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-Patience

Patience is a virtue.

It’s also a blessing in disguise.

I ended a thirty-two year relationship six months ago. I’ve been attempting (in vain) to replace the lover I lost. I feel like a boat that lost its mooring to shore, and am now adrift a rocky sea.

How does anyone get used to being alone?

Time ticks by at a snails pace. I’m bored with life. I’m like a puppy left behind, with nothing to do.

I meditate asking the Universe to bring me patience. Robyn (my assistant) says that patience is learned; that the Universe shows it to you.

I’m seeking affection from men out of a pervasive need to not be alone. But no one is attractive that is needy.

Robyn says I need to take stock and rediscover who I am. Once I know who I am, men will find me.

Loving Men-Sao Paulo

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!

Loving Men-Calhoun (Repartee)

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.