Young American Gentlemen

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Young American Gentlemen of the 21st Century

It is spring, the season most notorious for inspiring the hopeless romantic, you know, those pathetic people who pick flowers from the meadows and write poems about the changing season as if it was their job. Love in the air apparently, makes me begin to itch…I’m allergic to love at this point, much like I’m allergic to goldenrod, those horrific puffy yellow things that grow in the ditch behind the dorms that some people dare to call flowers. Those are the malicious yellow horrors that grow in the supposed meadow. As for poetry,it makes no sense: the snow is melting because the earth’s axis is now in a position closer to the sun, not because the fuzzy love bunnies came out to play. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “Someone’s a little bitter.” Well you’re right. I am bitter. I do want those golden flower things to be retrieved from the ditch for me by a charming man who will teach me about the fuzzy love bunnies melting the snow. However this breed of man seems to be endangered in these days of late. The young American Gentlemen of today are quite different that those from the yester-year. They have new takes on courtship, dating and life in general. Everything is backwards. First comes sex, then, well, love just sort of happens. Accidental.

What if it all was an unofficial audition?


There's this man. I met him a little over a year ago. We got together, fell in love, had a great time, then fell into a bad spell of poor communication. We broke up for a short spell ( that seemed like ages) and then we got back together. Sounds pretty simple and predictable when I put it like that. But the thing is, it's not boring at all. It's the most exciting love affair I've ever had and every other lover pales in comparison. I've always been a cynic. I've thought that the person one ends up with is the one that annoys them the least. You know how in the intro I sound cynical and I have been for years. What's changing? Am I really in love this time? I don't know, but it's a strange feeling that I like a lot. He's used the word forever and it doesn't scare me. I've used it back and it was sincere. What in the world? I like this. I hope it lasts. For some reason I think it will.




OK. The best relationship I've ever had is in the ICU and it's half my fault. What to do? This is worse than I imagined.


Dear Mr. NOW,

I wrote you a love letter and it sat around for a month before I threw it into the trash along with the notebook it was written in. It's true, I have a commitment problem. I love you today. I may or may not love you tomorrow. I don't want to cheapen love notes with half sincere words and send them to every gentleman I fall in love with. If I do that then by the time I'm 30 there will be multiple love letters circulating in this existence that I'll wish I never sent. I don't believe in "the one." I get more excitement out of "the one for Now". I like open endings, tentative plans (there's a difference between tentative plans and being blown off) and journeys with no destination in mind.

When the excitement of '"Now" drains low, I'm turning the page. It's nothing personal, but of course I can't write that in a love letter. I know love isn't as romantic and cottony as its reputation. Actually I'm glad it's not. That would not only be boring but exhausting. Here's the long and short of it: I love you. I missed you when you were gone all weekend, you make me smile, you challenge my heady opinions and you make me want to be a better person.

But I'll never be 100 percent yours. For instance, today I woke up and spent the day with myself. I had such a great time. I missed you and thought how great the next time we meet will be: passionate, pure and adoring. But because I am who I am I don't think another person will ever make me complete. Why? Because I already am sovereign in my happiness. I'm afraid that some things never change. And if I ever do end up with anyone (it may or may not be you), they will understand my need for solitude, my need for a private life, even from them. And they, too, will have their own life to tend, things they rather enjoy that have nothing to do with me. And when we do meet it will be like it is with you, Now: passionate, pure and adoring. But it's a fine line between freedom, space, and bad communication. While I like my space, I also like to be able to count on a lover's word. I'm not hard to please.































Earning my stripes: The Infatuation:

Dear what's-your-face:
I love how passionate you are about politics. The way your voice raises a little bit when you're upset at what you just heard on NPR. Your eyes are so clear, sometimes I think they're bottomless, I could sink beyond return. So I try not to look. Do you notice that when we're talking I'm looking at anywhere but your eyes? It's not because I'm crazy. Well, maybe I am. But right now you are the man of my dreams, and I can't have you. I can't even try. I know you're not perfect. No one is. I know now that whoever you end up with is the person that annoys you the least. But there's something special about you. I noticed that the day we met, and you were wearing a gray shirt and stained jeans and work boots. I love how plain you dress. You're absolutely unpretentious when you have every reason to be. Not only are you brilliant in your academic discourse, but you have a fundamental understanding of the city you live in. That's saying a lot, but I won't go into detail because the internet is weird and you or someone you know might end up reading this. My secrecy is imperative. But I have to tell someone. These feelings for you are building up like a storm in my body. I feel you all over, I dream about you at night, and when the sun rises I have daydreams.

It's evening now. I feel like there's so much still to know about you. I can't leave before I find it out. If I leave I might never see you again, and that's something I'm not willing to risk. I do admit that not seeing you again may be better in the long run. I understand and respect your commitment and relationship with your lovely lady. She is delightful and you two, of course, deserve each other.

But is it wrong to look? To talk? to enjoy each other's political rants and raves and maybe a smoke here and there? Sometimes I sit at home trying to decide whether there's a loophole in the ten commandments, because I covet you every day.

When news breaks about X or Y, I want to call you. I want to know what you think. I want to meet outside and talk about it. I want to stare at the speck of paint on your face because you've been working all day and you're covered in it. that way I can keep my eyes out of yours.

But I know you look at me. I caught you a couple times. Nothing pleases me more. And when you said I was pretty, I was tickled. You probably have no idea.

I hope we stay friends, after I'm long gone outta this dismal place. I hope we both come back. I hope we both find happiness. I wish you joy as I wish myself: in abundance. You deserve every favor that comes your way. You have saved a community. Don't ever think you're wasting your time. The work you're doing is historic, and brilliant. And I'm not easy with compliments.














Young Secure Gentleman:
His name was Paul Ramond, well, actually that wasn't his name, but names don't matter to you (unless you're paul, or me who's interest it is at this time to keep his identity unknown).
Paul walked around from day to day with his chest up, chin up, looking straight forward and not concerned with people who talked about him, bad or good. He was beatiful and confident enough to sit alone at lunch but humble enough to let all of his admirers sit sit next him. Almost too confident. He let his looks warp his world to the point where he did not know the difference between him, and the center of the universe.
He was a couple years older than me but no more mature. I could see that when he picked up where I left of at phone tag. He called himself "the king." I'm not sure the word Queen was in his vocabulary.

I might as well fess up now, my taste in men is famously bad.






























A Modern Gentleman:
He smiled and nodded after hearing my story...well, the big parts of it anyway, from beggining to end. It was New Years Eve and a time for making new friends, I suppose. After I drew my tales to aclose, I expected some of the usual reaction, you know, the immature questions regarding nudity, regarding my accent, regarding my wardrobe, and the awkward "did you use war paint ans spears?" question. But instead he leaned back and took a sip of his champagne and said. "Yeah, I know how it is. When I was in India......" And he matched my story, bit for bit, shocker for shocker and we compared scars. Afterwards, we became friends, as is to be expected of two like minds, and the reason he does not get a number like the rest is that he is, in my mind, an example, one of the reason I have not given up on young american male species entirely. His good looks never corrode his humility, and the looks of others do no deter him. He is a true humatinarian, and for these reasons he is such a good friend of mine. We will only ever be friends because, well, it is all to pretentious. Whoever he marries, I will be at his wedding and if I ever get married (god fucking forbid), would only be honored if he could be there too. He departs from the Midewest, he departs from the USA in the fall and he is one of the few who actually carried out his dreams, regardless of circumstances.
He is vocal, he is intellegent, he is handsome, worldly, well dressed and well spoken: he is a Young American Gentleman.
Andrew, if you ever read this, just know I mean every word.







Gentleman I
He was a brilliant young man; there was no confusion about that. One could merely sense a certain depth about him from the consistency of his eye-contact and his thoughtful conversational impromptu. But behind the atmosphere of intellect that seemed to surround him loomed a great unknown. He had a three dimensional presence, one that gave birth to many questions, yet only conceived answers. After my first encounter with him I left his side feeling an unshakable understanding that he was not common. I drew upon that conclusion quite instantaneously upon engaging in his conversation. However, his motives were intangible and it was difficult to distinguish between dry humor and spontaneity; he spoke with such calculative randomness. I believe he thought himself somehow enlightened and superior in intelligence though his pointed theories were well diluted with ambiguous words. Never once did I loose myself in following his strain of thought and never once did I feel he was advanced in any way beyond my comprehension; only enshrouded by an idiosyncratic freedom. Young James M. was a man of thought without boundaries and master of his own world: a world he was rarely obliged to depart from even to appease his public. There, he would be center of attention in the walls inside his head. Indeed he seemed eager to please no one but himself inevitably, in more ways than one: he spoke what he thought and was motivated by the idea of heightening his own status just to stare down at the faces of others. In his mannerisms however, he seemed quite subtle; this ego seemed not to be written on his face or spoke by his tongue: nothing about him was so direct. That is what set him apart; that and the fact that he was one hundred percent Italian and could no longer eat pizza. He was a living contradiction that could spout line after line of Shakespeare or Whitman, and that he, in his own words, described himself as a “recovering Catholic” despite of his family origins.

Gentleman II
He was grounded to some degree, while still possessing the freedom that comes along with youth. His presence exuded youth in appearance and culture though he somehow he seemed to live beyond his numeral age in years. Unlike his twin brother he did not harbor mystery of any sort, and while there was no doubt regarding his intelligence, he seemed to perform on an academic level. Young Lorenzo had a naïve charm, though I doubt naïve is the best word to describe his academic knowledge. To be a young M. was to be naïve to some degree… and to be young is to be naïve on more levels than one, but he had harnessed that naivety and he was in control, unlike some misguided young gentlemen of the Grosse Point area. No, he was quite calm in his life, and as far as I could tell, quite satisfied. He was not one to complain of trivial mishaps, and his youthful face was frequently graced with a pleasant grin unless he was imitating Dave Chappelle and claiming to be Rick James (bitch) and then smiles and laughter were abundant. In the few hours we made acquaintances he seemed to be more of a realist, unlike his brother James who was constantly basking in ideals such as his stab at the discovery of the potency of pornography. In this real world Lorenzo seemed content however, rarely seeking escape from his own reality by means of drugs or television, though he more often than not engaged in the latter. Sunday night Sopranos, boys, enjoy yourselves. And whether it be clicking on soundboards on the internet or speaking of an old professor of his, he seemed thoroughly entertained, and one could assume easily that he was not void in any need or desire. When served up contradictions he waived his opinions in order to escape argument though he never came off as unassertive. He got what he wanted out of life within his own understanding of things and did not trouble himself questioning controversial matters. He had no problem quoting Tony Soprano while admitting the television character was a bad man and not attempting to draw parallels or make explanations to justify his actions. His adaptive qualities let him enjoy simple pleasures of life without becoming too involved. Part of his charm was his calm, indeed between him and his wily twin he seemed to hold a voice of reason. He remained intelligent on conservative grounds and was not unwilling to learn, thus demonstrating fluidity in thought.


Gentleman III
“Pardon me but I got paper to chase.” He sat at the wheel of a red pickup truck contemplating, or rather, re-evaluating his pre-calculated plan. No, he was not malicious nor did he have any ill favored intentions. If he, his personality, and his actions could be defined by a shape it would, undoubtedly, be a blunt object. There was a raw sense in all he did, nothing was refined. No time was wasted in trying to word things eloquently and no thoughts were concealed in his head, they just had a way of running unchecked at they sprung from his brain and darted to his mouth where they catapulted out with no such thing as resistance. But what Hood lacked in tact he made up for, somehow, in charm though charming is not quite the adjective that best describes some of his spoken prose. Perhaps amusement would be a better word for the energy of his presence. He seemed easily amused in simple and intricate conversation as long as the topic did not wander too far into the jargon of academia. No, our young Curtis decided it not his to go to college. He found his calling in, well, self-employment so to speak. He had a dream and a rather simple one in fact. His eyes were set on a “certain place” in which, as rungs on the latter to getting to that “place” were many legal and illegal methods of approach. He took both: either/or pending the gage of profit.
Ahh yes, he was an entertaining specimen, to this day just the thought of him puts a crooked smile on my face. He struggles with life, as we all do, making plans he could not keep, falling in love only to get his heart broken by his call to make profit. This young gentleman loved money yet his love of the puritan work ethic somehow clashed with his materialistic obsession, therefore, he stepped onto the other side of the law, leaving behind any romantic affiliations, any feelings other than the love of money.
Nothing describes my taste in men better than the word poor. Hood fit the poor category very well, though his “thuggish” style was rare to my past collection of mens. Yet, I remember a point back in the spring & summer of 2004 when I was wildly infatuated with this specimen not even I could tell you why; perhaps it was his calm reactions and his mysterious unavailability. But I do remember that every time I saw his face it was like cool, cool water running down my back. I would play memories of my dates with him over in over like film that never stopped, although I knew how it would end, I couldn’t help but watch. In the spring, I worked through lifeguard training; it would be dishonest to say that my mind was ever really intent upon lifesaving procedures, rather contemplating whether or not Hood would call me like he said he would.
All summer this sort of game played out, his was deliciously unattainable and I was blinded by infatuation, and then he sort of faded out just as summer has a way of doing, not to be heard from until NEW YEARS 2005 at around 1:00am:


The ball had dropped an hour before and I was well on my way to obliteration and dialing under the influence when up came Hoods number on my screen, and out of sheer impulse, I pressed the green “send” key… and got his voicemail. I left a message that must have given away my state of mind, for minutes later he called back. I'm almost sure it is the best new years kiss I'm ever gonna have.

Gentleman IV
If there is a type of young man whose description cannot be harnessed into words Thomas R. would be that type. I cannot tell you how broad and open this young man seems at first, and yet, how he closes down so fast. There is nothing I can use to sum him up, for though the word “open” comes quite close, does not cover for the times he is reserved as a clam. I was absolutely wild about this young gentleman, to the point where food seemed a secondary necessity, and everything that was not his was an unimportant afterthought. He seemed spontaneous and impulsive, which I believe he is, undoubtedly, almost to the point of naivety is up for anything, anytime such a spontaneous spirit, I hardly believe he considers half the proposals he creates. It seemed at times that he felt the need to constantly entertain, never sat back and let things go. He claimed he never cared about what people thought but I feel that he cared far more than he let show…just not for me.

Aye, there's the rub.

So I let him go, because I'm not a stalker and it took what seemed like ages for him to become a secondary, and now, an afterthought. I have never been in love, and maybe I never will be. But if love is any stronger than how I felt about Thomas..it might kill me, because the feeling nust be so VERY intense. As for now….I am not sad, I don’t regret anything…when everything is lonely I can be my own best friend. What’s so easy in the evening, by the morning’s such a drag.

Gentleman V
He thought he could sing like bob Marley. He thought he could play guitar like Bob Dylan. He thought sex on the first date was standard. He thought he was a Christian. He was a republican. One other thing regarding his personality is certain: he acted like a ten year old child when he was not humping your leg like a dog. There were some endearing qualities to him, undoubtedly; otherwise I would stand insulted to have ever encouraged his company. He had the naïve, unabashed charm that could put at least a small smile on the most severe faces…and when he spoke he spoke to everyone. He was an entertainer in many respects but unlike Mr. Thomas he was not putting on a show for other people, he was putting it on for himself.

Okay I’ll finish this later I’m getting tired, it can only go downhill from here. As you can tell they're geting more and more recent. What sat is that V stops at 2004...hehehe.

I wasn't kidding when I said famously bad.