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Tuesday With my Beautiful Friend, Eric

Tuesday With My Beautiful Friend Eric

I have come to another crossroads in my life. I am neither proud of every accomplishment nor am I disappointed in the opportunities missed. I have lived, dear God, I have lived. Since childhood I inherently knew that I would fall in love. Of course, I wasn’t wise or mature enough to accurately interpret that emotion until May 1, 1976. When I first glanced at Larry Wright. He was leaning against a booth at one of Atlanta’s gay XXX adult video bookstores and cinema arcade. The glance cannot be described as lingering, even though I stopped walking and we froze, quite frankly staring. I found my soulmate, the other person whose existence was required for me to know or understand or experience or be consumed by love. After eight years of indescribable interdependence and absolute joy, Larry died, and the elements of my soul contained in my body and spirit which had been filled and improved and complimented by his presence and his love were still intact. The opposite was most assuredly not true, for the elements of me that completed him no longer had a home.

Since his death I have tricked with literally countless men, some more than once, one of them lasting for three and a half years, another lasting for five years, and several that were in the 1 to 3 month time range, all in a feeble, somewhat desperate but well-intentioned search for something, anything to fill even one-tenth of the void that has become incorporated. When the soul and the indestructible spirit of a human has achieved perfection and undeniable peace, no trickery or substitution can be disguised, for loving someone is almost the opposite of the rare privilege of a chosen or very fortunate few who have felt the smile on God’s face.

Of course, any search is a futile expense of energy, a hope equal to wishing the moon was, in fact, made of a cheese, and the Little Engine did. I knew that from the moment I kissed his lips and they were only cold. This quest is fueled by a hunger, a thirst, a need, an incomplete psyche, a broken heart, and the half of the soul that is there to make an effort to remember its purpose. It is an inescapable quest.

My initial meeting with Eric in April of 2006 was another sexual encounter, him joining a few others at my apartment for, succinctly stated, gay male eroticism. A knowing passed between Eric and me. His smile was infectious, his eyes the color of absolute trustworthiness, and the corners of his mouth were exuding the bright light of adventure and wanderlust. A bond was formed instantly and morphed into a friendship exponentially longer, truer and calmer.

From the wee hours of the beginning of four days, I helped Eric pack and sort and prepare for his move into my home until his ship sails to be at sea for some 24 days. Thankfully Eric sensed or knew, as he always did, that I was in need of sex on many different levels of existence, and he ensured satisfaction while maintaining the distance to obviate any expectations or thoughts of longevity. Indeed we each love the other, and probably always will on some level equal to the present or not very much diminished.

We know, each for our own reasons, that where we are in this short time is the edge of possibility. We are not soulmates, but people who appreciate the comfort, the challenge, and the trust our friendship brings. Later this afternoon Eric lost the courage to request a bit of privacy to play with a guy he really wanted to enjoy. At 24, Eric’s sexual appetites are almost exactly the same as mine – young, young, and without attachment. That rendezvous is of no consequence to friendship; however, it was quite awkward that I had to divine his desire and lead the discussion to direct him to do what he really wanted to do. I am well aware that my less than moderately attractive appearance combined with the 26 additional years put me in the well defined category each would define as – oh no, not for sex.

The events of today and this evening followed precisely the scenario I prescribed to my best friend last evening. I wouldn’t lay someone who looks like me, or at least wouldn’t want to. And neither does he want to, but occasionally he does assist with satisfaction. I am grateful to him, I adore him for that concern, I respect him for his ability to allow his love for me to somehow look past me and do what he can to help.

There is no jealousy, no anger, no disappointment, and no uncertainty as to why a hot young man would be more appealing to Eric – that is precisely what I see when I look at only the physical and erotic aspects of him. No, this is not the issue.

I must now admit to myself, accept and acknowledge that I have been the grateful recipient of physical generosity from many young men. Add the love of two people who were destined to be long-time friends, and I can only appreciate the generosity Eric has extended to me. But I know now, without argument or possibility of change, that my physical attraction to young, attractive men dooms me to be the proverbial mercy fuck, that every sexual encounter that arises from my libido will do little more than, if lucky, arouse an orgasm from a benevolent human. This wasn’t about Eric’s pursuit of someone whom I would assuredly have wanted to experience enough to make a donation to his college fund. It was the passage of any claim to youth for me, and equally the acceptance that I will never again have any of the ultimate, intimate, devouring moments with my soulmate.

Sex, even if merciful, has been enough until now, and I must accept the incontrovertible fact of my passage into another existence – either on Earth to be happy and bide time awaiting the hopefully inevitable and deigned reuniting of Larry’s soul with mine; or in the next life, perhaps sooner than nature might dictate so that dignity may be sustained and my heart won’t someday far in the future find my Larry and have become so scared as to harm the beauty that we were, that we are, and that we must be. I do not wish to be the object of pity, even if grateful. I want the electric touch of the soul who longs for me without pause – ALL of me.

#Soulmate #growingold #LarryWright #writingsofgvearwood

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