One crisp March morning twelve years ago I caught the faint aroma of a meal I will never forget. I was standing over on East 12th Avenue talking with another man who, like me, was waiting for a bus. That first sniff came accompanied with a rather high-pitched, scratchy voice that I thought was cute. With it came a beautiful face with big smiles and startlingly warm eyes. I could feel my hunger mounting with these first glances and a few simple words. Twelve years ago I began seeing Rafael, his presence then like an appetizer promising the delight of an entrée, a dessert, even a feast! Twelve years ago I began living in a relationship that, when most clearly expressed, seemed a protracted meal. And I was one hungry guy.
I had no idea there’d be an outcome to this initial meeting at a bus stop, but I certainly realized more and more about my hungering desire. At the thought of him the aromas of a bakery, of a steak house, of a backyard BBQ, and of a candy shop enticed me. All the flavors seemed delicately balanced. The whole experience that persisted for seven months seemed to me like a Chinese meal in which each bite offered a slightly different combination of vegetables, meats, sauces, and memories. And as I said before, there was beauty in the face of my lover, in the delight I saw in his eyes, in a body language of loving excitement.
When on our third unplanned meeting I touched him, I was afraid. Would I ever again have contact? Would he actually be more than a memory? But the touch intensified my desire as it communicated itself to him. Oh, I was there thinking, laughing, teasing, delighting, feeling. I presented myself openly to him in a way I never before had communicated to anyone. During those few moments, I felt as if my salivary glands were taking over my body, yet I realized there were several more glands at work in my responses to the man I had just touched.
When I finally heard from him again, it was a message on my answering machine. I returned it with an invitation to dinner where he met some of my family and asked if there was wine. I said no, but the two of us would go to a nearby restaurant for wine and dessert.
Eventually we got together—actually starting from that dessert and subsequent evening. And we actually cooked for one another, although he was the major cook. Rafael had heard my stories about Dianne. He said, “Invite her for dinner.” He prepared an Italian meal which we ate with relish. This woman who had spent years living in Europe told him she’d never tasted better cannelloni even in Italy. Rafael always insisted his food tasted good because of the love he put into it.
I fixed breakfast one morning when Rafael was running late: pork chops, an omelet filled with chives and cheese, toast, fresh fruit, juice, and coffee. It tasted good to me, and Rafael said he liked it. The cooking seemed easy enough, so inspired by this small success, I fixed him a French meal and from then on I filled all my cooking attempts with love.
We went to Gumbo’s Restaurant for a birthday party for my friend Frank. Rafael ordered an appetizer of escargot, and we both had entrees and drinks. I didn’t really like the snails all that much—too salty—but I loved the new experiences, especially all the new things I was doing with Rafael. I took Rafael to the Rock Bottom Brewery to celebrate our being together. He ordered lots of food without paying any attention to cost. We ate an appetizer, salads, entrées, beer, dessert, and coffee. Although I was nervous over the expense, we had a good time and appreciated our talkative Okie gay waiter. We enjoyed nice conversation together, Rafael and I, and I knew then I wanted us to have a full and long relationship.
When I got home one September evening, Rafael was sitting on the sofa all nicely dressed up. The dishes were not done. Food was cooking, but it seemed over-cooked. He wanted me to taste his beef molé. After he explained a little bit about how he made the molé, he said we needed some pink wine to go with the dish: White Zinfandel or Rosé. He would show me. While I put the lid on the molé and turned off the heat, Rafael walked around the room talking to himself, a behavior I had never before observed in him. He was speaking in French, not Spanish or English. I got his attention and finally got us out the door. We walked to the liquor store. He seemed fine on the walk although the conversation was disconnected and several times I had to steady him. At the store I kept trying to get him to pick out a wine, but he’d wander off down an aisle looking but not seeming to know what he was doing. Finally he held up a bottle of Pinot Noir that cost $30. I made the decision for another bottle. Finally, back at the house, I set the table and asked him to be seated. I couldn’t believe how good the food tasted. He was the only cook I’ve ever known whose food thrilled me even when it had burned. Still, I was worried when he just kept losing track of what he was doing. His illness seemed to be getting worse.
I met his family when he entered the hospital. Near the end of October I wrote this: “I just saw Rafael. He’s with his mom, who is feeding him. She takes delight in that! I loved the picture of the two of them together. This morning as [his mother] was speaking to her mother on the phone, I heard in her voice many of Rafael’s intimate intonations and expressions. He learned them from his mother.” Perhaps he’d learned cooking from her and perhaps that’s why he was so conscious of adding love to his dishes.
Our whole time living together—from PrideFest weekend into the second week of November when he died—seemed a great feast, a meal to remember, and it featured spicy appetizers, rich entrees, and luscious desserts. Early on in our relationship Rafael said that no one had ever made love to him like I was doing it. He had a great need to be loved with a sense of wild abandon and lots of words. I was pleased to love him wildly and verbally. I had never before experienced such sexual emotions. I felt them because he so obviously enjoyed making love with me. His desire stoked my own. When I looked at him, I wanted to hold and kiss him. I wanted to lie next to him. I wanted to touch him and embrace him. I wanted to have sex in many different ways. I felt like a man I knew who in his childhood had often been hungry and as an adult couldn’t turn down food. I had missed out on male to male love and sex for so many years I just couldn’t get enough of it. Our love feast continued to the end of his too-short life. We washed it all down with great doses of love making and spiced each hour with love. We wallowed like two very excited pigs in a mud puddle snorting, oinking, giggling, rolling around, chasing, laughing, and in general celebrating our love. What a meal to remember.
© Denver, 2014
About the Author
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot
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