Butch likes to say he sees me as big on shirking responsibility. No surprise, then, I see just the opposite. I take respponsibility for my part in my assault. I invited Ian and Glen back to my place for some hot ports before sleep; it was a cold January night, & our chat was going well. It was only 11; so a nightcap seemed within reason. Ciaran was on call; I dreaded a long cold lonely night; to lose a few hours in chatter with potential new friends seemed ideal.
I’ve not been shy on being forthright with being gay since coming out in 1987 on the Sally Jesse Raphael show. The pub we met in, The now-defunct Silver Swan, was listed in The Gay Guide to the Northwest of Ireland as being gay friendly. So, I figured the patrons would be, too. I think my ‘bashing was more of a robbery gone awry than an act of pure viciousness, but then, then , unlike young Dr. Slevin,I didn’t have to deal with finding my parner near death, in an ever-widening pool of blood; who only hung on, solely, to tell him, “I love you.”
Arguing for my independence with my trust lords has gotten really old, really fast. See, I’m like a poor man’s Brittany Spears: all my money is in a special needs trust, dispensed as need be by my Trustees: Gil Roth and Peter Johnson. Gil, I’ve been friends with since St. John’s. Peter does this for a living, & cuts me a world of always legal and ethical slack. More tomorrow. Nighty-night.