Curiosity is the child in us.
I entertain my curiosities daily. When I think of myself living my life, I picture myself 
sitting in a large sandbox with my lovers pretending we’re sailors or bulldozers or explorers. While we’re undressing, I imagine we’re adventurers, and the unclothing of our bodies is akin to typography, scanning the mountainous terrain of shoulders and abdomens and hips and buttocks.
And each time I’m with my lovers, whether we’re in Paris or Charlotte or Palm Springs or Buenos Aires, I’m wholly entertained by them.
As lovers love, we’re also very curious about life.
I love my life. I really do. I’m blessed to be in the company of my lovers: Jean-Baptiste, Marc, Pup, and Luciano. They’re my seasonings, my pepper, my flavor.
Last night Pup and I were dining al dente. When we sat down I immediately took my napkin from the place setting and placed it in my lap. But Pup didn’t.
“Don’t expect me to put the napkin in my lap,” Pup chortled, “the napkin goes on your lap when your first course is served.”
“Oh, really,” I responded.
“Listen, Harlan,” Pup added, “I have excellent table manners.”
And then out came our iPhones and off we went to the races. We were foolishly scouring the internet for proper table manners, followed by belly laughs and smiles.
Curiosity is fueled by a distinctive degree of humility.
retrieve a power cart so that I wouldn’t have to exhaust myself walking around the store. His expedition to secure a cart was in vain, however. But that didn’t stop Pup. Oh no (and this is the Rhodesian Ridgeback showing), he stepped up to every department manager and pointed out that a lack of concern on the part of Target staff was a direct violation of the ADA. It was as though I were being taunted by a bunch of bullies, and he jumped in to defend me.
and when I do, the bloody bag explodes, sending candy everywhere like chocolate shrapnel. But as Pup was driving, he reached into my lap, gently removed the bag from my hands, held it to his mouth, and, while I was screaming “fire in the hole,” easily tore open a corner with his teeth, then tenderly placed the bag back in my hands saying, “here you go, sweets for my sweet.”
messages. And last night I was on a tear. So, at 6:00 a.m. I received a barrage of texts pointing out what a boor I was, that he’d listened to my voice messages, that he’d been busy all day with school and work, and why didn’t I just chill.
erected over the course of my lifetime began to lose footings; I suddenly realized that I had built my entire life on stilts set haphazardly on an overlook. And now it all was beginning to shift, to disintegrate; the cliff over which I’d cantilevered my life had decayed.
“hookup”. I am not a “hookup” type of guy. As I explain, I’m not a sprinter but a marathoner; I prefer conversation before consummation; I enjoy unwrapping my presents slowly, shoulder by shoulder, belt loop by belt loop, zipper tooth by zipper tooth.
his naked arm, the long shimmering hair that flowed like a river in one direction, and when combed opposite, like the hair on his head, sprung stubbornly back like a rip current.
Partly because he reminds me of a Rhodesian Ridgeback, and partly because he’s younger than I.
Turning to face him, watching him drive, I placed my hand comfortably on his thigh, “Oh no, Pup, not you. I’m very close to you.”
The other day I met Pup. Pup lives in Charlotte. We exchanged two simple phrases, and then I lobbed my telephone number and asked him to call me.
