Pippin and the Allure of the Whispering Ringmaster. 

Trigger Warning: Trauma History/Obsessive Sexual Behavior

Spoiler Alert! Synopsis/Interpretation of the musical Pippin

Written May 22nd, 2017. Revised June 25th, 2017 for content, clarity, and updates. 

I've had the need to write lately. A lot of writing! The catharsis of my story telling has been a way to release both singular memories and how my recovery has changed my personal, collective perspective of these terrible events. I am gaining levels of self-acceptance and love I once thought impossible.

Early on, it seemed that I was merely reacting to God knows what. I wanted to do the right thing, and had a host if instances where I did things that were true, loving, and kind.

And yet there were these callings. These urges to do dark and dangerous things when no one was around. Things that made me question my own sanity. I couldn't point to anything, except this strange voice from within that called me to behaviors that were inherently perilous, yet so exciting.

I know that I so wanted to explore public bathrooms as a child. I lingered in them whenever I had to go. And this led to the both tantalizing and horrific discovery of what wounded men are capable of when I was thirteen years old (http://swimlessons62.blogspot.com/2017/06/memories-of-junior-high-school-trigger.html)

Despite the brief, conscious terror of that incident, I returned to public restrooms again, and again; looking to somehow reconcile the terrible guilt that went along with the incredible physical sensations like nothing I had known before. As the years of participation went by and rolled into decades, I lost sight of everything except shame and titillation. This beast of sexual activity that I continued to feed became an insatiable hunger that, despite my best efforts, could not be extinguished without another turn on the merry go round.

At around nineteen years sober, I quit smoking. Like any other vice in my life, I had tried to quit numerous times, only to fall (Pfft! . . . Run! lol!) back into the behavior. Soon after, I started seeing Ralph Zeiff. A now retired therapist/psychologist who practiced in Portland. Ralph was a gentle soul that helped me in so many ways. He had a wonderful and quick mind that could not wait to jump in and tinker with my thinking.

"Let me stop you right there Michael." He would say. He saw aspects of my thinking that I couldn't, and lovingly pointed  it all out to me often. Though frustrating on many occasions, I am eternally grateful for this gentle, intelligent, and loving man.

After almost two years of trial and error (and processing with Ralph), I was able to stop cruising. If I thought quitting smoking was difficult, putting down this behavior was an astronomical struggle. I had to re-write my entire daily routine.

Over the years, I had developed a network and subculture of anonymous sex and hood ups that could satisfy any urges at almost a moment's notice. From the bare beginnings of a 13 year-old self who was exploited, I had developed a four-state, two-country network of where to have sex whenever I wanted it. Any travel beyond this area required research to ensure access to this pleasure activity. thirty-five years of anonymous behavior had created this shadow life that I now had to put down in order to achieve anything like sexual sobriety.

When I think of what I may have accomplished, had I put that time and energy into something productive . . . But I have to accept that the best I could do at that time was stay sober, and be a s true to myself as I possibly could; given the weight and suffering I was carrying. I no longer feel sorry for myself for time spent wasted or wasted time. And beyond the benefits my own recovery brings me, I have a purpose. If my story can help someone else, then there really was nothing wasted.

There is so much that I could say about those decades of sexual behavior. So much risk to my personal and professional reputation that I put on the line with each trek out into the country to a rest area, boat landing, or other "hot spots" I found online. I jeopardized my standing in the community on a regular basis. Homophobia aside, folks don't particularly want to employ people who are arrested for public indecency.

There were several close-calls and brushes with the law, and many times hiding in the woods to evade capture. There were even the occasional situation where homophobic hooligans would show up. Sometimes, I had, and sometimes I made them think twice about returning. Thankfully, violence was the exception. However, there were many a discussion with law enforcement where the officer would remind me that it was just he and I, and that police would be believed over some "faggot."

Looks like there's much more to write here. Homophobia (internal and external) does nothing to augment cruising. It is only in hindsight that I clearly see the dangers. One cannot be scared away from cruising. In fact, the rush of danger can become part and parcel of the addictive hit one gets from anonymous sex. But that is for another time.

The last time I cruised a rest area (one of many, many places that men who have sex with other men will frequent), I had a terrible experience. A man who was obviously intoxicated preformed an oral sex act on me. After the physical release, I was left with nothing but shame and regret. He was dirty and smelled of alcohol, nicotine, and body oder. I had to drive a good distance back home, and all I could think of was how much I wanted to shower. I kept moist towelettes and mouthwash in my car, but this did nothing to erase that dirty feeling.

PS: Showers, while physically cleansing, never wash off the shame. I've I've had my turn at bating in water that was too hot, and scrubbing beyond what was necessary to achieve cleanliness.

Soon after this, I had one last "hook-ip" with a friend. Though devoid of the odorous discomforts of the previous experience, all the remaining qualities left me cold. I do not blame this friend, nor do I hold any malice toward him. I was simply switching seats on the Titanic with my cruising behavior at that point. I cannot find fault with a dear friend who was willing to participate, and can say nothing of the dynamics of their behavior; only my own.

Back to re-writing my life: When I committed to this work of sexual sobriety (not sure what else to call it), I had to let folks know of my comings and goings on an almost moment to moment basis for a while. I did not want (or need) to let everyone in my life know what I was trying to achieve, so I would just call and make small talk with most folks.

The conversations went something like this:

Me: "Hi . . . Just giving you a quick call. I'm going to an event with some friends this evening. I'll check back in with you when I get home . . . Around nine o'clock? Great! Call you then."

I would do this multiple times a day. I wonder what my friends thought about it. There are some, outside my inner circle, who I have told about this and thanked. Their responses to my efforts have been loving and affirming.

Then there were the intimate or core group of folks I assembled in order to be more upfront about the prevention. These were the folks I called when i wanted to go cruising. I would discuss things with them and practice any and all skills suggested in order to pass the time and prevent acting out. My job at the time required hour and two-plus hour car drives on occasion. I would "bookend" myself by calling someone from my inner circle and commit to a time frame for the drive, and a follow-up call when I arrived. i would repeat this process on the return trip.

Soon after stopping the anonymous behavior, I was tested for HIV. It came back negative. Eight months later, I received another negative test result. How this happened is beyond me. I know that my behavior became more and more  unsafe with the passage of time. Long ago, I had surrendered to ever finding a meaningful, monogamous relationship. I saw so many of my brethren out and about that the prospect of a singular relationship with another man seemed impossible.

Occasionally, I would stop cruising, only to become infatuated with someone who I though could be the one. However, this "one" (Happened about four of five times over my first ten-plus years of sobriety), was usually straight, had serious issues of their own, and liked the attention I lauded over them. They were also relatively new in sobriety. I was a slow learner in this department. There would be this exchange of power, then jealously, then anger, occasional threats of violence from myself, them  or the community at large, and finally, a damaging closing scene.

Many of the men I was with (or emotionally indebted with)would insist I tell no one of their behavior before engaging with me. And there were so many married men who frequented the same spots that I just assumed that no one was true to their loved one. Contempt gave way to defeat, and I began engaging in deeper, more dangerous unprotected sex. I never contracted anything while cruising or chasing hook-ups, and I don't know why that is.

I saw the arc of acquaintances over the decades that I cruised that contracted HIV\AIDS, who grew sick and died. Yet, here I am. Words fail me at the moment. And there is still an immense guilt that I feel when I think of all those that passed on from a disease that my behavior ignored, and I hid from. Hid in the very behavior that led to so many deaths.

For some reason, Sundays were particularly difficult on me when I stopped cruising. I started to allow time to be home by myself. There was a dull, emotional ache that would crescendo to almost intolerable levels. I made it a point to discuss this with my friends and therapist, and ensured that I did other activities on Sundays as well. But the ache felt weirdly familiar. Strange as it may sound, I quickly identified it as my truth coming forth to reveal itself. And I found that journaling and additional emotional work eased this declaration process.

On a couple of occasions, with support, I ventured to one of those rest areas and embarked on some serious writing. The results were amazing! I discovered layers upon layers of justification I had used to shield myself in a cocoon of denial during my obsessive pursuit of sexual encounters.

As I continued to practice skills that kept me away from anonymous sex and hook-ups, I discovered something. I liked my own company. Now, I still found myself unlovable by another human being where a relationship was concerned, but I had my own little apartment, a car, and a host of friends, none of whom were on my "radar" for a possible encounter. Now attraction and dating are normal aspects of living, but I needed this space to help figure out who I was on a deeper level.

I did try some dating. That is, I asked a person out. It was the first time I had done this in my life. He was adorable and in fantastic shape. I met him at the guy, and we talked regularly. He seemed really nice, and I decided that it would be a courageous act to offer my phone number. At the very least, I'd know the answer. I wouldn't spend my life wondering if I could have dated this person.

Except he took my number and never responded. He was kind enough and engaging when he saw me, but he never gave me an answer. I realize now that this was his answer. He had declined and moved on, but I burned with rage and guilt. All kinds of stuff came up for me, including the fear and violence I had experienced years ago when I disclosed my love and sexuality for a friend.

This poor guy was the recipient of my gruff responses and terse looks from then on out. He still tried to be polite and pleasant, but I was having none of it. This only intensified once I met my future husband. "I'm worth more than crumbs!" I would tell myself to justify my attitude toward him. I'd put on my best steely glance and look away. This person was sweet to me, and wanted to avoid an awkward "No thanks" and I took it as a dangerous slight. It's one of those amends I am willing to make, if given the opportunity. He had no responsibility in my past, and my past was my reaction to his gentle decline.

Around this time, I met someone who's behavior mirrored what I had done back in 1975 as a 13 year-old. I tried (with the help of my therapist) to help this kid as best I could, but they wanted nothing to do with talking. They've been on the fringes of my life. I wish so much I could talk with this young adult now, but I fear it will never happen. Once they were of age (and with the assistance of another professional) I made an attempt to contact them. But they refused, and I have to respect that. Oh brave, little Theo! It is my hope that the circus does not destroy you (Pippin reference). And whomever whispered in your ear that a public restroom would bring you excitement was lying to you. I can only hope that the circus brought to me was not brought upon you.

And thank you for being one of my best teachers.

So yes. I met my now husband around this time too. It seemed I that fate determined that I see my own 13 year-old self and begin to embrace little Michael before I was able to be embraced by a loving, caring, sincere man. He is also just adorable. We quickly became friends who were dating, and boyfriends too. is friends and my friends heartily approved of us being together, which was helpful, to say the least.

It seems like every day, I fall a little more in love with my Handsome Prince, as I like to call him. He was there on the beach when I swam my first Peaks to Portland Swim, and he's been there ever since. We've been through a lot together, and have supported one another through some difficult times. On July 2nd, 2016, we were married in a small ceremony at a dear friend's house. Like a lot of my life, so many people came together to make this wonderful day possible.

But I need to back up a bit. In 2012-2013, I went from swimming two miles, three times a week, to not being able to walk 50 yards without stopping to catch my breath. Furthermore, the fear of not being able to breath was creating anxiety well beyond the obvious reasons one would feel unsettled about.

Around the same time, I started to remember attending a performance of Peter and the Woolf at what was then Portland City Hall (now Merrill Auditorium). As far back as I can remember, I've had nightmares about that men's room just off the auditorium. As far back as I can remember, I've had a reoccurring dream about walking into that restroom, only to find decomposed bodies floating in large, round bathtubs. The bodies still had some life to them, and I feared they were after me. As I got older (and sober), I realized the dream was through the eyes of a small child. My point of view in the dream meant that I had to look up to see the figures in the tubs and the toilet facilities, including doors to the stalls. In my dream, I often ran into a stall and hid before waking up in a cold sweat.

Recently I realized (with the help of some school chums on social media) that we attended Peter and the Woolf when I was in 2nd grade.

Back to my breathing problems. I kept getting sick with upper respiratory infections. My PCP was throwing antibiotics at me, but I would not recover. I got tested for a host of things, including additional TB and HIV testing, but they were negative. A chest x-ray revealed that my lungs were clear, yet I couldn't seem to catch my breath.

Through some self-advocacy (and the result of an emergency room visit with heart attack symptoms), I was referred for a sleep study and a chest medicine evaluation. The diagnosis was sleep apnea and asthma.

Simultaneously, I was having this trauma response to my inability to get air. The nightmares of City Hall had returned in greater detail. I was seeing more of myself in the dream, and realized that I was the child.

Then the memory came back.

The Westbrook School System attended this showing of Peter and the Woolf. I remember being dressed up for the occasion. We lined the stairs outside City Hall before the show and went in together. We were seated and the show had started.

That's when I had to go to the bathroom.

I remember talking about this with an adult. I cannot remember if they were a teacher or a chaperone. But I do remember a very fancy hat that they wore for the occasion. But after some debate, I was allowed to go to the bathroom by myself. At least, that's how I remember it.

I went into the men's room and used a bathroom stall to pee. At seven years old, I was much too intimidated by the urinals. I was a child who enjoyed music, so I think I was whistling the theme to Peter and the Woolf. It never occurred to me to lock the door behind me.

Suddenly, he was behind me and turned me around. He was on me and demanded that I preform oral sex. I had no choice in the matter, and he forced himself into me until I passed out.

I awoke on the floor of the stall. I remember how cool and moist my cheek was as I lay there. There was no one left in the bathroom. I stood up and went to the sink. I think they were those round sinks with the foot levers that you stepped on to make the water run, but I can't be sure. Some 48 years later, only patches of the most horrific details of the event have revealed themselves. I cleaned myself up, straightened out my hair and nice clothes, and returned to the play.

What strikes me now is the way it was already ingrained in me to say nothing of the event. I thought that I was in trouble! and knew I had to be quiet about it. I watched the rest of the play and never spoke of the event again. I'm sure that years of exploration, exploitation, alcoholism, addiction, and the obsessive pursuit of sex pushed this memory down so far and out of sight for me, that it would never see the light of day.

Then I got sober.
Then I found understanding folks.
Then I started remembering other adverse childhood experiences.
Then I moved into Serenity House (I stayed close to that house for the first ten years of my sobriety).
Then I went to Caron Foundation.
Then I started helping others.
Then I was a psychiatric inpatient.
Then I went on medication for depression.
Then I continued to help others.
Then I sought support from others who were hurt by the addiction of others.
Then I quit smoking.
Then I sought professional help (again!).
Then I quit having anonymous sex.
Then a couple of things that mirrored my abuse/exploitation history were presented to me.
More professional help.
Then I joined a men's group.

And now, I am seeing my personal trauma history in an entirely new light. Ralph and I walked through that memory (and others) together. One day before therapy with Ralph, I happened by City Hall and went into that bathroom off the auditorium.

I made sure no one was around, then I made a declaration. I confronted a person who I assume has long-since passed away. I told him that he did not beat me. That despite his best efforts, he could not silence me, and that I knew what transpired that terrible day belonged solely to him, and I laid the responsibility at his feet. I told him that he and his secrets would no longer dominate my life. And I insisted that I was going to enjoy the time I had left on this earth. I was going to love more, and make room for even more forgiveness and compassion for myself and others. I ended my declaration with a less than compassionate (but totally appropriate) big "FUCK YOU!" as well.

Which leads me to Pippin. Awkward transition, I know (PS: This is the spoiler alert section of the piece).

So last week, my husband and I saw Pippin at Merrill Auditorium. I had been there since my "declaration" but not in the context of what Pippin was about to reveal to me.

After the first act, we needed to pee. I had not returned to that bathroom since my important speech to myself in there. I was urinating at the urinal and could see, in my mind's eye, how large the bathroom must have appeared to my seven year old self. As a child, I did not have the benefit of an intermission crowd to shield me from harm. Back in 1969-1970, there were some lost souls in there who were (I believe) engaging in behaviors I would come to know only too well. But who among these cruisers would have spoken up during an active child rape? They surely would have risked exposure during a time when gay men could be fired with no recourse, their careers ruined at even the slightest hint of what was considered dastardly, deviant behavior.

In that moment, I realized what Pippin was about. And insatiable and very human aspect of reaching beyond any needs, and pursue wants and desires; even to the point of perversion and destruction of self and others. I also realized that the "Circus" in the play were the voices in his head.

During the rape, the Ringmaster of another whispered in my ear that this was all my fault.

No, I was alone, and a child at that. Incapable of taking care of myself in that moment. In a society that looked so harshly upon homosexuals that not one of them could speak up for me. I vaguely remember the scurrying of feet as the horrific act transpired, but no one attempted to stop the perpetrator to my knowledge. These otherwise health and beautiful men retreated at the insufferable actions of a child rapist, because they had to.

Please note that I say "otherwise healthy" not as a knock against homosexuality, but as an acknowledgment of suffering in silence because of an intolerant, vindictive, and hateful society.

And then, I felt some empathy for my abuser. I realized that he had a sickness. That no man, given the time to process, would want to place generations of suffering in motion upon a little boy. Blinded by his own sickness, he couldn't have grasped the magnitude of his actions. Surely, he would have done something different otherwise. My abuser's sexuality was irrelevant. While child sex crimes are cloaked in the guise of desire, they are truly and evil attempt to dominate in the most vile and terrible way.

"I forgive you." I whispered as I finished my pee. I walked out of the restroom, and back to my loving husband.

We watched the second act. And sure enough, the leading Player and Circus were all in Pippin's head. Not the anger of the Leading Player when Pippin begins to realize that a life chasing unwonted desire is doomed to destruction.

The final scene is the manifestation of the circus again, in the mind of young Theo.

Surely, I met one of my Lead Players in a public bathroom as a young 2nd grader. His vicious deed woven tales created a circus carnival that called to me, and I chased that show for years; decades even.

But now, watching the final scene of Pippin. I think of all the other brave little Theos of this world. Who calls to them? Who reaches past the circus narrative of their trauma to embrace them?

And why, as a society, are we so focused on punishing the perpetrator for all to see. We create a spectacle of hatred, and we forget to embrace the victims.

M