Because Vanity Fair never responded and because I need to let go

Edward's father died a woman in a jail cell in Key West. Once known as Gregory, his now useless license read Elizabeth Ashley and confirmed his lack of male gentalia with a prominent "F." He had been sent to the pokey for indecent exposure--seems kinda difficult without a penis in a place like Key West. This was his third arrest in several weeks. The coroner reported that he died of natural causes. He was 69.
I sent Edward an e-mail with my condolences. Our relationship had been relegated to the occasional phone call and infrequent e-mail since we left Bozeman for opposite coasts. There was alway something adversarial in those few correspondences. There was a sense that he was pushing at me. He should have known that he didn't have to.
I saw him in New York about six months before his father's death. He had gotten bigger which made me happy. Poverty was the second best diet I had ever been on, and I was confident that I looked better than him. We were no longer lovers, no longer friends, but we still maintained the ability to make one another laugh. No one has ever been able to make me laugh like Eddie. Even the last time I saw him, at an Irish pub on the Lower East Side with Tennille, we cracked each other up.
He has always been someone that has been hard for me to let go--maybe that explains his pushing. Since our first meeting, I knew that we would only be together for a short time. The part of me that resents him for not maintaining a relationship is the part of me is writing this.
He told me in the utmost of confidences that his mother walked in on his father dressed in her clothes simulating breast feeding with an infant Edward. Mortified, she soon ended their marriage. When he was old enough to talk, Edward began seeing a therapist in Midtown. As a reward for this imposition, his mother would then take him to Chock Full o' Nuts. Indeed, his entire family seemed to be Chock Full o' Nuts.
His grandfather killed himself with a shotgun that his mother (Eddie's great-grandmother) sent him.
Edward's mother and father met at his grandfather's funeral; his mother had been under his grandfather's employ.
His half-brother was the bastard of an Irish playwright.
His cousin modeled, then killed herself.
His other cousin was nominated for an Academy Award.
Edward was always swinging from one extreme to the next. One day he wouldn't be smoking or eating meat. The next day he would. I often got caught in the middle of those swings. I didn't mind, though, because I was enamoured of him. A drink poured on my head seemed like an affectionate gesture from someone who only noticed me when he wasn't busy noticing himself.
He introduced me to the art set of Bozeman, MT. They were a ridiculous group comprised of pin-up girl photographers, grad students who had strong opinions about white people with dreadlocks, clothing designers who insisted that garments that looked poorly made were all the rage, native Americans whose lamentable paintings passed for art, and a certain literary editor for a national men's magazine. Most of them had high opinions of themselves. None of them had high opinions of me. Sometimes I imagine that if Edward wasn't so preoccupied with other people's perceptions of him, that he and I could have made a go of it. Other times, I wonder why I spent so much time with him.
My relationship with Eddie began around the time his cousin commited suicide. He was not allowed to attend her funeral because of his sexual proclivities. My relationship with Eddie ended with the death of his father. We used to joke that when his father died, an article in Vanity Fair would soon follow. If that article was ever written, I missed it. Maybe it would have given me closure. The GQ article only fills me with nostalgia and the sense of impending conclusion, but I can't throw it away.