Loving Men-TwoWho’s

There are TwoWho’s in my life.

Jean-Baptiste, and Luciano.

Jean-Baptiste lives in Paris. He’s lithe and finely-drawn; as my fingers trail down his back beardedI can feel the knobs of his vertebrae; as my hands work their way between his skin and his shirt I feel the slightest rise of muscle from his waist to his shoulders; a long neck supports a bearded face which smiles down at me from above; he is 31 years.

 

Luciano lives in Buenos Aires. He’s a smoky Argentinian, short but powerful; well-built IMG_0351with an incredibly strong spiritual core; powerful thighs which springboard his body from floor to bed to shower to work to a restaurant to bed to sleep. Atop him, I slide my hands under his buttocks, raise his jeaned legs above my waist, and let my hands continue under his back where my hands follow the cool caps of his shoulders to the tiny peaks of his nipples. He kisses me with the passion of the tango; he is 27.

They both know about the other; I’ve known Luciano longer than Jean-Baptiste. I left Jean-Baptiste four days ago in Paris and I’m planning to visit Luciano in Buenos Aires within the month.

I spent the better part of every morning texting, calling, laughing, arguing with both of them.

I’m very close to each of them. None of us like labels. So we’re not “lovers”. And no, I’ve never imagined bringing the three of us together for a menage a trois.

The three of us don’t have a relationship. I have a deep friendship with Jean-Baptiste and I have a deep friendship with Luciano.

The question people always seem to ask is, are you faithful?

This is how I try to answer: By faithful, do you mean honest? Because I’m honest, we’re honest. By faithful, do you mean jealous? I’m not jealous of them, and they’re not jealous of each other. By faithful, do you mean monogamous? No, I’m not monogamous.

But I’m not, nor are either Jean-Baptiste or Luciano married.

They’re simply my TwoWho’s.

 

 

Loving Men-Pursuit

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.

Loving Men-Buenos Aires

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 lucianocollared 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.