Jason C. Kordelos - A writer and performer, Jason is best known for his theatrical endeavors. His gay soaked, comedic, one man shows; Damaged Goods and Contents May Have Shifted have been seen all around New York. In January see the hit dance, comedy, I THINK I KEN a collaboration with Allan Tibbitts and his @dance players.
Jason is constantly working on his embittered memoire, Contents May Have Shifted, as well as a new theatrical, all gay male version of West Side Story in which he pits the Chelsea Boys against the East Village Boys. Jason just quit his waiting job because "someone was going to die" and is desperately looking for other ways to maintain his wardrobe. Any ideas or comments feel free to pester him at JKordelos@aol.com.
By Jason Kordelos
I've resolved that I have no luck at all with men. With abled men that is. Abled men are way too cocky and well adjusted for the likes of emotionally-stunted me, so I've concluded that I need to expand my crumbling and smoggy horizons to the differently abled man. My hope is that these, dare I say, "defective" men, will be grateful to have one who is, at least, physically functional even if his emotional life is severely handicapped.
And I can't quite decide. Would I rather date a blind man, a deaf man or someone with, say, a missing limb? Each one has his pros and cons-each disability being both alluring and repulsive. At first glance, a blind man is probably my choice-a very cute blind man that is, who has an innate ability to wear matching shoes. Though dressing him every morning before he goes to teach art at the Blind Center does seem terribly romantic. After all, what should Brian care what he's wearing. Simple, nothing too extravagant-Banana Republic is fine. That way, if say, I'm on vacation or we break up Brian can pretty much put any sweater and pair of pants together and look presentable. Not that we'd ever break up. I mean he'd have no reason to break up with me-he's blind! He can't see me and I know the reason I'm still single is because I'm so ugly. Brian would love me for the things I own not for the way I look.
What I really want is a blind guy like in the play and movie, "Love, Valour, Compassion!" The actor who played the role on both stage and film was without a doubt, the sexiest, kindest, handsomest, hunk of blind manhood I've ever seen. There have been nights I've kept friends awake on the phone for hours fantasizing about me feeding my blind Adonis toasted brioche in the morning. Some of these friends have pointed out, rather cruelly, that the actor in the role is, himself, not blind. They add insult by claiming that the movie did not realistically represent how the blind really look; the character was impeccably well groomed with every hair in place, he had no crumbs on his face, he was smartly accessorized with tasteful cable knit sweaters and his eyes didn't look like a broken baby dolls'-all rolling around in his head. I point out that the blind have come a long way since that Helen Keller. Granted, she did a great deal for the blind deaf and dumb, but in my humble opinion, she was a bit of a slob. She had many troubles, I know, but actually getting that cake into her mouth seemed to be the one everyone continually overlooks. I then ask my friends whether they know any gay blind men, to which they respond, "Of course not!" like I've insulted them just by asking. Like a blind man couldn't be a very cute, well-groomed homosexual on top of everything else. It's my opinion, though I know no blind people, gay or straight, that the gay ones must certainly look more tolerable then the ones I see stumbling onto the F train at 23rd Street. These, I presume, are straight because they all wear wide well cords and because I have no reason to think my "gay-dar" is immune to the disabled. I mean I've seen gay retarded men and they still "look gay" or at least smell gay or maybe act gay. What I mean to say is that a very cute blind man would probably be the ideal lover for me.
But one cannot ignore the silent allure of the deaf. Now, for me, the deaf are a much trickier lot. I suspect that getting a really cute deaf guy to fall for me would prove extremely challenging as most of them can see me coming. Not only am I one of those, "gets cuter as you get to know him" kind of guys but I also tend to mutter obscenities to myself as I walk down the street. Any deaf hotty in Chelsea who can read lips is gonna stay way clear of the freak mumbling death threats to all the happy gay couples whizzing by on rollerblades.
But deaf guys are definitely hot. They possess a certain quiet mystery and can be very expressive with their eyebrows, which is more than I can say for the blind. I presume the really cute, outgoing one's must have trouble dating outside the deaf community, I know I do. So, it must be even harder for them. What muscle bound Chelsea android with all five senses is going to have the depth of character to see past a man's shortcomings and pursue a guy because he's deaf? Most fully functioning Chelsea boys run screaming from men with messy hair.
For me the thought of having a really cute boyfriend that I didn't have to speak to and who didn't speak to me sounds blissful. As it is, I hardly speak to the guys I sleep with-sometimes never. That's because they have nothing interesting to say and because I don't speak Spanish. A sexy deaf guy would certainly be very engaging and since I don't speak sign language our communication would be very primal. We'd say nothing to each other, except for some occasional foot stomping. I imagine me stomping the floor to get Allan's attention when I come home from work, Allan slamming the wall when dinner's ready, me smacking the mattress when I want a little sex. Deaf sex...now, there's my only real concern. Not to sound cruel, but I have this friend who slept with a deaf guy and while he said the sex was the hottest ever, he also said the sounds that came out of the deaf man at climax were so alarming and, pardon the pun, deafening-- that the neighbors called the police. This I worry about, I mean imagine our dear friend Helen reaching multiple O's ...
Until then I must still consider gay men with missing limbs. The man I picture sharing my life with was (and perhaps still is) a mountain climber or surfer who, in some tragic accident involving flesh-tearing synthetic ropes or man eating sharks, has lost his left arm. I might consider a lost leg but that, I imagine, involves a wheel chair and I just had my apartment painted, so no thanks. Regardless, I'm shooting for a manly, out-doorsy type, very fit with a washboard stomach, dusty hiking boots, tossled, sandy-blond hair and a slightly chipped front tooth. He smokes pot on occasion, doesn't wear cologne and is intellectual in that Northern California, Buddhist, 12 Step kind of way. We will have an incredibly strong emotional bond because once a month Chip will wake up from the reoccurring nightmare he has about his ghastly accident. I'll then be required to hold him in my arms until he cries himself back to sleep, gently reassuring him that, unlike his left arm, I'm not going anywhere.
What I'm still unclear about is whether I can accommodate a prosthetic limb into this romantic scenario. I suspect not. Waking up to find a worn, plastic arm-like-apparatus laden with straps and knobs dangling from my bedpost seems a bit jarring. I have enough trouble with morning breath.
So, can I deal with a stump, one may wonder? I suppose I have to, if I want a sexy amputee to call my very own. I only hope that it isn't me who suffers from that "phantom limb syndrome," screaming in agony every time my clueless father reaches out to shake Chip's hand when we go home for Christmas. Or when, on the beaches of Waikiki, we prepare to be married by my lesbian therapist, Tova, and I look over, past the orchids in my hair, to lock eyes on the empty left sleeve of his white tuxedo, safety pinned neatly to his shoulder. I'll get used to it, I know, and eventually be grateful for having such a fantastic, sensitive lover who doesn't hold my having both arms against me...how could he, anyway, he has trouble holding his groceries. Don't get me wrong, I love Chip and he loves it when I joke about his stump. "You look stumped," always gets a rise out of him when I ask him to open the pickle jar.
But who am I kidding? Whichever handicapped hunk I decide to pursue will without a doubt wind up in failure. How would I ever manage to make a date with a cute differently abled man? I have trouble making play dates with my nephew-the fear of rejection from a five year old brat obsessed with farting paralyzes me. And the thought of being rejected by a man whose only wish is to have a "normal life," will, undoubtedly, cement my deepest fear; that I'm destined for a romantic life filled with cheap pornography, illiterate hustlers and overpriced spiritual weekend retreats to New Jersey.
I try everything. They say, "when you least expect it, expect it" and so I do that. I go to places specifically because I can't imagine ever finding my soul mate in them: gynecological offices, Marshals Department stores, Queens. And the closest thing I've gotten to romance was being called "faggot" by a red neck male nurse who went into gynecology to meet "hot broads."
So I wander the city and focus on everyone else's disabilities... "Steven's such a pig, Billy's too short, Jared's emotionally unavailable, the waiter's a fucking closet case."
But what do you do when it's been three and a half years since you've held hands with someone you like? Since you haven't been able to eat because your stomach is doing back flips every time you think of him? Since you've been able to say "yes" when your friends ask if you have someone to bring to their Academy Awards party? What do you do when the smell of him is completely gone from the t-shirt he left between the sheets? When you stop praying to God for someone to share your life with? When you even stop hating God for never listening? You imagine dating blind men and deaf men and men with missing arms and married men and men who were women because it fills some of that space. You become clever and biting and self-sufficient. You scream along to songs like "I Will Survive" and mock any movie starring Sandra Bullock. You believe your friends when they say, "the grass is always greener" and crawl into bed, alone for the one thousand nine hundred and ninety fifth night in a row and do everything you can not to think. Because when you do think, thoughts come up like, "I'll get a dog," "Better start sleeping on the other side of the bed --it's gotten lopsided," "I've got to meet someone before my tan fades, before I turn 33, before I loose my hair, before my parents die, before next Christmas, next Valentines Day, my next therapy session because I can't stand hearing myself talk about it anymore!"
On a good day I know it will happen for me. I just have to wait. "I'm not so different from every one else," I say to myself, "it's always taken me longer to do things." So, until then I'm going to get dressed, make myself a nice turkey sandwich on olive bread and I'm going sit in the lobby of the Center for the Blind and eat my lunch. Who knows, he might show. Today could be the day.