and i'm gettin' old

why? doesn't matter--he'll know why.

i'm getting tired of telling these stories (part 2)

so i've been tryin to come up with some way to make the lorenzo half of this post at least somewhat less dreary than the joaquin half, and that means serendipitously presented itself today in the long-lost form of this boy (not the first one in there, god forbid--the second).

and now, after a long, langorous afternoon of a steady transfusion of the most potent joaquin anti-venom i coulda hoped for (because, god, sex with joey is just so fucking perfect, and even more so after a long absence), i am ready to finish this sucker.

because my afternoon with joey served as more than a mere palate-cleanser; he's also the one who, a few months after that first text exchange, inspired this little back-and-forth.  which sets this post up nicely, because said little back-and-forth coulda just as easily been about lorenzo, or all the the thousands of other lorenzos out there just like him.

including the one typing this.



i don't usually attract guys like lorenzo, or if i do, it's rarely more than a one-timer.

a classic LA hipster, lorenzo is one of those skinny-jeaned, offhand, ironic types who cares a lot about not seeming to care about much--you can see it in the attitude, in the walk, in the random, eclectic, thrift-shop outfits (the perfectly-chosen shoes, of course, always being the dead giveaway that there's nothing in the least random about any of it).

there are other clues, too--the artfully tousled just-got-outta bedhead, but the five-day stubble meticulously groomed; the mercedes key on the cheap, kitschy fob, stuff like that.

and then there's the face--el greco, always slightly haughty and amused by something you're not in on, until you say something sufficiently funny that the facade breaks in spite of itself to reveal a big, goofy grin that lasts just long enough to hint at the sweetness buried under there somewhere, before it's gone just as fast.

so that first night, i walked in, looked him up and down, got attitude back, took the place in at a glance--2,000 square feet of prime loft space, creative rubble strewn everywhere, maybe three pieces of actual furniture--figured i was a one-night aberration for sure, got down to business and discovered, to my surprise (and maybe his, who knows), how much passion could be unleashed in this boy if you hit just the right spot.

whatever--as is usually the case with guys like this, the heat of his passion pre-cumming was equally and oppositely matched by his aloofness immediately afterwards; and, no stranger to this phenomenon, i dragged myself off the mattress before the globs had even started to run, headed to the lavatory, ran half a hand-towel under warm water, wiped and dried myself, rinsed it, wrung it and tossed it at him, sorted my clothes outta our collective pile, dressed quickly, gave him a wave over my shoulder and a "call me" as i headed, unaccompanied, for the door.

and two days later, he did.  and two weeks after that, when i called back, all pretense of aloofness was gone, and he was all over me from the moment he opened the door.

i made him wait a month next time, and another month after that, and mostly ignored the interim phone calls and "are you mad at me?" texts, until i finally told him i was involved and couldn't see him anymore.

and that, as they say, was that.

did i behave like an asshole?  yeah, maybe, but i had my reasons, and they were good ones.

in the first place, i really was involved at the time; my heart, or what little of it was free to give, belonged to v back then.  but the bigger reason was, i had learned the hard way, and more than once, what happens when you drop your guard with a boy like this.

 and time, as it often has a habit of doing, would prove me right.

*     *     *     *     *

a month or so ago

he hit me up outta the blue, and at just the right time, and i did the pleasure/pain equation, thought to myself, "i'm single now", and then, "why not?".

he looked almost the same as he had the last time i'd seen him so long ago, except for the new close-cropped hair which revealed his bone structure and set off his fine features in a way the shaggy mop had not.  and the sex was good, as good as it had ever been.  and afterwards, when i surprised him, finally took him up on his long-standing and oft-repeated offer to stay the night, he acquiesced with a sudden uneasiness that didn't surprise me a bit.

and when i tried to hold him during the night and he rolled away, that didn't surprise me either.  and when i reached for him the next morning and he said he had an early call, i merely got up without reply, headed for the shower, then headed home.

i walk in the door, and jeannie, my roommate's girlfriend, is already there, supervising the workers on day two of the demo and remodel of our only bathroom.

when, in response to her remark that i look well-rested, well-shaved and well-showered, i reply, in my best mae west voice, "yeah, and i'm not particularly proud of how that happened" and she shrieks, "you can be had for a SHOWER?!", all banging and hammering comes to a halt in the bathroom as laughter breaks out, and i give the boys a wink as i sashay by on my way to my bedroom and slam the door.

he texted me a week later, invited me over; i didn't reply.  a week after that, they started coming every three days, and then every two, and now there's at least one a day.

nah, i'm not mad at you, lorenzo, and i'm not playing power games.  i'm just tired of this shit.




and nah, i'm not sayin this song is particularly appropriate to this post, but it's the random it-came-up-on-shuffle set to repeat that got me through it.

oh, and this:

i swear, you put this shit through a brita filter twice, you get grey goose.  seriously.