Whoever you think you are, you aren’t.

When my recent odyssey began, I was half of a thirty-year relationship. I was a dog owner. I was dependent on prescription medications. I was sane.

And then all the constructs of my life began to crumble. All the structures that I had 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.

Everything I had come to believe that was so self-important was expunged, as though it never existed, as though it had never been. The decimation was absolute.

And then Life began.

Whoever I thought I was, I’m not.

And unlike most, I’m not trying to stop my marbles from rolling off the board game.

I’m not playing marbles any longer.

I was talking to Michelle this morning when she said, “You’re living the dream, Harlan.”

And I started to think about this: For so many years I wondered what it would be like to love as many men as I love now? Not for the tally, but because I have this tremendous capacity to love! I’m brimming with affection and romanticism!

Recently, I thought I was an odd duck. On many gay dating sites, the focus is the “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.

I was never afraid of ridicule because of my profile. Because I knew, I knew that men of any age will see my devotion to romance as refreshing. That I have a tremendous capacity for beauty, touch, and wantonness. And I wouldn’t need to convince anyone of anything.

Just be with me, I say, be with me and feel me.

His name is Matthew, but I call him Pup.

Partly because he reminds me of a Rhodesian Ridgeback, and partly because he’s younger than I.

“What should I write about today, Pup?” I asked while he drove me through the streets of Charlotte.

“I don’t know,” Pup said, “you’re the writer.”

Today, Pup and I met for lunch at an outdoor pizzeria across a busy intersection from the coffee house in which he works part-time as a barista. It was a beautiful day in Charlotte. Not too warm, with a gentle breeze.

We developed a wonderful cadence; an ease of conversation; the give and take of interest. The only quiet spots arose when a question was posed that required a thoughtful answer.

After pizza, we went across the street to the coffee house. Pup ordered me a double espresso. “How’d you know I liked double espresso?” I asked him.

“Because you said it at lunch,” he answered.

“Really? I mean, really, you listened?” I asked surprised.

“Of course I was listening,” he replied quietly, “What did you think I was doing during lunch?”

Following, Pup and I climbed into his car and drove around Charlotte. Pup pointed out gentrified areas, tony areas. I felt such an ease around him. When I would get pensive and stare out the window, Pup would prompt “What’re you thinking about?”

“Oh, I’m just far away, Pup,” I answered.

“From me?” he asked.

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.”