The Fabulous 5000

The Costume

The Fall of 1992. My life was framed by the twinkling, lighted marquee of the Fabulous Fox Theater. I lived at The Ponce, a grand, pretentious old high-rise on an avenue named for the Spanish explorer's endless, foolish search for eternal youth. I was dating—or rather, serially seeing, a fetching young graphic designer. But there were no attachments, no sitting still. My commitment was to the appointed rounds, the relentless, necessary attendance and support for the next fundraiser. So, I was off again.

It was time again for my annual pilgrimage with friends to the Halloween New Orleans fundraiser supporting Project Lazarus. The theme this year was Dungeons and Drag Queens. At the Friday reception, in passing, I was introduced to a small group who had traveled down from Manhattan. They seemed nice enough—but carried too much East Coast certainty.

On Saturday, the performance began. I was off to the warehouse party, fully armored. I donned my denim, black leather vest and biker cap—the full Tom of Finland theater, a hyper-masculine fantasy I inhabited. This was the forming ‘Ideal’ I had consciously designed to replace the insecure college kid I had been only years earlier. The party was a chaotic mass; running into anyone twice was an absurdity. But I did. I saw the group from Manhattan. Trying to remain in character, I maneuvered toward him. He was dressed in black army boots, a short kilt, no shirt, and a troll doll wig—a brilliant, chaotic signal of defiance that blew apart the entire theme. I introduced myself. He replied, with a bored economy, "Yes, I'm Tom—we met last night," turned on his heel, and walked away. A clear rejection, delivered with the casual brutality of a New York traffic light.

Later at The Pub, we simply nodded in recognition of each other. But upstairs just off the dance floor, around two in the morning, as the crowd had thinned, I found him standing next to me at the bar—both of us watching the light show and the few remaining dancers. 

Our eyes met. I said, simply, "It's late."

He replied, "Yes."

"Want to go home with me?" I asked, cutting through the noise.

He looked back at the dance floor, his face obscured by the strobe light and paused. "I think I'll walk around a while longer," he said, making the decision itself the object of high drama. "But if we're both still here—in twenty minutes, maybe."

We were. And we did. So off we rode on my motorbike, me in my leather, and him, in contrast, in a troll wig and a school skirt.

The next morning, a friend asked, "So, who’s the guy with the chest from here to here?" motioning from far right to far left. "My guest for the weekend," I replied, already trying to minimize the man who had just blown a hole through my carefully controlled life. Tom was to become my third partner; the second partner I'd met at the Halloween New Orleans party, and the second HIV-positive man to enter my life.

The Approaching Storm

Soon, I was back in Atlanta and my life of work, gym, the Armory. And Tom, back to his life in the Big Apple. We talked often by phone. I even visited him for a short weekend, but the gravitational pull had begun. In March, he announced he was planning a move to Coral Gables. He asked if I would like him to stop through Atlanta for a visit. I agreed, the theatrical staging of fate now complete.

That Friday, the fetching young man I had been seeing on occasion asked what we would do for the weekend. "I have a friend visiting, so I won't see you until next Tuesday."

He replied: "A friend? Or a 'Friend'?"

"That shouldn't be your concern," was my clipped reply.

On Friday afternoon, Tom arrived in a moving truck packed with his belongings. We found parking for it then had a nice dinner and evening together.

The storm began on Friday, March 12, 1993. Over the weekend, Atlanta was hit with over two feet of snow. The Blizzard of '93. The truck, too expensive to let sit, was unpacked and returned. Tom never left. And I never saw my fetching young man on Tuesday—in fact, we didn't speak for years. The hand of fate had decisively swept through.

Swissvale Paradise

After several months in Atlanta, my professional career, that engine of my personal transformation, transferred me to South Florida, so my No. 3 and I moved. A picturesque three-bedroom cottage in Victoria Park with a yard full of mature mango trees. Outwardly we soon became one of the new "it" couples in the Fort Lauderdale gay community. We also traveled relentlessly, connecting with old friends, meeting new ones—Mardi Gras, New Orleans; Pensacola on Memorial Day; Black Party, New York; and most importantly, White Party and Winter Party in Miami. Though we struggled together in those first years—fits and starts, ups and downs—the allure of the Beach was calling.

We moved again to a little four-plex, The Swissvale, just off Lincoln Road Mall in South Beach. We both loved the sun, the beach, the slower daily pace of it. We thrived together and grew more and more in love. We made the perfect home for ourselves. I met and befriended many of Tom's friends and his family. And my family and friends loved Tom. My mom, a woman who had seen her share in life’s parade, would simply say: "Tom's a character. I don't think I've ever known anyone quite like him." And neither had I.

Our group of friends and acquaintances, often beautiful, successful, talented men—a well-curated constellation of egos and expense accounts—were eventually dubbed "The Fabulous 5000." A number, we joked, that represented the minimum social velocity required just to stay in orbit. It seemed we were all everywhere—all at once. Wherever there was a gay event, a fundraiser: Gay Ski Week, Hotlanta River Raft Race, Black and Blue Ball.

Orbital Decay

We rode that wave for a few years, but then I began to recognize things were changing. 

The very scaffolding of the caring brotherhood we had invested in since our youth was rotting from the inside. Many of the well-meaning, necessary fundraisers of the mid-80s had simply evolved into something hollow. As more people overdosed, habitually fueling themselves with substances just to ride—or desperately cling to the top of—that relentless calendar of dance parties, the circuit became toxic. Many of us had grown to taste the bitter tinge beneath the enjoyment. It was the antithesis of everything we had once envisioned to honor our lost friends and support ASOs.

The altitude was unsustainable. The ground seemed to drop away and I felt more and more severed from the real world. The ‘Ideal’ I was chasing became a lead weight.

The performance was relentless. Yet, in the mirror, I still saw the pathetic skinny kid with the mouse-colored hair. The validation was a crushing, bewildering void.

I had retreated from intimacy, hiding behind the travel and parties and my curated persona. In doing so, I had allowed my partnership with Tom—the first man I ever truly loved—to wither and fracture, just like the very community that had birthed it. The performative male, center stage was blinded by the footlights. The man I had constructed seemed incapable of sustaining the love I needed most. 

I broke things off with Tom. It was a failure of self-awareness so complete, I didn't recognize its magnitude until years later. The inevitable break-down and clean-up of the theater set had begun. 

Back I went to Atlanta—my boomerang city, my place of comfort. I didn't know it then, but the descent had only just begun.