Loving Men-Rodgrigo (Kisses)

kisingThe insides of your lips are are as velveteen as rose petals.

Rodrigo and I are now kissing. There are several forms of kissing:

  1. Hello/Good-bye: slightly open mouth; can be single or multiple; dispassionate is common
  2. Good night/Good morning: slightly open mouth; can be single or multiple; depending on the randiness of individuals, passion is possible
  3. All else: A potpourri of passion; tongues which dart like fish at dusk; like the lurekissing2 and the bass: teasing, leading, and caught; nipped and gnawed; throaty growls and surprising moans; sweaty and panting; and my favorite . . .
  4. All of the above.

Loving Men-Rodrigo

 

If you don’t look, you might be surprised by what you see.

I met Rodrigo through friends. We were at a holiday party. Neither of us knew anyone, so rodrigo2we drifted slowly toward each other like an asteroid and a planet, which led to a silent impact of shared and embarrassed “hello’s”.

“How are you?” Rodrigo asked.

“Alone,” I answered sheepishly. “I don’t know anyone at the party.”

“You do now,” Rodrigo said. Continuing he said, “I’m Rodrigo, and you are?”

“I’m Harlan,”I said extending my hand.

Rodrigo’s graceful hand reached out to mine and shook hands, looking square into each other’s eyes.

“Peter said you’re a writer,” Rodrigo added withdrawing his hand.

“Peter? Who’s Peter?” I asked.

“Our host, silly,” Rodrigo laughed. “He’s over there under the mistletoe.”

“Ohhhh, that’s Peter? I asked. “I heard he was a doll! Maybe I should introduce myself to him,” adding quietly, “Under the mistletoe.”

“Don’t bother, Harlan,” he admitted.

“Did you try once?” I asked.

“Yes and it backfired horribly,” Rodrigo confessed.

“He’s straight,” I determined.

“God, no . . . he’s gay through and through,” Rodrigo chortled.

“Then he must’ve not found you attractive,” I surmised.

“God no . . . that was the problem, he found me attractive, but my kissing him under the mistletoe embarrassed him so much that he had a panic attack! Needless to say, we never kissed again.”

But that chance encounter led Rodrigo and I to a lovely dinner date, then a wonderfulrodrigo second date which lasted nine hours and spanned two mealtimes  Rodrigo asks me to read to him on a nightly basis from my blog. He likes my writing, my style, my honesty.

One never knows what may happen after an embarrassing situation, In Rodrigo’s case it cost him some cheek.

And I gained a new amour.

Loving Men-Vincent (Coda)

The adage goes: If you love something set it free; if it comes back to you, it’s meant to be.

thomasVincent and I stopped seeing each other a week before Christmas. It was an abrupt halt; no it was more like a skid on an icy road; that awful sensation that you’re careening out of control no matter what you did; fishtailing, barely missing the guard rail or ditch or other cars.

Once I cleared the black ice of our relationship, I began to forget, i began to not remember the images of Vincent, the sounds of Vincent, his voice, his body, his touch.

I thought I was over him until today.

And there was the lob, the text which came: Your clothes are in the store as am I.

So I went, to pick up my clothes and, I guess, to pick up where we left off.

There was Vincent, standing at the door, that half-crooked smile, waiting for me.thomas2

I shopped a bit wishing to lengthen the time I was there.

Why do these things happen to us? Why do people we’ve let go come back like a boomerang? to torture us or to provide a second chance? Why break off something that’s good only to rekindle embers back into a roaring fire.

Is the adage really correct? If you love something set it free; if it comes back to you, it’s meant to be.

Or is that just a coda in relationships?

Loving Men-Isaiah

One never knows where one may meet another.

Isaiah and I met amidst stacks of books at Barnes and Noble. A beautiful man, light walnut in color, an abbreviated 5’5″ tall, and a chassis which expresses the demands of a contemporary dancer. His smile stretches, like a freshly napped cat, across his delighted face. Even his eyes glint with joy.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I replied.

“How’re things,” he asked.

“They’re great,” I answered.

Sheepishly he added, “You seem to be aware of life’s favor for you.”

“You’re not from Charlotte, are you,” he asked leaning against the bookcase.

“Is anyone from Charlotte,” I asked.

I am,” Isaiah replied quietly.

“Well, I’m not,” I admitted.

And so it started, a repartee which carried itself out of the book stacks, and into the coffee shop; over a butter croissant and a slice of carrot cake; beyond the check-out line and into his car.

“You’re exquisitely handsome,” Isaiah said while turned in his seat.

“Exquisite,” I asked.

“Desirable. Satisfying. A treat,” he added while smiling.

“We should be lovers,” I said.

“Hm, really?” he asked.

“Why not be lovers? It’s very continental,” I stated.

“We’d shadow each other handsomely,” he said reaching out and waffling my hand.

Then there was more conversation and we ended up at my apartment. While sitting on the couch, his back nestled tightly against my chest, my arms encircling him, I said, “Isaiah, you have the kind of body that I could wrap myself around; like a Venus fly trap swallowing a bee.”

Our skin melted that night, melted like icycles which caused gooseflesh and small after shocks of shivers. We spoke bedspeak, that affectionate lingo that two men engulfed in complete adoration speak to each other.

Once again it happened, happenstance, in the stacks of Barnes and Noble, Isaiah and I meeting, both of us lovers and lovers of books. Find yourself amidst those things you love, and you just might find a title or magazine or man that you hadn’t thought of reading, but that caught your eye and begged you to take it from the shelf and take it home.

 

Loving Men-Hospital

We’re all as delicate as a porcelain tea cup.

About six weeks ago I called 9-1-1 and told the operator that I was manic and was experiencing SI/HI (suicidal ideation and homicidal ideation). They sent a handful of policemen that then escorted me from my hotel and into a police cruiser.

Before I knew it, the police cruiser was heading north to a town called Davidson. It was there in Davidson that I was interred in a psychiatric hospital for fifteen days.

The reason I was manic with SI/HI was because I have Bipolar II disorder. But more importantly, I was unmedicated: I turned my back on Depakote and Abilify and Gabapentin. Instead I flew to Paris where I met Jean-Baptiste. He also knew I was manic.

It was in Paris that I started to self-medicate with beer, whisky, and men’s affections. When I left Paris I brought my self-medication across the Atlantic and into Charlotte.

I have a high tolerance for liquor so I was able to consume a relatively large quantity of whisky. Not on a daily basis mind you, but when I was lacking the affections of men. I’m not an alcoholic, but I am abusive; I am an abuser of alcohol; I drink to excess.

But upon discharge I had my medications straight; I’d dried out (and stayed sober); I’d understood that patience is a conscious pursuit.

Fifteen days in a psychiatric hospital might seem to some as a mark of weakness. But I can assure you it is not. It is a sign of strength; of humility; of character; and fortitude.

I am now a medicated and sober man that has Bipolar II disorder. I am stronger and wiser and calmer. I have been blessed with patience. I have found great friends in both Robyn and Mike.

I think that our weakness is often the gateway to our strength.