Part II: Prince Charlie

The flowers arrived on a Tuesday. A dozen roses. They sat on my desk, bright red, an offense to the neutral institutional palette of my office. My colleagues, my friends, were as shocked as I was. I had never, in my life, received flowers. Not for anything. From anyone.

For years, I was the sort of man other men simply re-noticed. One hundred and thirty-five pounds, still torturing that same mouse-colored hair that defied all attempts at discipline. Not a compelling package. I was a year into my studies—MBA and Public Health—and had already survived four on-again, off-again years with my first significant other.  So, I knew the mechanics of love and relationships, but I had never been pursued. Certainly not by anyone like Charlie.

Charlie was the live embodiment of Prince Eric from Disney’s Little Mermaid - and in many ways, the gay ideal. I start my description with this, because Charlie was a so striking. Everyone immediately loved and adored him. 

Who could resist that smile, those sparkling blue eyes? 

I chose the metaphor of Prince for Charlie because that was the role closest to the one he occupied in New Orleans gay society. The community there had developed almost as a dark mirror image of the city’s high society—formal, hierarchical, and seemingly ancient. With his youth, charm and good looks, Charlie had become its favored son, adored by all its social arbiters.

It only helps explain why I was so gobsmacked to be pursued by him. At the time, Disney’s Beauty and the Beast seemed a more fitting metaphor for our pairing - this seemingly absurd match. But maybe, given the transformation I would soon undertake, it’s a perfect one.

The first night—before we became intimate—he took a quiet moment to tell me he was positive. It was an act of profound, terrifying honesty. It was his condition, but it became my choice. We dated long-distance for thirteen months, Birmingham to New Orleans, missing only two weekends.

I held my own against the upper crust of his society friends. I grew to be accepted, befriended. But probably because of the sheer, unlikely audacity of our match—my distinct lack of equal appearance and charm—many of his closest friends offered me their pity disguised as sympathy: “How tough it must be,” they’d voice, “to be the ‘other’... the one cursed to live in the shadow of the shining light that is Charlie.”

After over a year, Charlie asked me to move in with him in New Orleans. He had never lasted more than a few months with anyone. He had never lived with anyone. He had certainly never presented anyone for approval by the courts of New Orleans gay society. The acceptance felt like victory. Coincidentally, I had been recruited by Caremark for a job there, so the move was on.

I left Birmingham on December 6th, 1990. I left the deepest friendships I had ever known. I left my academic and professional careers. I left my volunteer work at Birmingham AIDS Outreach. I left it all to become “Charlie’s boyfriend.”

The challenge was accepted, but the reality was a sudden, icy shock. I hadn't fully considered the duties and responsibilities of this new role—and the profound loss of my own agency. I was meant to be an appendage, a mere extension of someone else, cast as a supporting character in Charlie's story. My world was indeed broadening, yet I was utterly miserable. Then, a clarity broke through the darkness: a single, decisive question. Could I possibly become the ideal myself, rather than simply being with the ideal? The choice became clear, and I made it almost overnight. I would map out my own journey, a transformation on my own terms.

So, on December 28th, 1990, I abruptly broke it off with Charlie. I’m certain he thought, It must just be a case of cold feet. Who could imagine that the partner he’d chosen—the one blessed to be with him—would ever leave? Never.

I signed a lease on a fourth-floor walk-up in the newly gentrified warehouse district. I lived there for eight months before accepting a transfer to Atlanta. I moved on to continue my adventure: another geographical and professional shift, another push of the reset button, a continuation to strive to become the gay ideal.

Of course, I soon heard Charlie was furious. He was embarrassed. Mortified. How could I have done this? How could anyone deny Charlie, turn their back and walk away, with all of New Orleans gay society watching? It was unforgivable.

Charlie was my number two. My second significant other, and my first sero-discordant relationship—a distinction that had surprisingly little to do with the flowering or demise of our relationship.

My personal and professional adventures carried me back through Atlanta and eventually to South Beach. By this time, I had acquired my third partner—and my second consecutive partner who was positive.

But I had become a study in conscious, desperate design. I was spending up to two hours daily building and finely tuning a physical appearance that, by most external metrics, was the very ideal of the gay man. This ideal seemed to be validated during our travels to social and fundraising events, a circuit that spanned the country, even internationally. Like in the Disney film, the ‘beast’ was now transforming to be a prince himself.

Then one evening my phone rang. Charlie's best friend was calling.

“John - I’m calling about Charlie. He’s in intensive care. Doctors don’t expect him to live through the weekend. He’s asking for you, John. He’s in and out of consciousness, but when he’s lucid he asks to see you - before it’s too late. Can you come?”

How could I not. I called the airline, booked a ticket and flew to New Orleans the next morning.

There I sat at his bedside. He was gaunt. One could hardly reconcile that the man in front of me was Prince Charlie. He looked so frail and vulnerable. There I sat for maybe an hour, holding his hand, before he woke and turned to look at me.

His voice was a whisper. He said, “John”... “John, I’m so glad you’re here.” “John - I don’t have long, you know.” “John - I just wanted to say - needed for you to know…”

He paused.

“John…” and then with a much clearer voice, he squeezed my hand and said, “I want you to know that I’ll never, ever forgive you for what you’ve done to me.”

I was shocked, even breathless for a second. Shaking my hand from his grip, I turned, left the room, went back to the airport and flew back to Miami. I was disappointed - and certainly angry, but maybe I also felt it was fair vengeance. The twist, of course, is that he didn’t die that weekend. His condition improved, and he went back to live at home.

And me? I was back in South Beach, enjoying my daily grind for another beautiful winter season on the Beach. 

In August, the phone rang - Charlie’s best friend again.

“John - I’m calling about Charlie. He’s in intensive care again. Doctors don’t expect him to live through the weekend. He’s asking for you, John. Can you come before it’s too late?”

I replied: “Call me when he dies. I’ll come to the funeral.”

Charlie died August 14, 1996.  

I attended his funeral - and met his parents for the first time.