Hairy mediterranean forearms. Real hairy mediterranean forearms–he was born in Greece!* Furry pectoral platelets that caress each other in a tectonic dance on his chest. A firm round belly covered with thick hair that swirls into a deep darkness. A full mustache sitting under a nose designed by Praxiteles, and a shadowed chin that will never look cleanly shaven. Have the gods decided that my love life is no longer interesting to them as a tragicomedy? From where else but Mount Olympus could this gorgeous creature have descended?
He seemed very amused that I would find him attractive. Genuinely amused. He piped in, “There’s this place…” He lowered his head and looked left and right.
“The Lone Star?” I asked.
“You know it?!?”
“Yes, I’ve been there a few times.”
He came home one day two years ago to find his lover of 9 years dead. Since then, he’s gone out with married men, older married men, seeking solace in familiarity, intensity and passion with no expectation of bonding with someone only to lose him again. In the years that he was out of the dating scene, a whole community had defined itself in relation to his specific body type. He didn’t project an air of knowing how hot he was, just an acceptance that some people do–but like they were crazy or something for thinking that.
I could see myself loving this man until I die. He has arms like Popeye and doesn’t even work out. He’s not like anybody else. He doesn’t wear the bear outfits or uniforms, or even feel of his time. He’s eternal, just a man. Feeling the intensity of my attraction, he seemed almost compelled to return it, even though he’s attracted to men older than he. (He’s 45.) He said, “Well, I’m not used to going out with guys my age, but let’s have lunch. You’re handsome, talented, and charming.” Like, why not? I surmised that no one could be desired by him like his dead lover, so he was just letting himself be desired, trying it on to fill the void of his grief.
Suspecting that her husband, Hercules, was fathering kids all over Greece, Deianira tried to win him back by smearing his cape with the blood of the centaur. It didn’t work out very well. (If you don’t know the story, the point is don’t trust the marital advice of centaurs who have just been shot with poisoned arrows by your Greek hero husband.) Hercules was burned so badly that he jumped onto a funeral pyre and was whisked up to Olympus and married off to Hebe–the goddess of youth! Hmmm, I don’t know, maybe it’ll work this time?
………………………………………………………………………….
*And he’s a bottom! Perhaps you baby gays may not remember, but in the old days, one refered to one’s preference for anal sex with “Greek,” and oral sex with “French.” One would add “active” or “passive” to indicate position preference. An “active greek,” for instance, would be equivalent in today’s parlance to “daddybear top.”