... on the death of my beloved ... part one - our meeting

I have had many pivotal events in my life, and I view them similar to the patterning of a logarithm - if, then, and, or ... the possibility of creating parallel universes depending on how the dice is toss - how many seconds are counted before going into that busy intersection - how long you wait until you say goodbye.

Before I embark on the death of my beloved, John Edward Milton Boundy, let me talk about how we met. Some relationships are meant to be - even before they happen.

.....

In the summer of 1980, I met Jim Esselment, a high end antiques dealer with shee-shee clients, at a local gay bar - was dragged home to his little 1900's townhouse and began my first love affair with a man. I was his boy, following after him like a lap dog. Doing what I was told in and out of bed. I would walk or bicycle over to the local convenience store to pickup cans of tomato sauce and onions to add to my zucchini stew. I was in love with Jim and zucchini stew and playing endlessly, the recording of "They're Playing out Song" a broadway musical, on his stereo.

On my trips to the convenience store I would bike up the street, two blocks over, to the store and often stop in front of another lovely little rowhouse with white painted bricks and slate mansard roof and a Haida Indian panel of a Thunderbird inset on the enclosed vestibule. I would smile and say to myself, "One day I will like to live in this house." And then bicycle on to pick up the food stuffs.

And as with love affairs, not relationships, it faded after 6 weeks when Jim surprised me by going of to PTown (Provincetown, Rhode Island) for a pre-booked (pre-me) 14-day vacation in which, he - surprise, surprise - fell madly in love with a boy there (using the term to signify role not age- he was 21) and had already made plans to bring him from the States to live in Canada. All that in two weeks!

So I was pushed aside, with my fledging affair in tatters. I went back to my studio apartment and avoiding going out for a while. I haven't been fond of zucchini stew since.

.....

It wasn't long before I got tired of being a sexual hermit and later that fall, in the backyard patio of a gay leather bar, I met a very distinquished gentleman. He was 42, greyish beard, balding, large plastic frame glasses and a laugh that could captivate a room. He had a presence to him, even when he was surveying the room. Like a predator checking out the potential prey.

I managed to commandeer two beers from the bartender, who gave me the stink-eye since I had only a leather bar vest and a plaid shirt and jeans. I gave one to my stranger and just stood there. Listening to him talk.  He relayed the story of his best buddy in New York City, Larry, who was a part-time taxi driver. Two days ago, he had just finished his rounds and headed home to chill, have an afternoon disco-nap, and then go out for the night. Just before his street, he spotted a fancy looking couple, boy and girl trying to flag him down. He put on his taxi light and then when he stopped, shut it off and asked them where they wanted to go. Instead of the usual instructions, they suggested that he join them in partying that night and make it a three-some. Larry was always up for some adventure and researching material for his writings. Taxi drivers are not just taxi drivers. It's like waiters. Taxi driver - actor, taxi driver - writer, waiter - second year med student , and so on.

All this was relayed to my stranger personally, they were best buddies and called each other every day. Sharing their ups and downs and sexual adventures, hopes and plans for the future.
What happened next was speculation and heresay. At least that is what was said in print.
Allegedly, later that night the three of them were flying high with booze and drugs and had hit a number of the gay and straight bars and went back to Larry's place to party and then crash.
It appears the night's adventure ended up in a botched robber with Larry's place ransacked, monies taken and Larry stabbed numerous times in the chest with a kitchen knife.

Larry's neighbour found him the next morning when the cab company asked him to check up on him. The newspaper had a field day, aspiring writer and actor ( he was an actor too!) found dead in sea of SMBD paraphenalia, pills, blood soaked pillows. They had leads on the two suspects and expected to arrest them later that day.

So in the midst of all this personal turmoil, my man, who finally introduced himself as John Edward Milton Boundy, found a way of celebrating his friend's life while drowning his sorrows. A man as complex as this, was someone I wanted to get to know better.

After a while he begged off and I kissed him on the cheek and said, goodnight. I was not going to make a pass at him that night. I couldn't. He was still staying at a friend's place while his new home he bought was being fixed up.

.....

Two weeks later, I bumped into him at Simpsons the department store. We chatted briefly and he went his way and I mine.  A month later, we almost got stuck in a revolving door entry to the subway. I felt like I was reliving the first episode of "Bewitched" in which Samantha and Darrin keep bumping into each other.

On June 12, 1981, I ran into my John Edward Milton Boundy at the same leather bar. He was very happy to see me and we shared a wonderful time there. At closing, he looked into my eyes and said, "I want you to be the first trick I've taken back to my new house. "
I didn't mind being a "trick". A term meaning one-night stand for anonymous sex, similar to a prostitute "turning a trick" or being a "number" as in "he's a hot number". I was being with the man who fascinated me and attracted me for months. I thought about him all the time. Like that song that sticks in your head.

"Don't worry, it's just a block or two away from the bar," he said as we strolled in the quiet of the evening.  After a short time, some of the buildings started to appear to be familiar. We turned left on one street and my breath became shorter, and my breathing tight. We stopped in front of a lovely little white brick rowhouse. With a Haida Indian panel insert on the front enclosed vestibule.

He put the key in the lock, turned it and opened the door. I followed him inside. The livingroom , the stairs, the fireplace, the dining table all seemed so familiar to me. As if I was meant to be here.

I was home.

.....