soliloqueer

I’m not a big fan of family this morning.

A couple of weeks ago, Matt got a phone call from his brother, saying that he and his wife were planning on renewing their vows in the coming weeks, and they wanted him to take part in the ceremony.

Matt and his brother have never really gotten along and I was surprised to hear he’d agreed. Not only that, but that he was being expected to actually spend money through his participation.

I may not be an etiquette expert or anything, but when a couple gets married, aren’t they supposed to take care of paying for things?

But I digress.

As time has gone on, and as the renewing of the vows ceremony thing has become larger and larger, the stress level of the whole “blessed event” has slowly risen until it exploded all over the place last night.

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As we drove back to Matt’s apartment yesterday afternoon, he turned to me and asked what I thought about having garlic bread with dinner.

See, for the last couple of weeks, Chris has been flexing his cooking muscles as much as he’s been flexing any of his other muscles, and has become quite the gourmet. One of his specialties is garlic bread. Now, I know what you’re thinking; garlic bread isn’t exactly the most challenging thing in the world to make, but he does it, and he does it really well.

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

We stopped at a grocery store for the bread, and on the way in, we noticed a huge box of pumpkins set up near the registers.

“I can’t believe it’s almost Halloween,” Matt said as we passed this box.

We went to the bakery and got a loaf of sourdough bread, then made our way back to the registers, and as we stood there, I started thinking about that big box of pumpkins and told Matt to hang on a second. I don’t know why I felt so compelled to go ahead and get a pumpkin, almost three weeks before Halloween, but before I knew it, I was standing next to Matt at the checkout with a pumpkin cradled in my arms.

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Dave posed the question on his blog, “What is your biggest turn on?” I could have just answered there, but then you might not have seen it.

As it happens, I was having a conversation about this a couple of days ago with one of my online friends and revealed to him, as I have to others along the way, that my juices start flowing the hardest when I see a really attractive (my definition of “attractive” is another subject for another time) guy filling out a nice light sweater. Double points if it’s fitted and playing nicely against a well-defined torso.

In other words, my fondness for Autumn extends beyond cooler temperatures and pretty leaves.

Matt called me a little while ago after hearing that Sarah Palin was planning to come to North Carolina to speak at one of the local universities.

This is obviously hilarious because she’ll be speaking to college students who are overwhelmingly swinging to Obama.

“I wonder if she’s bringing Bristol and Levi with her,” Matt said.

We talked about that for a minute, Matt finally deciding he’d like to go out drinking with Levi because, as he says, “It might take a six pack, but I think it would be worth it in the end.”

“A six beer queer?” I asked.

Matt then said, “More like a six beer power bottom.”

The three of us were walking through City Market in Raleigh when we saw a guy standing outside of the restaurants. He was wearing a rhinestone-studded denim jacket and white cowboy boots.

As soon as we were out of this guy’s hearing range, Chris said, “Say what you will, but I’ve never worn anything that gay.”

To which Matt and I laughed really hard.

“What?” Chris asked, looking genuinely confused.

“Dude,” Matt said, “You have pink underwear.”

I’m posting this out of revenge. See, this morning, Chris was sucking me off and we were getting right to the point where I was going to cum when he stopped. He then insisted, nay, ordered me not to jerk off or otherwise get relief from how turned on he’d left me. He told me to wait until tonight.

So, all day long I’m sitting at my desk at work, hard as hell and just waiting to get home so Chris could/would finish what he started.

He hasn’t exactly refused to finish the job, but he’s made a point of not being in any hurry. So, there you have it, Chris has pink underwear.

Living the simple life only works when you have no other choice. Otherwise, you’re fooling yourself when you say you don’t really want that new iPod or you don’t mind biking when, if you had a car, you could drive.

I did a lot of changing a short while ago; moving into a smaller apartment, giving up my car, my iPhone, a job I liked for the perks it afforded me, and about half my stuff. I did it as a knee-jerk reaction to other changes in my life I had no control over, as a way of regaining that sense of control.

And it did feel good for a while.

Then, about time I found myself walking home in the rain because I needed to go to the drug store and forgot to take an umbrella, rain dripping off my forehead and sliding into my eyes, that I thought to myself, “Crap, I really miss my old lifestyle.”

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Chris is a bit of an exhibitionist, and thus, doesn’t wear much if he doesn’t need to. For instance, when Matt and I arrived at Matt’s apartment this evening, we found him watching TV on the couch with nary a stitch on.

Not that I’m complaining, but it was kind of surprising.

Also surprising was the casual way he got up from the couch and walked over to greet us with the door still wide open.

When Matt went to close it quickly so his neighbors wouldn’t get a show they didn’t pay for, he whispered, “not yet.”

He then took me into his arms, turned us around so anyone paying attention would get a nice look at his butt, and gave me a kiss so intense it got a rise out of all three of us, if you catch my meaning.

Welcome home, indeed.

Today is the first official day of autumn and I couldn’t be happier.

I celebrated this blessed event by going out to my storage closet and retrieving the two huge plastic bins that held my fall and winter clothes; the light sweaters, the heavier sweaters, my oddly-vast collection of knit hats, my fleece from last year, and the heavier pea coat I’ll probably never wear but that I look really cute in.

And really, isn’t that the important thing?

This is the time of year when leaves change and nature closes in around itself. It’s the time of year for baking spicy bread and carving pumpkins. It’s when we find ourselves needing that heavier blanket, and spending more time under it… hopefully with someone to help us stay warm and toasty as the temperature drops.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a trip to Williams-Sonoma. Their peppermint bark is calling my name.

We were just in the car, heading home from a quick trip to Fresh Market when Chris spotted a sign for Fire Prevention Day in Morrisville.

“I wanted to be a fireman when I was little,” he said.

“You did,” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, think about it. You get to live with men and slide down a pole all day. What’s not to like?”

Matt laughed, “Getting paid to do things you love is the American dream.”

The old saying goes, it’s the little things that make life worth living. I’m convinced that whoever said that was in love.

Waking up, first thing in the morning, feeling someone holding you, and knowing that their strength means they never want to let you go.

That little giggle of excitement as they flip a pancake over perfectly while you make breakfast. Then the actual enjoyment of those pancakes as something you made together; one pouring the batter and the other flipping.

They, burying their face in your shoulder during a scary moment in the movie you’re watching on the couch, under a blanket.

That horrible song from the 80’s coming on the radio, and not only do you both know the words, but you sing it together, loudly, without shame.

They, coming up behind you, wrapping their arms around you, and kissing you on the neck, at that exact moment you needed one the most.

It’s the little things, indeed.