I am a hunter.
I am not the hunted. I’ve been hunted, earlier in my life, but I never enjoyed it.
I’ve been hunting men all over the world: Vancouver, Palm Springs, Montreal, NYC, Buenos Aires, Atlanta, London, Paris, Belgrade, Munich, and Johannesburg.
And not two are alike: “Vancouver” is 26, Latino; “Palm Springs” is 42, Italian; “NYC” is 25, Latino Lit grad student; “Buenos Aires” is Luciano, of course, 31, beautifully Argentinian; “Paris” is my Parisian, 31, softly Parisian; “Munich” is 71, stunningly handsome, and an expat; and “Johannesburg” is, of course, Artem, 29.
i wish I considered these men my trophies. But I don’t. They’re men that I’ve met, men that I have slept with, men that I have loved and that have loved me, men that I have laughed and cried with, men that care for me.
I love loving men, with all their boyish charms and aged experiences; I’ve had the fortunate luck to discover these many treasures all over our tiny planet. And the one detail that has always surprised me, is that, all these men, from various continents and cultures, various languages and songs, they’re all remarkably similar.
All of us, men and women alike, we’re all looking for the same thing: a hand out of the rain, a tissue on a particularly blue day, a greeting card after a long weekend. All we want is the peaceful knowledge that someone, somewhere is thinking about us, especially when they’re not thinking about anything else.
We want to know that we matter someplace else, that others in different parts of the world are placeholders for our souls.