Pee-Shy

Page

P

ROLOGUE

B

ILL CAME BACK TO ME IN A DREAM

during the winter of 2008. I saw myself as a little boy standing in the doorway of my parents’ home with my nose pressed against the screen waiting for him. As soon as his red truck appeared, the one with the storage shed built on the back that looked like a little house, I bolted outside. A warm spring breeze caressed my face as I raced across the lawn. Just as I reached the car, I woke up.

Alone in bed, I could still see his bearish face, the receding hairline, and those soft blue eyes as clearly as if he was sleeping there next to me in the dark. Soon more memories seeped out from the crevices of my brain, and it was 1978 again—the year I turned eleven and was first introduced to Bill. Over the years I tried to forget, but I can still see his bedroom with the drab wood paneling on the walls, the gunmetal-gray desk in the corner, and that iconic poster of Farrah Fawcett over his bed. Too many teeth, was my first impression when I saw it. I was nervous then. Why wouldn’t I be? I had been called to my Scoutmaster’s home for a private meeting. I never expected to be taken up to his bedroom, especially when I saw his old mother sitting stone-faced in front of the television downstairs.

Then suddenly, a growing uneasiness developed in my groin, and I knew that I would have to pee soon. That was easier said than done. I tossed and turned, postponing the inevitable for just a few minutes more.

PART I

C

HAPTER

1

Careful What You Wish For

I

T WAS A CHILLY

, rainy day in June. I was standing in the foyer of my parents’ home dripping wet and shaking in my Doc Martens combat boots. My mother was holding the ladder as my father changed light bulbs on the enormous chandelier that hung over the dining room table. When my mother noticed me, she let go of the ladder and firmly planted her hands on her hips. What happened? she asked.

My father wobbled unsteadily. Hold the ladder, he ordered.

But my mother had something more important to deal with now. What happened? she asked again, inching menacingly toward me. My father climbed down the ladder. Together they stood in silence, waiting for me to explain why I was home early from college.

I remember exactly how I looked that day: blue-black dyed hair, tattered Billy Idol T-shirt, rosary beads around my neck, vintage oversized herringbone coat, and my trustee boots that I wore almost every day even in the summer. I was a parent’s worst nightmare, and all because I was cursed.

For many years, I thought my life was plagued by bad luck, or what my Italian family called il malocchio. Growing up on Staten Island, I lived in fear that I had been cursed. Even my mother said I had no luck because nothing came easily for me. As a little boy I was bullied at school for being a sissy, and in high school I embraced this feeling of alienation by dressing completely in black and listening to punk rock. In college, I continued my rebellious ways and cut class to draw in my notebook and write bad short stories in the student center. After failing chemistry, I lost my scholarship to New York University.

The day I saw that F next to my name, I felt this peculiar sense of detachment because I had never flunked a class before in my life. Leaving school, I walked in a daze to the diner across the street and ordered a Spanish omelet, but I couldn’t eat a bite. It took hours for me to get up the nerve to go home. Once I got back to Staten Island, I walked all the way up the hill to my house in the rain. As soon as my parents saw me dripping all over their white marble tile, they knew something was wrong.

I failed, I said.

Then they began hurling questions at me in rapid fire. How did this happen? What were you thinking? How will you get into medical school? And my favorite: How could you do this to us?

I wasn’t shocked by their response.

Ever since I was a little boy, I always dreamed of being a small town doctor. It began when I was eight years old and my parents bought me a doctor’s bag for my birthday. Unlike their previous gifts—baseball mitt, toy rifle, Tonka truck—which were completely useless to me, here were the most peculiar instruments I had ever seen. Much like Felix the Cat, my favorite cartoon character, I now had my very own lucky bag of tricks.

Looking back, I know that il malocchio had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t cursed. I was sexually abused at age eleven, and all the unlucky events that followed stemmed from being molested. But that was something my parents never talked about, like premarital sex or abortion. Then, in the midst of all their shouting, I realized I needed professional help—the kind my parents should have provided for me when I was a little boy.

My best friend, Victoria, referred me to an art therapist named Olga Koniahin, an edgy woman with an auburn Mia Farrow pixie who wore long skirts with bold prints and lots of jewelry. I met with her on Tuesday nights in a small office in the basement of her house, but I kept this a secret from my parents, knowing that they didn’t believe in therapy. Telling family secrets to a stranger for money was considered foolish, especially since we had priests who heard confessions for free.

My sessions with Olga were the emotional outlet I needed. Within a matter of months, she concluded that being sexually abused had left me traumatized. This was complicated by the fact that I was also struggling with being gay. My rebellious behavior as an adolescent was a reaction to the shameful feelings I suppressed at having succumbed to my Scoutmaster—a man I’d grown to trust—and the unresolved anger I harbored toward my parents for the way they reacted after I told them. For years I suppressed these emotions, and throughout high school I denied my sexual impulses. Once I started college, these conflicting emotions became too much for me to manage. Losing my scholarship, according to Olga, was a cry for help.

Week after week, I marveled at how Olga was able to make sense of my life in such a short period of time. She felt I needed an outlet to express my feelings. I told Olga I liked to draw. She suggested I paint in order to begin the healing process. I started off small at first and then moved on to bigger canvases. I presented each to Olga so that we could discuss its hidden meanings, and then I stored them away in my own little studio in the basement of my parents’ house. I left a little piece of my unfortunate past in every painting, and over the course of the next three years, I graduated from college with Olga’s help and eventually went on to medical school.

My parents were delighted that my life was back on track. Of course they took all the credit for my progress, but they were also conflicted, knowing that I was about to move out of their house for the first time. My mother never got over the NYU fiasco. If she had her way I would have commuted every day to medical school, but I was determined to prove them wrong. So for the next four years, I lived like a Jesuit priest, dedicating myself exclusively to my studies and remaining completely celibate.

That all changed once I moved into Manhattan to begin residency in 1996. My cousin Alex took me to my first gay bar, called Uncle Charlie’s. Within a matter of months, I was dating men and partying in dance clubs on the weekends, high on life and something called Ecstasy and carrying on as though I was making up for lost time. Except once residency was over, I wasn’t so interested in dancing in a sea of shirtless men, and I was faced with the bigger problem of finding a job.

Lying in bed, jobless and single, I wondered where life was going to take me next. Then it occurred to me that I needed to rediscover the strength I’d gained with Olga, because I wasn’t going to find love or a job in a dance club. Luckily, I was offered a position in the HIV clinic at Cabrini Medical Center, and eventually I was promoted to clinical director. Meanwhile, I built up a private practice seeing patients in a very small office, which I dubbed the rat cage since it was located in a basement. Over the next six months, I saved up enough money to put a down payment on my very first apartment on West Twenty-third Street. Now I was a homeowner. It appeared as though my life was going in the right direction again.

Later that same year, I began dating a Russian named Ivan, who lived one block away from my new apartment. Fascinated by his background, I immersed myself in his culture, studying Russian for Dummies and reading novels by Tolstoy. He was very regimented and spent hours at the gym. Each night, I’d meet him after his workout and we’d eat sashimi at a local Japanese restaurant. Ivan was very strict when it came to his diet, and he hardly ever ate carbohydrates. On weekends, he treated himself to a glass of red wine. That was his only vice.

Ivan was also a nester and insisted we stay at his apartment. Most nights he’d watch CNN from his white leather bed eating unsalted almonds from a bowl on his lap. He often talked out loud to the television, commenting on the news. Ivan had strong opinions when it came to religion, politics, and relationships.

Several months went by, and we were sitting in our favorite Japanese restaurant. As always, Ivan took it upon himself and ordered for the both of us. Just tuna and salmon, he told the server. No rice! It never occurred to him that I might have wanted something else for once. In that moment, I imagined what my life with Ivan was going to be like—the two of us together, eating raw fish and no carbs.

After dinner, still haunted by the revelation I’d had at the restaurant, I scanned Ivan’s studio with new eyes. Suddenly, it occurred to me that he had decorated his apartment to reflect his myopic point of view. Everything was either stark white—including the painted brick walls, the parquet floors, and his leather bed—or jet-black, like his leather couch and replicated Barcelona chairs. Unnerved, I walked around in a trance. Was it possible that Ivan was as black-and-white as his apartment? The one saving grace was that Ivan introduced me to Eric. Once we met, we became best friends.

Eric was my age but looked much younger. He had wide-set green eyes, fair skin, and brown hair with blond highlights that he straightened with a flatiron. We both grew up in New York. Eric was born in Roslyn, Long Island, and I was from what he called the other island. In late November, Eric invited Ivan and me to a lovely dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, where he held a position as director of sales. That night I met his partner, Scott, a tall, lean man with dark hair, who was much more reserved than Eric. They were both Jewish and had been a couple for over fourteen years. At dinner, we discovered our shared fondness for television shows, particularly popular ones produced by Aaron Spelling during the 1980s and ’90s, like Dynasty and The Colbys. Scott and I were also obsessed with entertainment award trivia. Throughout dinner he quizzed me on the Academy Awards (a topic I considered myself an expert on).

"Who beat out Glenn Close the year of Dangerous Liaisons ?"

"Jodie Foster in The Accused," I said.

Very good, Frankie, said Scott. Looking over at Ivan, he asked, Where did you find this one? Ivan just focused on his filet mignon.

After dinner we walked down Fifty-second Street trying to hail a cab. It was late, and all the Broadway shows were letting out. Ivan stood at the corner with his hand held out, cursing the cabs as they drove by while Eric and I huddled together, arm in arm, for warmth. "Do you remember the lyrics to The Electric Company?" I asked.

Eric jabbed Scott in the ribs. Frank apparently doesn’t know who he’s dealing with yet. Then Eric pulled me toward him. I am an expert on children’s television. So if you want to go toe-to-toe with me, you’d better be prepared to go the distance.

After too many cosmos, I was feeling up for the challenge. Oh really? I said. "Well, do you know the lyrics to The Magic Garden?"

With an impertinent look, Eric said, Do you want me to sing Paula’s part or Carole’s?

It seemed I’d met my match. Right there on the street, heading down toward Times Square, Eric and I began belting out the theme song. The louder we sang, the more irritated Ivan became. You sound like a couple of hyenas, he said as a cab finally pulled up to the curb. Eric and I ignored him and laughed so heartily that we could barely finish the song. That night felt magical: the glow of the neon signs seemed to loop around us like a tilt-a-whirl.

Later Ivan scolded me. You were acting like a child, he said. You should be more of a man.

Throughout my thirties, I spent most of my time trying to have it all—boyfriend, career, success—and feeling like a failure. Nothing changed because I hadn’t changed, and as I saw it, there was only one solution. I had to get off the ride. After a year and a half with Ivan, we broke up just before my thirty-seventh birthday.

I told myself I would be strong without him. Now it was time to focus on one thing—my career. I promised myself I wouldn’t date anyone seriously for at least a year. I dedicated myself to building my practice by day; and at night, instead of searching hopelessly for yet another relationship to consume my time, I decided to write.

Eventually, Instinct magazine hired me to write a health-care column. That led to a monthly appearance on a gay radio show, Twist, where I offered health tips. Several months later, I had amassed enough information for a book proposal on gay men’s health.

Then something amazing happened. One spring morning in 2005, I woke up as usual to go to the gym. It was a typical New York day. The air was thick with humidity, and I could see the sun coming up over the East Side. As I strolled down the three long tree-lined avenue blocks toward the gym with my backpack over my shoulders, I decided to stop off at a Korean deli on the corner of Twenty-third Street and Ninth Avenue to buy a protein bar. I never ate before working out, but for some reason I was starving that day. While I paid the woman behind the counter, something caught my eye. There was a sign in the window of the building across the street. It read: D

OCTOR’S

O

FFICE

S

PACE FOR

R

ENT

.

The perfect place for my new office, I thought to myself. It had everything I was looking for: it was on the ground floor, it was in Chelsea, and it was on the same block as my apartment. The Korean woman behind the counter coughed politely to get my attention. In her hand she held my change. That’s when I realized there was a line of impatient people behind me. Immediately, I grabbed the money and ran out the door. I never made it to the gym that day. After I copied down the phone number off the sign, I ran back home and called Eric to tell him the news.

When I inquired about renting the office, I discovered that that building was actually part of a twenty-acre complex and all the ground-floor units were designated for medical purposes only. I scheduled an appointment to see the office that afternoon. Eric joined me. He thought it would be a good idea to tell the Realtor he was my lawyer, so he showed up in character, dressed in a suit and a long raincoat even though it was very sunny. Since he had a master’s in dramatic arts, he played it up, walking from room to room, asking the Realtor questions about price per square footage and negotiating a five-year lease once he heard the office was rent stabilized.

I watched Eric, trying my best not to chuckle as he paced around the room, hunched over with his raincoat trailing behind him like a cape. As the Realtor explained the building’s rules for occupancy, Eric furrowed his brow intently. I had to walk away to avoid laughing. Leaving them to talk in the front room, I wandered off by myself, imagining what it would be like for me to finally realize my dream of practicing medicine in my own Chelsea office. Two weeks later, I signed the lease.

Since the office was small, even by New York standards, I consulted with a carpenter to discuss renovations. To maximize the space, he built a small alcove desktop to house my computer in the corner of the second exam room. Above that, I stacked the shelves with textbooks, journals, and research binders. It was my own private little nook, and every day thereafter, I researched ideas for my book once the last patient was gone. It was easy for me to become consumed with work and writing. Avoiding the dating scene, I stayed true to my vow not to get into a relationship with anyone for a year. Three years later, I was still single and about to turn forty. Although love had eluded me, I no longer believed that luck or il malocchio had anything to do with my future success. I proved to myself that hard work mattered more. As it turned out, the Advocate, the oldest gay publication, agreed to brand my book once I completed writing it.

On the verge of my fortieth birthday, I decided to embrace the new decade: I said good-bye to my thirties by throwing myself a small party with my closest friends in April. Eric helped me organize the dinner at STK, a trendy new steakhouse in the Meatpacking District. The party was held in a private room upstairs from the main dining area. There was a fireplace in the center surrounded by white leather couches configured into a small seating area.

We dined on petite filets and drank bottles of pinot noir. Toward the end of the evening, my guests sang Happy Birthday just as Eric carried out a red velvet cake. Before I blew out the candles, he whispered, Careful what you wish for. It was then that I realized I had accomplished nearly everything I’d set out to do. I was a doctor in a solo private practice. I owned my own apartment and was about to become a published author. The only thing missing was someone to love.

C

HAPTER

2

An Old Fixer-Upper

T

HE WEEK AFTER MY PARTY

, I was in my office working when I received a phone call from Eric pretending to be a man from India who needed to see a doctor immediately about a hernia. Eric often made prank calls to the office. He had a large repertoire of characters and voices, but over time I’d grown keen to his various accents and it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to fool me. Most times I’d just let him go on until one of us broke out laughing. That afternoon, we were laughing so hysterically that my assistant, Gloria, had to intervene. Doctor, she said, poking her head into the exam room. Could you try to be a little more professional?

I first met Gloria years earlier. She was the receptionist at the first practice that hired me out of residency. Having saved a good deal of money working in the clinic and the rat cage, I was able to offer her a full-time position. Gloria was a petite woman in her forties and a single mother born in Puerto Rico. To me, she looked more Mexican with her long, dark, pin-straight hair, round face, and down-curved nose. We had a wonderful relationship. She was very dedicated and enjoyed my sense of humor. Patients loved her because she was kind and remembered them when they called. However, she also had a fiery temper and had no problem showing it when patients became aggressive or when drug representatives insisted on seeing me without an appointment. I often referred to her as my little Puerto Rican pit bull because she ran my practice entirely by herself.

Tell Eric you have to go, she instructed. Ginny is waiting for you.

Got to go, Mr. Gupta, I said to Eric. Mama Gloria is making me work.

But what about my hernia? insisted Eric, still using that awful Indian accent.

Good-bye.

Ginny entered my office holding a large cup of coffee. Hi, she said. I come bearing gifts.

Well, then, come right in, pretty lady, I said, standing up to take the cup from her. You brought me coffee? You can have anything you want.

I just wanted to check in and wish you a belated happy birthday.

Ginny was a pharmaceutical representative who worked in the HIV division. I’d known her for years and met her while I was chief resident. She was a pretty, fair-skinned girl with long, straight blonde hair who always smelled like lilacs. I always made time for her because she was a genuinely sweet person. Unlike some of the other drug representatives who were all about business and the hard sell, Ginny was more like a friend.

Over the course of the past year, her life had changed dramatically. She had gotten married to a man from Ireland, moved to the suburbs, and was thinking about having a baby. Today, there was something different about her. Her cheeks were flushed, and she appeared eager to tell me something. I suspected she was pregnant. I was right.

Wow, I said. You really didn’t waste time. You straight girls have that checklist down. Get married. Check. Get pregnant. Check. It’s like once a girl finds a guy who’s willing to settle down, they immediately become this other person. My sister Maria was the same way.

Oh, come on, she said, playfully swatting her hand at me. You know I’ve always wanted kids.

Okay, Ginny, you can drop the act, I said sarcastically. "Remember when I was chief resident, and we used to go out on Fridays? I don’t recall you talking about kids then. All we talked about was sex. But it’s okay. I get it. Yous a married lady now, Miss Scarlett."

Ginny dramatically flipped her hair behind her back. So, what about you? she said, trying to change the subject. Are you dating anyone?

Me? I said, sitting back in my chair. No way. Men suck.

You know, she continued, leaning in. I know this really nice guy who used to work for my company. I’d love to set you two up.

Why is it that when a straight girl knows two gay guys, she automatically assumes they’d be perfect together? I asked. There’s more to it than just being gay, Ginny. Sorry, but no thanks.

But why? she insisted. You’d really like Chad. He’s such a nice guy.

"Nice, I repeated. That’s code for unattractive or out of shape. I don’t want nice."

No, you want a bad boy.

Ah, yes, I said, standing up to open the door. That was true years ago. I’ve changed. I no longer desire the bad-boy type.

So why not give a nice guy a chance?

Grabbing her arm gently, I escorted Ginny out of my office. Thank you for the coffee, but you’re going to have to stop thinking of me as some old fixer-upper, I said, kissing her on the cheek. As lilacs filled my nostrils, I saw Ginny’s face turn dour.

I’m not giving up on you.

I appreciate that. Congratulations on the baby. Come back soon now, ya hear?

Ginny’s visit left me wondering why I hadn’t dated anyone since Ivan. Later that afternoon, I sat down by Gloria’s desk and asked her the same question. She was one of the few people other than Eric whom I confided in routinely. She knew all about my dating past and was one of a handful of people I told about my history of sexual abuse as a child. I was drawn to her because, like me, she felt disassociated from her family, having also grown up with strict, religious parents. She described herself as a rebellious young girl who chose to have her baby without marrying the father. I thought she was incredibly strong and admired her choices.

Her answer was simple. Love will come, she’d say. You just have to be patient. In the meantime, keep writing.

For some inexplicable reason, I valued her opinion more than any high-priced therapist’s. I took her advice. Over the course of the next several months, I devised a new routine for my weeknights: return home from work, eat Chinese takeout, and write. Since the deadline to submit my manuscript was quickly approaching, I worked feverishly every night after work to get it done. I created a profile on BigMuscle.com in order to amuse and distract myself and flirt with other gay men. One evening in August, while I was eating egg foo yung from a carton, I noticed a message from a man named Chad.

In his e-mail, he referred to Ginny and mentioned that she had been trying to fix us up for months. He wrote that he was looking through profiles and coincidentally found mine. I remembered thinking back to when Ginny visited me after my birthday. She’d described Chad as nice. She neglected to mention he was also hot. Attached to his e-mail were two photographs. In the first, he was wearing a baseball cap, a University of Arizona T-shirt, and jeans. The second was a close-up of his face. Unlike all the other men I ever dated, Chad had wholesome good looks, a perfect white smile, and the most brilliant blue eyes I had ever seen. He looked as if he belonged in a commercial for mouthwash or an ad for sugarless gum.

Unfortunately, Chad no longer lived in Manhattan. He worked for a pharmaceutical company in Boston and was in New York just for the weekend attending a business meeting. He wrote to ask whether I would meet him for a drink. I accepted willingly, but reminded myself that it was just a date and nothing more. As a rule, I never dated anyone who lived out of state.

I showed Chad’s pictures to Eric on his laptop that night while we were watching television in his apartment. Another blind date? he said out of the corner of his mouth. I thought you said you would never go on another one as long as you lived?

I know, but I don’t meet guys like Chad. No thanks to you.

Remember the time you went on that blind date with that guy who played the guitar?

He wrote me a song.

Yeah, and remember how embarrassed you got when he tried to pay for dinner using a coupon?

Chad is not some starving singer/songwriter.

Eric then adjusted himself in his seat. Remember the time you went on that blind date with Jason, who came back to your apartment and took a giant number two in your toilet and flooded the bathroom?

He was a pig. I chalked that up to bad Mexican food.

Oh really, he said, sitting up and drawing his legs under his buttocks. Remember Larry?

I turned my head away. Enough, I said, holding my hand up.

The dentist, he continued, the one who brought you back to his apartment, and there was a man standing in the corner of his living room alone in the dark.

Eric, I pleaded. How was I supposed to know he had a slave?

"Frank, he had a slave, repeated Eric, pulling on his hair. Who has a slave?"

I don’t know, I yelled. He seemed like a normal guy.

That’s my point. They all seem normal in pictures.

Eric, I haven’t been on a real date for over three years. I deserve it. Besides, what are my options?

I’m not saying you shouldn’t go, he said, reaching out and placing his hand on mine. You should. It’s just I don’t want you to set yourself up again. Remember, he lives in Boston.

I know, I said. I’ve completely prepared myself for that, and I’m not going to fall for him. It’s just a date.

Eric flashed me a sideways look. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I sensed Eric’s disapproval was partly selfish. Since the day we met, we had become inseparable. Once my relationship with Ivan ended, Eric and I grew even closer. Although he was in a long-term relationship, Eric’s nights were mainly unoccupied because Scott was a retail manager at Bloomingdale’s and worked until the store closed. When I wasn’t busy writing, Eric and I spent nearly every evening together. And even when Scott was home, we acted as if he wasn’t there, carrying on like schoolgirls, gossiping about the people we knew from the gym or what was going on in the world of celebrity tabloids.

Scott often grew bored with us and retired early. On weekends, after Scott went to sleep, Eric and I stayed up with their dogs talking and laughing well past midnight. Inevitably, Scott would come out of the bedroom to scold us. Girls, he’d say. You’re going to wake the neighbors with all that laughing. That earned him the nickname the Governess.

On the rare occasion when I did go on a date, Eric was often cautiously optimistic, but with Chad, I suspected he felt threatened. I think even Eric realized that a guy like Chad didn’t come by very often.

I

ARRANGED TO MEET

C

HAD

at a bar on Ninth Avenue called Kanvas. That Saturday night I arrived early and selected a seat up front so I could watch him walk in. I purposely picked a straight bar so that there would be no distractions. The last guy I’d gone on a date with had a serious case of gay attention deficit disorder. His name was Brett. We met on Fire Island after I resuscitated him from a GHB overdose. As we carried him to the ambulance, he woke up and stared right into my eyes. You’re beautiful, he said, before passing out again. Two weeks later, Brett called after he tracked me down through a mutual friend and asked me on a date. I knew rule number one of medicine was to never date your patients, but I reasoned that Brett was simply showing me his appreciation for saving his life.

We met at an Italian restaurant on Eighth Avenue. Before we were even seated, Brett called the server and ordered a gin and tonic. I asked for the same even though I hated gin. Brett then proceeded to talk and talk until our drinks arrived. Within ten minutes, I realized that this was the worst idea I had ever had because Brett kept staring over my shoulder. I watched as his pinpoint pupils followed each passerby until they were out of sight, and then his head shot back like an old-fashioned typewriter only to latch on to someone new who was probably more beautiful than me.

Glancing at my phone at Kanvas now, I noticed Chad still had ten minutes. Outside, the sun was setting, and the air was heavy with moisture. The windows to the bar were wide open, and tables were set up along the sidewalk with people enjoying drinks in the light of the early evening. I sat there at the bar wondering whether I’d worn enough deodorant and anxiously sipping watered-down vodka