During the past two weeks I’ve read through this entire blog. Literally paging through my own life. I can read entries from 06, even when they’re cryptic, and remember exactly what I was going through. Just a few nights ago I was reading through the entries from last year. What struck me is how little I’ve written about Aaron. About the early days. About falling in love with him.
The easy argument is that much of that time I was not staying in my own apartment. I was largely without internet in my after work hours. But really, it’s that I was living life. I was enjoying falling in love. So much better than writing about it in the wee hours. But I don’t want to lose those memories.
I met him at our company picnic. I know that I talked to him at that party, but I don’t remember it much. I remember giving him directions to another theater for that night. A theater to which I was also going, for an opening. During the intermission of that play, I approached him and three other out-of-towners to say hello. It was then that I really noticed him. And could tell that he’d noticed me.
The next week and a half I spent sniffing around. Trying to see what people knew about him. Shamelessly reading the bio he’d submitted and using it as a conversation starter. I tried to find reasons to run into him. He was equally as flirty. And I found out later, he was taking pictures of me on the sly.
I’d finally confessed my crush to a friend working on the show. She promised she’d invite me out next time she went drinking with him. And she did. I met them for dinner. Dinner turned into a drink at his apartment. Then the two of them came to a party with me. I’d engineered things so we would be in one car. My friend didn’t drive. I knew we’d take her home and then he’d have to bring me back to his place to pick up my truck. And then…
What I’ve never told him is that our first coupling occurred on what would have been my 12th wedding anniversary. He has erased every last bid of sadness, regret, and anger associated with that date.
We didn’t even exchange phone numbers that night. It wasn’t until the next day, a Sunday, when I saw him at the theater. He kissed me in the hallway outside the green room. Told me he hoped we could spend more time together. I saw him next on Tuesday. He came over after his rehearsal, bearing fruit and cheese. I’d opened a bottle of wine.
We talked and talked and talked. About everything. About politics and food and growing up in the south. About theater and books. The places we’d been and the places we wanted to go. We talked of sex. All the dirty secrets came out right away. Polyamory, sex work, the sex blog, infidelities we’d both committed. All the kink and perversion.
And everything lined up. To a t.
We didn’t start spending the night right away. Not because we didn’t want to. Because we thought we should wait. Which may seem silly when you consider we’d slept together so quickly. But for he and I both, sex comes easily. Sleeping over is a whole other thing.
When it began, he would come to my place. He would finish rehearsal, drive to his place and shower, then drive out to mine. He wasn’t getting there until after 1am. We would talk a bit, have sex, fall into bed, and then we’d both get up at 8am so that I could go to work.
The morning after he told me he loved me, he gave me a set of keys to his apartment. The sparsely furnished apartment that my employer was providing. It was the first time in my life anyone had ever given me keys. At first, my routine stayed mostly the same. I would come home from work and do my regular thing. I’d head over to his place around 10 so that when he got in from rehearsal or a show, I would be there. I only took one day’s worth of clothes at a time.
And then I took two. And then a weekend came and I packed a proper bag. Teasing about how I’d almost brought a suitcase. “Why don’t you,” he said. “It’s more practical. Besides I like seeing your things here, mixed with mine. I know you’re coming home to me at the end of your day.”
And so I stopped going to my apartment at the end of the day. I more or less moved in with him. And he started referring to me as his wife.
I told my parents about him. We started to go public around theater people. He sent me a huge bouquet of tulips to the office on my birthday. He’d picked up my favorite flower without me ever having told him directly. And unknowingly did the one thing that’s a guaranteed way to win my heart. He took me out for a fancy birthday dinner at a famous restaurant. He co-hosted my birthday party. He lovingly nursed my hangover the next day. My first hangover ever. Plying me with cranberry juice and hand feeding me blackberries he’d picked from the bushes next to our building. Singing to me softly.
He sings all the time. As do I. Sometimes we would sing together. He did most of the cooking. Something I’m not used to, having someone cook for me. He would get up on a Saturday morning, late, and make lamb chops and eggs. We would linger over breakfasts when we could. Sharing the newspaper. We tried dozens of restaurants. We went shopping in stores that I’d driven by every day and never noticed.
He made me see my city. There are places that have changed forever. Reminders of him. The Thai restaurant we frequented. A certain donut shop. Our favorite grocery store. The intersection that takes you to our apartment when you drive the back way. I see him everywhere now.
We would text back and forth all day long. We’re both the type to never be far from our phones. Sometimes we’d have a conversation about something. Other times we were confirming plans and meeting times. He would text me to tell me he was thinking about me. To tell me how much he loved me. I have all of those texts saved in my phone, still.
Often I had to be at the theater for my own reasons. I would always stay through his first scene. Standing in the entry, my heart bursting with pride and love. Once I had gone backstage to deliver something to the green room. When I came out I saw him sitting on the stage, behind a flat, where the audience couldn’t see him. He waved and he mouthed the words “I love you”. On his opening night, I was sitting smack in the center of row 2. He winked at me during the curtain call. The box office started reserving a seat for me so I could watch whenever I wanted. I saw his show seven times.
There were parties. So many parties with that cast. He invited me to every single one. He made it clear that we were an item. But never in a possessive way. We would dance. We would mingle, separately. He’d catch my eye from across the way and I’d know he was checking to make sure I was OK. He was not the biggest character and yet he was the star of the show. He was the sexy out of towner with the incredible voice and amazing acting chops. To this day, I see a certain look come over people’s faces when they realize who it is that I’m seeing. I love that look.
I had dinner with one of my friends prior to one of his performances. She’s much older, she could literally be my mother. Her husband is on the board of the theater. I was filling her in on my budding relationship. She was skeptic, not wanting to see me get hurt. When I talked to her during intermission she turned to me and said, “honey he’s gorgeous. You have fun.”
I took him into the city on outings. The kind of outings you can’t find in Minnesota. The kind that are uniquely San Francisco. A drag show featuring fat trannies. A sex club. Dancing and bar crawling in the mission district. Burritos, also from the mission.
We spent many nights at a gay bar on this side of the bridge. With two other friends. The four of us would meet there, drink, play video games, dance, and flirt with the bartenders. All of us one form or another of queer. All of us affectionate. It got very fluid sometimes.
But at the end of the night, he and I always left together. To return to our little love nest. The home we’d created together. If the night was clear we’d climb the stairs to the roof. He would wrap his arms around me and we’d look at the stars. Usually silent. When we spoke it would be in hushed tones. He would kiss me under those stars.
We feasted on each other sexually. He is the first person I’ve ever met where I didn’t have to choose between amazing sex and an incredible brain. He supplies both. In spades. We’re so sexually compatible it’s eery. There were many firsts for us both. We pushed a lot of our own boundaries. We fulfilled long held fantasies for each other. We spent hours in bed together.
We went to bed at the same time. To be with each other. We would cuddle till we fell asleep. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and he’d still be reaching for me. He was always turning the heat up and I was always hot. So I slept on the side of the bed under the open window. In the mornings he would roll into my warm spot after I’d left our bed. I would always kiss him goodbye before leaving for work. Sometimes I would crawl in bed for a few more minutes, fully dressed, but not yet ready to leave.
I learned his favorite juices. I learned that he loves gummy bears and peanut m&ms. That he will always try a new flavor of potato chip. I can rattle off his brand of toothpaste, deodorant, soap, etc. I know how he likes to keep his kitchen. How he folds his laundry. How he organizes his receipts. That he’s just as big of a geek for food network and the discovery channel as I am. But he also loves Animal Planet. I learned that he talks to himself in the shower. That he is a much earlier riser than I will ever be. Somehow I picked up his habit of listening to NPR even though I’m not that big of a fan of talk radio.
When it was time for him to leave, we made sure all of my stuff was cleaned out of the apartment on the last night. So that in the morning, after I’d taken him to the airport, I wouldn’t have to come back to that apartment and see it empty. We wanted to leave it together. I still have the keys. They sit in an organizer on my desk. Sometimes I catch sight of them and smile.
When I said goodbye to him at the airport that day he held me tightly. I was crying. I choked out the words, “this is forever, right?” He nodded into my hair. His lips brushing my ear, “always bugaboo.”
The time that he was here was truly the happiest of my life. Because, as I’ve written here before, I didn’t think anyone like him existed. I didn’t know there was a person who would fit so perfectly into my life. I’ve never met anyone with whom I am so compatible. On every level.
Our future is a little ambiguous at the moment. And it would be so easy to let him go. But this is why I don’t. This is why I can’t. Because what is between us is too good. It’s magic. I refuse to believe that it isn’t strong enough to last.
