“Gone for now.”
That was how the Paralegal left for rehab. I had no idea. Yoga Girl had no idea. We had been out drinking plenty of times to know that he didn’t drink like an alcoholic. Or at least he didn’t drink like the Lawyer. We could have a bottle of wine for dinner, and then be done. His work schedule and his fitness routine just didn’t lend themselves to a typical sort of substance abuse. Regardless, I had no idea, no information, and I was going to have to find a place of peace on my own, and trust that if the Paralegal wanted me to know the details he would tell me.
I felt in my heart that he loved me and his words were authentic, but what little comfort that provided did not make up for the pain in knowing that he would be gone, the uncertainty of the future, the sorrow for the incredible hurdles he would have to overcome, the anger that I was completely powerless to whatever life might toss the Paralegal’s way or mine, and that, ultimately, whatever his selfish addiction, I would be the one to lose out on his love. Do I have patience? Do I let him go? I didn’t know. But I knew if I just kept breathing through my fears, the answers would come.
That was the energy I took the next morning into a workshop I had signed up for. Sitting on the bus, I meditated on the idea that the answers would come with time. But then, why did I have to know the answers? The Paralegal was in rehab, he was getting help he needed, and I should be joyful for him. Why do I have to write the end of the story? Why can’t I just wait and see what happens next? And if I give the Paralegal the space he needs to do his work while focusing on the work I need to do, then just maybe when I know I’m ready for the next step, the Paralegal will be too. And if not, then maybe another, more fabulous man would come into my life.
And just maybe I would meet him at my workshop.
I had signed up for the workshop months before, not really sure what I was getting into. Since ending my relationship with my former partner, I just had a feeling that I needed to learn more about emotional intimacy, becoming more comfortable with it. I could talk to a therapist every week, but that just seemed expensive and slow. I was looking to fast-track my growth, so the idea of some sort of intensive workshop was appealing. I searched the Internet, and didn’t come up with a whole lot.
I found weekends in Berlin, but the details were lost in translation. The weeklong retreats in Costa Rica or Hawaii sounded exciting, but I wasn’t prepared to drop the cash needed. But one workshop, a weekend, looked like it was promising: Celebrating the Body Erotic, offered by the Body Electric School.
Only, the details were a bit vague, not getting much more specific than helping people to get more comfortable with their bodies, or looking to connect with people on a deeper level. So I emailed the coordinator asking for more information.
He suggest I look at the Web site, indicating the video described in great detail what the weekend dealt with.
Still, I had no idea, specifically, what the weekend was about.
So I emailed a follow-up question asking if the workshop delved into issues surrounding emotional intimacy. He indicated that it didn’t deal with intimacy directly, but by exploring some of the hurdles to erotic energy, it gets at issues of emotional intimacy.
Good enough. I signed up and mailed a check.
Over the months that would follow between registration and this moment on the bus, thinking through the energy I was carrying into the weekend, it became apparent to me that the real challenge was not emotional intimacy with others, rather a true and authentic emotional intimacy with myself.
It weighed on my already heavy heart as I thought about all the questions with unknown answers, and why I must know the answers. Why can’t I just throw myself into the flow of life and see what happens next, with full comfort that everything would be okay?
I hopped off the bus and walked to the warehouse where the workshop was being hosted.
I stood on the street corner, about fifteen minutes early, waiting for the door to open for the Saturday morning session. A cab pulled up. The door swung open, and out stepped a man.
About twenty-five men enrolled in the workshop, the youngest being around thirty, and the oldest nearing seventy. The age bell curve had me as one of the younger ones. Five assistants were on hand to help through the weekend, and one instructor led us through a series of exercises that would all come together at the end of the weekend, empowering us with new tools to help us live our lives in a manner that was in line with our true authentic selves.
Introductions were made, and we spent the morning participating in a variety of bonding rituals designed to underscore that while each of us are on our own separate journeys, we’ve come together for a reason and that is to be in a safe place to discover a deeper relationship with ourselves and each other. I kept quiet, only sharing when requested. I had decided in a conversation with Yoga Girl about the weekend, that I would try to take care of myself first rather than be the funny guy who smoothes over awkward social situations with humor, wit, and good looks, making everyone else feel better.
As the awkward situations came, we all sat there, in a circle. I bit my tongue, feeling the awkwardness.
Our instructor explained that, as men, we are socialized to not feel and as we grow up, we learn to separate our feelings from our sexual desires. By identifying the hurdles that prevent us from connecting heart energy with erotic energy, we open ourselves to a deeper ability to be intimate with ourselves and others.
Right. That’s what I was looking for on the Web, but could not find. I was in the right spot.
We sat on the floor, a wide-open warehouse space converted for the purpose of these type of workshops and meetings. I sat cross-legged and closed my eyes as we were led through a mediation that consisted primarily of deep, heavy breathing, super-oxygenating our blood. We were encouraged to chant as we exhaled, stirring up our spirit, opening our heart, finding our answers from within.
The sound of a beating drum.
Our instructor beat a drum as he led us through the breath work. I had studied the men’s psychology movement while in college. A movement that believes men have a genetic makeup to hunt, provide, and to be with other men, but since the rise of feminism, those genetic ideals have been threatened. Through ritual, though, men can embrace their primal side, and come to terms with their feminine side, allowing them to be more full, complete men in our modern society.
I had determined anyone who would participate is such a weekend was crazy with deep issues.
And now I was getting dizzy on oxygen, my head spinning, on the borderline of a splitting migraine headache, wishing I had followed instructions to not drink alcohol for three days prior.
On the verge of vomiting, a voice came out of nowhere from within me.
I am not alone. I am loved. The Paralegal entered rehab because of my presence and energy in his life. The Paralegal could have vanished completely without ever telling me what was going on. But he did tell me, and, in doing so, he provided me with the ultimate gift, the best he could do at that moment, the most he could do—an expression of love and compassion, and a clear message that his vanishing truly had nothing to do with me, but it is about him and his journey. He loves you. He loves me.
A tear ran down my cheek.
“This weekend is going to be an intense experience,” the instructor warned. You’re going to fall in love. But the great thing about love is that you can fall in love for a second, or a minute. You can fall in love for ten minutes. A day even. You can fall in love for a weekend or a week. A month. You can even fall in love for a lifetime. But it’s all love, and that’s okay. We can love each other at this moment in time with no obligation to each other.”
I thought of the Paralegal. The Lawyer. I had their love. I have their love; I’m absolutely convinced of that. And that’s okay. Nothing can be said or done that is going to change that.
“It’s a powerful concept if you thinking of it, really. Love without obligation. Imagine if the entire world embraced that idea.”
We counted off, and I was partnered with two other men. We stood facing each other and then were told to select someone to go first. I volunteered, not knowing what I was volunteering for, but holding back on smoothing over the social awkwardness was making me a little bit more adventurously bold.
“The person who is going first, are going to be a receiver, and the other two are going to be the givers.” Our instructor explained as the assistants passed out blindfolds. My two receivers helped me place the blindfold over my eyes.
“Now receiver, your only job is to receive. To breath in the experience. Givers, your job is to massage your receiver out of his clothes.”
Uplifting new age music played as four hands touched my body, exploring my chest, my back, my inside thigh. And then my belt came off.
By the time my clothes were in a pile on the floor, they had explored nearly every inch of my body with their hands, and my enthusiasm for their touch was readily apparent, simply fueling their desire to touch.
We took turns, until everyone’s clothes were scattered across the floor. Naked, we stood there, a group of men looking to unlock some hidden secret we had no idea was buried within us.
* * *
Naked, we came together in a circle. I had met almost everyone in the room through our bonding rituals, except for a few. There was still one hot man whose name I did not yet know. Legs like tree trunks, and an unshakable, staunch torso, he was an imposing presence of a man standing several inches taller than me. One of the most developed chests I had ever seen, his pours of his smooth skin seeped of masculinity. His arms were tattooed with a beautiful pattern, and piercings adorned his body, his navel and nipples, and several in each ear. He was the sort of bad boy your mother would cringe if she knew you were spending time with him.
I rushed to stand by to him.
“Turn to the man next to you.”
We faced each other. He broke into a smile as we grabbed each other’s hands, our eyes locked on each other. I gazed into his brilliant blue eyes as we exchanged names. I looked around the circle quickly, we were the only two holding hands, but it felt okay.
“This man who is standing in front of you, this man will be your buddy for the weekend. Study him for a moment. And get to know him and who he is right now, because you’ll be checking in with him throughout the weekend. To know that you are not alone this weekend.”
He smiled and squeezed my hands. In our nervousness, we both shifted our weight on our feet, swaying slightly from side-to-side, our semi-hardness brushing up against each other. Later, I would learn this solid man was a former Franciscan monk, from San Francisco, who left the brotherhood to become a therapist specializing in, of all things, sexual addiction.
“Now decide who shall share first. And the other shall just listen.”
I nodded, he smiled.
“And the man sharing first, tell the other gentleman who is going to listen to your every word, tell him what would be said if you were to be introduced by your penis.”
I laughed, as the Former Franciscan from Francisco, Now Sex Addition Therapist smiled at me and giggled. I raised my eyebrows and inhaled. I honestly had never thought about giving voice to my penis before. It had never occurred to me that of all the pleasure it might experience upon my behalf, it might, on some days, have an opinion different than mine. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. It was as if I had a tapeworm in my throat that thrived on an oral vocabulary.
I wondered, briefly, by never giving voice to my genitals, if this made me less of a man. Had I missed some right of passage? Had I played football, rather than swam growing up, would I have got this? Or did this sort of education come with the hunter’s safety course I had bailed on, with no intention of ever shooting a gun. And to think, other people waste their time on Saturday mornings by going to the grocery store, when they could be standing naked, beating drums with a group of strangers, giving voice to their genitals.
“Ahhhh. Wow. I’ve never really thought about this,” I said.
The Franciscan laughed. His smile was huge, his heart so open.
“I guess it would say that I’m approaching forty, and I’m single. And, umm, yeah.”
The next three minutes were a struggling stammer, as I rattled on trying to give my penis a voice. While the instructor was always quick to remind us there is no right or wrong answer, by any measure, I was failing the penis voice exercise.
I was relieved when we were told to switch and it was now my time to listen.
“If my penis were to introduce me, he would say that I am very active, and that I like a lot of action. I have a high sex drive.”
Right. Right. Right. If my penis had a voice, he might talk about the physical intimacy that I enjoy. I am a sexual being.
It had never occurred to me to point out to a completely naked stranger that I enjoy being a submissive bottom or a dominate top. That I like it slow and gentle as much as I like it rough and hard. That if you’re grossed out by feet and refuse to massage mine, then you’ll never find a way into my heart. That I’m good with my hands and I’ll massage you for fun, but I like a good massage in return. That I like men. Big muscley men. Skinny men. Hairy men. Smooth men. The more man he is, the more I like him. Let’s start with a pulse and go from there.
As I stood there, holding this amazingly attractive man’s hands, listening to him share with me all his hidden sexual desires, I realized that if I didn’t know how to say what I want, how is he supposed to know? But if a man loves me, he’d know, right? That thought process was probably not going to work any more.
The Franciscan filled the entire three minutes without getting stuck or starting over. He shared some of the most graphic details and fantasies I’d ever heard.
“For a self-proclaimed introvert,” I pointed out, “your penis sure had a lot to say.”
* * *
By the time we broke for lunch, I had fallen head-over-heals in love no less than five times, and that’s okay. Despite all the random rotations, I had successfully dodged the Principal and I took a moment to thank the universe.
There was something about eating naked with a room of men that just didn’t sit well. While we had worked through all sorts of bonding rituals and exercises, I still felt the room was filled with strangers, and hanging out eating lunch naked while making casual conversation felt more forced than natural. So I put on my clothes to eat my lunch, well, at least pants, and buried my head in my journal to jot down random thoughts: “For a naked gay men’s retreat, some of the tattered underwear choices are ridiculous.”
* * *
Following lunch, we gathered around the instructor, again a group of naked men. Having spent the morning meditating and getting in touch with each other, it was time to learn a different tool: touch. We were encouraged to follow along as the instructor demonstrated for us a variety of genital stimulation techniques all designed to raise our erotic energy.
“It’s all different, and our penises are different. Some of these might work for you, and some of these might not.” Our instructor demonstrated the Twist and Shout, using two hands, twisting around his penis and ending with a wrist-flick on the head.
“You can’t break your penis.” He slapped it back and forth, and then grabbed the head and wiggled it around like a jump-rope.
“And maybe you can start a fire.” He had his erect penis sandwiched between his hands, rubbing it back and forth like it was a stick and he was starting a fire.
“Make sure you use plenty of oil.” He demonstrated a move called “Hairy Palm,” as we all palmed the heads of our penises. Our instructor talked about the importance of self-pleasuring, pointing out that if we don’t know how to pleasure ourselves, then how do we know what to ask for? And if we don’t provide appropriate feedback to our partners, how do they learn what we like?
It was entry into declaring our wants and needs, rubbing our penises. The metaphor was not lost on me as I took the lesson beyond physical needs, but emotional as well. It occurred to me, as I was practicing the Milker, that as much as I had grown to love the Paralegal, I ultimately need someone who is dependable and not going to disappear on me. And despite my best efforts with the Lawyer, I never said, “I want to take this to the next level.” I never said, “I need you to acknowledge the energy between us, embrace it, and treat it as sacred.”
I didn’t learn any techniques that I hadn’t seen on the Internet already or discovered on my own, rather I went to masturbation school to figure out you have to know what you want, in order to ask for what you want. It was an epiphany.
* * *
Armed with new breathing and self-pleasuring techniques, it was time to integrate the lessons of the day. The point was to raise erotic energy and awareness and to eventually release the energy in a way other than ejaculation. I had already fallen in love and had several epiphanies, and we still had a couple hours to go.
We were paired up, rotated, and then paired up again. One would give, practicing the new techniques on our partner, and the other would receive, practicing his breathing, receiving, and proclaiming his desires and needs. I volunteered to receive first, and as it happened, the Franciscan was laying on the floor next to me. My partner, one of the gentleman who was just discovering his attraction to men in his late sixties was my partner, and he would be giving me the gift of pleasure.
I laid on the floor, blindfolded and naked, my legs wrapped around his torso so that he had easy access to my genitals. New age music began to fill the room as our instructor beat a drum, and called out strokes as if we were a rowing team.
“Whooo! Haaaa!” He led us through the breathing techniques.
“What must you let go of to experience the pleasure you want? What must you ask for to get what you need? What stands in the way?”
My giver had turned into an overzealous pleasure-seeking teenage boy with reckless abandon. I was not convinced the instructor was correct about being unable to break the penis because my giver was well on his way. Breathing through the tugging, I placed my hand on my forehead, which he interpreted as success, increasing the velocity from which he tugged.
My hand fell to my side, landing in the palm of the Franciscan. We had been told, as receivers to not touch, to just receive, and that by touching, we would disperse the erotic energy we were trying to build. Emphasis on erotic energy we were trying to build. There was no building at the hands of this man, and the first touch of erotic I experienced was my hand landing in the Franciscan’s.
To hell with the rules. This is my experience. I’m going with it.
Our fingers intertwined, and for the rest of the ride, whatever energy was built, I shared with the Franciscan.
When we were told to take our blindfolds off, my giver looked like a kid in a candy store and I did my best to muster up a smile and a thanks.
Thank God, the day is done.
We were told to go home and take it easy. To not hook up with each other. To not drink alcohol or do drugs. To do something different than we would normally do on a Saturday night.
So I had a dinner date with the Franciscan.
* * *
We sat at a table in the back of the sports bar while waiting for our pizza to arrive. Our knees brushed up against each other as we held hands beneath the table. Our conversation was part process, part integration, and part first date.
“That was so hot,” he said, giddy like fourteen-year-old boy who just discovered how his penis works.
“The hottest part was holding your hand.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think we were supposed to touch each other, with all the rules. But I didn’t care; it was the only thing that got me through it.”
“Got you through?”
“Yeah, my genitals are still sore.”
“Sore?”
“Well, I don’t think my ‘giver’ had ever ‘given’ pleasure to another guy before. I don’t know that he’s been with many men.”
“Did you tell him he was hurting? Or what you wanted? What felt good?”
Oh. Right. Right. Fail.
I think that’s what they call integration, when you take a lesson learned and begin applying it to various aspects of your life. But truth be told, it didn’t matter how my giver was touching me, I wasn’t completely sold on whether or not I wanted to be touched by him.
“I guess I didn’t do that part very well. Asking for what I wanted, or what I need.”
“It’s hard to change old patterns. But once you have the awareness, that’s the important part.”
I sat there for a moment, holding the Franciscan’s hand, reflecting on the day. I noticed not only was it comfortable talking with him, but it was just as comfortable to sit there, enjoy the silence, contemplating. We were half way through the workshop and I wasn’t satisfied with my participation. We were in a safe, albeit naked, space, and if I couldn’t ask for what I needed or wanted there, then where could I possibly learn it? I resolved that my intention for the final day would be, one way or another, to selfishly declare my needs.
Our pizza came. Masturbating all day had worked up a healthy appetite, and we scarfed down our pizza as we continued to talk virtually non-stop.
We swapped stories of why we were in the workshop. I told him I had been in a relationship for over a decade, and in the process of separating, realized I should learn more about intimacy. I explained that this workshop was the best I could find, but as I arrived, I realized it was intimacy with myself that I needed to work on and I felt like I was in the right place. I spoke of the Lawyer and the Paralegal, and, eyes flooded with tears, what had just happened the night before.
The Franciscan was easy to talk to, and he stroked my hand and looked into my eyes as I told him my story. He smiled compassion, hanging on to my ever word.
He explained how he got to the workshop, and that he wasn’t sure what he was working on, or hoping to accomplish, but he was open to seeing what would happen. He told me of his boyfriend, a flight attendant, who had been very supportive of him coming.
My heart broke open a little upon hearing he had a boyfriend, and salt was poured on the wound when I heard flight attendant.
He volunteered that he and his boyfriend have an open relationship, and they have not secrets. They share everything.
“I mean, he’s a flight attendant.”
I sighed.
Of course, this was his logic speaking, and not his genitals, which had spoken openly and eloquently about how active they are and how they love to be the center of pleasurable attention.
I didn’t yet know him well enough to call his bluff.
After dinner, I walked him down the street to where he was staying with friends. Our hands locked as we strolled. I mentioned that it was too bad he would be flying home to his boyfriend immediately following the workshop, and that I had enjoyed our conversation; the processing, the integration, and getting to know him beyond his genitals.
“I could change my flight. Fly out Monday morning,” he said.
“I think you should look into that.”
“Of course, I would need a place to stay.”
“That can be taken care of.”
On the porch of his friends’ townhome, we turned toward each other, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. Electricity coursed through our connection.
“My genitals would like me to make out with you,” I said.
“Oh, they’ve found their voice!”
I twisted his pierced nipple through his shirt.
“Wooo!” His smile was giddy.
I pulled him towards me; our lips locked. His hand grabbed my ass, pulling my hips into his.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, buddy,” he said.
“Yes. Tomorrow morning. You know how to get there?”
“I do.”
He went inside. I walked down the street, adjusting the Paralegal’s watch on my wrist.
* * *
Morning arrived much more quickly than I was prepared for, and I wasn’t quite sure I could handle another day. But I’d paid a lot of money for the weekend and figured no matter what happened, the day would do less damage than the Catholic Church, and if I was lucky, might even heal more effectively. When we arrived, there was a definite energy between me and the Franciscan. It felt like the entire workshop knew—just by looking at us—that we made out on the porch of a townhouse just the night before.
I felt fourteen-years-old. Or, at least how I might have felt at fourteen if I had the courage to make out with a boy.
We jumped right in to day two with more meditation and breath work, only this time we involved body movement. We were told to think about our intention for the day—to ask for what I want and need—and during the mediations we were to chop through the obstacles that stand in the way, push away the hurdles, block the stuff that prevents us from our intentions, and gather the things that help us realize our intention. For more than an hour, we jumped around repeating the same motions over and over, breathing in the good and exhaling out the bad.
The breathing was a little easier having followed directions about alcohol the night before, but the jumping around was no different than a Jane Fonda class, only it unleashed tears.
For whatever reason, my inner voice kept saying, fear, shame, selfishness, powerlessness.
That’s what stood in my way of my intention for the day. That’s what stood in front of asking for want I want; what I need. I realized those are silly reasons, and it is time to let them go, getting rid of those ideas from my life.
We were out of our clothes following the morning meditation, and after a quick review of the self-pleasuring techniques, it was explained that all the elements we had learned the day before—the breathing, the touch, the building of erotic energy—it would all come together today, and it would build up to what was called “The Big Draw.” The draw being orgasm-like, but not necessarily an orgasm, rather more like a release, but not in the sense of an explosive ejaculation, rather an emotional release, like a healing. Our instructor explained that it was a unique experience and would be different for everyone, the point being to clear the obstacles that prevent heart energy from connecting with erotic energy. He would lead us to experience The Big Draw twice.
In other words, fasten your seat belts, fellas.
We were advised to pee first, because it would be about a two-and-a-half hour process of touch, oil, breathing, and chanting.
I looked around to the other men and set down my water, regretting that I had been hydrating.
I volunteered to be in the first group, climbing up onto my assigned massage table, again naked and blindfolded. We started on our stomachs, the first portion of it being a massage of the back, building our erotic energy. Every so often, the givers would rotate, providing the opportunity to work on other men, reinforcing that all men are different and observing the feedback is just as important as asking for what you want or need.
When we had rolled over onto our backs, one of the younger, more zealous gentleman in the group—a veterinarian—was working on me. He had me slathered in oil and quickly began patting my scrotum with great enthusiasm. Each pat came with an increasing force, and I found myself wincing as shards of displeasure shot through my body.
This is it, I thought. Your intention for today was to ask for what you want, what you need.
But I didn’t know what I wanted, or let alone needed. At that moment, all I knew was, not that. I tried to speak, my mouth even opening to begin to say something, but no words came out.
The Veterinarian interpreted this as sheer joy and pleasure and patted with a greater force.
The mind works in funny ways. Or is it the universe? Or your spirit? Regardless, it is probably best not to question those ways at times, and this was quickly becoming one of those ways.
A memory burst from the depths of my mind. When I was in fourth grade, it had snowed in the small coastal town in Oregon where I was growing up. Snow on the Oregon coast is a once-a-decade phenomenon, only happening once before when I was a toddler, the evidence being family photo albums with pictures of me and my twin brother rolling around in slush as pre-toddlers. This, obviously, was in the days when babies were allowed to leave their protective child seats and do things like eat dirt, or grass, or even snow in an effort to explore the ways of the universe.
But this snow had happened while we were in school, before the days of liability and Future Forecast with Doppler Radar, so at the end of the school day, we were sent out in what little snow and ice was left to find our own way home. We were latchkey children across the board, and the secrets to afternoon survival were held by Lindsey Wagner and Linda Carter as the Bionic Woman and Wonder Woman, respectively. If the problem was not solved in an ABC After-School Special, it couldn’t be solved.
So on this day, walking home with slushy, heavy wet snow laying all over the ground, I was approached by the bullies from down the street. They threw the heavy, wet snow at me, pummeling me in the face, while yelling, “Faggot.”
Snow got under my collar, and ran down my back and chest, soaking me to the core.
“You’re a fag,” yelled the boy who lived down the street who had asked me to spend the night with him just two years earlier when he moved to town, simply because he didn’t know anyone else.
My younger brother stood there, watching.
The girls in my class who walked home with me stood as witness.
Snow continued to hit my face. My jacket. I was wet. I was cold.
“Faggot!”
“Fag!”
“Homo!”
All I did was walk home. Walk home with the first and only snow of my childhood.
Fear.
Shame.
Powerlessness.
Selfishness, if I protest.
I went home devastated, letting myself into our house with the key that was hidden in the garage.
There, I sat on the sofa, in my wet clothes, waiting for the two-and-half hours until my parents go home so they could see the devastation; my devastation.
I explained what happened when my parents got home. My clothes had dried. I’m sure it looked less dramatic than I was able to let on. I underscored that hey had pummeled me with wet snow. It went inside and down my shirt. It was wet and cold.
“What’s your problem?” my father asked. “Why didn’t you kick their ass?”
Not getting the support I was looking for, I escalated my emotions, erupting into a tantrum on the sofa.
My father came over, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me.
“What the Hell is wrong with you? Don’t let them push you around that way, kick their ass!”
Fear.
Shame.
Powerlessness.
Selfishness.
I don’t have the power to ask for what I want, or what I need. I’m selfish to ask for it, and I should be afraid and be ashamed of who I am.
It was 1981. Fags were about to die in masses from AIDS. My father didn’t need to know that in order to know that he wasn’t supposed to have a gay son.
He did the best that he could at the time.
I realized all that as the Veterinarian slapped my balls. I realized that these ideas of fear, shame, powerlessness and selfishness were ridiculous. Old rules and ideas engrained in what? Nothing but my own damage.
Certainly, Wonder Woman wouldn’t think like this.
The Big Draw came. The Veterinarian stepped away from the table. And for the first time in my life, I wept for that moment and all moments attached to being gay when I was afraid, shamed, powerless, and felt selfish for declaring my needs.
* * *
When it was my turn to give pleasure to the men who were sharing the experience with me, I don’t think it is any coincidence that I ended up with the biggest, loudest criers in the group. Including The Franciscan. The day concluded with me providing pleasure to The Franciscan. When he removed his blindfold, I was happy to be the man who embraced him.
Kissing was against the rules, but in that moment, it was the right thing to do.
We threw our clothes on, said our goodbyes, and then hit the streets, walking to the bus. He had checked with his boyfriend and had decided to spend the night, so we headed to dinner.
I grabbed his hand and lead him to a wine bar with half-off wine bottles. We ordered our dinner, I selected a nice Pinot Noir, and we raised our glasses.
“Can I say it?” His smile filled his face. “To my soul mate.”
Our glasses clinked. I touched the Paralegal’s watch. I thought of the Laywer. I swallowed hard.
Following dinner, we headed back to my place, hand-in-hand. There, we stripped each other out of our clothes, and showered together. For the next three hours, we explored every angle of the bed as we touched each other’s bodies and made love to each other.
“I love you,” he whispered into my ear.
I whispered it back, conscious of the fact that he has his own flight attendant that he would be returning to in the morning.
After three hours, we finally dozed off to sleep as best we could. It was hard for me; my mind was going. He was the best of the Lawyer and the Paralegal, only more open and willing to go with the flow. But he was taken and lived in another city. Unlike the Lawyer, he was willing to connect his heart energy with his erotic energy. I realized as the Franciscan lay on top of me that if the Lawyer were to connect his heart and erotic energy together, he’d have no choice to be with me. But to do that, he’d have to unlearn a lifetime.
And the Paralegal, he was in touch with his erotic energy, but his own personal demons stood in the way of openly exploring the possibilities around that.
The Franciscan lay on top of me, our lips intertwined only unlocking to explore our bodies.
“I’m so very present,” he whispered into my ear, “with the number of times and the depth with which you’ve had your heart broken.”
With only four hours before he had to catch his flight, he fell asleep on top of me, my arms around him, thinking he’s the next man to break my heart.
In the morning, we held hands as I walked him to the train.
“You can fall in love for a second, a minute, or a weekend.” He placed his hand on the back of my neck and kissed me. “See you later, buddy.”
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