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He told me he could tease me when he was leaving. I told him to go ahead, please do so. I thought he might strip for me. I hoped so. I was seated on the edge of the bed and he was standing in front of me. I waited to see what he would do, hoped he would do something, that he would follow through on his boasting. He kissed me, a beautiful kiss, brief, that I was still tasting even after he had pulled away. He left. I told him to come back if he changed his mind.

I lay in bed and stroked my penis and imagined that the kiss had not ended, that it was still happening, tried to hold on to what that feeling was.

Today, that grasp became even more tenuous, the memories less and less precise, harder and harder to hold on to. I fought through a massive hangover all day at work today, getting about two hours of sleep before waking up. There was a blizzard that swept through the city last evening, dumping about a foot of snow on the sidewalks. I went out to bars in Chelsea last night with friends and with the streets covered in white, with the sky, the city, filled with falling white, flecks of it illuminated here and there by carlights, streetlights, and Chinese restaurant signs, the city took on a heightened sense of beauty that it rarely has. Everything was new, full of potential, yet to be dirtied.

I don't know lines. I never have. Being single now, I am again trying to navigate them, wondering about the possibility of friendships with gay men, so often those lines tested, blurred by desire, by attempts to make out, sleep, or date this or that guy.

I have written a couple people I have not hung out with in a while, gay men. I kind of want to make out with them and have plans to hang out with both of them soon. What they want from these hang outs is unknown. What I want is unknown. I am not sure how to make out with a particular person, if that's why they wrote me out of the blue after a couple years, saying they wanted to meet up, or if it is just for company. This person has gorgeous lips and the only time I have really spent time with him was when we met, when we both, as volunteers, were painting walls for a queer film festival several years ago. I have desired him since that day.

Desire is increasing. It has been absent from life for several months. I am happy it has returned. I will pour wine, slaughter my best goat, and invite the neighbors over for a feast. It has come back home. Let us celebrate.