I’m in love. At this point, it’s just the idea of love that I love, but the idea has settled with such theoretical precision on the person of one particular person that I shall momentarily give in to the rush of hormonal giddiness and dance through the fields singing, with Mitzi Gaynor’s voice, of Kansas in August, blueberry pie, and the Fourth of July.
I met him online, let’s call him Jake. He’s an artist, a filmmaker, beautiful–beautiful in the sense of coming very close to a kind of Bob Hoskins perfection: furry, stocky, but tall, handsome, a bearded and bespectacled balding Gary Cooper playing Bob Hoskins, and with a deep baritone voice accented with a slight stoner giggle. Over Burmese food we talked of the current state of queer cinema, our art, the magic of “Moonlight…” We talked of our respective commitment issues–his avoidance of anything remotely resembling commitment and my enthusiastic embrace of committing my life to an eternal single but ever elusive love. We found mutual ground by committing to spending at least the rest of the evening together and proceeded to explore the horizontal possibilities of love in the afternoon.
The right guy just doesn’t come around every day. This guy’s the right guy. Well, except in the many ways that he isn’t. We clicked so instantly and easily. Can he not see this? Or does he click like this with everybody? I can see us having fun for the rest of our lives, I see us traveling and making art together, I see our lovemaking constantly evolving and deepening, I see looking into his eyes every morning…
But, alas, I’m not for him. It’s not so much that I’m not the right one for him, he just can’t deal with the idea of only one of me, for, like Tony Soprano, he likes a nice variety of… well, now that Donald Trump has denigrated the word, I just can’t bring myself to say it. He just likes a nice variety.