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Feels Like the First Time
Feb. 13th, 2005 11:58 pmSetting: Norwood, Massachusetts
Time: Valentine’s Day 1989
The Occasion: My very first romantic, home-cooked dinner in my very first apartment with my very first serious boyfriend.
Tom and I had been seeing each other for two amazing weeks filled with long talks, cheap food and wine, and all the fucking two horny 20 year olds could do without landing in the hospital for dehydration. Having come Out at the age of 15 and growing up around gay teen organizations and rallies, he was schooled in the language of homosexuality while to me it was still like listening to a man speak in old testament inspired tongues. The nights spent exploring our maturing sexuality in the twin beds of our youth were the very best of times. After two weeks of orgasms and pillow talk, we decided to make our new relationship official with a romantic dinner for two on Valentine’s Day. I promised to make him lasagna and he promised to bring the wine. Candlelight was a forgone conclusion.
The day of the dinner, I began preparations early. Far from the cook that I am today, the Daniel of yesteryear spent most of his time in the kitchen trying to emulate his mother without burning the house down. With a torn notebook page of ingredients and $20.00 saved up all week from skipping lunches, I went to the store to buy my first home cooked romantic meal for my very own boyfriend. I’d never felt so joyously gay in my life and I don’t think I ever have since…
At 1:45pm while buying the pasta, the chills began to set in.
At 3:05pm, the headache began to ramp up to noticeable intensity.
At 4:50pm, when the last of the lasagna was layered into the baking dish and covered in foil, the stomach cramps hit.
At 5:30pm when the lasagna went into the oven and I began chopping lettuce for the salad, the cold sweats forced me to put on a new, drier set of clothes.
At 6:35 when the candles were lit for Tom’s eminent arrival, I was praying for death.
Determined not to let the flu spoil my perfect night, I dredged forward; sure that if I called Tom to cancel our very first Valentine’s Day dinner together he’d leave me and never look back. I’d spent too many nights as a lonely gay teenager daydreaming about romantic dinners with my very own imaginary boyfriend to let anything keep me from the real thing. My first place was small and sans dishwasher. As I worked on the meal, I dirtied every single pot, pan, and utensil in my cheap set of hand-me-down cookware and thrift store crockery as I tried to achieve culinary excellence. By the time dinner was complete, my kitchen was the Julia Child equivalent of the Love Canal. Angels feared to tread past the sink of dirty dishes while HAZMAT teams stood nearby to take out the trash and blast off the baked-on mess and splatters of the stove and counter top. Mentally roping off the area with imaginary yellow police caution tape, I declared the kitchen a no fly/no guy zone and prayed he'd never see the wreckage upon which his meal had been created.
When Tom arrived, the lights in the kitchen were turned off, Barry White was playing in the living room…
…yes I said Barry White. As corny as it sounds, I still think Barry White’s voice is one of the sexiest things in the history of old school sexual politics. When it comes to romance I’m a traditionalist…
…and the candles were lit on the old lobster trap I used as a coffee-slash-dining table. In the dim flickering light of romance, I almost passed for healthy. Almost. Concerned for my health, Tom tried to get me to sit down but I’d worked too hard to let some damn virus cock-block my planned evening of romance and love. There was also no way in hell I was going to let Tom see my kitchen in the shambles that I’d left it. Forcing him to sit down, I brought his dinner out from the kitchen and we held hands and stared at each other while we ate. The wine, of course, began to hit me early on since I hadn’t successfully eaten much in the way of solid food all day. As to be expected, not long into the meal I began to get sleepy. Pushing the dinner plates out of the way, Tom forced me to lay down on the couch with him and told me to take a nap. Knowing the holocaust in the kitchen awaiting me, I refused twice and tried to get up to clean the mess and reclaim my honor. A lifetime of watching my mother and grandmother cook genetically demanded that I clean up the mess before Tom could see it. Both times Tom tricked me into staying beside him with little kisses on my neck and whispers of love in my ear. Looking back now I can see how I was being played, tricky bastard that he was, but at the time I was oblivious, sick and a little drunk on wine and the sound of his breathing as I laid my head on his chest. Without realizing it, I’d soon fallen asleep in his arms while drenched in candlelight and cheap chardonnay kisses.
Three hours later, I woke up feeling rested and cool; wrapped in my grandmother’s afghan and dressed for bed in a t-shirt and boxers. Without giving thought to how I’d fallen asleep on the couch or how I’d gotten undressed, I staggered into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The bright florescent light hit my groggy eyes as I turned the corner and it took a good three minutes of open-mouthed gaping for me to start to process the shock of what I was seeing. After lulling me to sleep on the couch and getting me into some comfortable clothes, Tom went into the kitchen and washed every dish, scrubbed every countertop, and put away every utensil. He had taken the garbage out and even scraped a bit of the burnt lasagna out of the stove. (There was a tiny issue with sauce overflow during the baking process.) He had also snuck out to the store during my coma. Sitting on my clean kitchen table was a small glass of Orange Juice, a small glass of warm ginger ale, a shot of Robitussin, and a red rose. Realizing I was awake, he turned around from the sink just as he was drying the last glass and came over and held me close when I started to cry.
Sixteen years have passed since that night. Tom and I eventually hurt each other terribly as only first time lovers can do. To this day, however, we still keep in touch and I’m happy to say he’s found the love of his life and has been in a long-term relationship with the lucky guy for over eight years. Over the years I’ve had other candlelight dinners; made love out in thunderstorms, and fallen asleep on more than one chest I swore I’d love forever. I’ve held hands during romantic movies and I’ve wished upon the stars that the love of my life would sense me searching for him. Love has come and love has gone as it tends to do in its fickle manner. However, nothing has ever been as romantic or special to me as waking up that night in 1989 and finding Tom, shirt sleeves rolled up and grinning, standing in my kitchen at the sink asking me if I felt better. Depending on the time of day you ask me, I can give you any number of reasons I think I’ve been single for so long. One of the reasons I’m not ashamed of however, is that my standards and expectations are occasionally just too damn high. That may very well be the case because in my eyes, I’ve already had the best kind of man my first time at bat and all others that followed are victims of comparison.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Thomas.
Time: Valentine’s Day 1989
The Occasion: My very first romantic, home-cooked dinner in my very first apartment with my very first serious boyfriend.
Tom and I had been seeing each other for two amazing weeks filled with long talks, cheap food and wine, and all the fucking two horny 20 year olds could do without landing in the hospital for dehydration. Having come Out at the age of 15 and growing up around gay teen organizations and rallies, he was schooled in the language of homosexuality while to me it was still like listening to a man speak in old testament inspired tongues. The nights spent exploring our maturing sexuality in the twin beds of our youth were the very best of times. After two weeks of orgasms and pillow talk, we decided to make our new relationship official with a romantic dinner for two on Valentine’s Day. I promised to make him lasagna and he promised to bring the wine. Candlelight was a forgone conclusion.
The day of the dinner, I began preparations early. Far from the cook that I am today, the Daniel of yesteryear spent most of his time in the kitchen trying to emulate his mother without burning the house down. With a torn notebook page of ingredients and $20.00 saved up all week from skipping lunches, I went to the store to buy my first home cooked romantic meal for my very own boyfriend. I’d never felt so joyously gay in my life and I don’t think I ever have since…
At 1:45pm while buying the pasta, the chills began to set in.
At 3:05pm, the headache began to ramp up to noticeable intensity.
At 4:50pm, when the last of the lasagna was layered into the baking dish and covered in foil, the stomach cramps hit.
At 5:30pm when the lasagna went into the oven and I began chopping lettuce for the salad, the cold sweats forced me to put on a new, drier set of clothes.
At 6:35 when the candles were lit for Tom’s eminent arrival, I was praying for death.
Determined not to let the flu spoil my perfect night, I dredged forward; sure that if I called Tom to cancel our very first Valentine’s Day dinner together he’d leave me and never look back. I’d spent too many nights as a lonely gay teenager daydreaming about romantic dinners with my very own imaginary boyfriend to let anything keep me from the real thing. My first place was small and sans dishwasher. As I worked on the meal, I dirtied every single pot, pan, and utensil in my cheap set of hand-me-down cookware and thrift store crockery as I tried to achieve culinary excellence. By the time dinner was complete, my kitchen was the Julia Child equivalent of the Love Canal. Angels feared to tread past the sink of dirty dishes while HAZMAT teams stood nearby to take out the trash and blast off the baked-on mess and splatters of the stove and counter top. Mentally roping off the area with imaginary yellow police caution tape, I declared the kitchen a no fly/no guy zone and prayed he'd never see the wreckage upon which his meal had been created.
When Tom arrived, the lights in the kitchen were turned off, Barry White was playing in the living room…
…yes I said Barry White. As corny as it sounds, I still think Barry White’s voice is one of the sexiest things in the history of old school sexual politics. When it comes to romance I’m a traditionalist…
…and the candles were lit on the old lobster trap I used as a coffee-slash-dining table. In the dim flickering light of romance, I almost passed for healthy. Almost. Concerned for my health, Tom tried to get me to sit down but I’d worked too hard to let some damn virus cock-block my planned evening of romance and love. There was also no way in hell I was going to let Tom see my kitchen in the shambles that I’d left it. Forcing him to sit down, I brought his dinner out from the kitchen and we held hands and stared at each other while we ate. The wine, of course, began to hit me early on since I hadn’t successfully eaten much in the way of solid food all day. As to be expected, not long into the meal I began to get sleepy. Pushing the dinner plates out of the way, Tom forced me to lay down on the couch with him and told me to take a nap. Knowing the holocaust in the kitchen awaiting me, I refused twice and tried to get up to clean the mess and reclaim my honor. A lifetime of watching my mother and grandmother cook genetically demanded that I clean up the mess before Tom could see it. Both times Tom tricked me into staying beside him with little kisses on my neck and whispers of love in my ear. Looking back now I can see how I was being played, tricky bastard that he was, but at the time I was oblivious, sick and a little drunk on wine and the sound of his breathing as I laid my head on his chest. Without realizing it, I’d soon fallen asleep in his arms while drenched in candlelight and cheap chardonnay kisses.
Three hours later, I woke up feeling rested and cool; wrapped in my grandmother’s afghan and dressed for bed in a t-shirt and boxers. Without giving thought to how I’d fallen asleep on the couch or how I’d gotten undressed, I staggered into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The bright florescent light hit my groggy eyes as I turned the corner and it took a good three minutes of open-mouthed gaping for me to start to process the shock of what I was seeing. After lulling me to sleep on the couch and getting me into some comfortable clothes, Tom went into the kitchen and washed every dish, scrubbed every countertop, and put away every utensil. He had taken the garbage out and even scraped a bit of the burnt lasagna out of the stove. (There was a tiny issue with sauce overflow during the baking process.) He had also snuck out to the store during my coma. Sitting on my clean kitchen table was a small glass of Orange Juice, a small glass of warm ginger ale, a shot of Robitussin, and a red rose. Realizing I was awake, he turned around from the sink just as he was drying the last glass and came over and held me close when I started to cry.
Sixteen years have passed since that night. Tom and I eventually hurt each other terribly as only first time lovers can do. To this day, however, we still keep in touch and I’m happy to say he’s found the love of his life and has been in a long-term relationship with the lucky guy for over eight years. Over the years I’ve had other candlelight dinners; made love out in thunderstorms, and fallen asleep on more than one chest I swore I’d love forever. I’ve held hands during romantic movies and I’ve wished upon the stars that the love of my life would sense me searching for him. Love has come and love has gone as it tends to do in its fickle manner. However, nothing has ever been as romantic or special to me as waking up that night in 1989 and finding Tom, shirt sleeves rolled up and grinning, standing in my kitchen at the sink asking me if I felt better. Depending on the time of day you ask me, I can give you any number of reasons I think I’ve been single for so long. One of the reasons I’m not ashamed of however, is that my standards and expectations are occasionally just too damn high. That may very well be the case because in my eyes, I’ve already had the best kind of man my first time at bat and all others that followed are victims of comparison.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Thomas.
