We see our own beauty in the eyes we behold.
Michael VII has blue eyes; not your standard baby blues. No, Michael VII’s eyes are similar to a gold prospectors pan; blue slate with hints of sapphire and platinum.
In his eyes are reflections of his heart: dark rubies set in a field of crocuses. They’re the kind of eyes kittens curl up in to nap.
Eyes so blue that the oceans envy their depth, purity, and color. Neptune himself weeps.
But it’s in Michael VII’s eyes I find myself. I have discovered truth and courage in them; I have found peace and life in them; and each day they show me his clarity and humility.
Each day when I kiss the softness of his lids, it’s like I’m tasting heaven. Sweet, sweet eyes.
Muse: goddess or power which inspires an artist.
Michael VII has become my muse. He inspires me through his reflection of me. He mirrors my thoughts and deeds. He mirrors my sentiments.
I too, have become his muse. He does as I request, like shaving chest hair or grooming facial hair.
As an artist, I cannot write without inspiration. Michael VII inspires me to write. Even when it is painful. The Truth is never easy to speak. It either distances lovers or brings them close.
I’m not talking lust. Do Michael VII and I feel the growling of lust? Certainly. But what I find more delicious is our rapport.
“Feel and write,” Michael VII prompts. “Let your pain bleed and let us drink of your wisdom. I know it hurts, but too few are willing to share themselves like you can.”
”You won’t laugh at me,” I asked.
”Why would I laugh at such beauty,” he whispered quietly.
“Because people do,” I answered.
”I’m not ‘people’, he said, “I’m yours.”
Michael: a Hebrew name which asks, “who is like God”.
I have met no less than seven Michael’s in Charlotte: Michael, Mike, Mike, Michael, Mike, Michael, and lastly, Michael.
The first picture of Michael I saw was of him running a marathon. His shorts weren’t tight but draped on his powerful thighs. Thighs that carried his frame strongly; thighs that were hard and muscular; but at the same time, when in repose, lay like drowsy eels.
Michael’s shoulders, like his thighs are powerful, but subtle; a whisper which lifts like dense fog to the snowy caps to the snowy mountain range of his shoulders.
His face is framed by a thicket of brown moss on his face, and a brown mop atop.
His smile is at once warm and inviting like the smoke rising from a chimney promising warmth; when you stand close to the hearth of his grin you can feel the heat of his frame.
My hand is comfortable on him.
Especially atop those thighs.
Temptation starts when the fruit is plucked from the tree.
Last night and early this morning I, at long last, opened the windows of a growling lust, and turned my attention to a lounging male form named Vincent.
Vincent, a lithe, six foot tall, curly haired brunette picked me up at a lounge in Charlotte. That’s right, Vincent picked me up.
Usually I’m the one on the hunt, scouring apps for potential suitors, but Vincent swaggered into the lounge and bee-lined his way to my table and sat down.
Younger than I, he ordered a whisky and began his interrogation. Hours passed when suddenly my phone bleeped with a message: “Hold my hand under the table.”
And then we climbed out of an Uber, and there, under a street lamp, in Uptown, Vincent kissed me. For the first time.
The second kiss came in the elevator, and the third and so many more arrived beneath the quilt and landed on naked inches of flesh.
It wasn’t temptation which led Eve to bite that apple, but fleshy intoxication.
Just like Vincent.
Tonight I’m meeting D.’s mother.
We’re having dinner together in a couple of hours.
I’m a little nervous.
I put on my best shirt, tie, slacks, and jacket. Combed my hair and beard. Spritz on Tom Ford cologne. Brushed my teeth. And smoking one of my best cigars.
I imagine she’ll look like D., which is silly of course: D. is 6’3”, 200 pounds with a beard. I hardly think she’ll look like him really.
When you meet an in-law you always hope they like you. What I hope she sees is how much I love her son.
I love words. I hate texts.
Eastwood tapped me on Grindr late last night. A tap is akin to a tap on the shoulder, a brief introduction, a “hello” in the briefest of terms.
This afternoon I said “hello” to Eastwood.
Slowly, across the internet, like walking slowly across a bar, Eastwood responded. Eastwood is 30, 5’7”, a lithe 145 pounds, great smile, hazel/green eyes.
“Hi,” he texted.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
And then it started, or staggered perhaps, a volley of Q & A. All in text of course.
But Eastwood tickles me, makes me laugh, likes my writing.
So readers, please allow me to introduce you to Eastwood.
Men come and go.
In the parlance of gentlemen, when you’ve made an error, whether in action or word, you apologize. You look the person in the eye, always in the eye and apologize.
And then you shake hands.
Every man has two powerful tools: his word and his handshake.
Every man knows that when he gives his word AND shakes his hand it’s a bond you don’t break.
And if you do, you look the person in the eye, admit your wrong, and shake.
This is what gentlemen do.