Loving Men-Departures

I’m leaving Paris.

pariseifelIn two short, short days I’m leaving Paris to set down roots in Charlotte, North Carolina. Why Charlotte, a lot of my friends ask? You don’t know anyone in Charlotte.

True. But I didn’t know anyone in Paris, either. But then I met my Parisian and I discovered a totally new Paris. A Paris seen from the inside, as though I was able to hold up a mirror and see myself there. Knowing my Parisian let me, little me, see myself in Paris from the inside out.

I ache with my decision to leave him. He’s become one of my closest friends and I will miss him terribly. But it’s unfair to stay anywhere for anyone. It’s too great a burden for them to bear. It’s smothering. It’s too weighty. It’s like shovels full of dank dirt thrown onto wilting hearts. There’s no joy in burdens. And more than anything I want my Parisian to be as happy as I am.

“You’ve got set down roots someplace,” he offered over a beer, “You’ve got to have a place to escape to, to run to when the world wants too much from you.”

Which is the most painfully honest thing anyone has said to me in years? Yet in my heartmodel of hearts, I know that I must step into my future. And it is my future which beckons me.

I have met so, so many men. So many handsome men. I routinely navigate to the dating site I frequent and in less than twelve hours I find strikingly handsome men in Palm Springs, Ghana, Belgrade, Pretoria, New York that vie for my attention. And they’re all beautiful, and witty, and good texters, and lovers of literature. But none of them are flesh and bone like my Parisian.

One day I know I will find the next true love of my life. But in the interim, I must take heed of what my Parisian said this morning, “Be comfortable with yourself and let the expectations of the world pass you by. Someone will recognize you. You’re too beautiful to be alone for the rest of your life.”

Sigh.

Loving Men-Patience

I have a foot full of holes.

Why? Because I shoot myself in the foot many times a day.

Like yesterday. Yesterday I aimed a Tommy-gun at my foot and pulled the trigger, writing beardsmilinga scathing post about the Parisian and his somewhat strange attraction to my bedtime stories. I was hurt, I was angry I suppose. So I wrote a post and published it on my blog heralding his odd behavior. But his behavior wasn’t odd. It was full of caring. But why couldn’t I see it, or hear it, or feel it? Because I was being selfish. And arrogant. And anything but humble.

A dear friend of mine in Chicago, Richard, reminded me that discovering intimacy with honor requires a great degree of humility. Humility? What about my needs? What about my desires? Why can’t I feel the brushiness of another man’s face on my own; why can’t I taste the day on his lips; feel the humidity of his breath on my ear; or, open his shirt as though I were cautiously opening an envelope to withdraw a letter I’ve yet to read?

But somewhere in my befuddled mind, I lost track of the Parisian’s true intention. He found me, me and my writing, my writing as an extension of me, so alluring, so beardsmiling3captivating, so inspiring, that he couldn’t contain his opinion: “You write so beautifully. That story you read me last night, “The Other?” You didn’t just have them chat, you described little details that made me imagine I was one of those men and you were the other. The way you described ‘us’ and ‘our’ thoughts was unbelievable.”

Sigh.

What an old, arrogant fool I was. Using a public forum to herald my upset because a beardsmiling2Parisian wasn’t interested in kissing me, but was so enamored by my writing. And isn’t that precisely what all writers desire? To be seen by someone, anyone as a writer? A wordsmith? A person capable of creating whole, independent worlds in which readers submerge themselves in like a warm bath?

“Promise me something,” my Parisian asked during breakfast this morning, “Promise me that you’ll write a novel and get it published. Because you’re that good. I know you are. Promise me, Harlan?”

Oh, I promise.

Loving Men-Disappointment

I have done my best to avoid writing today.

I simply didn’t want to understand the cause of my pain. I didn’t want to cogitate its writing3authority. But I knew the second, from the hateful moment I realized that my sleep last night was going to be disturbed, I knew that today I’d be faced with another burden of understanding the folly of my ways.

And I’ve grown tired of understanding. Why can’t I simply experience attraction for another man, without some lousy lesson to be learned? Why can’t I simply stumble into the lap of another man, excuse myself, and be caught off-guard by his mischievous grin?bearded Why can’t I feel the weight of someone else’s foot crushing my toe, then feel an apologetic hand rest on my shoulder, and a smokey voice whisper into my ear, “excusez-moi, je ne vous avais pas vu.”

But no. I’ve always got to meet men whose interest borders on the absurd. It’s not me they want, but some fraction of me. Yes, they want to it terribly. And they’ll do everything they can to get it. What I don’t understand is how obvious they can be. These men won’t even begin to disguise their true intentions. They’re so cocksure and almighty that their need will be met, it’s not a consequence to them if it means that mine will not be satisfied.

I said goodbye to Artem and his money desires; now I must say goodbye to the Parisian.

All I want to do is kiss. The Parisian refuses. Though he comes to my hotel room, dines on bearded2my food, and eventually kicks off his shoes and hops into my bed, we lay next to each, without even the degree of intimacy a dozen sardines enjoy in an oiled aluminum tin!

We lay there, fully clothed, watching TV, or like last night, I was writing and he playfully text me, quietly interrupting my writing. But he wasn’t tenderly interrupting the attention I was giving to my writing to draw it back to his own (which would have been charming), no, he was prompting me, to write more of this or more of that. You see, he too has fallen for a part of me. Not perhaps as cold as money, yet something strange. He’s fallen for my writer’s persona. That persona, I’ve attempted to explain to him, is a professional persona. It’s my business self.

“But, I love what you write, everything that you write; I love your blog, it’s inspiring; butinbed more than all else, I love the bedtime stories you write for me,” he said last night. And then he continued, sounding like my editor, “And since you didn’t write me one yesterday, you’ve got to write me two tonight!”

But he wasn’t joking. He was dead-pan serious.

The Parisian wasn’t interested in sharing his physical affection with me. He didn’t want the emotional mess. What he did and continues to want are prurient stories which he can then fantasize with, fantasize about me, not the flesh and bone me, but some idyllic me, to masturbate to someone that doesn’t exist, all the while cordoning off true feelings and intimacy.

Maybe this is what courtship is like in the age of texts and Twitter.

Loving Man-Humanity

I am not perfect.

I am Human.

The course of my life was prophesied by the mother-in-law of my dearest childhood humanityfriend some forty years ago. Everything she had predicted has occurred in stark reality. But it was a plan. A master plan. For details, I sought out other spiritualists, psychics, tarot readers, and astrologers. I currently employ these tremendously gifted men and women across our tiny globe. They reside in England, France, and America. And the oddest part of their valued insight all pointed at one thing: Spiritual Transformation.

What is Spiritual Transformation? Try Googling it. What you’ll discover is that it’s a phenomenon that is, in a word, Heavenly. But it is not for the faint of heart. It is a very, very long process which spans the millennia. It is nothing to attain. No matter how much one can wish for it, it, this transformation, is a gift of the Higher Self.

Every Human on earth has a Higher Self. This Higher Self is the entity to which you pray. Some may call it God, others may call it conscience. But the identifier is the least human2important. It is, above all else, you. You as part of the Great Divine.

When I meditated I often had conversations with my Higher Self. I heard answers. I heard insights. I could answer peoples questions about their worldly lives. I helped people that sought my insight to navigate their troubling worlds. And I did so out of humility. Out of compassion for a very troubled, pervasive Human condition. A pervasive Human condition which has devolved from its true form. There was a master plan for Humanity which was side stepped when Humanity created two distinct distractions. Humanity constructed two masters: Time and Money.

These two masters have been invented. Invented by men to put a value on Human Life. human3In the Divine Expression of Humanity, there is equality. We’re all cut from the same cloth. But greed and only greed has detoured us from the Divine Expression. We’ve been devalued. Time, a horrible construct has caused Humanity to be enslaved. And money? Money is now the ugliest form of servitude. I challenge everyone to argue this point: “What freedom in life do you really have when others place time and money ahead of any other?”

I have been blessed with Enlightenment. Enlightenment is not, I repeat, is not a romantic ideal. It is nakedness. Yes, I feel a very distinctive comfort. But I also feel Humanity’s pain and suffering, and sometimes it can be so painful that I’d gladly exchange this Enlightenment to simply escape. But I cannot. The die has been cast.

Prior to my Spiritual Transformation, Wisdom told me through meditation, that I would eventually land upon a fire in my soul. This fire would provide all the questions and allhuman4 the answers to the Human condition: Life, Peace, Truth, Courage, Clarity, and Humility. And, it asked, did I know what I’d achieve when I received all the questions and all the answers? I didn’t. It would be Peace.

And so I have been charged to communicate the tenets of the Human Expression to as many people as I can. To assist them in righting the wrongs. To assure every person that there is a grander plan. To shed light on a darkened world. And too, above all else, continue to absorb the pain and suffering of mankind. Not to better my Self, but to provide an avenue of light.

 

Loving Men-Inspiration

I must apologize to my readers that give me time out of their precious lives to read my posts. My earlier post was horrible. I knew it was horrible when I was writing it. It lacked honesty and emotion. It was pedantic. It was as ordinary as washing dishes. And I’m sorry.

Sometimes I am pedantic. Sometimes I lack inspiration. And when that happens my language becomes, in a word, pedestrian.

So I’m writing this to you on my iPhone, in twilight while in the company of one of my best friends Paron.

Paron and I spend an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening together. It is with Paron that I afford myself time to think. Think honestly. Paron is my cigar.

Paron isn’t a lover. Although I enjoy him, taste him, savor him, and enjoy our times together, Paron doesn’t inspire me. My Parisian inspires me.

There is nothing that comes between me and Paron. Even my Parisian awaits his turn. He cares for Paron as much as I do. He likes Paron on my breath, on my clothes, and in my beard. He thinks that the aroma of Paron is intoxicating. How lovely, I think, that my Parisian isn’t the least bit jealous of my friendship with Paron.

I cherish my hours with Paron. But Paron is a habit. Some would say a bad habit.

But my Parisian is a gift which I enjoy unwrapping and re wrapping several times a day.

Loving Men-Truths

In Life, there is only Truth.

loversinbed2And sometimes, when I’m stumbling through the darkened rooms of my soul, I turn to others that can see in my own darkness.

I have witnessed my own humanity in the eyes of those I love.

Especially in the eyes of my Parisian.

I have discovered recently, that I, for one, have expectations of my own Life. And, I suppose, in my own arrogance, I have expectations of others. Especially of my Parisian.

I yearn for his kiss. I long for his touch. I’m excited by his excited-ness.

In Truth, I’m not a terribly sexual person. Sex is fine, but it wanes. It cools. Sex ignites libidinous deeds: clothes ransacked, mouths feeding, textures of flesh and bone felt, all loversinbedbuilding to the tensing and releasing of pleasure. And while my flesh is satisfied, I know that there are precious moments following. It is in these moments, post coitus, that I discover who we are in our purest forms.

The first time we danced together, the first time that our bodies met in passion, we muddled through. We didn’t know each other very well. We self-consciously tripped over the others’ foraging. We were both in a hurry to discover the other’s passion. Stumbling, when looking back, we yielded, giving in to libertine passions.

But it’s at breakfast and dinner that we get to know each other. It’s at night when I write him unpublishable bedtime stories do we share what is truly genteel.

Those are the times I cherish.

 

Loving Men-My Parisian

When people would ask me, why I was flying to Paris, I’d answer them simply: To fall in love.

But I wasn’t going there to fall “in love,” because, I thought, I’d already fallen “in love.” But I hadn’t. Hadn’t really fallen “in love.”

lovers4I’ve been living in Paris for almost a week. “Living in,” was a distinction pointed out by my Parisian last evening over dinner.

We’ve constructed a certain degree of routine: We grace each others’ presence over breakfast and dinner. Most of us think that there is a normal cadence of life between the hours of 9:00 am to 5:00 pm, but the night requires bed time. Well, yes it does. But why do we all assume that the hours between the end of dinner and the start of breakfast would consist of a great degree of personal compromise? Frankly, I find constraint very sexy! Why would two strangers strangle a budding friendship with debauchery?

I really care for my Parisian. He allows me to be me. He enjoys my company, my writing, my conversation. The longer the restraint the greater the degree of longing. My Parisianlovers3 said to me last night while our entree plates were cleared, “It’s almost as though you’ve been here for longer than a week.” And then, while looking down at his lap, he admitted, “I’m going to miss you terribly when you leave.”

I’m not one for goodbyes, especially premeditated ones. What he said continues to reverberate in my heart, causing an ache which is so painful, it’s as though God himself was wringing it out like a dishrag.

This morning I said, “You know, I don’t have a home. This hotel is my home. This garden loversis my garden; this dining room is my dining room; the hotel staff greet me every morning and evening as Mr. Didrickson; after you leave for work, they know that I retire to the garden for a cigar, and they’ll bring me two triple espressos while I ruminate about my afternoon’s writing; and they know that you and I dine every morning and evening. I’m treated as an expat writer, living in Paris, and enjoying the intimacies of a younger Parisian. And like all top-notch personal service, they are committed to Our happiness, which, by the way, is seen as natural and lovely.

“Do you know why?” I asked my Parisian.

“No,” he replied while shaking his head.

Leaning toward him I whispered, “Because what they see is a very special friendship, and they are so pleased to be a part of something so magical.”