Infatuated: A short burst of affectionate desire; usually short-lived; might evolve into love.
Vincent and I are infatuated with each other. We want to spend every waking and sleeping hour with each other.
I enjoy watching him watching me. We spy each other and when caught, look away immediately, chagrined.
When I study his lissome frame, I see tight flanks and the broad shoulders of a swimmer; a lithe throat; an eye-catching jaw; and eyes whose dark pin-dotted pupils are haloed by honey, then fade to viridian.
Vincent enjoys pancaking rather than waffling when we hold hands. His unfolded paws encircle mine when pancaking, and our fingers crochet like piano keys when waffling.
We “pinky swear” decisions. For instance, we’ve agreed that when we kiss, we always kiss twice at the same spot; whether it be on the chin, the throat, behind the ear, lips, or the shallow pool of flesh called a belly button.
Vincent and I have been dating for three weeks now. Weekly we spend an inordinate amount of time with the other. Three nights on average.
At night and after dinner we come back to the estate where I’m staying, start a roaring fire in the outdoor pit, and snuggle up to share each other’s warmth.
Vincent and I are infatuated with each other. It’s an attraction blessed by heaven itself.
A man’s best friend is not his dog.
Vincent and I are intimate. Sexually and sensually, yes. But we’re more than that. We’ve become best friends.
Best friends are made. They are forged. They are fueled by brutal honesty like wildfires are fueled by winds.
Best friends accept their charge: to be present when needed. They put their own needs second. Nothing is ever as important as the need of their best friend.
Best friends become best men, the highest honor given to a man in a wedding party. The best man is the grooms wing man. He’s there to ensure the groom does his job.
Vincent is my best friend, my wing man, my best man.
And I love him for it.
It’s in the eyes of your lover that you find your self.
Vincent has eyes that draw me in deeply. Like sirens which lounge on craggy rocks along the seas’ edge drawing galleons precariously to their doom, Thomas’s eyes draw me in deeply.
The pupils of Vincent’s eyes are haloed by honey which dissolved into kelp green.
His eyes, when sad, withhold his tears but well, then overflow like breached levees.
But the most stunning aspect of Vincent’s eyes is their reflection. In them, I see myself, in all my colors.
Shedding a tear is intimate.
Thomas (aka Vincent) and I dined, drank, and smoked cigars last night. It was our second date, and consequently our most intimate one.
The first one (please see the post “Loving Men-Vincent”) was about bodies. How they reacted to others. The growling of physical passions; the mountaneous peaks rising, then edging back to quiet valleys; the launch of lust erupting; and finally gooseflesh and bedspeak.
But last night and early this morning was different, intimate. We listened and sang to Janis Joplin, Fleetwood Mac, Collabro, and Kristin Chenowith. And we cried to some; intimate.
Any two people can have sex. But intimacy is rooted in a trust discovered by lovers and blessed by heaven.
Water naturally finds its way. It is moved however, by wind.
Michael VII moves me. He causes gooseflesh on my damp skin; his sapphire and platinum eyes are bathed in ocean blue; his thighs ripple like rip tides.
But what moves me most is that he draws from me words: suggesting what I should write. He’s like the magnet to my imagination, he finds disparate fragments of my imagination and helps them to coalesce into coherent thoughts. Ideas which fill these pages.
All my lovers leap, like summertime swimmers in a quarry, onto these pages, so I can share them with you.
All of our lovers are private. But on these pages I share them with you. I want you to see them as I see them: moving.
Like the wind on water.
Wind moves Water.
Michael VII is the element wind. I am the element water. Wind moves water. Michael VII moves me. Makes me appear stronger than I am.
But a strong river runs deep. So deep in fact that blustery winds can only ripple the surface.
Michael VII and I are learning how we affect each other. The coolness of his breath upon my moist skin causes goose flesh; my moist kisses cause him to breathe gutterly.
He and I are learning each other. Like adventurers, we are wholly uncertain of the other’s typography.
But we know this: We move the other in a blissful and natural dance.