I still smell like you. The bed smells like you. I taste you on me, even though I've showered.
I love your Utilikilt. I knew that you weren't wearing underwear at the party Sunday the first time I lightly brushed your ass.
Within 48 hours of giving you my telephone number, you called me more times than three of the guys I've dated have in the last 6 months. You broke the door down. I usually do that. It was touching to have us both do it. Yes, there was the flattery of knowing you had many choices when you came to town. But the deeper effect of you being in such great contact was that I noticed you. Not the idea of you, but who you are in the world. You are Good.
I'm already planning my visit to Australia. Seriously, I had a million things to do today, on no sleep, and I spent time pricing airfare and computing frequent flyer miles.
Kimble misses you. He told me. He keeps sniffing where you put your shoes.
The combination of sensuality and affection in you, with everyone, is what brings love into your life, as it does mine. It is the result of Being Good, of Being Love Everywhere.
We gave you a lift in the car Saturday on my suggestion. I wanted to get into your rugby shorts. I had no idea I'd want more than that.
I took the picture of you walking away, down 21st street, because you were heading into the sunrise. There is no end to anything, only renewal, only the day, the night, over and over. Yet each day, and night, is unique. The paradox of a cycle repeated but never the same. I've met you before, someone more important than food, except this time you're Yas, and I'm me. It is the first time, in a long time, perhaps ever, that nothing has been repeated.
I spent the entire day on Randall's Island watching my mates play for the Bingham Cup. It is day 2 of the tournament.
The cab ride, up FDR in the morning, reminded me of how gorgeous I always felt taking this ride to practices and games. New York is such an amazing marvel of engineering wonders, and somewhere among the twisted highway embankments are some not-so-green rugby pitches that were not kind to my knees. There are bushes where I peed in public, at night, at day, facing Manhatta. There is freedom of feeling the air on your legs in the very short rugby shorts, running on the pitch. There is freedom.
When I got out of the cab, I took a contemplative hike over to the pitches. Halfway there, a team, I think Chicago, was crossing my path. Many of the guys were staring at me. I didn't get it...there were headed in a direction perpendicular to my path, but the heads were turned toward me. I thought they just liked my dog, until I heard one of them say "Wow. That's the guy who was on the cover of Out".
I spent a lot of time saying hello to my mates. I caught up with my old paramedic/masseuse. She wanted to make sure I was using my time as a single person to be happy and growing, and to let go of anger. This is the woman who could touch my shoulders and tell me what I was feeling that moment. I told her I'd let go of all anger, and was happy.
Kimble ran in the grass, played with puppies, and drank water from a squirt-top bottle. He was so very good, and mostly quiet. He is a man magnet...a dozen ruggers from around the world came to talk to me, and tell me they missed their dogs. In Chelsea, he attracts large black women.
Yet. I spent the day feeling an intense disconnection from everyone. I figured out that I made up a story about how if you're not running with the pack, you don't belong. It's true you aren't the center of the action (yes, this is what's really going on for me) but everyone jumped out of the crowd to say hi, compliment my new muscles, apply sunblock on my burned shoulders, and meet little K. I felt the disconnection because of this: when I was on the team, I became a team player, and that transformed me into a man who could be in love. And, love showed up, 6 months after I began rugby. Yet I didn't ask the team for support when I was alone. I went into a ruck without my mates, and I got knocked on my ass. I felt guilty about that. But nobody noticed anything, except that I was there, loving them. And that's all they wanted from me. There is freedom.
Friday morning, watch them unload the booth I designed for the ICFF. Watch totally hot and muscular straight guy do lots of hot sweaty work, while licensed architect had to stand by in his nice shirt and jacket in case the evil Union guys came by and gave us trouble for unloading our own truck. In the name of documentation, I take pictures. Of hot guy. And booth.
Friday noon send email to client inquiring about totes hot employee. Her reply: "totes about ready to have a kid with his wife". I'm totes not stopped by this, so choose to bide my time.
Friday night: workout day 3, play with puppy, clean apartment, then dinner with my Uruguayan friends. And a television show called Little Britain which was funny, but still not enough to make me want to own a television viewing device and cable service and a DVR again. Get home, and jack off.
Saturday, check out electrified booth up and running at ICFF. Check out hot bears in nearby furniture booth. Check out the first guy I ever had sex with at his very successful architectural building project booth. See lots of crap furniture, and lots of overpublished stuff. Take Kimble out for extended doggie walk, including dog park and long visit to Oliver's gallery, where we talked about the difference between helping and supporting. Spring change of clothes, packed away sweaters and blankets, break out polo and create new cutoff tees from old non-cutoff tees. Create new jeans shorts from old jeans. Love the new wardrobe, and that it cost me zero dollars.
Saturday afternoon, late: workout day 4. Legs. I look good naked, even though I don't go to the gym with that slogan.
Saturday night, dinner with new hot friend, and then very hot sex afterward. Third base.
Sunday, walk dog, make food, clean apartment. Talk about the future with my friends and my team. Come home walk dog, and have in-depth conversation with my mother. Dinner with Eddie, who is helping me plan my fierce 35th birthday party in August. Kimble keeps trying to eat his jeans. And then, type this and lights out.
Friday, my new big yeti friend and I made plans to have a cockytail or two. I arrived first, my head racked with questions. What if the place I picked was too dumb? I'd settled on Barracuda, for a pre-Snaxx drink. Barracuda blew: the place was filled with lots of uncomfortable 20-somethings and some 40-somethings alcoholics. But I was able to get a grip without collapsing the century, so I ordered a Bud Light.
My friend came from behind a few minutes later, and we had a few minutes of non sequitors, mostly from me. I was nervous. I've not been nervous meeting a man in about three years. I was nervous now because my friend didn't fit into any category I had. His existence called into question my categories. He brought to my attention that although I thought I'd eliminated categorization a long time ago, some high-functioning vestiges remained.
He transferred his bulk to the stool next to mine when it opened up, and we were almost eye level. The bar got crowded and cute. Our legs were intertwined because there was no room to do otherwise, and we had no desire to do otherwise. About six people from his past made various forms of flirtatious conversation with him. He brushed them off politely. His attention was on my leg. At one point, his hand was holding the inside of my thigh. I told him that it felt good, and he held it with both hands. His fingers could get around my thigh.
He bent forward, and we kissed. We didn't stop, not for the friends who wanted to talk to us, the kids trying to get to the bar. Everything went gray. We were together. He wrapped his large arm around my neck and back, and we let go for a time like this. Time looped again, the way it did with Aaron four years ago, or with Chris on the night of my first hookup, where we kissed for hours on the dancefloor at 1984, ten years ago. I'd not done this in almost as long, make out in a bar as if New York wasn't in full flow around us. But I had a grip, so I went with it.
The categories fell away. Finally.
We went to Snaxx, as if it was the only thing we could think to do. It was crowded. The gays had taken over the upstairs too. We ordered drinks, and made out some more. We both brushed aside conversations. People took pictures of us. He didn't say much, just kept going in for some tongue. I told him I wanted him to take his shirt off later. He immediately took it off. God, he was big. I licked his nipple for a while.
After taking several positions around the terrain of Snaxx, making our space in the crowd, giving rise to a few new New Yorks, I proposed we leave. We did. He was sleepy, as was I, and we parted on the sidewalk near my house.
A week ago Saturday, I spent the entire day in a class I coached. I was coached. I came out a different person from the one I came in as. And, I was tired.
It was 11:30. The night was cool. Walking home, I remembered my friend J was having a birthday party for the little dj half of the hot couple I made out with the last few times J threw a party. I called J. His voicemail said "I never check this, don't leave a message for me here". I called his boyfriend, and J picked up. He said my name loudly, the way one would from the back of a limosine, were I on the sidewalk, in Times Square. "Get your tail over here". I changed and got my tail over there.
So many things going on in my head in the cab. Should I have a drink? What if the dj is unhappy with me (they never want to take me home)? Will I ruin what happened today? Do I have time to recover from this tomorrow? I really should sleep, shouldn't I? The echo was astounding, because the rest of my head was clear from the day's work. I could hear these pins drop.
I let myself in. No one in the foyer. What if I'm too late? Then, I saw some sexy friends. It was going to be alright, I just needed to get a grip. I closed my eyes, and let it all wash over me. I could feel the world dissolve around me. Everything went gray. The century ended, a new one began, and several ages of New York came and went. I breathed it all in, and let the charge build, let time's arrow pin me down wherever it would have me be. It felt like a static electricity cloud around the nape of my neck. The particles came together again, like the precipitate in a solution, catalyzed by me. The swirling hardened around the backs of my pink Missy E Adidas kicks and I opened my eyes. I moved through J's party, content to be just here.
J and his partner had a full spread of beverages, including diet coke, which I jumped into immediately. Without some kind of stimulant I was going to be asleep on my feet.
After saying my hellos to the dj and his equally hunky Panamanian boyfriend, I said a second hello to one of the hottest men I've ever met. He is in Stew's league of Yeti-men. Twice Me. The type that never seems to know what to do with guys my size. Yet, he took an interest in my hello, and we chatted for a few hours.I could never shake the surprise of him passing up flirtatious advances of others in the room more his proportions than I. He kept putting his hand on my shoulder in that I'm-47-and-you-will-be-too-someday-youngster sorta way. His touch tingled, as if it could turn me to dust. In short, we flirted.
As the evening wore down, the beverages unable to stimulate us further, my new big friend lay back on J's bed. His beefy belly stuck out a little. He looked on the edge of contentment, but something was missing. His eyes searched around. They finally found me. He studied me studying him. I smiled. I was shaking, holding myself from jumping on him, rubbing the tummy, making out. It was time to do that whole dissolve-the-universe thing again, but I was afraid of where I'd land. So I smiled, and we traded phone numbers.