The Elusive Bliss of Unrequited Gay Love
How a television mini-series prompted me to have a profound realization
Earlier this year, I found myself engrossed in watching the mini-series, Fellow Travelers. Although I was very interested in the socio-cultural setting of the McCarthy era of the 1950s in which much of the same-sex love story was set, it was the heart-wrenching, realistic portrayal of genuine love between two men that grabbed my attention and compelled me to continue watching.
While I could wax poetic about what was outstanding about this drama of same-sex love, that is not the subject here. Rather, it is the revelation that one of the men, Tim, terminally ill with AIDS, makes regarding the love he has had for Hawk over the past thirty years, in spite of rarely being with him. He informs Hawk that he has no regrets and, like his unrequited love for God, he has come to understand that merely having been able to love Hawk is love’s ultimate reward. Receiving love in return is irrelevant.
Had I realized this when in my 20s and 30s, I would have saved myself a lot of grief. For I am a wounded veteran of numerous internal battles fought in my heart regarding unrequited same-sex love.
I will present three prominent ones.
The first scenario occurred during my senior year of college in upstate New York.
I became obsessively in love with one of my housemates, M, who was the boyfriend of a female friend of mine who also lived in the house. There was certainly chemistry between M and me, which I am quite sure M felt as well — but in a way very different from how I felt it. We bonded almost exclusively over smoking pot and listening to music for hours on the portable stereo in my tiny room. We didn’t speak much, each of us taking flight on the music, mostly jazz and classical. But despite the lack of verbal communication, we were sharing something together.
There was an intimacy that I particularly felt as we traveled in our minds separately but somehow also linked to one another by the music and the drug. Yet it was not a turbulent-free flight for me. Periodically I would gaze at M and was cognizant of the potent force of love within me, which I had to keep from bursting out into the open. I knew I couldn’t express it to M. I didn’t understand it myself.
What was I expecting from him? He was most certainly not gay and I was not conscious of wanting to engage in sex with him. I was 21 and was unwilling to wear a label. For it was 1975 and gay liberation had not noticeably reached upstate New York. I was absolutely certain, however, of bearing an intense love that needed to be expressed physically, in some way.
I never got the chance to express it. I had to be content with the occasional “accidental” brushing against him as we walked together. And when we bid each other farewell, as I prepared to leave for my next life adventure, I, with great disappointment, accepted his handshake rather than an embrace.
Six years later, I relocated to Europe where I remained for more than a decade.
I began in West Berlin. My interest in Berlin was stimulated by reading Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories, viewing German Expressionist art, and watching the film, Cabaret. While Weimar Berlin was certainly long gone, I did discover a Viennese waiter who exuded the decadent world of the Belle Epoque. What began as an intriguing infatuation escalated into obsessive love.
Once again, the object of my amorous attention was someone most definitely heterosexual. But, as was the case with M, G was attracted to me on some level. In fact, he initiated our first conversation in the coffeehouse where he worked and where I had become a regular patron.
At G’s invitation, I began accompanying him on his nightly peregrinations through the Berlin nightlife. He really stood out in the night crowd, a small, delicate figure, dressed always in a black tuxedo, bow tie, in the cold weather, a camel-colored coat worn over his shoulders, a pair of black leather gloves he carried rather than wore, and at all times, his brown eyes highlighted in black eye-liner. His drink was cognac, which he consumed in immense quantities.
I believe what attracted me so strongly to G was that beneath the charming social façade I sensed a sad helpless child who needed to be protected from danger. This together with his old-world character, so foreign to America and even modern Germany, caught my heart and I expressed my love in doing what I could to support his created image. Though I had very little money, I purchased expensive, elegant Russian cigarettes for him and soon began bringing him a carnation every day to wear on his lapel at work.
I realized at the time that I was not only doing these things for G, who certainly appreciated my gifts and attention, but also because I was attempting to buy his love, or at least affection, in return. I am reasonably sure he did love me and depended on my presence with him in the nightlife.
And while I found the countless hours in very smoky, very loud bars and clubs to be tedious, I would generally hold out until 7 am. He would then walk with me outside and just before he got into a taxi to go to the next night bar, I would kiss him goodnight boldly on the mouth. He always seemed nervous that someone might see, but nevertheless never stopped me from doing it. I would then walk home, my bleeding heart temporarily satisfied with this small bandage.
I was trapped in an unrealistic relationship that I knew could never develop into what I wished, yet I couldn’t pull the plug on the love that kept on pouring out. None of my friends could understand why I was so emotionally entangled with G. What kept me going was the hope, however weak, that perhaps one day he would realize the depth of his love for me and would then respond affectionately and lovingly.
After about a year and a half, I gave up on G, but not permanently. I left Berlin, but three years later when he asked me to return to help him run an elegant night bar he had just opened, I gave in and went back. And while I still loved him, it was on a much lower flame and when the bar eventually closed, the flame went out completely.
The third in the trilogy of unrequited love episodes occurred during my later time in Berlin.
One night while working in G’s bar, a young handsome German man sat down right across from me. He looked at me with such intensity that I shyly looked away. D soon engaged me in conversation, and I learned that he was an artist but did not do portraits. Thus, I knew that his attraction to me was not as a potential subject for a portrait painting.
I was also quite sure that he was straight. As the bar wasn’t very busy, I came around to his side and sat next to him. The instant chemistry between us was apparent to me and I was sure that he felt it as well.
When an attractive woman walked into the bar, he turned to look at her but there was no lust in his eyes. Rather, he directed a cold, hard stare at her, which was much different than how he looked at me. Several hours later, when he stood up to leave, I walked with him outside, and feeling the love that had already sprouted in my heart, I spontaneously kissed him on the lips. He smiled and gently slapped my face. I returned to the bar, optimistic that something would develop.
But, ever cautious, wanting to avoid the pain of rejection, I waited for him to make the first move. A few months later an opportunity arose that I thought would offer the right conditions.
D invited me to accompany him to Paris where he wanted to view a huge retrospective exhibition of the late works of Picasso. I thought, what better place to prompt him to be amorous than the beautiful city on the Seine. Since I could speak a little French, I offered to make the hotel reservations. In those pre-internet days, one actually had to make a phone call. I reserved a room with two beds, as I did not want to assume anything.
We arrived, however, to find just one moderate-size bed. I hid my joy because D didn’t look happy about the sleeping situation. I didn’t give up, though. I thought a night in Paris would work the miracle I was hoping for.
That night he got very drunk and collapsed on the floor next to the bed. When during the night he carefully crawled into bed, I knew nothing intimate was going to take place. I was so tense and disappointed that I went into the bathroom to smoke a cigarette and let the tears flow.
Paris had let me down. No romance, only rain.
Upon returning to Berlin, I found myself keeping a distance from D, though I had to restrain my rebellious heart. A few weeks later, he and I were alone in G’s bar just as it was getting light outside. Although somewhat inebriated, D was coherent. He put his face very close to mine and whispered that there was a very special place in his heart for me. And just as he was about to kiss me, someone knocked on the door. It was the electric meter reader. The moment I had been hoping for but had almost given up on was so close to happening. But in a second it evaporated never to return.
I was both elated to be proven right about his love and devastated by the fleetingness of the expression of it. In order to keep my sanity, I forced my heart into submission and hardened myself towards D.
He eventually returned to Dusseldorf, his home city, and I sometime later returned to the U.S.
I congratulate the reader who has made it thus far through these far-from-blissful accounts of unrequited love.
The bliss comes in hindsight. Decades later and having gleaned at least a little wisdom from my years of Buddhist practice, I now understand that the intense pain and frustration I experienced in these three relationships were not caused by M, G, and D.
I, myself, caused it by expecting results from the love I freely gave to each of them. I allowed myself to love them knowing that they couldn’t requite the love I offered. Of course, it is far easier to understand this now as a celibate monk for whom any physical expression of love is verboten.
The valuable realization I have had thanks to the fictional Tim Laughlin is that I can look back on those unrequited love relationships I had in my younger days and summon up love for these three men now — pure love — with no expectations. And I can let those wounds that I have carried within me for four decades not merely heal but disintegrate under the bright light of knowledge.
The bliss of unrequited love no longer eludes me. For love, requited or unrequited, in its highest form, untainted by ego attachment, is indeed unearthly and joyful. My goal is to be able simply to love, and that alone will be ultimately satisfying and blissful.
