QColumn: A Gay In The Life: State of Mind

State of Mind
By Steve Prince
“Taxi!”
A yellow blur whirled past me, oblivious to my call. I held my hand up and called again.
“Taxi! Taxi!”
Quickly a cab parted from the snaking line of cars and halted at the curb’s edge.
I opened the door and jumped in.
“The Lighthouse at Chelsea Piers, please.”
I looked out the window. The Chrysler building sparkled in the afternoon sun—a gorgeous day in Manhattan, especially for one of my good friend’s weddings.
Sue Ellen and I met seven years earlier in the summer of 2001, the first summer I began teaching musical theatre at an all girls’ fine arts camp nestled in The Berkshires, a beautiful area of western Massachusetts. The Berkshires has been a famous upper class vacation spot for over a hundred years, beginning with families like the Rockefellers and the Hearsts.
In other words, this camp was for rich girls. And when I say rich, I mean RICH. Like Ralph Lauren’s daughter goes to this camp, rich. In one of my classes, one of my students was sad her father was going to miss Parent’s Day. She said she didn’t understand why he had to go to the Netherlands to open a store. Naively, I said he probably is doing the best he can. She replied, “But he owns Domino’s, why can’t he just not go.” Yes, her father owned Domino’s Pizza. I’d never see money like that unless I learned to shit diamonds.

When you work at a camp where you are teaching everyday, you quickly bond with your other counselors—mainly because you’re so sick of the motherfucking kids.
Sue Ellen was a voice teacher at the camp and even though she’s a woman, she’s one of the gayest “men” I’ve ever met. I mean she’s a musical theater loving, Grey Garden’s obsessing, will-stop-everything-to-watch-The-Hills loving, gay man. I was truthfully glad she finally met a man to marry that wasn’t gay; three of her ex-boyfriends were queer, which was a problem for a bit.
Another thing, Sue Ellen and I bonded over our being Southern. She’d been born and raised in Monroe, North Carolina. In fact, Sue Ellen’s family was one of the founding families of North Carolina and she actually had a debutante ball when she was a teenager. Her family had old money as well.
Her wedding in Chelsea was to be an event that spared no expense. The wedding coordinator had planned everything to a T and our camp friends were coming in from all parts of the country—it’d be nice to catch up.
The cab driver honked at a pedestrian and yanked me out of my thoughts. I hoped I wouldn’t be late. If so, what would be my excuse? Well, because I had to walk. Sincerely, I doubt I could ever be a real New Yorker. My sense of direction is for shit. And while I actually enjoy the freedom of not having a car, without a GPS system in my car… whew! Forget about it! I get all kinds of turned around.
As the driver careened down the Manhattan side streets, I tried to take a deep breath and calm myself. Oddly, the endless, muted sound of cars honking soothed my anxiety somewhat. Oh how I hate being late, especially to weddings.
Five minutes later, I grabbed my suit jacket and tossed a ten at the driver.
“Thank you,” I said, clambering out of the cab. I trotted towards the entrance, my new dress shoes tapping loudly as if to announce my arrival.
Oh good, I thought as I walked inside; I wasn’t late. Hastily I made my way into an almost empty aisle and took a seat, took in a deep breath, and sighed. It was then that I noticed how beautiful the Lighthouse was; Sue Ellen couldn’t have picked a more gorgeous place to have her wedding. The large hall had floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the Hudson River, the iconic New York City skyline looming in the distance.
As the string quartet began a new song, heads turned. The ceremony had begun. As if on cue, the last rays of sunlight sank behind the tall concrete and steel shadows. The skyline’s edge shimmered like a cloud’s silver lining. The Hudson’s water lapped on the pier with anticipation.
And as soon as it began, the ceremony was over. Literally, it was probably only fifteen minutes… now for the party.
The guests began to shuffle toward the bar and appetizers while the wedding parties stayed to take pictures. They drew a curtain to give the photographer privacy. I glanced at the crowd. Immediately I saw some fellow instructors from music camp. In fact, I saw my old camp roommate, Tom.
Tom and I were roommates for two consecutive summers and, I have to admit, I once had a crush on him. He was a beautiful man, extremely intelligent in a bookish sort of way. We also got along famously as roommates. People often called us the gay “Odd Couple”, with my loud, outgoing attitude complimenting his quiet reserve and dry wit. When I say I had a crush on Tom it really was just that, a crush. In fact, everyone had a crush on Tom: the campers, the female staff, and most of the male staff (straight and gay) thought Tom was simply a sweetheart. He was just a likeable guy. Unfortunately for everyone else (but luckily for Tom) he had a boyfriend—Stephen.
Any feelings I had for Tom, quickly vanished when I met Stephen. They really were the most perfect couple in the world. Just as cute, Stephen and Tom seemed to go together like milk and cookies. When you saw them, it was hard to imagine how they ever were NOT together. Their relationship seemed serendipitous, yet destined.
I greeted them both with hugs and we quickly caught up. Tom and Stephen had just bought a house in New Hampshire, an old colonial home and they were fixing up bit-by-bit. I glanced at the pictures on Stephen’s iPhone. The home looked like something out of a Martha Stewart catalogue. Damn. Why is it so expensive to live in California? Their life seemed so perfect.
The three of us headed to the open bar (several times) and nibbled on various, random offerings from caterers who wiggled through the crowd like trout moving upstream—purposefully, efficiently. It was probably the most expensive and nicest wedding I’ve ever attended.
Suddenly the string quartet stopped playing. Behind the curtain came a loud blast of jazz. And as the curtain opened, the crowd gasped as a nine-piece jazz orchestra was revealed in the center platform. Flanking the band on each side were round tables laden with grey table cloths, topped with tall stands holding four bouquets of red roses. Hanging from the roses were lit candles, which seemed to float magically in their glass vases.
To say it was stunning was an understatement. I felt as if I was actually in a movie, like Father of the Bride or 27 Dresses. It was that fancy. In fact, the rest of the evening moved like a film. Everything that happened was what you’d expect at such an event. The couple made their entrance, had their first dance, the father danced with the bride and the groom danced with his mother. The best man and bride’s maid gave speeches that made you laugh at first, but at then gradually got everyone all teary. Dinner was served and everyone mingled. The couple cut their cake and soon it was time to toss the bouquet. And then at one in the morning, they were off, and it was all over.
About thirty minutes after the couple left, I hung behind talking to Tom and Stephen. The band was packing up while the waiters continued clearing the tables. Finally, as our laughter from an old reminiscent story died down, Tom and Stephen went to fetch their coats from the concierge. I waited for them and sat at my chair staring at the empty dance floor.
I’d forgotten how much I loved weddings. I’d forgotten how important every detail that goes into planning a wedding seemed to me. I’d forgotten that I wanted to get married. I wanted this to be me. Not now, but eventually. The only problem was that eventually didn’t seem to soon.
Damn you, Disney movies! How I loved them as a boy; Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty were my favorite. I’d watch them over and over, not realizing the ideas being implanted into my young, gay brain. I looked at the empty table. It sounded soooooo lame to say this, but where in God’s green earth was my motherfucking Prince Charming, dammit!
Ten chairs sat empty around me. Tonight everyone that sat at this table was in a relationship, except for me. Everyone there had someone to lean over and whisper in his or her ear. Everyone there had someone to hold hands with under the table. Everyone there had someone to gingerly lead out onto the dance floor when the band played, Just the Way You Look Tonight. A faster song had been playing before, but when the music changed to a slow song, I walked to my seat. I didn’t have a dance partner and that bugged me—it made me feel sad.
I looked back at the empty dance floor and sighed. I always get sentimental like this at weddings; I knew the feeling would pass. Still, I sat there and longingly looked across the Hudson at the New York skyline, speckled with flecks of golden light. Like a tall tree, the Empire State Building rose from the buildings, bathed in red and white lights. There I sat in one of the most crowded cities in the world, staring at one of the most romantic buildings in the United States—a building where thousands of people proposed to one another every year. There I sat there wondering who was in that city falling in love tonight.
And I knew that tonight it wasn’t going to be me.
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Years after moving from Oklahoma, Steve Prince is still acclimating to the gay scene in Los Angeles—he’s a slow learner. By trial and error and a lot of sex, his mission is to make the uncomfortable, comfortable. Also it should be known that he is gayer than butt sex.
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Previously, on A Gay In The Life:
The Birds and The Birds
Lyin’, & Twinks, & Bears—Oh My!
Going Public
Christmas in July
Luck Be A Lady Tonight
I Left My Heart In Oklahoma
As Luck Would Have It
Shock & Awe
Blame It On Britney
The Unending Journey
Makin’ Copies
Bullets and Bracelets… and Lube
To Tell The Truth…
Stars Aren’t Blind
The Dark Knight
Come As You Are
A Date?
A Happy Ending
Better Than Nothing
A Man With A Slow Hand
Taking The Long Way
Everybody Knows
Wake Me Up, Before Ya Go-Go
Definition
The Best
The Upper Hand
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
2000-Date
Dick The Halls
The Queer Dear
A Night At The Museum
A Conversation
I’m Just A Girl Who Can’t Say No
Change The Way You Feel
Kissing A Fool
Leo The Lamb
The Elephant In The Room
Zuckerman’s Famous Pig
A Birthday Surprise
The Sleepover-er
SP Phone Home
Out of the Frying Pan and into the Closet
What If…
Just Beat It
Intimate Portrait
Intimate Portrait (Part Deux)
Intimate Portrait (Part Trois)