In the past two years “Baron” has moved from Washington, D.C. to Kansas City to New Orleans. This weekend I hear he is packing his laptop and ever shrinking pile of possessions into an army duffle bag and relocating to sunny Miami.
“Things just aren’t working out here in New Orleans. I need a fresh start. I have to get back on my feet.”
Every time he gets a job — at a coffee shop, at a car dealership or whatever — Baron soon loses it. He has too much lip to listen to the manager. Or he is just too gay and fabulous to serve some snotty, pimply-faced teenager a double mocha latte with whipped cream for $9 an hour.
But Baron isn’t running from lousy jobs and bad luck. He is running away from his drug addiction. And he will never get away from it because when he gets to the next stop — Miami or Charlotte or Atlanta or damn even the Moon — that monkey will be waiting to jump back on his back.
I met Baron, a handsome, toned, dark-skinned man with a biting sense of humor and a great sense of style, three years ago in Washington, D.C. He had just got laid off from a lucrative marketing job and was on Adam4Adam, looking for a big dick and tight ass to fuck his blues away.
I had also been laid off so I understood his pain.
“Look man, you don’t need sex. Losing your job is traumatic. Hey, take a hot bath, have a glass of wine and relax and go to sleep. You will feel better in the morning”
“Hey Immanuel, thanks, I think I will take that advice.”
And from that day we became good, platonic friends having lunch together or hanging out in the bars or just talking on the phone and catching up.
But I noticed funny things about Baron. He never woke before 11 a.m. He never seemed serious about buckling down and getting a job. He had to extend his unemployment checks one time, then twice. I think after the third extension the government cut him off and told him to apply for food stamps.
During this time I had become a semi-successful freelance writer, gotten a part-time job, launched the first version of this blog, and landed a full time gig.
In fact a casual fuck buddy of mine had an opening at his hotel chain I thought Baron was perfect for. But Baron claimed he got lost on the way to the interview and had to reschedule for the next day. He went in and stunk up the place.
“Hey Immanuel, why did you send that guy to us?,” my friend asked. “He didn’t know shit. He really made me look bad. I went out on a limb for him because you said he was cool.”
“Oh man, I’m so sorry. I thought he had the qualifications.”
My buddy “Rex” finally clued me in to what was down with Baron.
“Immanuel, your boy is a coke head. Everybody knows it but since you are newly out you don’t know about him yet because you are not down with that scene . They said he will fuck anybody for his next hit.”
“You know you are right. He hangs around with the scuzziest ass looking dudes. I just never thought it was drugs.”
Hey Baron might have his reasons for hitting the pipe. He was abandoned by a man ho has fathered so many kids by so many women his offspring are still discovering each other exists. His Mom is from Alabama and doesn’t accept her son’s sexuality, so Baron doesn’t have family support.
Baron is also not that unusual in the gay world. According to former alcoholic and writer Mark Brennan Rosenberg 25 percent LGBT people are alcholics or drug addicts. Part of the reason for this is that LGBT people who do not feel accepted by family or society turn to drugs to ease inner turmoil, said Rosenberg, who is author of Blackouts and Breakdowns.
I just learned yesterday from a mutual friend “Calvin” in New York that Baron got strung out on meth in Kansas City and has decided to move to Miami for another new beginning. But Calvin is skeptical. The woman he is moving in with has “issues” herself and drugs and alcohol flow freely in Miami.
I last saw Baron in early December when he dropped through Washington, D.C. Other friends, tired of loaning him money that was never repaid, would not give him a place to stay. But I asked my partner Morgan to let him stay a few days and Morgan agreed.
Baron is still handsome and twinky skinny, although he is in his 40s. But his once rich dark complexion looks more ashy and he bags under his eyes. We went to the Fireplace to hang out and he flirted with my buddy “The Mentor” by pulling off all his clothes by the bar after Mentor accused him of being a cock tease.
“Am I a tease?,” Baron yelled as he pulled off his t-shirt, pulled off his jeans, yanked down his bikini briefs and let his dark dick swing.
The bartender ran over and told us to tell our friend to put his clothes back on. We got him out of there fast. It never occurred to me that Baron was high as a kite.
The next day I dropped off Baron at the Megabus to begin his long, bargain bus trip back to New Orleans. I guess he was still ashamed by the strip act at the Fireplace the night before.
“Immanuel, you still love me don’t you,” he said.
“Yeah, of course I do,” I said, and I meant it.
But inside I was glad to see him go. Because being around him was like watching a train wreck you see coming but can’t stop.