A fair warning . . . this is rather adult.  Proceed at your own risk.

We get upstairs and sit down and we have the talk, which I have been trying to have with him for about 8 days.

I sit him on the sofa and I sit on the upholstered ottoman opposite him and say, okay, this is why I called you last week.  You’re among the very small group of people I trust enough and I thought you’d be upset if I didn’t tell you I was in trouble.  I thought it was within the bounds of our relationship and I did not need you to save me.  It was an expression of trust.  He got it, I think.  He seemed to understand it and a lot of the stress and tension melted away.

Then he said, “so, we should fuck.”

These are words he has never said to me.  These are words I have said to him.  I am rather comfortable telling him what I want.  For the record, we’ve not had sex since I think October.  We’ve spent a night together in November and not had sex.  We had a lot to drink that night, and other things, and when I told him we needed to have sex, he said it was not going to happen that night.  We sat up all night talking, snuggled in bed, and then the next morning, he was in bad shape and flew home.

In fact, I have been rather convinced that we’re not in a romantic or sexual relationship.  I mean, I have known we love each other.  That was our November conversation.  I know we scheduled a series of dates in December he later bailed on when we saw each other at the CHB and then video-chatted until 630 am.  And I know he was pissed when I greeted him as a friend, instead of as my boy or whatever we are.  And over the past few weeks since we’ve been back from the holiday, we’ve been in touch.  He’s called me to hang out on his own, but he hasn’t followed through.

So, digression aside, his “so, we should fuck” surprised me.  I mean, I kissed him when I saw him and we were affectionate as we stumbled along, but I was rather convinced we’d talk and I’d go home or we’d go to sleep.

Instead, after “so we should fuck,” I leaned forward and kissed him and then undid his belt.  Our clothes came off quickly and we started having sex before we were even fully undressed.  It had been months.  It was good, despite the lateness of the hour.  And then again, now fully undressed.  He began claiming my body, exercising ownership over what was his.  It was loving, but direct.  He meant it, so did I.  Looking into his handsome face, those eyes, we claimed each other and it was better.

After the second time, during which I had made a comment about something else we could try that he clearly bookmarked for later, he mentioned he hadn’t eaten.  That day.

[It’s not unusual.  He tends to forget to eat.  It’s a function of drinking, etc., and it doesn’t always occur to him as he doesn’t have a normal schedule.]

I said, well, then let’s do something about that.  I got up and walked into the kitchen, which is really just on the other side of his sofa — and saw he was fully stocked, and clearly not eating.  I found a frozen pizza, preheated the oven, and then we started having sex again as I broke at times to make it, check on it, etc.  While he ate, we both threw clothes on.  I found his stack of tshirts (which I’d forgotten was in his closet), he threw on clean boxers, and I got us water while we curled up on the love seat as he ate.  I had a slice of pizza before I got to him, which is why I was late.

We moved into bed, realizing we’d be more comfortable in there, as he kept eating. For some reason, he decided he wanted my side of the bed, but really he ended up in the middle of it.  We got up and he asked if I thought he should take out his contacts, which of course. I know he can’t sleep in them, as he gets eye infections.  It’s all of these little things.  We are comfortable and we take care of each other.  He loves that I remember what he needs.  He loves that I am completely comfortable at his place, grabbing a shirt without asking.

In bed, when I am wearing a vintage tshirt of his that he really loves, and he is in boxers, we are snuggled together as he puts the tv on so we can sleep, and then he flips it off and we start having sex again.  It’s different again.  It’s even better.  He asks me for something and I do, and it’s amazing.  We’re both sort of blown away.  It takes a lot of love and trust and it’s amazing.  He calls me by my name, well, the name he calls me, which is Plan, as opposed to what others call me.  I call him “baby,” as I am a little afraid I will call him the wrong name.  I really am.  I am apprehensive the whole time.  He also calls me baby of course, and there are times we are incapable of saying anything.

Because we are at this for so long and for so many times, we are figuring out exactly what the other likes and how we best work.  We are getting better each time.  He is more aggressive in bed than he’s ever been before.  He is, at times, dominating, demanding things rather than wordlessly suggesting them.  He is more confident telling me what he wants.  He trusts me.

He is also able to keep going and going and going and we’re both amazed that both of us are ready over and over.  After the 5th time or so, we finally nap a little.  It’s after 6 am and dawn is breaking.  We curl up together and we’re wrapped around each other, with our legs intertwined and every part of us is connected.  We sleep briefly, and then realize, to our amazement, that we’re ready to go again.  We spend the morning and into early afternoon sleeping for 45 minutes or so and then having sex.

By this point, his formerly clean-shaven face now has a beard growing in and we are moving each other and readjusting positions.  In fact, there are few things we’ve not tried by this point.  Every time, there are new nuances, new positions, new everything as we are really figuring each other out.

This is only the third night we’ve had sex, (I think) although clearly we’re making up for all the weeks we’ve been apart.

We are also sobering up if not completely sober by this point, which is also unlike how we’ve ever had sex as it’s always been at night after we’ve been out all night, with him ailing or exhausted the next morning.  So, we are getting to know each other better and better.  We are communicating more. We are feeling really good about everything.

He keeps saying it’s perfect.  And it is.  Everything is just perfect.  We just fit.

He is amazed he is not at all hung over and he realizes it’s because I made him food.  This seems to mystify him a bit.  He’s feeling great.  I can smell the liquor from his pores. Maybe scotch, whiskey, some liquor definitely though he had been drinking beer, too.  We are caring not about the wicked morning breath we each have.  We continue to kiss each other, to hold each other, to try new and interesting things.  He realizes how much he loves my body and he loves looking at me.  I never thought about how visually driven he is, but, like all men who collect art, he is very visual and that translates into everything, including his occasional repositioning of me so he can see more of what we’re doing.  [I tell him later he needs a mirror in his room.]

I am fascinated by his body, by how remarkably fit he is for someone who never exercises, by the shape of his arms, legs, by the tan lines he has from a bathing suit, by how much chest hair he has.  I am mildly in love with his sideburns, the greying and sprinkling of silver making him look more distinguished, and, frankly, age-appropriate.

He holds my hand as he sleeps.  He places my hands and legs so that we are entirely entwined and yet we can sleep.  I massage his head which makes him fall asleep and I watch him.  He’s so darling to me, this man.  He is deeply troubled, thanks largely to his idleness and associated ways he finds to fill his time.  He has lost much of his mojo and he feels often like a shadow of himself.  He feels trapped and I know he is afraid.  I am looking at his back as he sleeps in my arms and I think about the fact he is the only man I know who has no tattoos anywhere.  It’s rather shocking for a man his age, but I am thoroughly charmed.

He wakes up and he is, shockingly, ready again.  I am now thoroughly dehydrated but we go and it’s the best of the past 10 hours.  Also, the craziest.  It was like the grand finale in a fireworks display.  It was everything, but bigger and better and more loving.  And then, it got crazier.  I am not certain either of us is fully cognizant of the last 10 minutes.  I mean it.  It was just intense and it never stopped.

After, we couldn’t move, at all.  He described it later as being on pins and needles in every part of his body.  I . . . could not move.  I could not stand.  I could do nothing but lay there curled up in the middle of the bed.

He fell asleep soundly and slept for like an hour and a half.  I was wide awake, but curled up with him, checking my phone, texting RA and C and FM to let them know I was still there, as it was now nearly 3 in the afternoon.

When he wakes up this time, it’s time to get on with our day.  Though he had said, let’s just spend all day in bed having sex, the fully awake Bon Vivant gets agitated at the idea of remaining inside all day, as he legitimately has to make himself leave.

I tell him to give me fair warning, as it takes me longer to get ready than it does him and he is clear that he is not rushing.

There are times when he becomes agitated and this fascinates me.  It takes me a little time to begin to understand it.  He literally has nothing to worry about, so little things are huge.  He loses things all the time.  As a man who goes out constantly and lives to excess, he routinely walks out of bars without his phone or his keys or his wallet.  For the most part, he gets this stuff back immediately.  But when we are getting ready to leave, collecting our belongings, he can’t find his phone.  This starts to freak him out.  It would freak anyone out. Losing your phone is a really big deal, but we know, as he was angrily texting and calling me from it right before I saw him, if it’s not in his clothes from the night before, it’s at the bar where we were.  Still, he gets very agitated and anxious about it.  Okay, fine.  I happen to find it, under pillows, making him instantly happy.  We then realize as we start to head out that he is missing a favorite jacket that he doesn’t remember wearing, and he starts to think someone took it.

[He has a lot of random people over as he lives downtown.]

I convince him that perhaps his missing keys are with his missing jacket.  Later, we spend an hour exploring this mystery.

No, really.

As we get ready to leave, I make sure I have everything of mine… the boots I’d been wearing slipped into a bag and I wore flats (as he is only 2 or 3 inches taller than I am), my iphone charger, every article of clothing.  I want to be sure I am leaving nothing behind, which I mention to him, not unkindly.

At this point, I don’t know if I am expected to come back here or expected to go home and I am a little on edge because I do not know what the plan is.

We decide to check the parking garage, thinking maybe his keys are in his jacket in his car. Of course, he can’t find his car.  He rarely drives, as he’d been arrested for drunk driving 5 years ago, he never ever drives if he knows he will be drinking.  As he spends most of his time downtown, everything is easily walkable or cab-able, especially as he lives in the best possible location in downtown — a block from the park, in one of the city’s fashion and restaurant districts, two blocks from the entertainment district, one block from the Chic Hotel, two blocks from the elegant hotel.  I walked two blocks from the performing arts center to his building after seeing a show with BFD and there is nowhere in downtown from which I cannot see his balcony.

That’s a long way of saying: I have been seeing him for 4 months and I have absolutely no idea what kind of car he drives, which makes me less than helpful in trying to find it.  We do. It’s a Bon Vivant car: extremely understated, perfectly comfortable.  It would have only been more him were it a volvo sedan.

His keys and jacket are not in the car, so we head off in search of food for me and none of the restaurants we want are open as it’s Sunday, post-brunch. (Now, it’s sometime around 4.)  But, because it’s a holiday weekend, downtown is packed, so we wander west, a rather long walk, but it takes us closer to our people and to the place we met and the places we went on our second date.

We wander into an elegant lounge we know has food, and it turns out it’s hosting a watch party for the playoff game.  We’re in.  It’s amusing.  He orders beer, I get water to start rehydrating.  I am having difficulty figuring out what to eat and eventually go with “burger.”  I also eventually go with a cocktail.  He is mostly drinking beer, but from time to time throws in a shot of something.  He gets used to my trying everything he orders.  It becomes our thing.

We walk back through the calendar to figure out where his jacket and keys are and he has made some phone calls to people to ask those he think might know, and also to the Chic Hotel, where he had been for a party in one of the condos and at the Chic Hotel Bar.

I am not paying attention to a lot of the messages he is sending me.  I do not realize at this point that I am with him as he is realizing just how many other things he’s supposed to do.  That he starts canceling all of them.  He blows off two sets of friends before we leave his place and a dinner party while we’re together at the lounge.  I don’t think much about it, as I am so used to him getting distracted and canceling on me, I view this as part of his character.  It’s not.  He forgets, sure, which is part of his character, but when he commits he shows up.  As long as he remembers.

That he is doing all of this for me — for us — is something about which I am oblivious.  At this point, I am just nervously trying to figure what the hell the last 12 or 14 hours have meant and how I am getting home and when.  I am on edge, knowing or thinking, that I am on borrowed time and I need to be prepared for the inevitable.

Ah, if only I remembered this later.

Anyway, we deal with his anxiety over his missing things and his anxiety over canceling a last minute invite he’d forgotten about, and my anxiety over whatever and we do unwind and relax.  I mention to him again as a throwaway that I have all of my things with me and I left nothing behind.  Unsurprisingly, he looks at me as though I am crazy.

He picks up the check here, which is about $70, without a second thought, of course.  He’d seen the push notifications to my phone, and I mentioned that I’d had a lot of friends heading to the place where we’d met on a Sunday afternoon post-game in September.  He suggests we go “for A drink.”

I know now that I will be going home after a drink, while he deals with the dinner party situation.

It’s about 7 and the bar is slammed.  He wants to meet my friends and I struggle to find any of them in the crowd.  We grab drinks.  He has me get the first round — a double for him, a single for me — and I do, as I know that’s important.  It’s also $12, which is very cheap for three drinks of liquor we like.  (They have a Sunday special.)  I get him another drink, and then I am completely broke, which is okay, as I have multiple ways to get home, and it’s only about a 20 minute walk through town from where I am.

I see my friend S, who I have known for about 8 years and who I see frequently at the CHB.  S is happy to meet the Bon Vivant, understanding he’s actually my guy, though neither of us say anything, nor are we affectionate.  It’s just a thing.  Or maybe we looked a bit like two people who’d been having sex for 15 hours.  Hard to say.

We wander outside onto the packed patio, where we find some places where we can stand and talk to each other and be heard over the loud music and the crowd.  Being here is like being at an amazing party and I love the energy.

A drunk guy stumbles up and starts talking to us, which happens at this place all the time as it’s on the small side and packed to the rafters with people.  You always end up randomly talking to strangers, which is sort of why we all love it.  He talks to us and the Bon Vivant is not particularly engaged.  Drunk dude is saying to him, it’s so hard to find people.  I mean, look at you two, you’re such a beautiful couple, he’s a handsome guy, but you know there are a lot of goodlooking guys, and you’re lucky she stopped looking when she found you …” and it goes on, and I am being respectful as I am finding this amusing, and BV is looking mildly amused, but quiet, and eventually drunk dude and his friend move along, with his friend apologizing a bit for the interuption.  BV looks at me and says, sometimes it’s a good thing I can’t hear particularly well in crowds as that guy was bringing down the intelligence in the room.  He then adds, well, I can hear when I want to, and he smiles.

We finish our drink and his ruminations on the horrors of public displays of affection: he is VERY opposed as no one wants to see that and says we would never do that.  I make some comment about well, what about having sex in the bathroom here which he laughs is not public and might possibly be something people would want to see.  We are in comfortable couple mode, which is probably why everyone asks us all night how long we’ve been together.  I honestly don’t know how to answer the question.

We wander back inside and find a place to stand.  The dj starts playing the Beastie Boys and BV starts dancing and rapping along.  I find this incredibly amusing.  He’s not bad at either.  He is really fun in every way and people tend to gravitate towards him in crowds because he fun just oozes out of every pore.  He’s energy and strangers love him.  We get more drinks and then find a great place to stand and then sit, making space for two women, who BV then befriends, of course.  I spot “Cheekbones” at the bar and I wander over to say hi to him and his friend M who I haven’t seen in months.  I’d always had a little crush on him, and secreted lamented that I dated Cheekbones and not M.  M is brilliant, and a successful tech executive, who lives in a different luxury condo in a different entertainment district than either BV or PR or SD.  I tell them that I want to introduce them to “Bon” and gesture over to where he is chatting with these women and M looks at me and says “oh, this is not just a friend.”  I say no.  So, he comes over and meets BV and they are pleasant and then I see more random friends and we are drinking more and more.  I am trying not to drink that much, but it’s a party.  I am mostly turning down drinks that are offered.  BV … is not.  Everyone is in full on party mode and we’re having a blast.  I look at this guy and I overhear part of his “so how long have you two been together” conversation with BV who answers him in all seriousness “we’ve been married for 18 years.” He drawls it, as he does have a pronounced Southern accent, which I find hilarious while making sure that I am simply smiling and not laughing.  The guy then looks at me, and I echo BV, amazing isn’t it? It just works.  The guy, who I think is super-gay, is there with a woman and the two of them talk to us about relationships and how we’ve been able to make it work for so long.  We give them relationship advice, we tell them we do not have children, and how deeply committed we are.  At one point, I lean over to BV and wink at him to say, so, you were 13, huh?  They are so charmed by us that they offer to buy drinks for us.  I decline, BV accepts.  We are playing out this role as a well-traveled, prosperous long-married couple and it is one that we could easily fall into.  It’s one of those things that could be right and we are ever so convincing.  The fact that he is 10 years my junior never seems to occur to anyone.

In fact, when I mention to M later, who by then is actively hitting on me after BV and I argue and then BV wanders off to fulfill his social obligations, he is shocked that BV is not M’s age — 35 — and is instead much younger.  He looks “old.”  Yes, he does.  It’s not just appearance, and he is by no means haggard, but he spent many years on the beach, too, and playing golf, so he does have some sun damage, but in style, he is very preppy: wearing cardigans or fleece jackets and that does read older.

We eventually get into our argument which is really a relationship status conversation: “monogamous” “love each other” “taking it slowly” “canceled my whole day to be with you” blah blah blah and we are both quite inebriated, which is a bad time to have this talk.

For the life of me, I cannot remember exactly how it ended.  I think we were fine.  I think he left, knowing I was okay, with me promising to finish my drink and cab home — not walk — and to call him as soon as I got there.

It takes me longer to get home.  I actually borrow money from M, who wants to take me home to his place (no), and then eventually find a cab after getting picked up by a handsome stranger who wanted to buy me a drink, which I briefly considered.

In each case, I had to think to myself, I just want to go home and call BV to let him know I am safe.  That was my only driving force . . . go home so I could report in to BV that I was home safe.

And then I was.  I called him from my place and he was clearly out, despite his earlier comment he was going home and his irritation that he thinks that I think that every time we’re not together that he’s out doing something else.  We speak very briefly to confirm I am home and everything’s good.