“How many times does he have to tell you…

…for you to realize and accept that he truly, sincerely and definitely likes you?” asked Femme-Fatale. No, I was not on another one of my emotional spirals, concerning Mr. Mahn; however, I was also over-self-protecting. There is a very fine balance between keeping my emotions in check, as well as enjoying and trusting Mr. Mahn to actually make an effort to keep seeing me in the future. Despite his reassurances, my friends’ reassurances, and even his own friends’ reassurances (his best friend, nonetheless), I still caught myself emotionally guarded. Maybe it is because I am actually wonderfully overwhelmed by the enormous potential we have together, and the overall comfortable feeling that we already have.

Surprisingly, this level of comfort is something I would have only associated with a couple that is defined as an actual, steady relationship – you know, if he was my boyfriend. Of course, that is just my normative senses clicking in, which is not necessarily helpful when dating. Perhaps the level of comfort we have is a result of simply enjoying the time we spend together while not getting caught up with what lies ahead for us. Live in the Present. Live in the Now, my wise friend, Silver Sage, would say. Alas, she is right. It truly is unnerving for me to be so comfortable, happy and glowing with Mr. Mahn, despite knowing that within a week, I will be going back to school. Consequently, our weekly (hell, sometimes bi-daily) meetings will definitely be reduced, but we still plan to keep seeing each other after September – either he visits me in London or I meet with him in Toronto, but I digress.

Last Sunday, I had the chance to spend a day in the Toronto Islands with him and his friends for brunch and the beach. Of course, there was the initial bout of nervousness that comes with meeting the friends of the man you are currently dating, especially if we have not explicitly labeled ourselves as each other’s boyfriend. In retrospect, any anxiety was unfounded because we have been at a good place, simply enjoying our time together, and liking each other at our current place. If I have not said it enough, we are comfortable, and our disposition is evident to everybody else around us. Meeting his friends went with so much ease that one would think that this was not the first time I had met them. Might I add that by the time we had actually stripped down to do some swimming, I had been playfully tackled and tickled to the ground by his friends. I feel a new idiom coming up: Comfort begets comfort. (Oh God, with ”Pocket Full of Sunshine” as the movie montage). Consequently, a simple friendly brunch extended into the customary conjugation at his place, which then extended into dinner and leather-fetish festival on Church Street with his friends.


I think this is the first ‘relationship’ (and I say ‘relationship’ without defining ourselves as boyfriend, and merely alluding to the fact that we have been dating, but I digress) wherein I have been so comfortable and glowing that it has actually been unnerving sometimes. One should never bring in baggage from relationships past, but letting go of pseudo-fabulous baggage is much easier said than done and usually requires a third-party to say, “Sweetie, the luggage has got to go. It ruins the otherwise fabulous look.” Thanks, Femme-Fatale for always helping me swing back into lucidity.

There is that old saying, “When it rains, it pours”…

…but it is also my belief that embracing the rain and simply letting it soak through and through is also the only way to live fully. Acknowledge the coldness and wetness, and accept the futility of avoiding the inevitable. I know that I said that I would soak in the romantics and passion; however, as a result, I have inevitably grown increasingly attached to Mr. Mahn. With this increased emotional attachment comes the desire for more with him, despite hearing, “I like you, but I cannot give any more because I don’t want to hurt you.” This past weekend, I was most certainly a living embodiment of a pathetic fallacy, as I fell into a brooding state only perpetuated by the downpour of rain that lasted all weekend.

More. Do I want more because I am hopeful for a relationship where there is none to be had just yet? Am I masochistic? Am I unreasonable? Am I so incessantly hopeful for a future that may or may not be with him? Am I chasing shadows along the pavement? It has been about a month and a half now, since we first physically met at the Lofty Ex's party during Pride Weekend. Obviously, a lot has happened since then, and I may have allowed myself to get too lost in the moment. We have talked about our situation before, and I had been accepting of it. Yet, I still jumped in heart-first despite knowing that all we have is now, and in doing so, my heart is slightly splattered at the bottom of the waterless pool.

Inevitably, of course, sunshine and clarity comes at the heels of every storm. The truth is that I lost touch of staying and keeping with the moment; thus, internally, I was becoming more possessive and speculative of so many things. I became so hopeful for our potential together, such that I began to over-compensate because I began to think that our time was running out. Clearly, that is a ridiculous way to approach matters of the heart, because even if time was running out, there is no way of knowing that until it is actually T-minus-zero. I was misinterpreting our increasing level of comfortableness with withdrawal, which only fed my speculation that we were dissipating. YES! I fell into that dark place of my mind and rolled around in the emotional muck. It truly is interesting to finally see my behavioural pattern, which usually consists of over-analysis, followed by self-loathing, and finally self-sabotaging.

Just like the sun that comes after a storm, lucidity follows self-destructive behaviour, because even I despise myself when I am self-loathing and self-involved. However, this lucid state could have only been reached with the assistance and patience of my girlfriends (Femme-Fatale and Paris-Bijou) and of course, Mr. Mahn. To my girlfriends I vented, and they listened and reminded me of my tendency to become as overly analytical as Carrie Bradshaw and as pessimistic as Miranda Hobbs. And with that, I was finally able to pull myself out of my emotional not-so-hot-mess, realize the causes/catalysts of my previous state, and at last talk to Mr. Mahn to share with him my struggle and the emotional strides that I had made.

Academically speaking, I understood and agreed with Mr. Mahn when we discussed the limitations of our ‘relationship’, but emotionally, I was in a whole ‘nother ball game. Now that I am finally playing in the same field as him, and not just watching inquisitively, I am actually able to relax and enjoy our moments together. Moreover, I am able to trust him more because I can finally accept that our attraction is mutual, and more importantly, deep. In the meantime, I am finally able to enjoy us, just as we are, without worrying about the future, because even our future (romantic or platonic) looks bright and lucid… just like today, the day after the big storm.

You know that you have become cynical…

…when you immediately go for the worst-case scenario the moment there is a change in routine. As you have been following lately, I had perceived a change in Mr. Mahn’s footing, largely based on the change in the semi-routine/frequency of correspondences and contact that we have had since we met. The inconsistency in the frequency of our conversations was driving me to the wall, and not in the sexy-pin-me-up-against-the-wall-foreplay kind of way, but I digress. Anyway, my crazed state is largely a result of my trust issues with whomever I date, which is caused by past affairs that have repeatedly left me broken-hearted. However, I think that Femme- Fatale said it best, “Well, [Lofty Ex] was consistent – hell, we could say calculated – while you were together, and look at how that went. Maybe it’s good that [Mr. Mahn] is inconsistent. Humans, in general, ARE inconsistent.”

In all honesty, there really is no firm evidentiary support, only speculative, for me to think that Mr. Mahn was growing disinterested in me, or even seeing someone else – especially if he has already said that he is dating no one else. As much as I may say that I will not make him suffer for the mistakea of past men, I guess that I still do so, albeit subconsciously. Even the speculative ‘evidence’ is based solely on the stories that my head decides to fashion; ironically, these fashioned stories/assumptions are inconsistent with Mr. Mahn’s character. In the time that I have gotten to know him, he has been nothing but honest and open about his feelings and thoughts about our relationship thus far. Perhaps that is what is so unnerving about him: I have every reason to trust and feel secure with him. He is actually a good-natured man at heart and even in his deeds. The way he surprises me with a text in the middle of the day, or sometimes even a phone call before bed instead of our usual MSN correspondences, feel far from calculated. I can truly say that it feels spontaneous, sweet and thoughtful, and it does not feel like it is something we do because it was something we read in Dating-101.

Consequently, with this newfound sense of trust, I am able to finally stop being so neurotic and needy for his attention, which he gives me every day anyway. In reality, I should not have been neurotic at all about where-are-we-now and what-lies-ahead-for-us because right now we are still enjoying each other (in every sense of the word) and our future still looks bright with plans that Mr. Mahn has already suggested. There is the crux of it all, he is already making plans “for us to spend time together” as far as a month from now, without my instigation or even suggestion. Of course, it would be easy to say that maybe they are just pieces of ear-candy. However, in the time I have known him, Mr. Mahn has yet to go back on his word and the plans are not grand plans either; rather, they are simple yet extremely - nay, undoubtedly - thoughtful. The level of simplicity makes me appreciate how both honest and sweet as candy he is.

So I say, bring on the romantics and passion, and I will promise to soak it all in. Besides, when each and every one of our dates has been a combination of passionate, steamy writhing bodies and classic romantics the likes of cooking together and canoodling to a movie, really, what have I got to lose in acknowledging and embracing the mutual sprungness? Just like this yummy video here…

Like it or not, I instinctively up the ante…

…when I find someone who can break through my emotional barriers, without breaking down my very core – especially when every other man before him/her left me broken-hearted. This is a very dangerous predicament because: a) I could start to become possessive and needy, and/or b) I could be setting myself up for yet another heartbreak. The problem with finding a great guy through such serendipitous occurrences, like the ones that Mr. Mahn and I have had, is that there is a perpetual feeling that maybe it really is too good to be true, or worse, that no matter what I do, everything between us is still up to chance. At times like these, I cannot help but open up The Ex-Files to try to figure out what I kept doing wrong in my previous affairs.

Retelling my story, in its full context, does not usually bode well. I end up either bawling my eyes out, or worse brooding in a corner blasting Death Cab’s Transatlanticism and/or Athlete’s Tourist. It is vile, it is trite, it is melodramatic, and yet I go down that road every so often. Incidentally, one song in particular came into light this weekend, and until then I had not actually listened to the lyrics. The song is called Tiny Vessels and basically tells the story of meaningless, ‘romantic’ encounters. The chorus is what truly resonated with me, Yeah, you are beautiful, but you don’t mean a thing to me. Moreover, this weekend, this song also deeply resonated with Femme-Fatale, and left her thinking about relationships past. Listening to her fear of having lost the drive to actually pursue a relationship, or even how to have a date that does not necessarily mean sex, I found myself helpless in the advice department. I could no longer be simply sympathizing, because it was full on empathy.


The truth is that my greatest fear with Mr. Mahn is that he will actually end up being yet another anecdote, in my already long list. Is it possible that even after all of the time and emotions invested, can he still end up being yet another one of the men that have simply come and gone? Nearly every other man that has come and gone comes back to tell me that I was a great guy and so on. Yet, such proclamations are bitter-sweet because despite how ‘great’ I may have been, I cannot help but feel that I still was not enough. It would be more emotionally satisfying to say that all the guys were jerks, or it was the wrong time; however, I am still the common denominator underneath ALL of it. Yes, they were great affairs and even meaningful at one point (at least, for me they were), but finding that exclamations of love and appreciation were likely empty has only left me as empty as a tiny vessel. (And no, this is no time to say that the hollower you are now, the more happiness you will be able to carry later.)

I cannot help but think that even if Mr. Mahn is simply an exciting summer fling, as had been assumed from the very beginning, he has upped the ante by consistently tearing down my guards and making me feel that it may be worth it to just let him in – even if it is not what he is trying to do. Is it really fair of me to expect more from him? More importantly, at this very moment, am I perhaps self-sabotaging by over-thinking this? Am I so desperate for a relationship that I fail to see how good it is right now with Mr. Mahn? Am I missing a great time with him now because I am chasing after the possibility of a future? Lastly, am I letting the mistakes of past men apply to him? When it comes to matters of my own heart, I am utterly clueless and unable to stand back.

The past three weeks have been spent in mostly a state of bliss…

…ever since the infamous weekend with Mr. Mahn. For the next two weeks, thereafter, we had met twice more at his condo, for dinner and a movie…and, of course, the sex. I catch myself getting lost in the moment, which is not necessarily a bad predicament; however, it’s the thoughts and feelings and mental re-telling and analyzing of stories that causes problems – more specifically, a growing attachment to someone I presume may drift off within a month. At least, I think that it helps to take that worst-case scenario so that I can deal with it a lot better once this emotionally active summer ends.

Within days of our weekend together, Mr. Mahn and I had grown closer and the feeling of mutual sprungness had intensified. My exclamations of I will still miss every part of you after my trip coupled with his You can HAVE me because I want more of you too do nothing to maintain our emotional barriers. For the three days I was away in Montreal with my family, I was on an emotional high from the feeling of envelopment and longing from him. Artwork I pass by on the cobblestone streets immediately make me think, Oh, that is something he would like, or better yet, A stroll through here would be so much more with you. Every time that happens, I find myself torn between finally channeling my inner-Charlotte and just letting him in, and replacing the bricks of my fortress as an attempt at self-preservation. Undeniably, I want to put down the trowel and just let him in, but there is that perpetual fear of him seeing my raw self and perhaps deciding that it is not enough. Enough affairs have come and gone to make me overly familiar with the feeling, and I find myself scared to find out whether or not Mr. Mahn will be the one to change that particular status-quo.

Nonetheless, our dinner date on the 20th was hopelessly romantic with a beautiful dinner, followed by canoodling time on the sofa as we watched a movie. It was comfortable and enveloping, and I could feel myself falling deeper into his arms, into his stronghold. The thing is that I am far from apprehensive or anxious when I am physically in his arms, but the moment I am away from him and think of his embrace, I get scared. I get scared of falling so deep and losing myself in the moment, because all we really have is THAT moment. The following week, on the 28th, was our second dinner-movie date, which was just three days ago actually. I had been building-up my Montreal present for him, which was in the form of photography, taken by yours truly. The beauty of which was that it ironically represented the recurrent theme of serendipity in our ‘relationship’ thus far. Yes, the R-bombs were dropped, and maybe there was shrapnel flying out as it was casually dropped by both parties – albeit, he did the first drop.

The mutual longing for each other’s company and attention is evident, and everything is decadently sweet. But little things are starting to show signs of a sugar-crash, and maybe he is pulling away a bit. Maybe I am over-analyzing again, because he is getting busier at work. Maybe I am asking too much from both of us, especially when we have agreed to take things slow and just see how things go. So, this is me, taking it slow and seeing it how it goes, and I do not think I am doing such a good job.

We each have our own implementation of an emotional fortress…

… such that if a heartbreaking scenario arises, then we can shrug it off like water off a duck’s back. Nevertheless, in the words of Femme-Fatale (basically, female-me. Querida, you should know who you are :p), “I wonder when we decided that being hopelessly cynical was the best we could do.” Somehow, as singletons we have forgotten to let someone in and truly enjoy the moment, because with every person, there is always the chance that things could very well be lovely. We may have actually forgotten that throwing caution to the wind can sometimes be very liberating, and thereby can result in a grand ol’ time. Even if it is just in the beginning, even if it lasts until a series of dates, or even if it lasts until the very end. The fear of rejection after actually exposing your inner being may very well have something to do with it. But is there a way to fully sense the joy of a new relationship, while keeping your guard up. On one hand, you want your man to really want you and actually tear down your fortress and embrace whoever is truly inside, while on the other, you do not want to keep feigning disinterest because eventually the novelty of mystery passes.

Up until Tuesday, I had altogether assumed that Mr. Mahn was limited to a casual affair, for which there would be no hope of an emotional attachment. Of course, by “no hope” I meant that I had convinced myself that it could be nothing more, because it would hurt less (and I am not naïve enough to hope for a relationship out of Pride weekend). Of course, I was also recalling earlier conversations with him, one in particular wherein he said that he did not have a lot to offer up yet. Of course, there was a tinge of disappointment, but I was able to let it go because Mr. Mahn was a surprise for me. I had assumed that he would be yet another anecdote – albeit, sexy, but an anecdote nonetheless. Anyhow, his diligence and sweetness kept enabling my desire to emotionally attach to him. Every attempt I made to put a guard up, there he was ever so carefully knocking them down – and I would let him. I was waiting, waiting for him to really put up a fight. As much as I disliked waiting on any man, I found myself yearning for that rally of text messages, phone calls and correspondences.

For two weeks (yep, Pride was two weeks ago), our frequency of communication had grown exponentially, initially due to our burning loins. However, it then opened up to a sincere and mutual desire to see each other again, not just for sex, but also to actually become more familiar with each other. It was a throwback to classic intimacy – a time when ‘intimate’ did not merely evoke a visual of writhing bodies. Then, it became us making concrete plans for a weekend “to get to know each other first.” Most assuredly, I would have my doubts about us actually realizing our plans. Every little detail felt like an eggshell, though not because of Mr. Mahn – rather, because I wanted to give everybody the best time as possible (self-involved much?). As Friday the 11th inched closer, I found myself getting butterflies in my stomach, and awaiting some sort of mishap. Papa Murphy can you hear me? And most assuredly, Murphy did hear me and brought his damn laws with him. Mr. Mahn had to postpone our sexy weekend by a day because work was being quite the little bitch – he was not going to be arriving until Saturday evening at 20:30. Of course, I was disappointed and unable to discriminate between ‘cancel’ and ‘postpone’. Of course, I had to call my girlfriend, Femme-Fatale, to straighten me back into mental and emotional shape. Of course, I had to go and buy a pack of cigarettes to ease my nerves and end the unnecessarily melodramatic crying spells. I wish I could say that my reaction was not nearly as dramatic as it sounds; nevertheless, I fell from grace and became that ‘needy chick,’ for which I blame my indulgence in chick-lit(yeah, we're talking Ms. Weisberger).

Despite the shaky not-so kickoff, Saturday came and the mental countdown finally began. At T-minus 4 hours, the anticipation was certainly billowing on both ends, which meant that foreplay via text messaging was in play – bear in mind that he was not even on his way yet. Once he finally arrived at the Greyhound, that killer smile dissipated any nervousness that I was feeling, and his kiss was the cherry on top – at least, for the time being. A short tour of downtown London consisted of a meandering through a crowd of Latin festival-goers and a sighting of the city’s finest cops ( I can certainly vouch that they were the best two I have seen in my four years in the city). Even during the ride towards my apartment, we were already having trouble keeping our hands off each other – quite the foreshadowing of what was to come (puns intended!). Of course, being the usual instigator, surprising Mr. Mahn with my Speedo-and-necktie ‘outfit’, as he unpacked was enough to fully kickoff the festivities.

After having taken me around-the-world within two hours, we followed our sex-capade with another few hours just cuddling and actually getting to know each other – albeit, in bed and au naturel. After finally peeling ourselves off each other and the bed we had made together, plans for a culinary delight of pasta with savoury meatballs had to be downplayed to simply the savoury meatballs (the highlight of the dish anyway). Sex may make a couple hungry; however, with two gay men, it must be wisely kept to a peckish degree. As such, an après-minuit snack was partaken on the sofa, followed by his present of boxed gourmet chocolates. (My dears, chocolates do not count as calories when ingested après-copulation. It is just the way to live) Of course, what kind of evening is complete without a sexy candle-lit, effervescent, hot bath? It was the cherry on top of an already indulgent sundae – ironically, the bath salts smelled like black cherries. Yet, we realized how truly insatiable we were as we delved into another round of sexy kisses and sexy sex (another trip around-the-world, baby).

Sunday morning came with a pleasurably sore ass, and my mind was taken elsewhere as I watched him sleep ever so peacefully, then greet me with those piercing hazel eyes and that killer smile. After another hour of simply admiring each other in bed (yeah, we really are just that cheesy), it was time to get our pancakes with caramelized apples in order. Of course, I had to mix the batter in nothing but my boxers and an apron. Of course, he had to reach for the can of whipped cream and spray some into each of our mouths right before we kissed. Of course, we were “on the job” in the kitchen, right before he carried me back into the bedroom as I kissed his soft lips. Of course, we went around-the-world yet again, only this time around I actually climaxed twice and both orgasms were equally intense. This was a bit of a bitter-sweet moment because physically it felt good, but I also realized that I have only ever had such orgasms when I am actually falling for the other guy. With my apprehension, I think that my sub-conscious was putting up my guards and Mr. Mahn could sense me pulling away, when he held me closer, enveloped me and said, “ I like you here.” Somehow, he has a way with me and keeps knocking down my barriers with the smallest of gestures. Only time will tell if he accomplishes that either as a smooth talker out to break my heart or as a genuinely good man – I am banking on the latter. Why should I make him suffer for the mistakes of past affairs?

Apparently, all it takes is making-eyes with a boy…

… to finally get over my obsessive thoughts over a certain, not-yet-significant other. Not that Transformer and my affairs with him are insignificant, but they certainly do not necessitate obsessive thoughts and a fixation on making a relationship out of him. At this point, you must be thinking to yourself, Who…what…where…huh? Well, sit yourself down for a rather extended entry – at least compared to the latest posts. I apologize for my extended hiatus, but I am back ladies and gents.

Pride celebrations in Toronto (i.e. NYC-Lite) passed this weekend, and to kick things off, Lofty Ex hosted a purist-party (as in, one must wear all-white) at his condominium. Yes, the ex with whom I had been admittedly bitter, the ex from whom I felt the need to receive vindication, and the ex with whom I can finally be amicable – albeit after a six-month hiatus from him. I figured that you could use the refresher – but I digress. Of course, reappearance after said hiatus requires one to look stunning and hot in all-white, regardless of the amicability; let’s be honest here, it is a party… nay, a gay party… nay, a gay party during Pride and bound to be teeming with other eye-candy. As well, my reappearance would be incomplete if it was not with the accompaniment of my Straight Girlfriends Entourage.

Armed with a hot outfit, for which I had spent the last five days shopping for the right tone of white to match my white jeans, and my entourage, who have also spent days searching for that all-white outfit, the festivities were off to a good start. I knew that I was finally mentally and emotionally in the right frame of mind when I saw Lofty Ex and had nothing but smiles. With the sincerity of our smiles, I finally found the closure I needed for our epic novel, which clearly meant that the party could finally start. Even more relieving is finding that my friends got along well with Lofty Ex and his friends. Furthermore, realizing that even the friends that I had met through him had also missed me was refreshing, because one always wonders if you can maintain friendships with people you met through a former relationship.

Ironically, the first affair of the weekend was serendipitously catalyzed by a conversation with Veggie and Lewey, with Lewey being Lofty Ex’s ex-boyfriend, prior to me. Anyhow, a catch-up conversation with Veggie and Lewey had required a refill of our drinks; thus, we lead up to the initiation. A glance back at the bar, to determine if anyone was mixing drinks, resulted in so much more than jus a new drink. Actually, it resulted in a guaranteed hot affair for Friday night – quite the way to kick off Pride weekend, indeed. It was already three hours into the party, and at least 40 individuals, half of which had been previous affairs and could be tracked within six degrees of separation, had filled up the condominium. As a result, greetings with these individuals had been quite the entertaining and oh-so-obvious greetings of, Hey, I know you, followed by mutual laughter that only happens with two people that have clearly slept together.

Mr. Mahn and I had been trying to arrange a sexy meeting for months to no avail, because either I was in the city and he was out of the province or I was unavailable for the weekends he was free. Consequently, I had abandoned any real hope of meeting him anytime soon. However, when the room can be connected within six degrees of separation, I should not have been stupefied upon seeing Mr. Mahn pouring drinks at the kitchen, just as I had offered to refresh some drinks for Veggie and Lewey and me. Unbeknownst to me was the facial expression that accompanied my overwhelming feeling of serendipity combined with near-mortification, which was also apparently visible to Veggie and Lewey. And with that, the evening truly began.

So over to the kitchen I went, with the go-ahead not to refresh the drinks for Veggie and Lewey, and the dance of the peacocks was on full-throttle. There we were, complimenting each other (really if smiles could kill), regaling each other of how nearly impossible this meeting should have been, and how serendipitous it truly was to have common social circles. In reality, however, it was truly by chance that he had attended the party because he had not been directly invited – albeit we were well within six degrees of separation. So naturally, the dance moved from the kitchen, to the living room, then to the balcony. It was simply a healthy combination of wit, literally hands in pants and sensual kisses on a balcony overlooking a beautiful city. Thus, I shamefully exclaim that within an hour of meeting each other and heavy flirtation, we found ourselves running from the party and into his place.

We had not even reached the ground floor from Lofty Ex’s condominium and we were practically ravaging each other in the elevator, followed by running from the subway station and up to his own condominium. With the shut of the door, the dance had turned into one of the hottest sexual experiences in my books thus far. There we were, ravaging and stripping each other in his foyer, it was as if with our clothes went the slick veneer of human sophistication - we had, figuratively, just crawled right out of a cave. The overwhelming feeling of actually losing yourself in that sexual moment, and my dears, this was just the foreplay. Never mind the pinning against the wall and smothering of hot kisses, or the queen-size bed that still felt modest in size, or the sensual shower that followed. Usually, one would expect the evening to end there; however, it is a festive weekend, and what better way to celebrate by returning to the party crowd after a two-hour session.

The realist in me would have thought that walking out of his place would be the end of our interaction. However, Mr. Mahn and I actually spent the rest of the evening dancing, kissing, sweating together. Even during the walk back to mingle with the party crowd, he held my hand and was sincerely conversing with me. Of course it is still too early to tell anything, but the signs looks good, and I am certainly relishing the mutual sprungness.

I will admit that I enjoyed Clueless…

…but only as an observer with popcorn and Diet Coke. So, when I find myself “like, totally buggin’”, the blow-up castle has seriously deflated. Okay, maybe not deflated, but I am really beginning to question whether Transformer and I were only supposed to be a short story, as opposed to an epic novel. Albeit, both situations could have been just as riveting, but an epic novel feels that much better. So here I am, stuck thinking and wondering if I am yet another anecdote.

The truth is, however, whether or not I am just another anecdote is incidental. My sex-capades with Transformer may have simply been a romantic and intense short story, instead of the epic novel I so desperately may want it to be. The longevity of either scenarios does not change the intensity of romance and lust – in fact, a short affair is usually that much more intense both physically and emotionally (but I digress, as usual). Of course, it is equally undeniable that when you find a good thing – nay, a great thing – you almost always want to hold onto it, for as long as possible. Truth be told, love simply is not one of the many good things in life of which we cannot have too much. Now, it may not yet be love with Transformer, but I definitely cannot stop thinking about him.

If it were simply because sex with him has been earth-shattering – each and every time, I might add – it would be as simple as procuring a new affair with one of the handful of men still pursuing me. Unfortunately, of course, I have been hit with the monogamy-bug – even if we had not explicitly established anything in that department, for the time that we are apart. It really is frightening how one good event can completely change my disposition, and that applies to a new job, a new course, a new prospect, and so on. I literally have this sudden intrinsic goal to be as ‘good’ as I can be, lest I lose this good thing. Back to Transformer, I feel myself actually willing to wait for him, when I really do not need to be. At the same time , I catch myself waiting and pining for that message/email/limerick that will make my heart skip a beat – or worse, make me jump up in the air and writhe with ecstasy. Am I crazy? Perhaps, but that really should be no surprise by now.

So, in an attempt to avoid these emotional roller-coasters I have jumped to the not-so-conclusion that Transformer and I may be a series of short stories – not quite an epic novel, but not a two-pager either. With that loophole in place, I find myself getting through the days easier; finding the grey in any black-and-white situation always makes things easier (something Canadians are notorious for anyway). So even if I go on a date, I have to prevent myself from feeling guilty. But at the same time, even in the subsequent dates, I found myself rejecting each of them for silly reasons such as, he’s-too-shy, he’s-too-confident, he’s-not-artsy-enough, he’s-such-a-hippy, he’s-got-a-gigantic-Adam’s-apple. If you have not deduced it yet, the silly reasons/excuses for each man came up because none of them was Transformer. It really is not easy being smitten by a man, who is miles away, will not be back for another two months, and may not even be feeling the same way about me. Is he worth all this brainpower? Ultimately, no, because I really should not be thinking and analyzing this as much as I have been. But, is he worth waiting for? I really do not know that either, but hell, I’m totally buggin’.

Rule of thumb is that you never want to let yourself be tossed up to Cloud-9…

…if that special someone is not going to be up there to meet you, much less catch you when reality forces your descent. I am certainly not implying that Transformer has left me hanging in limbo, but he is also nowhere near, as I reach my emotional highs (and lows) – all from messages that can range from an electronic nudge to a long-winded email. Even though we never made any specific arrangements regarding our communication for the summer, or even the extent of our ‘relationship’, deep down I am still hoping that he would be romantic and simply tell me that we are ‘together.’ Damn, my passive-aggressiveness always gets in the way. So, as I wait for an event that is highly unlikely, I am left wallowing in my own self-pity, drowning in self-loathing – thus driving me deeper into spinsterhood.

Naturally, friends do not let friends sink helplessly into quicksand – especially, if it is because of my own fidgeting that I am sinking deeper. In come the friends that date all the way back to high school (aka. Ancient Times), wherein we were all tied together by the infamous International Baccalaureate Program – a total crock of shit besides the beautiful friendships that transpired, but I digress. So here we were, the International Academia, four years later, four years after the tearful goodbyes and I’ll-never-see-you-again speeches, four years after what felt like the biggest step in our lives, only to realize that it was a stump compared to the glorious mountain preceding it. Activities and gatherings that we could only have dreamt doing back in high school were realizing themselves as we speak. From coffee dates to drunken sleepover-cum-brunches to fashion-cocktail parties, the list extends itself. Over the span of a weekend, it was repeatedly drilled into our skulls that this is our lives now, not just because our demographic accommodates it, but also because we pursued it. Gone are the days of loitering in a mall to pass the time and distract ourselves from the drama that was high school, instead, we have replaced it with fashionable networking and/or liquid-lunches to brood about ‘grown-up’ drama. It is like progressing from That 70’s Show and up to Friends. An ego boost perhaps, but who doesn’t want to be cultured and city-chic yet still down-to-Earth?

Meetings with the International Academia involved exchanging anxieties about relationships past, present and to come. As an observer, it really is to tell someone else what to do, where to go and even what to say. Specifically, in MD’s case (he is definitely the mover-and-shaker in the group, and you know who you are), hearing him talk about the what-ifs and all the shoulda-woulda-coulda scenarios with his somewhat-significant other, it was easy to point out his faults, which were mostly the result of his own insecurity. As a friend, it is easy to tell him all the goods he has to offer, and how to use to his best advantage in a relationship, but when it comes to me, I literally am oblivious to my qualities until they are pointed out for me. So there, mired in the respective messes of our own making, we discussed the ins-and-outs of our pursuits, analyzing all the ‘improvements’ we could have made. Then it hits us like a ton of bricks, What were we doing sitting and thinking and brooding like 40-year-olds? The truth is that no matter how invested we get into a relationship, or not, we were still at that point in our lives wherein making mistakes is part of discovering ourselves. It truly is astounding how romance transcends so many things, even orientation; despite the fact that it was a homosexual man advising a heterosexual man (and vice versa), we all still have the very same insecurities.

Even meeting with the ladies of the International Academia drilled in the same message, and a later conversation with Beautiful Fag-Hag could not have stated it any clearer, “You deserve to be happy, so stop over-thinking and over-analyzing things, and enjoy the time with him.” It is so simple, yet so profound. And my ladies NK and JB (they really could be identified with Carrie Bradshaw and Miranda Hobbs, respectively) were the perfect distractions from the self-pitying for an entire weekend. From drunken TV shows to Wii to a backyard-brunch, there was a constant reminder of the firm grasp of our friendships. I realize that I am sounding like another Hallmark greeting card, but it truly cannot be helped when your friends surround you, especially at a time when you really need to see past your own insecurities. So there it was, even if Transformer was not going to be around to catch me from my reality check, on the way to Cloud-9, I still have my friends ready and willing to catch me, and even remind me that that there’s no need to sweat it. Besides, Cloud-9 may very well be just around the corner.

Serendipity is one of those movies that most people love to hate…

…but that is only because we have become too jaded to believe that a string of romantically-enabling ‘coincidences’ can ever happen. So, when it just so happens that the Hollywood Kiss with Transformer would not be the last time I would see him, my disposition on serendipity and the cosmos may be turning around. Just as I had thought that we had said our goodbyes, and I was obviously handling it well enough with tear-soaked pillows, fate lends a helping hand.

Being a keener, I decided to pack everything a day before my trip back home; to be honest, it was because I had planned to take the Saturday afternoon train, but changed it to the next day. As I prepared to brood over Transformer’s departure, I was simply wishing him a safe drive back to NYC-Lite, when he suddenly informs me that he was taking the train. To add insult to injury, he was taking the same train I had just cancelled. Now I am not one to try and read too much into signs, but this strange coincidence was simply much too convenient. So, it should come to no surprise that the moment he asked me to join him, I was hailing a cab in a heartbeat (the bags were already packed anyway). Never have I had such a comfortable and shorter train ride, even if not much was said in words, because his actions (both conscious and unconscious) spoke enough for me to understand.

Unlike in the movie (Serendipity), wherein you wanted the string of coincidences to finally end so they could be together, I could not get enough of our coincidences because it felt like the link between Transformer and me. As long as we had our coincidental meetings, we were at least still able to be in each other’s company. Alas, now that he is officially out of the country and away for the summer, I am left brooding. The strangest things remind me of our time together: sugar spilt on the counter, a familiar song we danced to, the scent of black tea, even just stepping into a coffee shop is too much. Despite everybody else’s assurances that there is nothing but good to take away from this experience, I still wind up in fits of tears because I truly want more of him – of us. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for it all, but I end up asking myself, “Is that all there is?”

I realize that within the month that I have known Transformer – that’s right, it has been a month since our first date – I have experienced a whole slew of things that I thought I would never encounter, much less with the same man. I actually felt feelings that I never knew existed until now. I cry when I remember him, because I am both happy and sad – happy for what has happened and what may come, and sad for the worst that may come. It would be easy to say that these observations are merely a result of my own over-thinking, but when some church ladies approach me and remark that I look great, or even glowing, there is clearly credit due to my relationship with Transformer. So here I am, at an impasse, attempting to decide which path to take in dealing with my emotions. But, to be honest, I already know that the answer is simply to take it for what it is: one of the best pick-me ups from the rut of bad relationships past.

At last, that Saturday afternoon at 6 pm, in the grand Union Station, we said our final and long-winded goodbyes, for what may be a long summer. And I know that if it really is meant to be something more, then we will find our way back to our nooks. Even if that is all there is, he has shaken me up and out of spinsterhood, because he let me feel what I deserve to feel - adoration and respect. So here’s looking at you, kid.... we’ll always have... Lambton.

Emotional relationshippy stuff shouldn't really come into the picture yet...

...especially if Transformer and I are in limbo between 'quasi' and 'long-distance' relationship. My avid fans, let's face it, seeing each other only once a week for nearly a month, no matter how long and intense the meetings may be, a relationship does not make... at least, not yet. Despite that, it has officially been established that we are 'seeing each other.' So we are not quite at full-blown relationship, but not quasi either.

Wednesday night was the actual last night I spent with Transformer, at least until he is back in the country, which will be September. This time around, we actually did a movie night with the whole cozy-couple-canoodling-on-the-couch and receiving-a-back-massage-as-I-cozy-further-into-my-nook-between-his-arm-and-chest. So, regardless of the hours spent in front of the mirror telling myself not to be such a horndog around Transformer, my defences drop the moment I see him – consequently, the other shoe drops, too. At this point, our attempts to make our meeting PG-13 (hence, Cars as the movie of choice) were futile since we were having one of those “You had me at, ‘Hello’” moments.

By Thursday morning, after yet another long night of copulation (eat your heart out, Samantha Jones), I realized how easily I had become comfortable with Transformer. Waking up in his arms the morning after feels just right, much less finding his hand holding mine, or worse, a playful and ticklish kiss on the back of my neck as a wake-up call. My fears of not being able to feel that way again have certainly been quelled, and perhaps I am not as jaded as I thought I had become. Nonetheless, it does not help that this epiphany comes at the heels of Transformer’s departure for the summer. So, you can understand my confusion with the cosmos. Why let me meet this guy now? Why couldn’t I have met him when there is more time for us? And damn it, why is he the only one that has rightly earned my friends’ approval?

It was one of those mornings when you find yourself dragging your heels to whatever the day has prepared for you – well, technically, whatever you had prepared for the day, but I digress. Despite Transformer’s observation that he should leave early, lest he lie in bed with me until 3 in the afternoon again, our shower was longer and hotter than usual (and I’m referring to more than the water). To add insult to injury, he found himself sticking around for breakfast, and even a bit more to canoodle in the living room, and by then an hour and a half had managed to pass. It seems that with every meeting, we manage to get trapped in our own bubble and have the world pass us by. When your heart is fluttering like that of a cracked-out junkie, ignoring the clocks hands seems oh-so-natural.

Alas, the inevitable end to our snuggle-fest arrived, and just as usual, the walk to his car could not have been any shorter. And there, in the rain-soaked pavement of the parking lot, we dragged our heels and mentioned the unmentionables: I’ll-miss-you, Have-fun, When-will-I-see-you-again, even if saying all those things only made this departure harder. And that is when he took me, with a dip and kiss (how romantic, indeed). But, this moment could not have been any more unique to us if it had not been followed with, “You were supposed to hook your leg around my leg.” So, with a laugh, we finally had our Hollywood Kiss, and no such kiss could ever have tasted any sweeter (eat your heart out, Carrie Bradshaw).

One way or another, there is a ‘Mr. Big’ figure in our lives...

...and you can take 'Big' into whichever context you want (cue rimshot… you guys were awesome, have a great night everybody!). Seriously, he could be someone who is ultimately a good guy, but shits all over you just when you are happy (i.e. a sadist), or someone who may ultimately be the one, but remains emotionally unavailable (i.e. a fortress), or ultimately both characteristics (i.e. a fortress housing a tyrant). This has possibly left you thinking, “Okay this is true, but what is all this alluding to?” Well, Loaded Cop, after a four-month long hiatus, decided to roll back into the scene and get back in touch with me, and of course, I walk away from it extremely pensive. That’s right, Loaded Cop: the first one I actually may have fallen for, the one who may have fucked up my outlook on relationships in the first place, and the most honest one of the bunch. Ah, and there’s the rub… Loaded Cop is my Mr. Big.

I met him online a year and two months ago, and within our first conversation, I was already captivated. He was one of the few guys with whom I actually had a lot of common tastes (i.e. music, film, TV, artistic photographers, etc), despite our nearly contrasting approaches to life: he’s a realist whereas I am an optimist (or was, at least). All of my past tricks, relationships, partners, etc had suddenly found their own respective companion - I’m talking about that level of comfort exclusive to the two of you, that sickening imagery of two happy people - and I am the only one left. To name a few: Mavrick still has his partner (and that's another entirely complicated piece of history), Lofty Ex has his random Asian, Polish Sausages have each other, Loaded Cop has his youngun. I am officially spinning, and not in that cute 50’s-twirl-while-dancing-to-the-dulcet-tones-of-a-jazz-crooner, but out of control and into spinsterhood.

Up until my pop-up of a conversation with Loaded Cop I had been coping with singleton in great stride – that is, if you count living like a sloth a great stride. Anyway, hearing from him only brought back memories of old feelings (not the feelings themselves, though), and the general good feeling of those moments. More importantly, it was a reminder of how much I also missed Transformer, and how needy I can become. As a single man, nay, a human being, I can obviously cope with sleeping alone; however, every time I get to sleep, much less wake up, beside another warm body, it is as if I had relapsed. If you have not deduced it yet, I am a cuddler. Whaaaaaaaaat? A promiscuous (by hetero standards, that is) gay man who actually enjoys the post-play activities, maybe even more than the actual play itself. Why, that is just absurd!

My conversation with Loaded Cop made me consider two things: 1) I am actually smitten by Transformer, 2) I have actually grown emotionally such that I am supposedly no longer looking at sex as a validation. Having Loaded Cop tell me that my erotically-neutral state is simply a phase, because gay men are innately slutty, would usually have me nodding in agreement; yet this time around, I find myself actually considering a no-sex rule unless there is a chance for a relationship. Am I aiming for too much? I should not feel like it, but somehow I already feel like this is something I am going to fail. So, just like Ms. Bradshaw, I walked away from my ‘Mr. Big’ and onto greener pastures. Incidentally, Transformer evokes Aleksandr Petrovsky in that he is studying lighting design/installations and has the same passion for his art. So, is this quasi-relationship doomed to fail as well? I mean, we have the advantage of not having lived together in a foreign city yet. But, if the ‘quasi’ does drop, it would still be replaced by ‘long-distance.’ The mind reels…

I am all for discounts, the bigger the better I would say…

…but if it’s Mommy-Dearest discounting my relationships as a gay man, then I am going to pass. Dealing with patronization in the public arena is difficult enough, but it is especially difficult from my own family. It has been a year since I forcibly came out to my parents, and sadly no great improvements have been made in our relationship – unless you consider a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy an improvement. Lately, conversations with them have been feeling very Mama-and-Papa Don’t Preach (sans love-child) in that being gay is really not something they can fix, or even to be fixed. It is not that I am not welcome at home, but being at home means
that there is a constant implicit chastisement and disappointment.

I know that they love me, and I also still love them; however, that prejudicial wall is undeniable, especially when my parents have repeatedly said that they could never accept me as their gay son. Instead, I am the prodigal son who has lost his way, and needs to see the light and be fixed. I realize that I keep fixating on their fixation on fixing me, but you would too if they decided to question the veracity of “what you think are relationships.” Clearly, tear-soaked pillows and ice-cream-cum-sappy-movie binges are a result of my delusional, and possibly schizophrenic (hell, we might as well throw that into the party mix), episodes.

However, when all is said and done, I sill love and miss them – albeit, I can clearly only handle spurts of time with them. Any other topic besides my sexuality brings us together and it feels like I had never actually come out to them. That said, neither my interests nor my social stances have changed, so really our conversations should not have changed – yet, it continually feels like we are all walking on eggshells. Every step is taken with trepidation, every statement is thought and rethought, and no, alcohol would definitely not be a good coping vice in this sitch.

I realize that I cannot choose my family, at least when it comes to my biological family. Even beyond a biological sense, I am not sure that I would even want a different family. My younger brother is what reminds me that perhaps my parents will come around, because he is set in his beliefs, but he took my gay news unphased. "You're still my brother, and the same person," is the phrase that shed light on his maturity, and will always remind me of how unconditional his love is. Besides, in some twisted way, I actually love my parents for being the way they are. It's all because I still know, despite the sometimes heated discourse, that they mean well for me – they just happen to be somewhat blinded by their more old-fashioned values (don’t even get me started on euthanasia and even adoption as an alternative to a biological baby). As much as I'd hate to turn this into an after-school special, I still worry about them, and I am grateful for everything that they have done. No matter what they say, I will eternally feel that I have to somehow pay them back, and not just forward. Besides, once you get over the eggshells, we actually are one of those ridiculously happy families that teases each other, chases each other around the house, or simply eating together at a table. Let's face it, Mommy Dearest really is dearest and Papa Bear (and do not take that as a gay reference)really is protective and loving, so neither of their aliases are meant to be sarcastic. So, for now, by way of diffusing any potentially explosive scenarios with the parents, I keep details (even PG-13) of my relations with men away from their ears. Like Madge said, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” and we all know that I am already driving the bus to hell.

Feeling as if the world is just passing you by is never good….

…especially if you are now sitting alone in an apartment that, just last week, was bustling, and sometimes busting at the seams with people. Having had to watch two
different people walk out the door to their respective adventures, within a span of days, I find myself in one of those unnecessarily reflective and self-pitying moods – so much for a Non-Pathetic Fallacy. Even a stroll through the rain was not doing much to take my mind off things, but that rain-soaked jock huffing up the hill was certainly one beautiful band-aid (I kid… well, to some degree) – alas, band-aids usually do not stick through heavy beatings of moisture and physical activity.

As you know, Transformer has left to work miles away and inch closer to his dream of realizing Petrovsky (career-wise, of course), and it is that passion that makes him so attractive on top of aesthetics. Well, Beautiful Fag-Hag has also left for home, and perhaps a new scholarly adventure thereafter. I, on the other hand, am soldiering on solo: sans-boyfriend and sans-roommate – both temporary, I would hope. As comfortable as it may be to roam around the apartment in my boxers, I also prefer to do so with some sort of audience (tee-hee). But, in all seriousness, I quite miss waking up next to someone, or at least waking up to be greeted by that I-have-slept-in-for-the-third-day-in-a-row-now-and-it’s-not-just-because-we-idiotically-decided-to-watch-a-three-hour-movie-at-one-in-the-morning look. And there is the crux of it all: I miss my roomie, Beautiful Fag-Hag (cue All By Myself) .

Earlier last week, despite all the pandemonium, it felt like a vacation. At first, I figured it was because school had just ended and it was a new apartment. But now, I am starting to think that it is because of how pristine this new place is, because now it really just feels like I have been staying at a hotel. The windows look out towards the university campus and all its lights, the extremely comfortable sofa, and the overall feeling that every surface is glimmering makes this apartment feel like living in a hotel. It is like I am sitting in an upscale restaurant with a plate of grilled lamb chop and braised beets, knowing full well that I would be happier at a diner and eating a burger and fries, with a milkshake. It’s the warmth and lived-in feeling that was literally all over the walls in the previous home – yes, I am referring to the scarlet-red walls. Even when I would have to spend weekends alone, I felt enveloped and familiar. Maybe I just need time… time to acclimate to a new place that holds just as much potential.

Having lived with Beautiful Fag-Hag for two years, it had become second nature to expect a second body in the household. So, not having that someone to come home to may have forced me back into that corner – the one with a trap door into spinsterhood. As ridiculous as that sounds, dancing and singing like no one is watching, when there really is NO ONE watching, just makes me a crazy person (even if it is in my own home). As well, living alone in a city whose nightlife is highly dependent upon the presence of university students does not have much of a rebuttal. Maybe I still need to settle into my new abode, because no matter how long I veg on the sofa, it just does not feel the same. Even simply vegging on the sofa makes me think of the old futon wherein we had spent many a time simply staring out to the forest view of our windows. Is it just me, or is Dionne Warwick my movie montage for this moment?

So here’s to you my dear friend, living without you is actually really strange. I know that you kept trying to have that we-won’t-be-roommates-anymore-and-it’s-the-end-of-an-era speech, and I kept avoiding it; thus, my suppression has lashed out such that I am ravaging those abandonment tissues. I know that we will still see each other , but it really is not the same…is it? But, remember that we are betrothed, and that by the age of 40, married or not, we are to marry and adopt kids. Honey, you have enchanted me like no other woman ever will, and consequently, grilled-cheese sandwiches will never taste the same (no matter how late at night I make them).

By the way, who originally sang that song you’re singing out loud... can we please keep it that way? Hee hee hee...I love you too, XOXO. Here's to us, I just wanted to stop and thank you, baby...

Apparently, expiration dates can be extended if you throw food into the refrigerator…

…though I doubt that becoming frigid would have kept Transformer around even longer, especially if he really likes sleeping under a duvet during the summer. Last Thursday was possibly the last day I would be seeing him, much less waking up next to him – at least until the end of the summer. Usually, if refrigeration is not slowing the decay, you consume as much as you can, and for as long as possible. Fireworks aside (we will deal with that later), the start of our coffee date was somewhat awkward, such that we both knew of the pink elephant in the room. Somehow, that pink elephant vaporized as our conversation and caffeine-drip flowed.

I may have decided against a frigid attitude, but the weather was certainly feeling that way. So as we strolled along the street, I had somehow found myself wrapped by an arm and nestled in a nook. As if the imagery could not become even more poetic, a stroll past a towering church steeple brought on a strong blast of cold air, but all it did was pull me in closer and even earn me a secular-kiss. More wandering around town led us back to his home, to fetch his car, wherein I met Mama and the cat (yup, one-half of the ‘rents has already been checked off).

The last time we hit the sac, my Beautiful Fag-Hag had politely sexiled herself to one of her associates’ apartments. However, even though this night’s affairs were certainly expected, two sexiles within a week is much too numerous already. That said, Transformer and I are clearly somewhat exhibitionist because we still managed to climax equally, if not better and more intense than in our previous not-so-slumber party. Even more interesting to gloat (not just note) is the apparent existence of some unknown reserves for my libido, because evidently 12-hours:4-orgasms is not an upper limit – instead, I sit at 14:6. Even more impressive was that each intense climax was in-sync – two words: WRITHING BODIES. After that much attention, it is only understandable that some idle time soon followed.

The sex aside, what counted most were the calmer and candid parts in between. Yes, that statement was definitely overtly teen-drama-esque, but intimacy is harder to attain when it comes to homo-culture. Simply getting his and/or my fill is relatively easy, compared to getting the trick to stick around to look like human cutlery (see those spoons, people), much less use my cutlery for breakfast the following morning. So, it was refreshing to be having pancakes and espresso with Transformer, only to be pulled back into bed. The past 12 or so hours had felt like being on a pleasure-trip in our own private island, and we nearly stayed in that state – even if it was already 3 pm, when we finally went for one more shower.

I want to say that the walk to the parking lot felt shorter than usual, but I won’t at least, not in a direct manner. Even with dragging heels and a piggyback ride, our parting moment was inevitable. But surprise surprise… apparently, I may be seeing him again, in a little over a week. Now there are two ways to approach this news, either with optimism or cynicism. As an optimist, the news is all-good because that means we will see each other again, and more importantly, he does want to see me again. As a cynic, I would ask why he waited until the end to share this bit of news. Was he deciding whether to tell me, based on how the night went? And there I go spiraling out of control, despite the enchanting half-day spent with him.