In my sleep, I’m haunted by ghosts.
Sometimes it’s Luciano; he’s come home late after an evening with friends. I hear the 
door close and I can hear the clang of his belt as the weight of his pockets draws his jeans to the floor; I can feel his shirt being stripped from his torso like cellophane; then our bed tilts like a little rowboat as he lifts the comforter and slides in behind me. “Hijo,” I whisper, “did you have fun with your friends?”
“Si,” Luciano whispers between light kisses on my throat and shoulder, “Si, Papi, but I missed you,” he continues, his kissing becoming more determined.
“I’m asleep,” I whisper while rolling onto my back, feeling his weight rise, then fall atop me. In the darkness, I can feel his humidity, I can feel his breathy stare. “I’m not 
handsome now,” I whisper. “Jajaja, Papi,” he whispers into my ear, softly purring, “You’re always handsome.”
My hands drift to his strong flanks which remain bathed in cotton, my fingers delve into the fabric, beneath it, finding his strong buttocks. I pull him closer, wanting 
his entire weight atop me, pushing my breath from my lungs. He lifts himself up from me, then lowers himself into a comfortable position, moving his hips delicately.
We’ve ridden on this train before. It always takes us to some far-flung destination; across valleys and up across mountains; through treacherous, snow drifted passes; then down deep into pastoral valleys.
But this night, this ghostly night, no trip will be taken.
This night, like so many aching nights, my Luciano is only a mirage.
something does take the bait, I’m not going to yank the line and hope that I’ll hook the guy. I’m not interested in a catch. I’m really interested in the nibble, the interest, the wink, the nod, the text, the call, the voice, the hello; the validation that I exist somewhere else than in this hotel room. That I’m recognized.
where I lived. I wanted to live in an icon. And in Chicago, there’s no greater icon than the Hancock Tower. I mean, you don’t even need to give anyone, and I mean anyone, the address. All you need to say is the Hancock Tower.
Trump Tower. All three were born to the same design firm, Skidmore, Owings & Merrill LLP, and for which I worked for eleven years.
littered with divots like a county golf course frequented by 9-iron heavy amateurs. My vocabulary was blurry like a windshield streaked by aging wiper blades. My thoughts scattered like hooligans running from sirens.
another. And today, thanks wholly to close friends and their brutal honesty, I can confidently say that I have stepped into my own future.
I decided today that I would get my shit together. I would return to Chicago, rent a great apartment, furnish it the way I want, get my knee replaced, get my affairs in order, and then, and only then, maybe I’ll fly to Buenos Aires for the winter (it’s summer then).
created when Nick I split up. It’s simply not fair to either of us. My Parisian pointed that out to me today.
No, not when you pick them up at the cleaners. But when you pluck them from the closet as you’re running late to a date.
For Carrie, it was literally an altar. For me, it was a five-star hotel in a chic part of Paris.
Luciano, Jean-Baptiste, Jason, Peter, and David on the site. That’s also where I met Artem the first time, and precisely where I met Artem today, the second time.
Or worse, Boomeranged.
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 