Part II: The Prince and the Beast

The flowers arrived on a Tuesday. A dozen roses. They sat on my desk, ludicrously 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. I start my description with this, because Charlie was a statement. 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, a Gilded Age microcosm. With his youth, charm and good looks, Charlie had become its favored son, adored by all of 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. A ludicrous 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 to New Orleans to live with him. 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.

So, 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 BAO. I left it all to become “Charlie’s boyfriend.”

The challenge was delivered. But I hadn’t realized it had now changed. I hadn’t considered the duties and responsibilities of this new role. I was cast as an appendage—an extension of someone else. My world was broadening, but I was miserable. I truly wanted - needed my own journey of personal growth. I wanted to become more, to transform, but 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 quickly 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 became my number two. My second significant other, and my first sero-discordant relationship—a distinction that had surprisingly little to do with the growth and 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 all external metrics, was the very ideal of the gay man. This ideal was confirmed during our travels to major social and fundraising events, a circuit that spanned the country, even internationally. Like in the Disney film, the ‘beast’ had now transformed to also be a prince.

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 shocked, disappointed, and certainly angry, but maybe I also felt it was fair vengeance. The real shocker, of course, is that he didn’t even die! 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 and it was 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.”