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Running Man.
Jul. 8th, 2005 05:31 pmI was working in DC today, and I saw a man on the Metro — late 30s or early 40s, curly blonde hair, handsome — that reminded me of my first lover, back in Jacksonville, Florida.
I don't even remember his name anymore, so I'll call him David. David was forty-one and I was either eighteen or nineteen. I forget how we met, but it was probably in a park someplace.
I don't seem to remember much, do I?
I do remember leaving my parents' house and crossing the river to his apartment. I remember staying late to watch movies on cable television in each other's arms, taking the opportunities presented by commercial breaks to fool around before the movie came back on. I remember that he owned a baby grand piano and that he would play for me; he sounded wonderful. I remember getting fucked on that piano.
However, I also remember how heartless I was.
David was a hair stylist who had been let go from his job about a year or so before I met him. I remember that David felt that it was unjustified and that he made a point to soak up all the unemployment benefits he could in order to stick it to his former boss. The problem was that his business relied upon a steady client base. By taking himself out of work for a year, his clients all found someone else to do their hair. By the time I met him, he was having a hard time finding work.
David became increasingly depressed, and after a certain point, I just stopped visiting him. He was a smart and sexy man who always treated me wonderfully, and I just cut out on him because he was going through a tough time and I didn't know how to deal with it.
Later that year, I met another nice man. I remember his name — it was Winston. I don't remember how I met him, either, but I was even more heartless with him.
We had been seeing each other long enough that he decided that he loved me. He sent me a card proclaiming this and I didn't know how to handle it. So I never contacted him again.
Looking back almost twenty years, I wonder how I ever could have behaved in this way.
I wish I could find them today and apologize to them.
I don't even remember his name anymore, so I'll call him David. David was forty-one and I was either eighteen or nineteen. I forget how we met, but it was probably in a park someplace.
I don't seem to remember much, do I?
I do remember leaving my parents' house and crossing the river to his apartment. I remember staying late to watch movies on cable television in each other's arms, taking the opportunities presented by commercial breaks to fool around before the movie came back on. I remember that he owned a baby grand piano and that he would play for me; he sounded wonderful. I remember getting fucked on that piano.
However, I also remember how heartless I was.
David was a hair stylist who had been let go from his job about a year or so before I met him. I remember that David felt that it was unjustified and that he made a point to soak up all the unemployment benefits he could in order to stick it to his former boss. The problem was that his business relied upon a steady client base. By taking himself out of work for a year, his clients all found someone else to do their hair. By the time I met him, he was having a hard time finding work.
David became increasingly depressed, and after a certain point, I just stopped visiting him. He was a smart and sexy man who always treated me wonderfully, and I just cut out on him because he was going through a tough time and I didn't know how to deal with it.
Later that year, I met another nice man. I remember his name — it was Winston. I don't remember how I met him, either, but I was even more heartless with him.
We had been seeing each other long enough that he decided that he loved me. He sent me a card proclaiming this and I didn't know how to handle it. So I never contacted him again.
Looking back almost twenty years, I wonder how I ever could have behaved in this way.
I wish I could find them today and apologize to them.
