Caring is kindness.

D. cares for me. I care for him, too.

But his caring is an action verb. He cares for me. Whenever we’re together he knows exactly where I am. I walk with forearm crutches and a leg brace. He always pulls out tables for me, opens doors, holds my crutches.

Caring.

I can see it in his eyes. I can see it in his smile. I can see it in his texts.

We always text the other when we’re tucked in our respective beds. We always text each other “good morning.” We text each other about sniffles, and body aches, and nose bleeds.

See, D. cares for me.

It’s a comforting thought knowing someone in someplace is caring for me.

I do hope each of you have someone like D.

In order to start at the beginning, one must end something first.

I have had one hell of a time establishing “any” kind of lover relationship in Charlotte. At first I thought it was me: my lifestyle, my age, my demeanor. But I don’t think that’s the case. Yes, I’m the common denominator, and yes, I suppose I’m the catalyst, but it takes two to tango.

In Charlotte I’ve dated Pup, Ross Ross, Otter, and D.. Of all four, Otter was the norm: tall, great smile, honest, upfront, great drinking friend, and, oh, he’s straight.

Does the whole sexual nature of dating muddy the waters? Do we have unusually high expectations of suitors? Does arousal (whether sexual or intellectual) provide a hurdle rather than access?

The men I’ve met in Charlotte profess to know what they want: long-term relationships! I’m a pro at that: having recently ended a 32-year relationship. But these men, while wanting one, have no idea as to how to get out of the gates! It’s as though I’m a pro baseball players coaching little league.

What I’m looking for is a 31 year old male, mischievous grin, sparkling eyes, old soul, great heart, loves cigars (or a cigar lover), sensual, kissable lips, and when in bed will stay the night.

Not neccessarily “Prince” Charming; but definitely charming.

What are “types”?

My friends will tell you that I have a “type” of guy: short, younger, mop of blond hair, lithe.

But “types” are what our minds tell us we want.

When we stumble into another person, we’re often surprised by their presence.

Take D. for instance: When I first set eyes upon him I saw his feet first, then moved up his legs, past his belt, to his chest, on up to his shoulders, and then, then I landed on his handsome face: a smile which was broad and capped by a pair of sparkling eyes, framed by a close-cropped brown beard.

I asked, “Have a lot of people told you, you’re handsome? Well they should, because you are.”

That was one month ago.

Last night D. and I had dinner together at a northern Italian restaurant here in Charlotte. We both had an amazing time.  While walking back to the place I smoke cigars, I mentioned I had no plans for Thanksgiving.

D. said, “Harlan, wherever I am for Thanksgiving, you’ll be there too.”

Yes, I will D.

In Charlotte, I live in Paradise.

I’m the only guest on a heavily wooded, English-garden clad, koi pond filled, 5-acre estate, tucked an eighth of a mile from the main road.

It’s so private in fact, that uber drivers often miss it.

There are hundreds of towering trees which are finally beginning to turn. Autumn has at long last fell in Charlotte. My favorite tree has begun to blush with the cool air’s approach, going from a sullen green, to a smiling yellow; it’s leaves now a bright amber as it waves its last hurrah.

Yesterday I spied not one but two red-headed woodpeckers dancing from limb to limb and sometimes upside down. Squirrels bolt in the silence like shoppers at a rummage sale. A half-dozen hawks circle overhead, calling each other, their voices describing meals below.

I wish each of you could spend ten minutes here.

It is simply Paradise.

Bugaboo: Anything we have that makes us think we’re different from everyone else.

Every man I’ve ever known has a bugaboo. Jean-Baptiste was abandoned in Chicago by a lover after Jean-Baptiste quit his job and ran from Paris; Ross Ross is a southpaw; D. had been maliciously assaulted by a former lover; Pup had been debilitatingly dyslectic as a child; Otter writes his numbers and letters backwards; I was an idiot in high school and place in three solid years of wood shop.

But bugaboos are our intimacies. They’re not what separate us, but what makes us more similar.

When you first meet someone you’re mesmerized by their flanks, their thighs or eyes or smiles. But it’s once we’re naked do we undress ourselves and show who we really are.

It’s these intimacies which always move me.

When a man has the ease to show me his deficiencies, I show him mine.

Arent we all just embarrassed children looking for other embarrassed children?