“I think you should come to Chicago for I.M.L.,” I said to the Franciscan on the phone. We had been in constant touch since the big masturbatory weekend, and I knew him well enough to know that the International Mr. Leather Weekend, with its parties filled of men donning fetish costumes drawing crowds from all over the country, this was right up his ally.
“Oh, man. I’d love to. But the boyfriend is taking his mom to Hawaii, so I’ve got dog duty,” he said.
“So is that an invitation for me to come visit?”
“Yeah. It could be. If you want to come visit. I’d love to see you and spend time with you.”
In learning to focus on my needs, I discovered that if I didn’t have a pro-active plan for the holiday weekend, I’d feel abandoned and alone. That was the energy I took with me when I found a ticket purchased for a few random miles on a credit card I no longer used; it was a plan, and it would fill my weekend.
I packed every condom I owned. I didn’t pack any lube, assuming he would have plenty; lube is hard to transport across the country – you always have to check your bags as the three-ounce limits for liquids and gels is never enough for one good night. And certainly not three nights with a former Franciscan Monk I met through a weekend of eroticism.
But even as I packed the supplies for potentially the biggest boy time of my life, I packed without expectation, having an open mind and an open heart. If I was in the guest room for three days, then I was in the guest room. And if we had non-stop sex, then we had non-stop sex. Whatever would unfold, my intention was to rest and relax in the company of man who I had a great connection with, and pass the weekend without the abandoned toddler demon taking over.
