His name is Luciano.
He whispers to me in Spanish. And even if I can’t understand the words he’s whispering, I understand their meaning. His language is so soft, it just purrs, like a very content kitten. Even thru the telephone, I can understand his sentiments through the lilt in his voice. He could be reciting the yellow pages for all I care.
In response to his whispering, I then shared with him: What do I consider sexy? Open collared shirts that hint at throats and chests; crisp cotton shirts where I can lay my head and bathe in a man’s aroma; worming my hands up a man’s back between their shirt and suit jacket; kissing a man’s throat; teasing a man’s tongue out of the shell of his mouth; gnawing on a man’s shoulder; biting a man’s lower lip gently; bathing with a man; greeting a lover courtside with an embrace, feeling the dampness of his skin and recalling the same dampness after making love; traveling and staying in luxurious accommodations with featherbeds, down comforters, and a dozen pillows; laughter and a great deal of humor; honesty and truthfulness; humility.
There is something truly intoxicating about Luciano’s voice; his laughter is infectious; his hushed tones are inviting.
A friend said to me today, “Harlan, you’ve got a man in every city.”
Hm, I thought to myself, I guess I do.
Lucky, lucky me.