Dear Fleeting Encounters,
I met you at cafés, shopping plazas, taverns, all-night diners, sushi bars, and bus depots. We chatted before heading to my place or yours for sex. We slept together once, or had marathon sessions over several days, or once in a while when some boring conference or meeting brought you to my town.
You captivated me with your beauty, intelligence, and passion. You took your time in bed, caressing my entire body, kissed me in places that sent shivers down my spine…the back of my neck, the dimples above my ass, along my inner thigh. You fucked me hard and fast, your fingers tangled in my hair as you pulled me into you, my lips sore and bruised afterward from the violence of your passion.
I think about the nature of life, how brief it is, how nothing is permanent. How numb day to day life can make us. My philosophy is to celebrate the time we have alive and never to let myself be numb, to find lovers of kindred intensity. Christ, life can be so dull at times. Whatever we can do to keep ourselves awake and aware of how precious it is, to not waste it, to make every moment count…that's what's important to me.
Thank you, dear lovers, passionate kindreds. I am writing this letter to convey my gratitude because lovers like you are rare in my experience. I've fucked a lot of men over the years and so many of them were bland, passionless bores, but you stood out because you weren't, because you were living your life on your own terms and passionately embracing it. I hope you are still doing so.
To Paul, the brilliant blue-eyed dominant who introduced me to the world of BDSM. I enjoyed those Wednesday afternoon explorations with scarves, blindfolds and ropes and the occasional forays to swingers' clubs. I loved kneeling for your friend, R while you both commented on what an excellent cock sucker I was. It was so arousing to be used and talked about as if I wasn't there. I suppose there are many who wouldn't understand this need in me, but you did. You were the first to truly understand.
To Peter, the business man who was working on his Executive MBA and found himself briefly in Ottawa…I enjoyed our instant chemistry and the joy of being swept off my feet. Your apology for the small tattoo of the sun on your inner thigh was endearing. You were just starting to explore the possibilities of what life could offer outside your humdrum cubicle existence. I hope your explorations continued.
To David, the wild outdoorsman from Quebec, who stroked my long hair after our love making and told me about the properties of wintergreen and other plants growing near your cabin. You said you ran a business that provided solar panel installation and I imagine you afterward, climbing toward the sun.
To C., the roofer from Jackson's Point, what fun we had when you visited. You were a little guy but so muscular and wiry. So much energy. I didn't even have a proper bed at that point, just a futon, where you fucked me hard and then we both slept deeply. This was the first time away from your work you'd ever taken and you were exhausted. Between fucking and walking around the city where you pointed out all the different roof styles, we slept for hours beside one another. I felt good that I was able to give you rest as well as passion.
To M., the psychologist and expert cunnilinguist who bought me lilies, their scent permeating my apartment long after our encounters had ended.
To K, the medical equipment consultant, who brought me back a book of poetry from England after that first time in my bed. Your posh English accent turned me on. We had such great conversations about writing. You were eloquent, articulate and ever so good with your hands. That thing you did with your thumb up my ass and your fingers playing inside my cunt while I was on my stomach was divine. I came hard on your fingers, all over the sheets.
To the poets, there have been so many of you--young dark haired melancholy rebels in your ripped jeans--in town to do a reading or newly arrived from small towns or larger cities or locals seeking to distract yourselves from the crashing loneliness we all feel. We shared conversation, alcohol--oh yes, there was plenty of alcohol--and wild sex beneath trees or in my bed. Afterward we talked of Berryman's Dream Songs and Berrigan's Sonnets, of Blake and Dante, Lorca, Plath, Sexton, Hunter S. Thompson, Anaïs Nin, Warren Zevon, Leonard Cohen or shamelessly gossiped about our fellow contemporary poets. I hope you are still living your life with gusto. Don't settle, don't compromise.
Life is short. Carpe diem. Or as Edith Piaff sang "Non, je ne regrette rien."
yours in the moment,