I moved to Denver determined to live my life as an openly gay man. There is a fifty-year long story behind that statement. I won’t go into it here, but my mind was made up. I knew I needed come out publically. I certainly wanted whatever kind of gay life I could construct in an urban context. Of course, I also had other needs: a job, a place to live, some friends, a connection with a church as a participant (not as staff), and a change of scene to mention only a few of them. I wanted and assumed I would be able to see these needs met to my satisfaction. In less than three months I had enrolled in massage school to learn a trade that would sustain me, rented an apartment, moved in, and started meeting people: students in school, members in the church I had settled on, and eventually in my neighborhood. I did more things such as joined as a member at the Denver Art Museum, got a library card at Denver Public Library, started writing another book for the publishing company I worked for part-time and set up my art studio and massage space in my tiny apartment. I was on my way.
I was having a wonderful time in my new gay world, exhilarated by a sense of freedom I had never before experienced, looking at my day-to-day life with a sense of awe. What would happen next, I wondered. My art matured, my small book went off to the editor, my education changed my perception of the human body, and the city kept opening me to the potential of new wants. I was not greedy, but I did keep myself busy.
Toward the end of my fourth year here, after schooling was completed, my massage practice was proving rewarding, and I was enjoying a number of friendships, I met a man one day at a bus stop, a man who moved me deeply. I wanted to get to know him. I saw him three times on the bus and knew I wanted his friendship. But then he disappeared. For weeks I kept my eyes opened. The season moved from early to late spring. Then I saw him again. I gave him my phone number and encouraged him to call me so we could meet for breakfast or lunch. I really wanted his friendship whether he was also gay or not. I wanted him in my life.
Two months later I heard his voice on my phone. He asked me to call. I did. We began to talk. My want changed. Here’s what I wrote in my Morning Pages the morning after his phone call: “I am pleased, maybe even thrilled. Rafael left me a message. Then I left him a message. Then we talked. [Among other things] he said he wanted us to be friends.
That’s when my feelings changed from want to hope. I wrote: “I want him to touch me. I want to share some kind of love with him. I hope it will work out to be something fine.”
In my usage hope seeks so much more than does want, more in terms of deepest desires, persistent needs, and long-term effects on one’s life. It wasn’t that I quit wanting, but I then began living with an expectation of so much more than any other man had provided me or been able to receive from me. My feelings opened up into a romance the likes of which I had never before entertained. I’d always assumed romance to be a rather hokey and fairy-tale cultural construct but was suddenly living into a dream I had never expected. I had never been so moved and never had received nor given what this new friendship, partnership, love life, and cohabitational thrill that my too-brief time with Rafael Martínez provided. Even though our romance lasted just over four months, its affects and effects linger in my memory, in my body. My mourning his death is balanced with memories of our weeks together.
© 4 December 2017
About the Author
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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