Now that I’ve experienced a loving gay relationship, I feel more alone than I did before I knew what I was missing. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Sean; I’m surprised how affected I am by losing him. There’s no one I can talk to about it, and my letters to Susan, Stacy and Miriam have all been perfunctory. Denial, mostly.
As we got into bed, Sean took off a high school ring and put it on the night table. I asked if it was his, and he said, “No, my boyfriend’s.” Sean never did lie to me, I know that. I always knew he was seeing other guys. I just feel foolish for thinking I was more important in his life than I actually was/am.
This fall weather reminds me of the rough times I went through breaking up with Shelli and with Ronna; I’m annoyed with myself for being so vulnerable to Sean. Yet I’m also pleased, in a way, for this means I’m not yet dead emotionally – not if I can still feel these crazy feelings about Sean.
It’s 4 PM on a gorgeous, warm afternoon. I guess I don’t often enough record how happy I am, how much I love life.
I’ve sold over $200 worth of books in the past week. In terms of finances, being on The Neil Rogers Show was the best break of my career. Obviously, I do well on radio.
At the banquet, I sat with four of my fiction workshop students, all Carolina ladies of middle age (three white, one black), very cultured and refined. The meal was surprisingly delicious, and the conversation over dinner was stimulating. What a nice change from teaching grammar at BCC!
The class seemed quiet until Benett and his friends started shrieking “Gay power!” and other chants I couldn’t make out. I went on with the punctuation lesson except for a comment about Tourette’s syndrome victims; Robbie caught my eye and smiled. Later, I told him I’d see him in the play he’s acting in.
I was asking students to give me an adjective, and after two girls said “little” and “short,” I laughed and said, “You’re looking at me.” I heard Benett say, “Then they would have said faggot.” “That’s a noun,” I told him. “And here’s another noun for you: asshole.” He and a couple of his friends walked out of class.
This morning the Miami Herald photographer came and took pictures of me by the local Arby’s. I half-dread the story because the reporter will be out to make me look like a fool. Still, I suppose that may help to sell the book.
I heard those three goons in the back of the class call another kid (not to his face) “the fag”; they’ve also made anti-Semitic remarks. Today they guffawed throughout the class. Of course, it didn’t bother me that much because I’m going to have the last laugh. And so will the gay kid, Robbie, an outgoing, smart theater major.