Confession of a Homophobe – Part Two
Going to Esalen was so far outside of my comfort zone I almost cancelled. I started pacing, worrying. Why did I even think this was a good idea? I worked as a bodyguard. I fought MMA. I didn’t go to hot springs with hippies and “lovers” and people who say, “Art,” like they’re having an orgasm.
I misplaced Faraway Places. I am pretty sure I did not lend it to a friend.
But if I wanted to get better as a writer, I had to push myself. I needed to surround myself with the best. I didn’t want to look like an idiot so I purchased all of Tom’s books, ordered them under my wife’s account so I wouldn’t have to see “Buyers who liked this product also bought this.” Who knew what might start popping up on my browser. Tom’s narrators were gay or bisexual. I’d never read anything with more than one guy in a sex scene unless there was a woman in the middle. I read genre. I shied away from anything literary. But I had to get a feel for Tom’s style.
Luckily, the books arrived in that cardboard Amazon packaging. For all the mailman knew, I was ordering Fight Club and Cujo. I could still look him in the eyes. I shut the door, brought them upstairs in case friends stopped by. The books stayed on my nightstand for a few days.
I reminded my wife, “These are just for research.”
Finally, one night after she’d fallen asleep, I cracked the first one open. I told myself if it got too weird I’d just replace “he” with “she” and everything would be fine. But I started to worry, What if what people said was true? What if homophobes are just secretly gay?
Oh God, what if I got turned on? What if my wife turned over and saw the sheet tented, both my hands holding Tom’s book?
But within a couple of pages, I wasn’t thinking about anything but the writing. I’d heard Tom was a great storyteller, but his attention to language was beyond anything I’d ever seen. His narrators’ sexual orientation didn’t matter; these were living, bleeding human beings, each one so painfully complex, fumbling, failing, struggling to find themselves, to find love. They just wanted to be happy and free, but living in the straight world, they faced the intolerance and hate.
A motorcycle and a mean face. Very manly.
Over the next couple of days I read the rest of Tom’s work. Then it was time to leave. I decided to take my motorcycle, blasted my metal for the six-hour ride. I wore a tank top so my tattoos were on full display. Didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea as I pulled into Esalen. The place seemed eerily quiet.
The ride up the coast had wrecked my back. My whole body was sore. I saw a sign for those cliff-side hot springs. It was late Sunday night, cold enough for a jacket. I figured the baths would be empty and made my way down the hill. The restroom was quiet, a few soft voices floating over the waves lapping at the rocks. An older man was walking up with nothing but a towel draped over his shoulder. I’d read nudity was encouraged. It actually sounded good. I was soaked with sweat despite the cold breeze. I tore off my clothes before I could chicken out.
There were two choices for the baths, a “quiet” side and a “silent.” Silent seemed safer so I hurried for the entrance, almost bumped into Tom and his partner, Sage, the three of us standing there naked clogging the doorway. I’d been in locker rooms my entire life, so being naked around another guy was never a big deal. You just nod, grunt, and move on.
But after reading Tom’s books, I wasn’t just a fan; I’d come here to learn from this man. I didn’t want my first impression to be some ape shoving past him, but I also didn’t want to start up a conversation without pants, so I gave a little wave. “Evening,” I said. My voice sounded higher than normal. We were still crammed in the door. Tom smiled. I slipped through and kept walking. I could feel myself blushing. It was so embarrassing.
Luckily, there was no one else in the baths, so I hopped in a private tub, disappeared in the tendrils of steam.
Our first workshop was early the next morning. It was my first introduction to Tom’s “Dangerous Writing,” a brand of minimalism that sends the author exploring the uncomfortable places he’s afraid to go. Another way to get naked. Not only did I make a major breakthrough in my writing, but also as a person. I spent the night writing a tear-stained paper, my two-page assignment suddenly six pages long. I’d uncovered an old wound that’d been buried twelve years. Now I was pulling it up from the ground, scrubbing it with salt.
By sunrise, that dark secret that’d been eating away at me was scabbed over and healing. I could finally move on.
Nearly everyone in that group had a breakthrough and I felt the true power of writing. That workshop is the reason I’m putting together these MMA anthologies. I know everyone has a story in them and even if it’s not perfect, it’s helpful to spit it out.
And the other thing that workshop did was force me to face my prejudice against homosexuality. I was open and exposed, and no one judged me. They didn’t place their antiquated beliefs on what I’d done or who I was. And the love I saw between Tom and Sage was more than I had seen in most straight marriages.
How could that much kindness and compassion be wrong? Who was I to judge someone’s happiness? It’s none of my business.
Since the workshop, I’ve made a few gay friends. I wasn’t trying to prove something. I just wasn’t closing myself off. Being gay doesn’t make you awesome, just like being straight doesn’t.
And this brings me back to my definition of a man. I used to think it meant you needed to be big and strong to protect your loved ones. But that’s just a bodyguard.
The most popular answers I’m given by fighters are Integrity, Honesty, and Loyalty. I’m right there with them, but I’d like to add to it.
Being a real man means to be kind and caring, loving and compassionate. Being able to express those emotions to those around you, not simply assuming they know. And not limiting that love to only those that share your same beliefs.
Being a man means being willing to question your beliefs. If you immediately respond strongly to something and you’re not sure why, a real man looks at himself and evaluates. A real man wants to be better and does everything he can to get there.
We all have our flaws. It’s our job to sift through the hate and figure out what’s best for us, our families, and everyone around us.
Being a man is being able to stand up for what’s right, not caring what others think.
I’m just learning that. In the past I often wanted to walk the line, not upset anyone, but if I’m not willing to make a stand for justice and equality, then what kind of world am I leaving my daughter and my unborn son?
I’m glad I waited until now to have a son. I’m going to be able to point at so many Unlocking the Cage interviews and show him some great examples of real men. I can point to Tom and Sage and show him two more. I’ll tell him they love each other and are married, and with his judgment unclouded by my ignorance or some religious text, I can guess what he’ll say. It’s beautiful.
[image error]If you’re a writer, watch this video and find the next Dangerous Writing workshop.
If you’re looking for a tattoo, check out Sage’s work. Here’s what he did for me.
