… the eagle has landed.

I don’t quite seem to trust myself when I’m around him. Even though the intimacy that we still share as strangers remains, the feeling has taken on something else, and emptiness pervades my soul when I’m not able to hear his thoughts spoken as words in the early hours of the morning as we eat chocolate and sip on flat soft-drinks, the dovetail fit of his arm around my waist as he holds me against him with our fingers interlocked or feeling his heart beating down the hours till the dawn when we must part as shadows that come into the daylight.

Even though the call came which took me to his front door the fading sweet pleasure that he gives me when I’m with him leaves an aftertaste that I’ve become a marionette for his self-gratification. And while a part of me realises perhaps that this is just the turmoil of a rollercoaster heart searching for love – or whatever that lexicon emotion really entails – in the depths of loneliness I am to blame. That anyone will do even if they are a reluctant participant? But when their involvement is continued, at their pleasure, am I wrong to believe that this is perhaps the classic dating game after all?

And as we move to the overtime of my own little game I like to call 24hrs and still no text message back I couldn’t get my friends words out of my head from earlier that afternoon. Most people spend their childhoods playing games. Were they just primers for the games we would play as adults? Were relationships just one big chess game – strategy moves counter moves – all designed to keep your opponent off balance until you win? Was there such a thing as an honest relationship? Or was it true, do you have to play games to make a relationship work?

But as you try and find anything to keep your hands busy so that you don’t dial his number, and your mind distracted long enough so that your thoughts don’t wonder to him, you can accomplish a lot. With my iPod set to my favourite play list of Macy Gray, Lenny Krawitz and Dionne Farris I managed to reorganise the past editions of Vanity Fair, get every copy of Wallpaper* (dating back to 1997) neatly stacked, and alphabetically arranged my CD collection not just by artist name, but album title as well. I almost got him out of my mind until I succumbed to the weakness of a distant promise.

In an offbeat remark sometime between midnight and dawn it seemed a better idea to do a sleep over on the weekend instead of during the week particularly when he had an important interview and I a client meeting in the morning. But I had missed his call earlier that afternoon because I was selfishly getting my dick sucked in an attempt to get my mind off him. I know what he wanted to ask me: he wanted me to come over and spend the night with him so that we could do the Sunday morning thing that he loved doing too. Instead, he switched off his phone and went to bed alone. Waking up to an empty pillow beside him on a Sunday morning. Just like I would.

But as I sit here I don’t want to sound like a bad sportsman but in this moment if I could scream ‘I hate fucking losing out!’ I would. Even if it was just to the owls that hunt in the pastures of my backyard for their information. So I did what any sane person would do … I went out and found someone else to fuck to get him off my mind. It worked well for the first few days and then he called again. But this time there was something missing. Perhaps I had moved on after all and this was just great sex with a great guy.

Nothing more. Nothing less.


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