The man who wasn't there

Dear Jason,

I asked you the question as I went to the kitchen to make two cups of herbal tea. It was late at night, you had just arrived, and been shown straight to the cat-hair-free bedroom because you were allergic to my feline companions, my usually reliable secret weapons of hospitality. I said “fuck it” to myself, and invited the lie. “What’s your name?” I asked, lightly, even though I knew you had pointedly not told me on our online chat. Don’t ask for credit, as refusal often offends. I had your internet nick, handle, ID, loginname, username. That’s the easy one. That’s the name that offers access to your computer screen, to your private isolated self, where anything is true if you want it to be.
I heard you say “Jason”. I knew it wasn’t the name that your friends called you, your family, that name. It was a different name. The name you use for sex. That truth. A slight hesitation, a little catch in the throat, a semi-tone off. But I let it go, like a spark falling on newspaper. I didn’t fan it to flame with moral outrage – I felt the slight sting, an angel sigh, and we carried on with the night of talking. Despite your hidden identity, you were not closed, but open to thought and feeling and curiosity. You weren’t like other men I’ve met before, who were married, or fearful, those other men who have called themselves “Jason” or “Steve”. I believed that you were a single and gay – I believed you had been hurt after your last relationship. I believed you are searching for monogamy. So why, I wondered, were you lying? Was it another “all men are bastards” scenario being enacted before my eyes? If so, it was breathtaking.
Some things are true on whatever scale, Beaufort or Richter. We relaxed with each other easily. Our agenda was to talk and see, to explore. And that we did. And, despite the flurried heat of our initial exchange on the Net, we ended up just talking and cuddling and sleeping, avoiding the suffocating firetrap of the little death, too soon. Intact, safe. Warm.
And so you became, effortlessly, the first man who took up space in my bed at night, that wasn’t a friend crashing, this year.
You told me that you were emigrating in a couple of days, leaving for a brave new world and a new life of creativity and openness. I smiled when you said that. Rueful. I’ve become better at avoiding bitterness. That came later, for a short while. Then rage. Then resolution. And now? Wonder.
So, this is the supreme test, I thought, of living in the moment. Can I enjoy being with a big, beautiful, inspirational man for the briefest of nights and not go crazy with regret that it’s my only chance? In a city with too many brief encounters and no continuity, what am I to make of the first interesting man to come along, who also happens to have a cast-iron reason for brevity? Enjoy it. Life’s too short.
And I did.
Breakfast in bed. The bread wasn’t the best, it was too early in the morning. I left you, stranger with the false name, in my flat while I went to get you milk. Of course I did. There are other ways of knowing about people. What’s in a name?
And then we parted, a bright warm smile from you and a wave. A happy day for me.
And then, the next day, the email I’d written to you at the address you gave me bounced. And that’s when the rage came, a storm that battered me inside for days. I do what I usually do with such turmoil – sexualise it. It worked, in its unsatisfactory way. I calmed down. I wondered whether everything was a lie, whether I had imagined it all. I began to wonder about the citadel that so many men build around their hearts, with diamond-strong battlements of falsehoods and charm and bravado: no way in. The glossy persona that cannot be stuck to, the free spirit that will not be trapped or grounded. Men that look as if they’re warm and open, but who have insulated themselves from emotional connection, and have mastered the sport of seductive no-strings sex to compensate. It’s safer that way.
I knew that wasn’t you. But, still, you left in exactly the same way.
I saw Will Young sing his beautiful single ‘Leave Right Now’ on Pop Idol on the Saturday, my date having blown me out, and found myself in tears. Here’s a gorgeous young man who’s taken the time out this year to write new, personal material – one of the first ever pop artists openly gay from the start of their career, and obviously bringing that consciousness to his work. “My racing heart is just the same/Why make it strong to break it once again.... Somebody better show me out/Before I fall any deeper/I think I’d better leave right now.”
But you said hello online today from your new life abroad – and that was sweet. You were still sticking to “Jason” but my rage had gone. What use is it being angry when there are so many more Jasons out there? It can’t be just that I attract them. It’s a feature of being a creature who loves men. They will open their hearts only when they want to, and won’t be told. And some, bless ’em, never do.
You told me enough about you for me to Google you, and find out your real name and something of how creative you’ve been. I’ve ordered the book you wrote, and I’m looking forward to reading it. The problem with creating brave new lives in new continents is that the internet is already there waiting for us, reminding us of who we were. It’s not a bad thing. But only if you need to keep your truths separate.
Someone told me this week about a Hindu saying that, paraphrased, speaks of how someone who loves always, knows freedom – whereas someone who seeks only to receive love is always enslaved. I’ve certainly been a slave, rattled my chains with the best of them. Poetically enough, I’m now a therapist – the word comes from therapos, a freed slave. But am I truly free? Can I love the Jasons of this world, and not want anything back?
I can. And do. Were I to live life over again, I’d probably do the same. I’m a bit like a moth banging its head against a light bulb, seeking the sun.
I know no other way.
With love and best wishes for your new life,
“Bootboy”.