Hands are more than fingers.

Kevin’s hands are soft in mine. They’re dark, with long fingers. His fingers twist around mine like ivy.

His hands are different than mine; mine are older, wiser. His are young and uncalloused.

His hands feel warm against my skin.

They touch, squeeze, they admit his hunger; they wash his face; they reposition himself in bed; they move me.

There’s much to love about men; but hands direct you. Like traffic cops, to pleasure.

In Charlotte, there is no other than 5 Church.

There are plenty of chop houses, but if what you’re after is haute cuisine, 5 Church stands well above the rest.

Chef started me with a delicate room temperature prawn atop a crostini cracker finished with bourgenise cheese. The appetizer exploded in your mouth. The first to hit was the cracker which started the salvination; then cane the subtleness of the prawn, followed by the cheese. It was, by far, the best first course I’ve had in Charlotte.

The second course was meatballs: but not your every day meatball. Chef prepared a delicate ball, scrumptiously seasoned: think your mothers perfectly prepared meatloaf. This second course was satisfying, but filling.

The presentation is delicate: a clean, rectangular plate, bright white, the rest of the table is empty except for your knife and fork. This restaurant knows elegance and subtleties.

Since Chef started with a fish dish then courted it with meat, I’m anxious about he’s bringing for the main course. I’ve eaten around the world, but so far this dinner is very, very promising.

The main course was a salmon sitting atop a saffron rice mixed with coconut milk, flanked by green beans an surrounded by a chimichanga sauce. The presentation was on a subtle black plate that just begged me to dig in. David paired it beautifully with a rose wine.

Ive never been a fan of Rose’s, but this wine was exquisite! The legs reminded me of leggy, nylon clad women, the color, while not pink was a robust autumn color. How perfect!

I don’t know how Chef does it! The temperature of the salmon was perfect for my palette; warm to taste and cool to cut; the salmon didn’t dissolve beneath my knife, but stood guard.

The salmon was prepared with a crust; not heavy or salty, but crunchy. It easily gave way under my butter knife.

Amazing.

In a word, amazing.

The eyes are the window to the soul.

I love men. I love loving men.

There are many parts to aman to love: their shoulders; their hands; their beards.

But their eyes is where I find their secrets. It’s in their eyes that I find myself.

Eyes never lie.

You can look into the eyes of a man and see his soul; you can glimpse in them in the morning and see a sleepy arousal; you can look into their eyes and hear a throaty growl.

Men’s eyes are a gateway to their shoulders and their penises.

When I look into the eyes of a lover I find a blessed bliss.

Often when we’re hungry, we don’t know what we want.

When it comes to sex, I’m pretty vanilla. I like touching and teasing and taunting; I like it smooth like an aged bourbon; of course I like the Big Bang, but if two people, whether it’s a man and a woman, or two men, or two women, if they’re attracted to each other, the Universe will be reborn.

So now comes the conundrum: With the advent of the internet, we, as a society, have accepted behaviors. And not the garden variety behaviors. Oh no, the internet is now exposing us to extreme behaviors.

I’ve had men text me obscenities. And make no mistake: I am no prude. And I make no judgement on another’s proclivities. We are, wholly, responsible for our own behaviors. It makes no difference what or who we’re “into”.

But the internet provides an open forum for extremes. And I’ve seen extremes lobbed at me across the world. And please, make no judgement, I am not here to judge people and their dalliances, but as a society there must be an extreme.

It is my belief that the envelope continues to be pushed with every distinction: top, bottom, versatile, versatile top/bottom. Do we really need these distinctions?

When people are in bed, aren’t we just people? Don’t we just move together? Do we need all these definitions? All these proclivities?

Im a romantic at heart: one button by one button; one belt loop by one belt loop; one zipper tooth by one zipper tooth.

How can I begin to describe a man, when hired by my father in 1967 when I developed a rare muscoskeleton condition rendering me lame in my right leg; a man from some town in Italy that agreed to drive me wherever I could never drive myself; a man that only, even at the time of his death addressed me as Boy.

All I ever hear now is his voice explaining things to that my father was always too busy to say. All the things a boy needs to hear. His voice, like mine, changed over the decades. From a youthful Italian lilt, to a dark tawny, and finally a deep, dark raspiness.

I’m now standing at his grave, the steering wheel from the last car he drove me in, awaiting to place it atop his casket. How does anyone thank anyone for his lifetime? My Driver, sadly, will never know that it was he, and only he, that made me a man.