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Second (Mid)Life


The Attorney has decided to buy a motorcycle.

At age 53.

How many mid-life crises is one allowed?

And if you’ve already had one, does that make the first one actually a third-life crisis and the new one a two-thirds-life crisis?

I thought the luxury convertible six years ago was the mid-life crisis.

Or the young new boyfriend.

But, he sold the convertible about three years ago, and guys have since referred to me as a “Daddy” on more than one occasion.

So, maybe the bike is just a fresher component of the same old crisis.

It could be worse.

He could be coming home with shopping bags stuffed with Aeropostale and A&F, trying to shimmy into smedium t-shirts.

But, then again, maybe with a motorcycle he might shake up his super conservative wardrobe a little by dipping into a bit of leather.

Chaps on a 36-inch inseam?

Nice little mounds of denim pooching out the back?

Boots adding just enough lift to tip him over 6′-6″?1

Yes, please.

I wonder of they make chaps that tall?

Ironically, that’s an issue he faces with the bike he wants most. It’s not built for men his height.  The sales rep said that even with an extension package, it would probably be uncomfortable.

So, he’s trying to sell The Attorney on an alternative.

An alternative that The Attorney doesn’t currently see as an alternative.

He’s a man who wants what he wants.

Maybe this will put the whole idea to rest.

If only motorcycles were not so dangerous.

That’s my problem with it.

He broke is arm last spring when he took a spill running.

What’s a bike wreck going to do to his brittle old bones?

I’m joking.2

If only there was a way to have the wardrobe without the bike.

But a leather daddy stepping out of a BMW kind takes the puff out of the pastry, no?

  1. He’s 6′-5″ 

  2. A little.  He is 53. 


Good Read



This could be me and The Attorney.

If they both had books.

And I had better legs.

And if The Attorney would sit around naked.

He won’t.

I will.

But, we do sit like this on the sofa all the time.


Opposite ends.

Legs inside legs.

Mine inside his.

And eventually, feet in crotch.

His in mine.

It’s surprising how strong a grip a runner’s feet have.

More gripping than a good read.

And almost as strong as the grip he has on me in general.



It Gets Longer


So, this guy goes out to a bar one night.

Not his usual thing.

He’s not the type.

But it was a holiday weekend.

He’s standing in the corner, trying his best to blend in.

Even so, he’s getting eye-balled by another guy.

The other guy is not the bar type either.

But for some reason, there they both are.

Although neither for very long.

They leave.


Which led to a hot tub.

And pancakes.

But nothing more.

Because the one guy isn’t big on one night stands.

Actually neither is the other.

They both prefer a little longer investment.

And now, eight Good Fridays later, The Painter and The Attorney have six-and-a-half years in the bank.

You know if you treat six-and-a-half right it gets longer.


Team Mates



Although not often, I’ve definitely used the term “boyfriend” in reference to The Attorney before.

In fact, I remember the first time I accidentally said it out loud.

But that was when things were still very new between us.

The reason I don’t use it much now is because “boyfriends” always makes me think of fresh-faced twenty-somethings.

At 37 and 52, we are a far cry from those days.

Even though we have become as routine as an old married couple, I can’t really say “husband.”

I don’t see a ring on my finger.

Nor do we share a home, vehicles, bank accounts, etc.

Plus, this is Tennessee.  Birthplace of the Tea Party.1

“Sidekick” implies that one is in charge of the other.

We both have alpha tendencies, depending on the time, place, or activity.

So that’s probably why I mostly use the word “partner.”

It’s the best fit for us.

Because good partnerships balance each other’s strengths and weaknesses toward a better whole.

And in that regard, we make a pretty good team.

Which is pretty much what makes any sort of relationship a success:


Maybe the right word is “teammate.”

I kinda like that image.

  1. Not the tea dance. 


Night Watchman


I spend a lot of time watching The Attorney sleep.

I know that makes me sound like some slightly pervy psychotic obsessive/compulsive.

And I will admit to being obsessive/compulsive about a lot of things.

As well as pervy about slightly more.

But, really it’s because I sleep fewer hours than he does.

So, I will lay in bed with him.1

Reading or blogging or playing with his iPad.

While he snores.

And when I get bored, I watch.

Not that much happens.

True to his cognizant nature, he is sort square and straight-laced when asleep, too.

The knot of his sleep pants is perfectly tied, and there is not the slightest bit of stretch in the neck of his t-shirt.

He always sleeps on his back.

Like a corpse.

And his chest swells deeply with every measured breath.

Other than that he doesn’t move.

Not unlike a corpse.

He has often woken up the next morning with whatever he had been reading laying on his chest and his classes perched on his head, both undisturbed.

If they are ever disturbed, it’s only if he gets up in the middle of the night2 or if I put them away so I can wrap an arm and a leg around him as I go to sleep.

That’s just a starting point for me.  Because I’m a restless sleeper.

And I tend to change positions a lot.3

But no matter how I am, I can always counting on rolling over to find The Attorney right there.

Solid.  Stable.

And a bit conventional.

Just the way I’d expect him to be.

There’s a certain security in that.

It helps me sleep.

  1. On those nights we get to spend together. 

  2. Choose your own interpretation of that.  Most will be valid. 

  3. See footnote 2. 


No Distractions



I’ve been wanting to frame a picture for The Attorney.

But, I don’t like most pictures of my face.

That’s why in most pictures you’ve seen I offer some sort of distraction.




As much as I am an exhibitionist, narcissism isn’t really in my skill set.

But, every once in a while I take a picture that I like.

I like this one.

Even with the distraction cropped out.1

  1. There may be a NSFW version out there somewhere. 


Conversation Starter



It’s how we did it when I was a kid: Halloween costumes made from whatever we could come up with in the house.

So, that’s how I did it at age 37.

Kilt, boots, wife beater, cock ring, and my Grandaddy’s hat.

The only thing I bought was the little mask, because I wanted to be sure it stayed on good.

“Everybody is going to ask you what you are supposed to be.”

I didn’t think it mattered what I was as long as it was a costume.

If nothing else, it would be a conversation starter.

But The Attorney was right.

“What/Who are you?” was one of the two Questions of the Night.

I decided that I was some sort of Scottish carny. But on the drive over, he came up with “The CockRingmaster of Cirque Mc Soliel.”

I stuck with “Scottish carny.”  It was an easier answer.

The second Question of the Night, I expected.

“Are you wearing anything under the kilt?”

Or some variation on that.

The first person to ask was The Attorney.

I gave him an “of course not” look.

Apparently he read it as an “of course” look.

So, imagine my surprise at his surprise when he discovered I was wearing the kilt properly.

I was mostly surprised that he made the discovery at the party.

All night long I was very careful about how I would sit, so that no one would really know.

Mental note: next time take standing on balconies into account, too.

Talk about your about conversation starters.


Moon Rise


“Look at the moon.”

It was The Attorney, calling me just a few minutes ago, on the phone.

He sounded sleepy, which makes sense since we had a “goodnight” chat about two hours or so before.

“What are you doing up?”

He told me that he had gotten out of bed to pee and when he laid back down, he noticed the moon was beaming in through the blinds.

He knows I love the moon.

So, he wanted to make sure I saw it.

It happens a lot.

We talked for a few minutes.

About the moon; how clear the sky was; the stars.

I imagined us laying there, watching it all from his bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I said.

But he knew I was lying. I think he could tell a difference in my breathing.

He encouraged me to continue.

So, I did.

And he watched the moon while he listened.

Until it was over.

Then another “good night.”

And so it was.

[ fin ]


FancyLand Follow Up


A lot of opinions and questions sprung up from my post about the upcoming Halloween party.

I may have come across as more bothered by the Fancy Gays than I really am.  I don’t like spending time around this particular group of guys, but I’m not losing any sleep over them either.

Some of you wondered if The Attorney is aware of my feelings or their behaviors.

Yes.  He is.

Even though they are all thrown together in many social situations,  he stopped inviting them to functions at his house a long time ago.  He is polite and cordial to them, but he’s not interested in them crossing his doorstep.

The funny thing is, that probably only strengthens their feelings that I’m an interloper.  But that’s okay.  I appreciate the effort on his part.

Whether I want to or not, I think I should go to the party because the The Realtor is the host. Sure, he is Super Deluxe Fancy Gay, but we get along great and I consider him a friend. In fact, he is The Attorney’s best friend.1  I don’t want to offend him.

And I don’t think it’s fair to make The Attorney go alone.  Of all the compromises and sacrifices you make in a relationship, this is a pretty minor one.

And it offers the bonus of relentless “payback” sex.

So, maybe a loan shark or repo man costume is the way to go.

Thanks for all the feedback, support, and ideas on the matter.  The best part was seeing all of you engage each other and sort of get a dialog going.  I love when readers interact.  I encourage y’all to do it more.

I only ask that you treat each other with respect and don’t stir up trouble.

But, I don’t really need to say that you guys.

My readers are the best.

  1. Other than me, of course. 




I’ve been trying for two weeks to come up with a costume for a Halloween party I have to attend this weekend.

To be honest, I haven’t tried really hard.

Because I don’t want to go.

For two reasons:

1) I don’t like dressing up in costumes. 2) I’m going to be in a group of people who don’t care for me.

I have to go because The Attorney doesn’t want to go alone.

He has to go because the party is being hosted by his best friend, The Realtor.

Now, The Realtor and I get along great.  We often spend time with him.

But, some of their mutual friends, a group I call the Fancy Gays…well that’s another story.

I call them that because the are all gay men of a certain income who live off their momma’s money, wear the right clothes, attend the right parties, drive the right cars, etc.  They think of themselves as carrying Gold Fancy Cards.

And they turn their noses up at people like me.

It comes from the fact before me, they all had been working on getting him matched up with another member of their group.  Apparently, things were looking promising until I came along.

The fact that I am not of their social standing was just the icing on the cake.

Or the piss in their Wheaties.

And in five or so years, they still have not quite gotten over it.

To be fair, they are not mean to me, or display any kind of direct hatred.  It’s very subtle.

And very cold.

It would be easier to take if they disliked me because of who I am. Other than The Realtor none has taken the time to get to know me.

They disliked me because of what they think I am: a country home wrecker.

What’s interesting1 about their actions is that The Attorney wasn’t born into FancyLand either.  He actually grew up in the country.2  But, now that he is pretty much a self-made man and fairly high profile, they see him as someone to be connected with.

I compare this with another group of The Attorney’s friends, the Saturday Gang.

The Attorney has had season tickets for University of Tennessee football for a long time.3 So have several people who have seats in the vicinity of his.  Over the years, they have all become friends.

These folks are all straight couples who have the money and position to carry Platinum Fancy Cards.4 We socialize with them only for a few hours a handful of Saturdays a year, so they’ve had nowhere near the opportunity to get to know me on any real level.  But, never once have I not felt a part of it the gang.  They have welcomed me from day one.

I can be myself, and it’s no big deal.

So, maybe my Halloween costume should involve a mask.  The Fancy Gays don’t seem to want to get beyond the surface anyway.

  1. read: hypocritical 

  2. I was actually born in the city and moved to the country as a teenager. 

  3. Once you have them, you don’t give them up. 

  4. Some qualify for a Black Fancy Card. 

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