In life there is both fact and fiction  As a writer my job is to live life, experience it, and then manufacture stories that are palatable for my readers. If I don’t have an actual experience about something I conjure it up like a well rehearsed sorcerer. So when my close friends posed the question as to whether my relationship was fantasy or reality I answered it as honestly as I could: Reality.

But is it? I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking. I think about things, I think about people, and I think about fantasies. I dwell on ideas until they’re curdled in my mind. I tend to second-guess my instincts, and alas, I have learned recently that I often shoot myself in the proverbial foot.

Artem was the first to challenge my caution when he said, the now infamous question, “do you really give up so easily?” Yes. Precisely at the worst of times. Christ! I don’t even wait for the bell to sound the end of the round. I mean, I don’t have any problem pursuing whatever it is that I want. But Jesus, just when it’s right in my god-damned hand I throw a wrench into the whole gear assembly bringing my machination to an abrupt and screaming halt!

But not yesterday. Or last night. Or this morning. Working off a prompt from Scott, an old and trusted friend in the states, I decided to venture out into Paris and experience it first hand. But you see, it wasn’t Paris that I ventured into. No, Paris came to me.

Last evening I invited an extraordinarily handsome man with an enchanting smile and deep blue eyes set amidst a boars hair beard to dine with me in my chic hotel in the 8th arondissment of Paris. This striking young buck cleared an already scheduled dinner to dine with me. I was still unable to understand why men, and especially younger men found me so attractive, I was wholly unable to own my own attractiveness.

And so we dined, he and I, languidly, closing down the restaurant, reminiscent of that scene in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere was quietly playing the grand piano in an otherwise closed restaurant when Julia Roberts walks in. I love that movie! I think I love it so much because they too, found love in the most unlikely of places. But here we were, he and I, surrounded by waitstaff preening the tables for tomorrows morning rush while we talked. And talked. And talked some more. And like Guiseppe to Pinnochio I promised my guest that there were no strings attached. That both he and I could be normal boys. That I had boyfriend moored in South Africa that was a rich and gorgeous male model, and I was simply awaiting his arrival in Paris before we jetted off to Salzburg or Santorini or Milan to shop, then headed back east to Chicago where we’d select a second residence yada, yada, yada . . .

But were we? Really? I mean really? Or was this whole “relationship” just one more catastrophic illusion fueled by my hope and ignorance? To quote the American adage, Isn’t one bird in the hand better than two in the bush? I was so conflicted I ached. I had to use the restroom as did he so I suggested that we return to my room to evacuate our bladders and that nothing would happen to compromise our integrity.

But to quote Steinbeck, “the best laid plans of mice and men oft goes astray.”

Sigh.

And soon it was morning.

Sigh.

But before you begin to question any motive, implied or otherwise, we conducted ourselves in the most gentlemanly of manners. Things did happen of course. Magical things. I grew into myself. For the first time in decades I finally owned, wholly, unfettered my attractiveness. I saw it in his eyes. I felt it on his lips. My hands touched. My hands caressed. And once, before drifting to sleep he placed my hand on his hardness and it felt so magically natural, it was as if it had been made precisely to fit into my hand.

Sigh.

Upon waking there were his blue eyes and his smile. His naked chest and wave after wave of chest hair which lead to the tiniest trickle of dark brown hair which trailed to his navel; legs which peaked out from beneath the summer’s comforter; feet which tickled my feet; hands which held my hands; lips were as soft as the velveteen found on rose petals.

Sigh.

So now what?

To quote my new friend when I asked why he kissed me: “I think you think too much.”

Indeed.

If there’s one thing thing that Artem and I have promised to never forget is the miracle of our lives. You see, we are keenly aware that the life we lead is a miracle. It’s a miracle how we met, its a miracle how we’ve sustained, and it’s a miracle for the future we have forged. Against all odds God had brought us together and it’s God that keeps us together.

Every time we kiss it’s as though a universal God is kissing us. This isn’t a fantasy or an infatuation. We are all too aware that the love we share is a love forged out of steel. Much like King Arthur’s infamous Excalibur, our love has been shaped by distance not closeness. We treasure every chat, every text and every telephone call. We see each other as a soul mate. We are bound by our hearts. We have been blind to physical attraction. Our hearts see for us. Our hearts have perfect vision. And so I want to share with my readers, The Story of Us.

I’m not embarrassed to admit that we met on an online dating site. We had both signed up at the same time and on the same day. I was busy flagging texts from potential suitors as I had been surprisingly popular. Then I happened upon his text.

“Hi,” he said, “I think you’re handsome.”

What happened next was unbelievable. I set eyes on his photograph. It was simply beguiling. Here was this younger, stunningly handsome man sitting on the ledge of a concrete wall. He was so handsome that I was immediately bewitched. His half-smile, his muscular thighs, his delicate hands must’ve been captured by a lover. Only a lover, I’d thought, only a lover would take a photograph like that. So he had a lover.

I shot him a text back to him, “Well, if you think I’m handsome, then you are gorgeous,” I confessed.

“You are handsome. Very handsome. I love your face, your beard, your eyes. You look so handsome and confident,” he added.

Me? I thought to myself, Me? I introduced myself and gave him my email address and suggested that we leave the world of the dating sight and communicate via email. He said he’d write immediately.

A day passed. No email. I went back to the dating sight and texted him. I gave you my email address, but you didn’t write. I won’t bother you again.

“Wait,” he responded, “Ive been busy. Do you give up so easily?”

Do I, I thought, do I give up so easily? Surely he’s been busy with his lover and couldn’t find free time to write. I responded, No I don’t give up so easily. I’m just not in the habit of stalking my prey.

“I’ll write to you today, I promise,” he texted back.

And he did and then I did. Pages and pages and pages of emails. I finally understood what we were doing: BedSpeak. That confessing of secrets post-loving. We were strengthening a bond. Then I asked was it a lover that took his photographs?

“I don’t have a love,” he replied to me, “You’re my love.”

And so it began, our little miracle in a world that doesn’t believe in miracles. I don’t know if the world at large is jaded or cynical, but I’ve often wondered what God thinks about her humans. I can just hear her now: “I give them miracles but no one sees. That is, no one but these two men. Blessed be they and their love for one another.”

I’m about to become an ex-pat. In approximately fourteen hours the wheels of my 757-200 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 home 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 I’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?

When does Trust arrive in a relationship? And, more importantly, does it exit? What causes Trust to appear? Any yet, what causes it to flee like a flock of frightened pigeons? Is Trust a declaration or a given? I believe that a significant particle of the love equation is Trust.

When I told Artem a couple of weeks ago that I’d fallen madly, deeply in love with him, I’d also professed another less obvious emotion: Trust. Trust’s synonyms include: confidence, assurance, expectation, faith, hope, and certainty. When I talk of trust, I’m not talking about an implied emotion. I’m talking about a fundamental tenet of a relationship. Any partnership, whether it be professional or emotional, is based on many things including a commitment toward a common goal. In this case that common goal is trust.

Trust, when we’re talking about emotions usually has something to do with fidelity. But about the more evidential items? Like property or money. I’ve always wondered why American’s as a society, seem to place a higher value on the evidential items like property and money when discussing trust in a relationship, but seem to turn a blind eye towards trust when it comes to affairs of the heart. Are American’s cold-hearted? Not all of them, and certainly not me.

I trust my Artem implicitly. On both fronts: Heart and Hard Evidence. In our relationship it is impossible to say to one another that we’re in love without Trust. Put another way, once in a swimming pool he asked me to dive in from the high diving board.

“But,” I stammered, “I can’t swim!”

“That’s okay,” he said in his Ukrainian lilt, “I can, and Trust me, I will save you Harlan.”

And he has. So many, many, many times.