Missed connections

An ode to the ones who got away:

You know, the pass on the street, the look back, when you smile together in a queue at the same subtle people-observing joke, eye each other across a restaurant, or even talk....

I remember these, sometimes, forever. I love these men, these moments, the stab of eye contact/recognition that is full of promise and potential. Just passing through certain towns or streets revives the memory of a missed chance. I’m not sure which is sweeter- the poignancy of lost potential or the fear-filled moment of breaking the tension and finding out.

Last seen in....
Banff; the tall guy with eyes that burned into me through the booze, who seized me from behind in a quick one-armed bear hug and sang one line of the Clash song into my ear, who I longed to kiss boldly, then stagger drunkenly away from the bar with, absorb his desire and fear.

Calgary; the sound of a man’s voice made me halt reflexively on the train platform and look straight at him. He looked back. When he got on the same car I wasn’t surprised, but when he got off at the same stop and went to the same door, then walked the same way for several blocks, I was. Dirty eyes, the energy of fitness and power, a tall and solid light heavyweight body. Only when he crossed the street away from me I realized that what I dismissed as some Affliction crap was GSP walkout gear, and I wanted a little time back.

Winnipeg; the guy my height with a day unshaven face under a black hoodie, dancing with his eyes closed with so much contained energy and concentration. I touched him, putting my hand on his shoulder, but his eyes were so perfect and piercing when he opened them that I fled when my heart and throat seized up and I could only smile.

Whistler; the sweet, sweet, uber-shy young thing with the awkward farm boy body and hands he didn’t know what to do with that I danced with for over an hour without even asking his name. I can still feel his warm hands, the damp long hair at the back of his neck, the shock of a true six pack under his loose shirt when I ran my fingertips across his belly, and especially, his quiet delight to have my attention. If I had been less tired, less interested in someone else, less conscious of time.... he is one I would have loved to take and blow his mind for about 12 hours straight, until we were both shaking and jellied and saturated in each others’ juice. He’d be dirty and generous and grateful and come a dozen times and still be rock hard. I realized I was a total idiot about a block from the bar and still, I didn’t go back.

I learned from this. I went back for the Banff guy, but he was gone, probably having lost the fight with alcohol for the night.

I think it’s funny how much we know in those first moments, because when I do follow through, it is that good. Hot, dirty, fun, and sometimes forging a connection of heart that long outlasts the affair.

All this didn’t didn’t didn’t. Makes me sick reading it. I need a good dose of DID.