Friend

I saw you the other day. Just for a moment. You came around the corner with that silly grin on your face. The smile all the way in to your cheeks. Your boyish appearance.

But I knew it wasn't you. You weren't that young when you died. I was at your funeral. I carried you.

Just for the briefest of moments, I didn't miss you, and missed you, at the same time.

Worming Horses

Yesterday I wormed a few horses. It's really rather anticlimactic, not near as fancy as it sounds, and really doesn't involve any worms. It's just a matter of a plastic syringe feeding a paste to the horse.

But still, who would have thought I would ever . . . . .

The Messengers of Death

"It was at the time when Emile Pencenat was digging his own burial plot, Sunday after Sunday. He had obtained permission, although there was no precedent for this kind of thing. The town council was not impressed by this whim, but could find nothing that formally forbade it. Moreover, there was a lack of men willing to do the low-paid work of looking after the field of the dead. Finally, to clinch the decision, Emile Pencenat had declared:
'I'll sweep your cemetery myself; I'll throw out the dead boquets; I'll weed the grass around the graves, and I'll even pick up the pots of chrysanthemums blown over by the wind.'
How could they resist the offer of so much free work? They didn't even ask him why he insisted on a separate burial place, when there was a spacious and resoundingly empty family vault, because everyone was only too aware of the reply to that question: it was to avoid sharing eternity with his wife Prudence, with whom he did not get on.
Besides, he didn't like that plot. It looked like a Protestant mausoleum in the middle of the Catholic cemetery. It was sharp-edged, forbidding, and to make matters worse, it had a mean and parsimonious view of eternity that made the afterlife seem quite unattractive. As it happened, Emile Pencenat was fortunate enough to imagine the realm of the departed in a happier light - when one has gloomy thoughts, all the more reason for them to be flowery: if it were possible, his tomb would be a small-scale copy of an eastern potentate's ceremonial tester bed swathed in gold-fringed theatre drapes. The whole thing would be dominated by an opulent canopy and surrounded by a festooned balustrade with columns. . . .
. . . On rainy days he spent his time in his shed sculpting cherubs' heads, with which he hoped to enliven the pink marble columns around his masterpiece. Not that he had reached that point. He didn't know yet where he could get pink marble, nor how he was going to pay for it. But he'd only been thinking about digging his tomb for a few months; in fact it was since his retirement, when he was wondering anxiously what he could do to lessen his boredom. And so he had plenty of time to make enquiries, he thought.
Pierre Magnan

It's not promiscious if it's travel

There have been times during my previous career in the gaming industry when I traveled a fair bit for work to different conventions that catered to people in my specific field. And occasionally on those trips, I might be prone to . . . entertain, or perhaps be entertained by, a gentleman. And by gentleman, I mean someone I might have just met a few hours prior who was attending the same convention.

I never thought of them, the evenings or the gentleman, or even myself for that matter, as promiscuous. After all, we were usually in NICE hotels, and I could always track the guy down within hours should I need an affidavit of my whereabouts. He was someone that I would most likely see again in a few months at another convention. He was a professional person, much like myself. And besides, we were generally in the same age bracket and so might think of these evenings in a like way - pleasant and enjoyable, with a modicum of respect. There would be no promises of future dates at upcoming conventions, ala Alan Alda's "Same Time Next Summer." But there was also no reason to be anything less than polite the next time we saw each other.

One such gentleman, let's call him . . . well, let's just call him Gentleman. Handsome, tall, and with a belly. A belly doesn't turn me off. A grin can turn me on.

Our first evening happened together in an odd location. I kept wondering what in the world there was to do in that town, and how we ended up in that hotel. But alas, I ended up in his bed one evening. An enjoyable time was had by all. But I somehow left the room thinking that I had not had a stellar performance. I felt like I had let him down. And that thought would occur to me any time I would think of him later.

A couple of years passed and we ran into each other again in some other town, this time in a much nicer hotel. (The kind with glass elevators - always a sign of a nice hotel.) Several "boys who like boys" were in attendance at this function, and after checking in I called his room to see where all the boys were going that night.

I admit that I might have harbored the slightest hope that over the next few days we might have an encounter. But I would in no way begrudge him if his circumstances had changed and no such occured. But I was pleased when we did find ourselves in the same room.

And approximately 2 hours later, I was woken from a serious nap by the ringing of the cell phone I had been recently assigned by the employer. One of my employees asked me, "What are you doing?" and I answered honestly something like, "Well, I was sleeping after having sex." She laughed, asked her question and let me go back to sleep.

During that convention, we had the most enjoyable time together, but no more private time. I remember confiding in him that I felt like I had let him down the last time, and that I really tried to be better this time. He laughed and said he didn't recall it that way at all.

And that's exactly what he should have said.

Bad Guy

So I recently called the hometown florist to order some flowers for a birthday present. The gal answered the phone and I said something like, "Hi, this is SoandSo. I used to have an account there, and I need to order some flowers."

The lady on the line said, "I don't see you listed" and I said, "Well, I haven't ordered anything in a while" and she said, "You're probably a bad guy."

Pause

"This is Felecia."

And I was in love all over again and missed her so much!

He Comes. . . .

MyFella often, and regularly, accuses me of overbooking plans for the weekend. What I've tried to make him understand is these people aren't calling for me. They can see me any time.

The texts, calls and emails will start around Thursday.
"Is he coming this weekend or are you going there?"
"Oh good, I want to see him."
"What are you doing for . . . "

and then I end up with a weekend full of meal events with friends, and he'll huff and puff and blow on about it all. He thinks I'm just lining up time with my friends and we don't have any time alone.

It started again last night.
"Is he coming this weekend for the birthday party?"
"I want to go out for supper tomorrow night."
"Text him and tell him yaw are going out with me."

I stopped it and said, sweetly, "You text him."

A minute later I get a text from him. "Are you with her?"

And now I get to complain all weekend, "You've planned the whole weekend! There's no time alone for just us! You always do this!" I wonder if I can control the amount of sarcasm and irony in my voice.

Yahoo!

So, on Yahoo there's this article about Iran's morality police. Not that I would ever want to live in Iran, and if you look at countries like that, you can understand why we have so new immigrants here. (Because, really, aren't most of us descended from immigrants?).

So there's this photo in the article - it could be stock, I'm not sure. But there's an Iranian police man and a guy arrested for his trendy hair and shirt.

And yes. In stereotypical fashion, I thought they were both hot.

P.S. As a disclaimer, I don't usually find men from the Middle East attractive.

Fort Knox

"Do you feel like Fort Knox today?" he asked. I didn't understand what he meant. He's a gentleman a little older than me, and I forget sometimes that I'm well into my 40's. I'd say he's in his 50's. And I'd say he's lived a lot. He always has a good fishing or hunting story and seems to have covered most of this part of the country with a rod and reel in his hands.

As we talked yesterday, we realized we know a few of the same people, and that he was probably doing some contract work at some places at the same times I was working there. And now he seems fine working here in a cleaning position, as long as he can get enough hours to make ends meet. He's done a lot of labor jobs, a lot of dirty jobs, climbing through ceilings and under floors, and working for "the man."

He stopped through once or twice and borrowed a dollar, and always brought it back. But still, I didn't make the connection to the statement. "Do you feel like Fort Knox today?" He said he's poor til payday. Needed 5 bucks. I had 4. In truth, I started keeping one dollar in the drawer for him anyway.

And I thought, "How bad off you must be, if you need to borrow money from me, of all people." I'm certainly not wealthy, by any means.

But I've got plenty to eat for lunch today, my bed was warm this cold morning, and I haven't borrowed any money lately.

I think when he returns the $4, I'll just tuck it back in the drawer for the next time. Maybe even find another one to go with it.

Loving

So there's this great article on Yahoo about the love story, and social unrest in Virginia surrounding an interracial couple, Mildred and Richard Loving. I'm sure the little blurb sent hundreds of people to Wikipedia and other sites to learn more about it. Rediscovered photo's bring the topic to light thanks to an HBO special about the couple.

Me, however? I'm so gay, so typical, that my first thought on seeing the pictures was, "Damn he's hot!"

Juice Newton

I like to tell the story that MyFella and I met at a church meeting while "doing good works." Truth is, that's just the story I like to tell. But we count our face to face meeting as one of a couple of "anniversaries" we celebrate.

He was in town for a work related association meeting he attends regularly, and I left work early to drive out to a restaurant and meet him. The association meets every other month on the third Wednesday of the month. It was January.

Maybe it's a coincidence that I haven't opened my wallet this week until this morning and found a handwritten note. "I love you and have for years."

The sweetest thing I've ever known . . . .