Get Out! GAY Magazine – Issue 401 January 16, 2018

BY IAN-MICHAEL BERGERON
@ianmichaelinwonderland
I Couldn’t Help
But Wonder
I was out for drinks the other night with two
of my closest friends, Jack and Giovanni,
when Giovanni got a text message from an
ex-coworker. “I invited him to come join us.
I hope that’s OK?”
It was, not that we had a choice at that
point. Danny, a beautiful Asian painter
who lives in a two-story brownstone in
Brooklyn, showed up another cocktail later.
“Cosmo,” he said, looking at my drink, “do
people still drink those?”
“Apparently,” I nodded. “I’m Ian-Michael.”
“He’s the writer,” Giovanni bragged for
me. “He’s the one who writes the column.”
“Aha! That explains the cosmo. You’re like
a real-life Carrie Bradshaw.”
It’s a comment I get a lot: After all, I have
been a columnist for three years now,
and my columns have generally been on
the topic of sex and dating. “I guess so,”
I smiled, putting down my half-empty
cosmo and ordering a gin and Sprite
instead. (I can’t stand bitter drinks.)
I shouldn’t be mad about it: After all,
I understand it’s typically meant as a
compliment. It just doesn’t feel like one.
When compared to the infamous Carrie
Bradshaw, I know they’re thinking of
Sarah Jessica Parker. They think, “There’s
Ian-Michael, in his Chloé boots that cost
a month’s rent, saying witty, sassy things
in his cute little column.” (And they’re not
entirely wrong: My Chloé boots did cost a
month’s rent, and I had no business buying
them. But I digress.)
However, I don’t write because I have sassy
things I want the world to know: I want
to be a WRITER, all caps, following in the
footsteps of some of my heroes: Joan
Didion, Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton—to
name a
few.
Candace
Bushnell,
writer of “Sex
and the City,”
understands
me. Near the end of the book, Samantha
responds to Carrie’s new project with:
“It’s cute. It’s light. You know, it’s not
Tolstoy.”
“I’m not trying to be Tolstoy,” Carrie said.
But, of course, she was.
“How’s writing goin’?” Jack asked, a
southern accent sneaking out when drunk.
But he wasn’t asking about the column; he
was asking about my book, the novel I’ve
been “working on” for the last six years.
“Swimmingly,” I lied. When it comes to the
novel, I find myself tied up in lie upon lie
upon lie: I once told someone I’d written
300,000 words when I meant to say 30,000,
but I didn’t know how to cover it up, so I
just said, “I’m working on cutting some
of it out.” I couldn’t remember how many
words I’d told Jack last. The truth was
10,000.
“When are you going to let us read some
of your book?” Giovanni asked. I’d finished
my gin and Sprite; the bartender hadn’t
cleared away my unfinished cosmo, and it
took all of my willpower not to take it back.
“You’re writing a book?” Danny asked
excitedly. “What’s it about?”
Head buzzing, I tried to summarize it like
the back of a paperback novel. I must
have gone on and on, because Danny just
looked at me blankly. “Cute,” he said,
smiling.
I reached out for the cosmo.
PHOTO CREDIT STEVE BRENNAN WEARING: BURBERRY TOP, NATHAN AYON THONG, CUSTOM SHOES