When you grab, men usually retreat.
Vincent and I saw the touring production of Les Miserables last night. We had phenomenal seats: Orchestra Center, eleven rows from the stage, and smack dab in the middle of the row.
During the show we pancaked hands; I confidently placed my hand, palm turned upwards, and patiently waited for Vincent to place his warm hand atop mine. In the darkness of the theatre, I leaned over and placed two graceful kisses on his cheek.
After the show I asked, “Can I come over tonight?”
“Harlan,” Vincent started, “You know I have to go to a holiday party.”
“Jesus Vincent,” I replied, “I just want to spend time with you. Is that a crime?”
“Harlan,” Vincent said, “I’m busy.”
“Not with me, Vincent!”
Definsively, Vincent countered, “Weve spent three nights together this week! And that’s not enough?”
“I want to spend all my time with you!” I quiped.
“I have other committments, Harlan.”
“I told you that I’m either the best news or the worst news,” I added sheepishly.
“What does that mean,” Vincent asked.
“It means that my presence in your life is going to dovetail, like shuffled cards,” I answered and continued, “Or my presence is going to make you reevaluate your life, because you now have someone that you want to spend time with,” I answered.
“Christ,” Vincent said quietly, “Must you be so selfish?”
“Fuck it, Vincent!” I replied, then continued, “You figure out when you want to see me again! By the way, are we exclusive?”
“Exclusive,” he asked.
“Exclusively dating” I said, “Because I have men that want to sleep with me!”
“How can we be exclusive,” he answered quietly, “When you say the things you’ve just said?”
“I apologize, Vincent,” I answered, “I’m just afraid.”
“Of what?” he asked.
“Of you. Of this,” I admitted chagrined.
“You should never be afraid of me, Harlan,” Vincent confessed quietly.
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.
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.
