There are TwoWho’s in my life.

Jean-Baptiste, and Luciano.

Jean-Baptiste lives in Paris. He’s lithe and finely-drawn; as my fingers trail down his back I can feel the knobs of his vertebrae; as my hands work their way between his skin and his shirt I feel the slightest rise of muscle from his waist to his shoulders; a long neck supports a bearded face which smiles down at me from above; he is 31 years.

 

Luciano lives in Buenos Aires. He’s a smoky Argentinian, short but powerful; well-built with an incredibly strong spiritual core; powerful thighs which springboard his body from floor to bed to shower to work to a restaurant to bed to sleep. Atop him, I slide my hands under his buttocks, raise his jeaned legs above my waist, and let my hands continue under his back where my hands follow the cool caps of his shoulders to the tiny peaks of his nipples. He kisses me with the passion of the tango; he is 27.

They both know about the other; I’ve known Luciano longer than Jean-Baptiste. I left Jean-Baptiste four days ago in Paris and I’m planning to visit Luciano in Buenos Aires within the month.

I spent the better part of every morning texting, calling, laughing, arguing with both of them.

I’m very close to each of them. None of us like labels. So we’re not “lovers”. And no, I’ve never imagined bringing the three of us together for a menage a trois.

The three of us don’t have a relationship. I have a deep friendship with Jean-Baptiste and I have a deep friendship with Luciano.

The question people always seem to ask is, are you faithful?

This is how I try to answer: By faithful, do you mean honest? Because I’m honest, we’re honest. By faithful, do you mean jealous? I’m not jealous of them, and they’re not jealous of each other. By faithful, do you mean monogamous? No, I’m not monogamous.

But I’m not, nor are either Jean-Baptiste or Luciano married.

They’re simply my TwoWho’s.

 

 

His name is Luciano.

He whispers to me in Spanish. And even if I can’t understand the words he’s whispering, I understand their meaning. His language is so soft, it just purrs, like a very content kitten. Even thru the telephone, I can understand his sentiments through the lilt in his voice. He could be reciting the yellow pages for all I care.

In response to his whispering, I then shared with him: What do I consider sexy? Open collared shirts that hint at throats and chests; crisp cotton shirts where I can lay my head and bathe in a man’s aroma; worming my hands up a man’s back between their shirt and suit jacket; kissing a man’s throat; teasing a man’s tongue out of the shell of his mouth; gnawing on a man’s shoulder; biting a man’s lower lip gently; bathing with a man; greeting a lover courtside with an embrace, feeling the dampness of his skin and recalling the same dampness after making love; traveling and staying in luxurious accommodations with featherbeds, down comforters, and a dozen pillows; laughter and a great deal of humor; honesty and truthfulness; humility.

There is something truly intoxicating about Luciano’s voice; his laughter is infectious; his hushed tones are inviting.

A friend said to me today, “Harlan, you’ve got a man in every city.”

Hm, I thought to myself, I guess I do.

Lucky, lucky me.

It’s been a very long time since I’ve been on dates.

Decades.

I’m not even sure if I remember how to behave on a date. I’ve always been a believer of the Tuesday Rule. What’s the Tuesday Rule? Well, it goes something like this: Let’s say you ask someone out on a date on Friday evening. Let’s say it goes very well. And you decide to ask him out on Saturday night as well. Here’s where the Tuesday Rule comes into play.

TUESDAY RULE
1. Never kiss for at least four days (Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday);
2. Never sleep naked for at least ten days;
3. Never allow your date to select your meal for you at a restaurant for at least three weeks;
4. Never say “I’m in love with you” until the following things occur, and in this order:
a. You forget what they look like;
b. You forget the cell number;
c. You don’t recognize theirs;
d. You can’t understand why it takes them so long to text/call you back;
e. You clear your entire social calendar just in case he wants to pop over;
f. You still draw on your blotter at work what your first name looks like alongside his last name;
g. All you can think about is him:
1. His eyes;
2. His smile;
3. His beard against your throat;
4. His kisses upon your clavicle:
5. The muskiness of his aroma on your clothes after he leaves for work.

I can guarantee that if you utilize the Tuesday Rule you can pace your attraction and your infatuation, carrying it from a fast burn to a long campfire which burns for ten times as long.

I have used the Tuesday Rule time and again. When we stretch attraction like salt-water taffy, we do deny ourselves certain yearnings, but these yearnings turn to hunger or thirst, they drop us to our knees prostrate, they make us desirable in the eyes of our amours.

And isn’t that what we’re all really after, anyway? To be desired way beyond the physical and into the spiritual?

Ah, I love love.

I’m not used to being alone.

Or better, I’m used to being half of a relationship.

No, wait . . . I prefer to spend my time with others and to share my dreams with one specific person.

Frankly, I don’t understand how single people survive?

I’d been in a wonderful relationship for over 30 years. I understand that I behaved in ways which ruined my relationship. But even today, when I begged for forgiveness, begged for the chance to reconcile, begged to come home, his reply was cold and unsympathetic: We need distance in order to establish ourselves independently.

What had I done, I keep asking myself, what on earth could I have done to find myself staring at the back of a man that I spent the better part of my lifetime with?

How did I go from husband to the gay divorcee? My spot in the house has been replaced by a no-name roommate.

I know I think too much. But time stretches like a napping kitten. My days pass so slowly. I chat with friends, introduce myself to others, call my Parisian and talk on the phone. Yesterday he asked me, “Harlan, what is it that you want? Do you want to fly back to Paris? Fly home to Chicago? Stay in Charlotte?”

“I want to be with someone,” I said, gulping down air to stifle my crying, “I’m not used to being single. Call me weak, or call me scared, I don’t care. I’m better as a pair.”