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.

Being a vindictive little bitch is never polite….

…but when Lofty-Ex conveniently decides to get back in touch with me after his Euro-pleasure-with-an-Asian trip (and after my pleasure trip, for that matter) all bets are most certainly off. Our relationship from the summer of 2007 was certainly a great one, and I can find myself some good memories to reminisce. However, those good moments are certainly overshadowed by the perpetual intrinsic trust-issue I had with him, regardless of R-bombs and L-bombs – perhaps, also because I did not trust myself. I should have definitely paid attention to the road signs, because my sources found some incriminating text messages to and from some other random Asian. Thus, we reach the crux of my valid vindication, because this random Asian is the other half to Lofty-Ex’s Euro-pleasure-with-an-Asian trip.

It was back in December when I last saw Lofty-Ex under awkwardly platonic circumstances: lunch at what once was one of my favourite restaurants. Anyway, the awkwardness comes from many of the things that have remained unsaid ever since we had broken up in August. My return to school was going to create a physical distance, and naturally, an emotional distance nestled in between us. However, for months every conversation with him felt like chastising because I had grown more distant than he had expected. Of course, it is my entire fault, because I was supposed to stick around in limbo and not move on (yes that was sarcastic). Anyhow, during that lunch I conveniently find out that: 1) his current boy-sitch is with a guy he had met while we were still dating, 2) they would be roaming around Europe for nearly a month, 3) they might be moving in together in the next year. Walking away from that lunch, it felt like I had just been bombarded with grenades while sitting in I-Currently-Have-No-Man’s Land. The mind reels…

Back to present times, I had avoided any unnecessary contact with Lofty-Ex, so seeing his name blinking on my desktop was definitely unexpected. However, since he initiated this sudden conversation, I had no problems conjuring up suppressed feelings and battle wounds (not scars, because, baby, he left no discernible marks). Furthermore, I was more than happy to serve up a dish of cold, hard revenge, and vindication is the sweetest kind. Incidentally, I was enjoying some Sticky-Toffee Häagen-Dazs during all this, but I digress. As I regaled Lofty-Ex with my most recent and stimulating tryst in a gloating manner, I realized how surprisingly unsatisfying this quest for vengeance had become. It was almost as if I had stripped away any great value that my experiences with Transformer have had – it was analogous to Tom Sachs working on a masterpiece.

Whether or not Lofty-Ex was just saving face by sharing his own boy-sitch after my one-man play about two men was irrelevant, because his supportive response only made me feel increasingly worse about myself. Moreover, as great as my romp with Transformer has been, I had been avoiding and omitting a not-so-minor detail: we are suffering from a scorching case of Expiration Dating. Hence, unlike Lofty-Ex, I do not have a boyfriend moving in with me, much less a relationship – let’s face it, two weeks worth of great conversation and astronomical sex a relationship does not make. So there we have it, the not-so-subtle pink elephant in the room, parading and trumpeting ever so proudly.

There is definitely something wrong if you find yourself pining for someone you met a little over one week ago…

…and the reduced exchange of communiqués is driving you mad – possibly psychotic (and I am talking Christian Bale, circa American Psycho). To add insult to injury, the moment the wholly unnecessary tears and snot dry on your face, you realize that you have indeed become so jaded, such that you might need to reread Dating-101. Did I actually graze the teat of spinsterhood? More importantly, am I sub-consciously ruining my chances with Transformer?

That moment of epiphany is glorious indeed, made even more glorious by the sudden news that Transformer is coming back a week earlier than I had anticipated. I had just spent the past week pining and wondering if it is worth waiting for Transformer to get back in touch with me. However, that really is just me caught up in my own turbulent emotions. Perhaps being in touch with my feminine side (aka gay) has actually caused my body to release that ever-infamous oxytocin – the chemical compound that supposedly causes women to grow attached to a man after having slept with him. In my case, I had not even slept with Transformer yet, and here I am wondering where it is all going, how long it will all last… and heaven forbid, if he is the one. Is that ridiculous? Most definitely.

Once the agonizing two days of waiting pass, I am obviously expecting that Transformer would be as equally anxious as I am to finally meet again – especially when both parties have expressed the mutual sexual tension. Although, to be honest, that sexual tension had been present the moment he said, “Hello,” from our first meeting. So, it should come to no surprise that I would want him to speed up the drive to London and finally show me the money(and yes, I was jumping furiously). But, when I find myself jumping with frustration because Transformer still has not sent me a MSN message, despite having been “Online” for half an hour, I have obviously gone crazy. The craziness is further emphasized by a message from him to the effect of “I’d like to see you in the very near future… maybe make out for a bit, if you're up for it.” Is that the key into my place? Hells yeah!

Even with just the Elevator Ride, there was already plenty of amuse-bouches served; hence, one can only imagine how much more activity occurred within the privacy of my very thin walls. Despite the not-so-unexpected sexual Olympics, I was still pleasantly and plenty surprised with the consummation, which lasted 12 hours with only 5 hours of intermittent sleep, as breaks. Never mind the very titillating amuse-bouches served up by Transformer, the subsequent multi-multiple orgasms (yes, men can have them, too… and yes, gays count as men), or even the fact that each orgasm was intense and in sync (previously impossible, even when it was with my ex), because what made it all great was the cuddling, spooning, tickling and sweet kisses that happened in between all of it. Is it all too sickeningly sexy and happy?

Thus, the morning after was feeling very Lesley Gore, and it is definitely not just metaphorical this time around. By 11 am, we finally peeled our writhing flesh off the bed and into the
kitchen for some breakfast: coffee and Montreal-style bagels. Although toasting bagels and firing up the coffeemaker did not require that much effort, we still ended up spending ample time canoodling in the kitchen. Why not, right? It’s not as if there was an actual heating element was in use (i.e. stovetop), and toasters do not count because they turn themselves off….but, I digress. Anyhow, eating breakfast at the bar area proceeded to him drawing on my leg, making snarky remarks followed by a cutesy kiss, or heaven forbid, firing up our libidos again. Luckily, my Beautiful Fag-Hag (aka. roommate) arrives back home in time to join us for breakfast, cool our senses, and even smile back at our post-coital smiles. At that moment, I actually had an out-of-body experience because my happiness was almost surreal. It may have been the sex-a-thon, the cuddling, the breakfast, the approval of my Beautiful Fag-Hag, or a combination of it all. Are all my meetings with Transformer going to be whirlwinds, albeit very gratifying whirlwinds? And am I opposed to it? Should I be?