I’m not a jerk
I’m not a jerk, I just act like one sometimes. At least that’s what I seem to tell myself every now and then when I realize a pattern in my life that doesn’t fit with my idea that I’m a good guy. I thought this recently when I for the second time, encountered a guy I’ll call Black Brother.
I first was introduced to Black Brother at a social event, a men’s intimacy seminar. It was brief and we were cordial, but sparks didn’t fly, the big Networker In The Sky didn’t seem to give me a sign that this acquaintance was annointed or that I should make a deeper connection with Black Brother in order to benefit us both. So I took it as just a fleeting meeting. Honest truth though, I now know why I didn’t pursue getting to know this brother more — it was his class or what I thought his class was — HIV positive.
It’s probably true that in some places, it’s common to discriminate based on sexual orientation, marital/single/domestic partnered status, or even health status. Haven’t we all read ads that seem to require responses only from guys who have hours of time to spend in the gym? I mean really, not everyone has the time to have (nor should all need to have) a body like that, in order to be desirable. Body Perfect is over, and I’ve prided myself in being open-minded about age, body-types and even health do a degree. But this particular Black Brother and my feelings to my idea that he was HIV positive threw me for a loop.
It reminds me of the days when I was just starting to come out to myself as a gay man; the days when I wasn’t ready to be publicly associated with guys who were “known” gays. It was low self-esteem and fear all over again.
Even more honest truth. Part of me thinks that the reason I freaked out for the second time is because I felt somehow that this brother wanted to have more than a professional relationship. He wanted — or for some strange I projected it in my mind — more than this safe seminar experience.
He wanted, or I imagined he wanted holding hands. My mind said, “Oh, yea. I could do that.” He wanted, or I imagined he wanted closed mouth kissing. My mind said, “O.k., yea. I could do that too. I could do close-mouth kissing.”
He wanted, or I imagined he wanted open mouth kissing or more, and my mind freaked. I freaked. I probably had cold hands. My handshake probably didn’t seem right. The look of fear in my eyes… he probably knew the score. I tried to hide it, but he seemed to sense something, maybe this thing that I’m writing about now.
I wonder if he thought I was jerk? Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I’m not a jerk. Really, I’m not.
