An apology to my readers Sau Paulo has been written out of context.

Sau Paulo should be found at the final entry of My Parisian and the beginning of Luciano.

————————————

Sau Paulo had left my memory when I landed in Charlotte.

But how he entered and stayed for a night is unique. It argues the scientific belief that Life is predestined. That situations and people that bump into you, isn’t really a bump, but a predictable intersection. That all the men I have met were predictable. But here’s the bad news about predictability: It can only be seen in the past, or rather from the past. Predictability, by its nature, means a foreshadowing. But its evidence can only be seen yesterday.

Sau Paulo and I literally bumped into each other amidst a growing number of jolly Parisians! He didn’t actually bump into me, but literally stepped on me, or shall I say my foot, which caused him to tip like a freshly cut tree and smack dab onto my lap, my arms encircling him out of a muscle memory of protection of him.

And there, among a riot of reveling Parisians, Sau Paulo sat on my lap, my arms around him, surrendering the weight of his body and allowed it to fall against me, his head leaned back exposing his throat, and I there, in public and in Paris, planted the softest kiss on Sau Paulo’s throat. And he growled. And I planted another and another, and Sau Paulo arched his back, and I with my hand on his jaw, turned his face to mine, my lips next to his, and we kissed, once, lightly; but then twice, and the third pulled our growling from our throats.

And then dawn broke and we napped.

The last I saw of Sao Paulo was when he was tying his tie. He was standing in front of me, wearing only briefs, a shirt and tie.

“What’re you looking at handsome,” he asked.

“You; can’t I look at you?” I answered, leaning in closer.

“You looked at me all night, papi” he quipped.

“My eyes were closed half the time; so I’m making up the time,” I said kissing his thighs.

“American’s,” he said with a tone of exasperation, “Are always afraid that they’ll run out of beauty,” he said while pulling on his trousers, “so they gather as much as they can,” while buckling his belt and kissing me, “before it’s gone,” Then added, “Do you think we’ll never see each other again? In this wide world, do you think we’ll never cross paths, papi? Sau Paulo is only an airplane ride away.”

Even in that tango-infuse, Porteugesian-lilt, darkened voice, I knew Sau Paulo and I would never meet again.

And we hadn’t.

Until this morning when my What’s App application sounded, and their was Sau Paulo in Sau Paulo, dressed in short-sleeves and shorts, smiling in front of a Christmas tree. He wrote, “Merry Christmas, papi.”

Sau Paulo was right: Life is only a finite number of predestined intersections.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

Teasing is equal parts humor and affection.

Do you remember that game you played with your dog? That one that began as a simple game of fetch, then morphed into “chase the one with the toy”, and ended in that fated game: Tug of War. You find yourself growling while you’re tugging on the toy. You’re no longer a person, but one in a pack of wild dogs, doing your absolute best to pull that “food” from the other dog’s mouth.

Calhoun and I share repartee: a verbal game of fetch, followed by chase the guy with the ball(s), finally the tug of war.

Verbal teasing, like tickling, plays on our honesty about our weaknesses.

Calhoun and I like our dog games. We slide easily into them. But like the dog pack, when it’s time to sleep together. At some point in our repartee we decide that we’ve tired of these games, and then offer up quiet questions or affirmations.

Teasing is intimacy.

Meeting men can happen millions of ways.

I discovered Calhoun across the internet recently. He sauntered over to me by lobbing a quiet “hello”.

“Hey,” I replied, “How’re you?”

“Great,” Calhoun said.

Seeing my photograph he said, “Handsome.”

“Really,” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes sir,” Calhoun confirmed.

“I’m Harlan btw,” I added.

“I’m Calhoun,” he replied.

And so it went, lob after lob after lob of Q & A’s; comments on what was said; terse responses to pointed responses.

Calhoun stands 5’10”, weighs in at 150 pounds, and has eyes the color of a fresh parsley; he has a chiseled face, a strong jaw, and an enchanting smile which looks as though it stretches from ear to ear. In a word, Calhoun is handsome.

We never know who or what or when we might stumble upon in life; but if I can intersect with men like Calhoun, my life will be better for it.

News, rather good or bad, shapes a relationship.

Vincent and I have been silent for the past week. We had been burning bright like a well ignited fireplace, and then someone doused us with water.

A week ago we sat in the back seat of a friends car and went to McFaddenville, NC to spy Christmas lights. We were affectionate, pancaking or waffling hands, placing my head in his lap.

And two days later, the affection waned, like a cold front moved through and dampened our heat wave. I assumed it was me: That I’d said something wrong or pushed to hard or was too affectionate or told him I loved him too soon or that I wanted to sleep together too often: something dramatically changed.

Vincent stopped calling; stopped texting; stopped dating. We were stopped like rush hour: bumper to bumper but no advancement; anger, rage, and frustration.

And then the reason came late last night by way of a telephone call: It wasn’t me, it wasn’t Vincent, it wasn’t someone else; it was a thing.

Readers, keep Vincent in your prayers today and every day.