You might say it was an awkward time in my life, or a period of self-discovery, or a journey down an unknown new path.  It was certainly a time of self-doubt.  Fresh out of a failed marriage of fourteen years, father of two teenage girls, fighting wars on many fronts in the world of business, doubting my ability to be a satisfactory husband,  just one thing dominated my thoughts.  One thing unrelated to all the other events in my life.

I say unrelated–maybe it wasn’t.  The marriage was such a dismal experience, maybe my curiosity about men had a more significant meaning than I had realized.  The notion of exploring a relationship with with another man had moved to the forefront of my thoughts.  The curiosity had evolved into a single-minded ambition.  If I wasn’t cut out to be a satisfactory husband, maybe I was cut out to be a buddy.  Possibly an intimate buddy.  It was simply a matter of meeting the right guy.

In the days before the Internet, the prospects for finding a like-minded friend were slim.  Gay bars weren’t for me–I wasn’t gay.  Though I had recognized my attraction to men, I was still enormously attracted to women, just wasn’t sure I was compatible with them.  The only alternative at the time was a discreet message in the personal section of a popular local newspaper.

One day, after a string of disappointing results, I opened a letter from Larry, which included his picture.  Dumbfounded, I stared at his image, immediately smitten.  Something about his appearance and the words he had written gave rise to an instant connection.  I wanted to get him on the phone immediately, but had to settle for the long process of contacting him through the mail.  We eventually arranged a rendezvous in the lobby of a large hotel.

Of course it was awkward.  His first time and mine doing something like this.  He looked as good in person as he did in the photograph.  We eased into a conversation and started to get to know each other, our anecdotes, missives and confessions uniting us as like-minded men.  Like me, though the circumstances were vastly different, he was at the end of a less than desirable marriage.  Like me, he was tall and thin.  His curiosity equaled mine.  Other than that, we had nothing in common, which, I believe, is exactly why our friendship became so exciting and interesting.  He was an executive with a high-end retailer; me, founder of an auto parts manufacturing company.  Our paths in life couldn’t have been more different.  As our first conversation drew to a close, he suggested we get a room.

I wasn’t exactly ready for that, not just yet.  Needed time to come to grips with taking that step.  We made plans to meet again in a few days.  In the meantime, I thought of virtually nothing else.  Come the day of reckoning, Larry arranged for the room.  We went up separately.  It was within those four secluded walls, with a magnificent view of the city, I discovered the fledgling emotions that can overwhelm the sensibilities of a man entering into a life-changing event.  We became physical friends almost immediately, finding ourselves in bed shortly after we arrived, wearing nothing but our underwear.

Much of it comes naturally after that.  The desire to look, to touch and be touched in return.  Beyond that, a pair of novices plays it by ear and the event soon blurs into history, leaving bits and peaces to remain forever in one’s memory.  Looking back, having had all these years to reflect, in command of the knowledge gained by an older man, I would have savored him in ways that, at the time, had not yet incubated in my imagination.

We met once or twice a week after that.   We met in bars for a beer, went shopping together, met for dinner, took short bike rides, and frequently ended up in hotel rooms.  We became familiar with each other’s bodies, with our instincts, with our polar opposite personalities.  After a few weeks, we made plans to spend five days together on a trip to Big Bend National Park in far west Texas, which became, many years later, the source of  inspiration for my novel, “A Song in the Park”.  It was there I learned the haunting affect such a mystical place can have on the souls of two men.

Everything was perfect … except one thing.  During our first meeting, Larry had mentioned he had not touched his wife in two years.  At the time, incredible as it seemed to live with a woman and not touch her in two years, I did not interpret the statement as a red flag.  By the time we were in Big Bend together, I knew his reason.  He not only had no desire to touch her, he had no desire to touch any woman.  Whereas I envisioned the two of us eventually meeting prospective new wives, he saw the future differently.  Larry was gay, died-in-the-wool, adorably gay.  He wanted to spend his life with a man, a life that was not in the cards for me, the one difference we would never be able to reconcile.

I think he left for Australia sometime after that.  To this day, he is one of my most enduring, cherished memories.  I’m convinced I’ll never have another unconditional friend like him, someone I know and trust, a guy I adore and love to be with.  We parted ways, but I took much with me from our friendship: the dozens of ways a man can be enjoyed, mentally and physically; the value of a great friendship, and in the end, the recognition of things that can slip through your fingers when you’re in the here and now with such a friend.

So that’s my story.  I know I’m not the only man alive with a memory.  Click the comment button and add yours.

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