I told him I loved him

It seems so strange to jump into a relationship so quickly.

Just a month ago, we were together, each other’s first loves.

Hopefully, unlike my last relationship, I won’t fuck this new one up.

We were together for 13 and a half months, and had recently celebrated our anniversary.  It was such a milestone because we were such different people and had no right being of opposite beliefs yet together.

But I really loved him.  I probably still do.

It was February 2017.  I saw his Tinder profile, and there was this sweet boy with a sincere, mood-altering smile.  It stopped me in the torrent of my swiping – after all, I’d been out as “bi” (the original pansexual) for over 8 months and I was making up for lost time.

I swiped right, and so did he.  A spark lit a fuse.

We started with some silly banter, and he was quicker than I gave him credit for – which I love in a person!  Jokes were met with quips, and he asked me to meet up over a cup of coffee – on him.

This goofy boy with the glasses and the cute smile that I was talking to like we were old friends was asking me to coffee?  I was one lucky man.

I was also a betting man, and I double-booked the evening.  What if the fuse was a fizzle?  What if he was a really motivated catfish?  If all else failed, I had a guaranteed hookup afterwards and I wouldn’t have to go home after a bad date and cry into a dirty martini (even though tears add umami to the flavor profile).

Coffee turned into a burger and fries, and I met him at the Carney’s hot dog train on Sunset Blvd.  I was running late, bumbling my 1989 Mercedes that I bought for a few hundred bucks down the twisty canyons to get there, the pavement studded with the crushed dreams and cheap rhinestones of Hollywood legends.

There he was, six-feet tall in a trenchcoat (and not furiously masturbating despite the attire).  I stopped for a moment as he stared upwards at a billboard.  Maybe I should scare him, I thought.  Who doesn’t want to start off a first date with wet pants?

As if he sensed I was there, he spun around and greeted me with an effusive hello.

The conversation was a happy blur until he gave me a tour of his apartment.  I remember asking to kiss him at the end.  It was pure, it was perfect, and it was real.

I’m glad I stayed the night.  One date turned into two.  Two dates turned into three, with me rushing up the freeway from a day in Orange County to not get there late.  Would it be presumptuous to shower at his place before we went out?

The dates continued.  We met up in the afternoon.  We spent the morning together.  My thoughts and feelings became consumed by him – that incredible smile, the sunny disposition, the thoughtfulness, the goodness.

He was so fucking cute.

It was almost a competition – what would we do next?  Maré – a secret rooftop restaurant.  Griffith Observatory.  71Above atop the US Bank building.

I told him I loved him at the corner of a constructivist gallery in LACMA.

My eyes darted over the art in front of me.  Decades had passed, and there it was, still standing, preserved, admired.  It was how I felt.  Denying it would’ve been betraying my own heart.

He was hesitant.  How could you say you loved someone you barely knew?

I knew it, because from when I woke up in the morning to when I went to bed, I felt love.  It was a buzzing, a vibration, a frequency I was sharing with another person.

It continued through hikes and trips to the beach.  It carried us on long drives across town.  It was present.

The morning I woke up and heard that my dad couldn’t be reached, he was there.  I didn’t want to scare him, but I had to leave.  As thoughts flicked through my head like a runaway CNN chyron, there was a bubbling fear that I’d have to let my love go.  I’d be back and forth too much, I wouldn’t be present.

I’d be a terrible boyfriend.

When I returned back to town, he met me in the secluded back garden.  The lights twinkled, second only to his eyes.  He knelt and offered me a box.  My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.  Jesus, he’s not trying to get us married, is he?

The box contained a key.  This sweet boy asked me to move in with him.  When the world was falling apart around me, he was there for me – more than ever.

We went on more adventures, we carried in furniture from the street.  Coffee with the neighbors was a Saturday staple, as were our Friday night dinners.  We graced the halls of churches and took late night strolls.  Everything was together.  Everything felt perfect.

for purposes of photo i’m the guy on the right even though i have the same hair as the ginger on the left, his hair looks more like…OK TOO CONFUSING WE JUST LOOK FUCKING CUTE TOGETHER OKAY

He met my family over Christmas.  And for the first time, I brought someone I loved into the bed I grew up in.  Our asses were getting kicked by a legendary flu, but we didn’t care.  For the first moment ever, I was home and I wasn’t alone.

The love never died, but the like did.  Cramped quarters make for irritable disposition.  The arguments began, little quibbles at first.  Arguments stopped resolving as soon as they started.

It didn’t matter who was right when both sides leave feeling hurt.

The topic came up of forever.  I thought it was prudent – reasonable, even, to set expectations that forever was probably not going to be the case.  After all – the oldest of us was 27, we still had careers and ambitions.  But being together was wonderful.  That would continue until we decided it wouldn’t.  Together.

I went home one weekend, and upon return he sat me down on the couch.  I knew the words that were coming before they even came out of his mouth.

It was over.

The questions flew out of my mouth with furious intensity.  Why?  (I want to be with the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with)  Why now?  (Why not start sooner)  What’s his name?  (There is no one else)  Did you think this through?

I couldn’t bear to collapse in front of him even though it’s all I wanted to do.

I was Elena Ceaușescu at the execution – defiant, embattled, in pain, screaming “you motherfuckers!” while being held up against the wall.

Experiencing a death is one thing.  Watching it was another.

I watched his demeanor changed over the next week before I moved out.  The person who told me they loved me grew distant, separate.  He was afraid of affection, timid, halting.  He wasn’t the brassy, cuddly person I knew.

We agreed to remain friends, a decision by default.  The other option was never seeing him again, and it would be like dying twice.  I’d be losing my boyfriend, and losing my best friend.

We’ve enjoyed Friday night outings over the past month.  It’s been an important point of connection.  We’re happy, we’re civil.  I’ve kept cynicism to a light simmer instead of a roaring boil.  I enjoy spending time with him.  It’s all I look forward to, like a prisoner awaiting that phone call.

Ok, that’s a little dramatic.  It’s been a bizarre month of new experiences, but I still do look forward to us spending time together.

Since that night I’ve been searching for a way to move on that goes beyond myself.  I want to extend beyond the “today was a good day, yesterday was a bad day” slog.  I’m ready to kick my own ass for feeling this way.

And then it hit me: I need to get into a new relationship.

Not the kind of relationship you’d think of, mind you.

My relationship is with this mission: to help build a place, a home, where hundreds and thousands of others can share their stories and experiences of love, lust, heartbreak, pain, suffering, fear, joy, anxiety, and everything in-between.

Regardless of background, everyone has A Gay Tale to tell.

Through these stories, we can begin the process of tolerance.  Understanding.   Common ground.  And ultimately: healing.

We can empower.

We can learn.

We can grow.

We can laugh and cry and we can be.

We can tread the deepest valleys, and together, we can reach the highest mountains.

That’s my story.  I’m looking forward to hearing yours.

Welcome to A Gay Tale.