Loving Men-Miracles (Artem Stories)

I’m about to become an ex-pat. In approximately fourteen hours the wheels of my 757-paris2200 jetliner will lift from runway 2-R at O’Hare International Airport and carry me some 4,000+ miles to a much anticipated rendezvous with Artem in the 2nd most romantic city in the world, Paris (the 1st being Venice according to Travel + Leisure Magazine’s 2017’s Most Romantic Destinations in the World).

Falling in love in Paris has been a dream of mine ever since I knew there was a city called Paris. My former partner and I traveled to France over fifteen years ago, but we flew on a shoestring budget, stayed in a shoestring hotel, and visited all the sights inside and outside of Paris. We had a wonderful time.

But this trip is feeling different somehow. The former trip was a vacation. This trip is a lifetime. As I leave Chicago today, I’m wholly uncertain if I’ll ever call this city my homeparis1 ever again. As I leave America today I’m not sure if I’ll ever be willing to compromise myself and my ideals thus allowing myself to be called an American. I suppose I’ll always be called an American, but I’m hoping, like Hemingway, that one day I’ll be considered an ex-pat, living abroad, and writing about my experiences. I hope that one day I’ll miss my motherland. I hope that one day I learn Artem’s native tongue as my own and that we teach our adopted son, Jack, to speak it as well. I hope that one day, I’ll place the first fifty-five years of my life behind me and focus only on falling asleep every night in the arms of my beloved Artem.

You see, my 757-200 jetliner is transporting me directly into Artem’s powerful arms. But Artem Lyinh In PoolI’m not fleeing into his arms. I’m walking, patiently, as patiently as I’ve done these past many, many weeks as he and I have been forging the massive I-beam which is the foundation of our relationship.

As many of my readers know, the early stages of any infatuation begins with an unending carnal desire to tear clothing, place mouths on every bare inch of delicious flesh; of BedSpeak; of ManFights; of Upsets. I’ve written about them right here on my blog. But to answer a very important question posed to me several times on different social media platforms: Was this fantasy or did this happen?

I’m the writer and you’re the reader. That’s a question only the reader can answer for themselves.

Or, I guess it depends on a greater question: Do you believe in miracles?