change...

...Forever.

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Opening the Naked Window is available for purchase at Amazon >>>CLICK HERE<<< and other fine online retailers.

Ruffles Get Feathered (Excerpt 1 of 5 from 'Opening the Naked Window' Book 2 of the memoir)

As promised, this week I will be sharing 5 selections from book two of the memoir series. Remember, the premise of how I tell my life story is 'what if your life were a made-for-television drama series?' Or, in my case: made for cable! It is where the books are referred to as seasons and the chapters are episodes. This installment contains passages from season two, episode 5: Ruffles Get Feathered.

~~~~

Well, well when did the dry well run? Where did I wrongly go? And how did my ruffles get feathered?

*

The answers to those questions would take a short while to come to me and while I was afraid that my so-called relationship with Tiger would come to an end, it was inevitable. We were lying to one another. He never acknowledged me as his lover, while I spoke as though we were living in wedded bliss. He was the cream in my coffee and the fact that it had very little to do with sex meant the world to me. I finally found a man I could love, but my sexual desires would creep up from time to time and there didn't seem to be anything I could do to control it.

I was vivacious back then, still kinda am, but then I steeped of sexuality and didn't care what anybody thought about it. I had a certain way of walking and a certain way of talking. I was a lot lighter in weight. I wasn't a smoker then. I seemed a lot healthier in my voluptuous physique. I would pass guys on the street and they would stop to talk to me to see "what was up?" Of course, these were men I would not usually approach, but they would come to me.

One spot I went to almost every Friday after work, while I waited for Tiger to get home from work, was Shopper's Lounge. This little bar was in the downtown theatre district and a few blocks away from work and a few blocks away from Tiger. So, it only made sense to stop through there to wait for Tiger. I became a regular at this long-standing gay bar that was quiet and relaxing by day and raunchy to the hilt by night.

You could stop through there on a hot July Friday night and smell the sex permeating from the bathroom stalls and the music would be loud as steel in what was no bigger than a shoebox setting. Yet, during a quiet afternoon on a get paid Friday, where a handful of us 'regulars' of the day would get together and drink the strongest cocktails in town. They were served up by Natasha, the coolest bartender I ever met to this day. We would sit and listen to music on the jukebox and talk about the day’s events or what was going on in our personal lives. A lot of them had friends who were dying or had died of AIDS. It was the first time I actually started to witness people grieving over such losses and it struck me hard.

I thought I was lucky when I got my first negative HIV test results, due to all the restroom romps, alley trysts and car dates. As I write this, I can think of dozens of other incidents I could tell you about when I had sex with a stranger or paid a hustler for their time. Time gets muddy, too. I know I cheated on Tiger a few times, but with whom exactly I couldn't tell you.

What I can tell you is after while, I saw less and less of Tiger.

We still had our Sundays, but they even were shorter in length.

*

I was excited with anticipation. The large capacity trash bag was filled with little trinkets, books, cards and what nots for Tiger's birthday. I was so excited. We had been together over a year and despite some shortcomings (what relationship doesn't have them), I was happy. He came to pick me up. My mother was even excited at all the little gifts I'd give Tiger and the cards. There was hardly a week that went by when we were together when I wouldn't send him a card. Hell, I had to show my affection for the man somehow. I was really trying, at that point, to not fool around. I figured I would clean my act up and devote my self entirely to him. After all, who's to say he didn't know I had stepped out on him with Allen and Lafayette - both of which were extenuating circumstances – and God knows who else.

We got back to his apartment, before going to dinner and he looked so awesome in his blue jean outfit - the jeans fitting him just right. He wore his cowboy boots, too. His sense of style drove me wild, especially at that time because we hadn't been intimate in a while. I wondered about this all the time, but I was going to be good and supportive to my man, nonetheless. That's what we're supposed to do when we are with our one and only. He was overwhelmed with my gifts. We shared some wine and then it was time to go out to dinner - his treat. See, that's the kind of man he is, treating me out on his birthday.

We stood by the doorway. I felt awkward because I wanted to kiss him, to hold him and make love right then and there. It felt like the right thing to do. He kissed me, looked into my eyes and asked what was on my mind. On my mind, I wanted to get on my knees and give him some oral pleasure right where we stood, but that's so not my style - believe it or not. Instead, I said nothing and we went out to dinner. See, and I was kicking myself for that all night long because I don't know if he would have tried to stop me or not. You're probably wondering why I would have even thought that. Well, you see that's the vibe I got from Tiger at that time, but I was blinded by my emotional attachment to him.

*

March 19, 1993

We were about to embark on our strategy for promoting The Ashley Correspondence. So, I set up a special meeting between Tiger, Arkadiy, Anatoliy and I. We met for about an hour, made sure we had our ducks in a row, had no idea how big this production would be and what standards it would set in the local theatre district - I was just a small little company with no name and most of what I learned, I learned from my dealings with Why Not Productions and they had upped and moved to New York. So, I was going about this practically blindfolded and a little gagged.

That's why the timing of Tiger's little "talk" with me was both a negative and a positive. Before we got to the meeting, he said there was something he wanted to talk to me about, but he would wait till after the meeting. Why was he being so serious?, I wondered. We went on with the meeting and I anticipated his "big news." The meeting happened and we no more than got into the car and I asked him about what he wanted to talk about. He nervously laughed, as he started driving, because I was an almost too eager beaver. It was like you really don't want to know that badly, do you kinda attitude.

I was excited about the meeting and how the production was going and he was finally ready to tell me what was on his mind. He said he hoped we would still be friends, but obviously I viewed "us" in a totally different light than he did and he just felt awful, but he thought I should know he was seeing somebody else. Brandy was a female impersonator who did shows and he was afraid some of my friends (most notably Diva Kingsley, who had seen them out), would tell me before he had a chance to. He had been seeing this Brandy a lot and thought we should move on and just be friends. He never wanted to hurt me; he knew how much he meant to me...

I thought I was going to vomit. I fell very silent and almost into an instant state of depression. He said since we would remain friends, he would still support me with and work on the play, but these new "developments" would probably change the outcome of the play's story. (Ya think?!) Wow! What a well-prepared statement, I thought. I wanted to cry, but didn't dare give him the satisfaction. I just remained completely silent the rest of the ride home. I didn't even say good night to him and as I got out of the car he just sighed.

What the hell?

Did he think I would be delighted at his "news?"

Did he think I would just go quietly into the night?

Did he think he could just cut me loose and be free of me?

Was I some kind of joke?

I would show him.

He would see.

And as far as the script changes because of new "developments" - YES!

There would be changes...you're got damn skippy there'd be changes.

Who the hell did he think he was?

-----

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Cover Photo by: C.A. McKenzie

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