Loving Men-Pup

10/02/2017 ~ Harlan Didrickson

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.”

Loving Men-Ghosts

09/29/2017 ~ Harlan Didrickson

In my sleep, I’m haunted by ghosts.

Sometimes it’s Luciano; he’s come home late after an evening with friends. I hear the door close and I can hear the clang of his belt as the weight of his pockets draws his jeans to the floor; I can feel his shirt being stripped from his torso like cellophane; then our bed tilts like a little rowboat as he lifts the comforter and slides in behind me. “Hijo,” I whisper, “did you have fun with your friends?”

“Si,” Luciano whispers between light kisses on my throat and shoulder, “Si, Papi, but I missed you,” he continues, his kissing becoming more determined.

“I’m asleep,” I whisper while rolling onto my back, feeling his weight rise, then fall atop me. In the darkness, I can feel his humidity, I can feel his breathy stare. “I’m not handsome now,” I whisper. “Jajaja, Papi,” he whispers into my ear, softly purring, “You’re always handsome.”

My hands drift to his strong flanks which remain bathed in cotton, my fingers delve into the fabric, beneath it, finding his strong buttocks. I pull him closer, wanting his entire weight atop me, pushing my breath from my lungs. He lifts himself up from me, then lowers himself into a comfortable position, moving his hips delicately.

We’ve ridden on this train before. It always takes us to some far-flung destination; across valleys and up across mountains; through treacherous, snow drifted passes; then down deep into pastoral valleys.

But this night, this ghostly night, no trip will be taken.

This night, like so many aching nights, my Luciano is only a mirage.

Loving Men-Boomeranged

09/26/2017 ~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 2 Comments

I’ve never thrown a boomerang.

I have, however, been boomeranged.

Boomerangs are like dirty pennies: They keep showing up.

Or mysterious stains on your favorite shirt that, even when laundered, keep popping up. No, not when you pick them up at the cleaners. But when you pluck them from the closet as you’re running late to a date.

Artem is my boomerang. Artem was the international male model that I fell madly in love with two months ago. And like Carrie Bradshaw, both Mr. Big and Artem left us abandoned at the altar. For Carrie, it was literally an altar. For me, it was a five-star hotel in a chic part of Paris.

Abandoned. Desserted. Left for dead. Missing in action. Prisoner of love war. Holding the bag. Eggs in one basket. Left me in the lurch. Leftovers. Left out in the cold.

Boomeranged.

That’s when someone you’ve let go, like a lover that abandoned you at the altar or a hotel room in Paris, reappears in your present life dredging up all the shit that has finally settled at the bottom.

Boomeranged.

I enlist a gay dating site, Daddy Hunt, to browse men interested in meeting. I met daddy Luciano, Jean-Baptiste, Jason, Peter, and David on the site. That’s also where I met Artem the first time, and precisely where I met Artem today, the second time.

Boomeranged.

There he was, on the same site that we met, with a different profile name, an unflattering photograph (for a model), and very, very cryptic personal information. I was mortified. I froze. I couldn’t decide whether I should ignore him, reply to him, or report him to the site as a scammer?

There’s something agonizing when you witness a former lover back on the prowl. And in Artem’s case, that’s precisely what he’s doing. Or rather, he’s pitching chum over the side of his boat in a sea of men, teasing the hungry to the surface to get lampooned.

Or worse, Boomeranged.

Loving Men-Pursuit

09/23/2017 ~ Harlan Didrickson

I am a hunter.

I am not the hunted. I’ve been hunted, earlier in my life, but I never enjoyed it.

I’ve been hunting men all over the world: Vancouver, Palm Springs, Montreal, NYC, Buenos Aires, Atlanta, London, Paris, Belgrade, Munich, and Johannesburg.

And not two are alike: “Vancouver” is 26, Latino; “Palm Springs” is 42, Italian; “NYC” is 25, Latino Lit grad student; “Buenos Aires” is Luciano, of course, 31, beautifully Argentinian; “Paris” is my Parisian, 31, softly Parisian; “Munich” is 71, stunningly handsome, and an expat; and “Johannesburg” is, of course, Artem, 29.

i wish I considered these men my trophies. But I don’t. They’re men that I’ve met, men that I have slept with, men that I have loved and that have loved me, men that I have laughed and cried with, men that care for me.

I love loving men, with all their boyish charms and aged experiences; I’ve had the fortunate luck to discover these many treasures all over our tiny planet. And the one detail that has always surprised me, is that, all these men, from various continents and cultures, various languages and songs, they’re all remarkably similar.

All of us, men and women alike, we’re all looking for the same thing: a hand out of the rain, a tissue on a particularly blue day, a greeting card after a long weekend. All we want is the peaceful knowledge that someone, somewhere is thinking about us, especially when they’re not thinking about anything else.

We want to know that we matter someplace else, that others in different parts of the world are placeholders for our souls.

Loving Men-Future

09/20/2017 ~ Harlan Didrickson

I smell Paris.

This morning in Charlotte I opened my suitcase and the smell of my hotel room in Paris wafted out, filling my room with all kinds of memories. I discovered a shirt I had worn with my Parisian, the odor of the shirt reminiscent of his cologne; pants which I wore there smelled of him; an Alpaca scarf which the hotel gave me for the rainy and chilly Paris days reminded me of the languid garden hours in which I wrote and smoked cigars.

Last night while sleeping I had visions of my future. “Let it go,” Wisdom told me in a dream. “Your future is already here; simply step into it.”

It is with great peace that I know my Parisian and I will see each other again. But yesterday, on at least four separate occasions I found myself crying on the airplane; crying because I missed my Parisian’s closeness; crying because I missed his laughter; crying because I wasn’t certain what my future would hold without him.

But here’s the odd part: I have no future without him, just as I have no future without Paris, or Chicago, or Pretoria, or Ghana. I am a sum of my parts. My future is but another number in an already long equation. Every man I meet, date, love, or fall in love with, will help carry me into the future.

And it’s in my future where I will find true happiness.