That Afternoon...

It was late December, a few days before New Year's. The walk on the Cornish was his idea, but I didn't mind; I was enjoying his company. With my hands deep inside the pockets of my jacket, we walked side by side; the hustle and bustle of the busy sea-side sidewalk all around us. Neither one of us spoke; however, I, for once, didn't find the silence to be so unsettling. As we passed the lighthouse, his white canvas laptop bag with the red-linings slung over his right shoulder; I moved towards the silver railing and leaned forward against it.
I've always enjoyed walks on the Cornish; although it had always been difficult to convince one of my friends to come down with me. They all thought it was a "Towney thing" to do, so I was glad to know that he enjoyed the walk as much as I did. He stood next to me, casually placing the bag on the ground between his legs, and gently crossing his arms over the railing that separated us from the sea below. Again no one spoke; both of our eyes focused on the horizon. Although it was December, the weather hadn't really turned cold yet; it was chilly, but manageable. In the distance, a few fishermen in their tiny rowboats were still casting their nets into the Mediterranean Sea; hoping to get one last catch before the sunset.
"If you could throw one thing in the sea, what would it be?" I asked him, it was more of a thought that I had spoken out-loud, but I was interested to know what he would answer.
"That's a random question, but I'm not really sure. You?"
"I'll throw away my cell-phone," I replied, toying with the device that lay in my right pocket.
He laughed. Even though we were surrounded by people, my ears registered his laugh only; it was as though there was no other sound but his laugh. "Why so?"
"I just think it's strange how obsessed we've become with having to know who's contacting us throughout the day. Like, why would I need to be reached at all times?"
He didn't reply and I didn't continue.
The sun cast its last rays, shading the sky in a fiery shade of orange. The waves splashed lazily against the rocks, spraying the locals that stood on the rocks, splashing in the shallow ends of the sea. A light breeze ruffled the leaves of the palm trees that lined the edges of the Cornish... And throughout all of that, I was watching him out of the corner of my eye. He had goosebumps all over his arms and he rubbed his hands over them; hoping to warm himself a little. The sun seemed to bathe him in a warm glow that made my heart-rate quicken a few beats faster. There was a simplicity in the way he looked and dressed that, to me, made him look beautiful. It was the way he carried himself that had drawn me to him; like a magnetic force. His white cheeks and the tip of his nose had turned a light shade of pink because of the cold; I fought the urge to wrap my arms around him and offer him warmth. I think it was at that moment, when neither of us spoke, that I started to fall in love with him. Even though cars passed, children screamed with giddy laughter, bits and pieces of people's conversations wafted around us; I felt as though, we were the only two people standing on that strip of the Cornish. All the sounds seemed to mesh together, creating the perfect symphony that described the emotions, feelings, and thoughts that were going through my head.
"Coffee! Coffee! It's good for your brain! Coffee! Coffee! It gives you power!"
The moment was over and I was brought back to the present. We both looked at each other and started to laugh.
Evening was well on its way and tiny stars started to dot the night's sky. A plane flew in the distance and I knew that in a few days, he would be leaving as well.
"What do you say we head back?" He suggested, zipping up the front of his gray windbreaker. I nodded and cast one last glance at the sea.
I followed him back to my car, all the while knowing that I'll always remember that afternoon with him...

Hungover You...

Through the smokey interior of the room, I saw him make his way towards me. He was wearing an almost translucent white button-down shirt that showed just a tad of his bronzed smooth chest and toned abs. His smile was sly and sexy; his eyes twinkled with mischief, the kind that is accentuated with the help of alcohol. He danced to the pulsating music that radiated from the speakers overhead. He pointed at me as he mouthed to the lyrics. I gave him one of my 'Come on over here' smiles, followed by a wink. He took the bait.
He sat next to me and I leaned forward; making sure I placed my hand on his knee. "So you enjoying yourself?" He asked me, his eyebrows shot upwards as I moved my hand up to his thigh; making it seem as though I was oblivious to what my hands were doing.
"Not really. This party is pretty lame. What are you thinking of doing afterward?" I rolled my eyes as one of the party-goers attempted a lame striptease. Thank God I had drank at least three glasses of wine before seeing that; there was no way I could have handled seeing that awful sight sober.
"I'm not sure. What are your plans?"
"It depends..."
"On what?"
"Whether or not it includes you..." The words coming out of my mouth were cheesy and corny; as though they were written for a horrible porno movie.
Cue in sex music.
He liked that answer because the smile on his face said it all. He brought his face closer to mine; our lips only centimeters apart. I smiled and pulled away. The party was lame; I needed to entertain myself and he would do just fine.
He was an acquaintance of mine and he had slept with half of my other acquaintances. I always knew he had a thing for me because I had always said No to his advances before; but I was willing to make an exception tonight. I was feeling down and dejected; I needed some release and he was the perfect outlet for it.
He stood up and danced to the music some more; moving his index finger over my chest, under my chin, and then placing it on my lips. I turned my face away - let's see how long this chase can last. That was when he grabbed me by my shoulders and roughly dragged me towards a secluded area. I never minded being rough-housed...
The hallway was dark, the only light that was supplied was courtesy of the street-lamp outside the window. He had me pinned against the wall, his hands exploring every inch of my body. I could feel his lips all over the nape of my neck; his breathing was heavy. His body crushed mine and my hands ran up and down his back; at times digging my nails into the thin fabric of his shirt. His lips searched hungrily for mine. My heart was beating wildly in my ribcage. It had been a while since I've acted this way; made-out with a guy I didn't know that well in an isolated area. It looked so shady and yet so sexy. Like the expert that I had heard that he was, he ran his hand under my black T-shirt, caressing my abdomen. I shivered at his touch, his hands were cold. With his other hand, he encircled it around my waist, pulling me closer to him. What am I doing? Do I want this to go further? The thoughts went through my head. But then I heard another voice, one that was saying that I was thinking too much, one that was telling me to just let go of my inhibitions and to enjoy the buzz of the alcohol and the moment I was experiencing with him.
"Let me fuck you Gerry," he slurred.
Gerry? Ugh...
I had suddenly lost interest; I was no longer in the mood. I put my hands roughly on his chest and pushed him off me.
"What's wrong habibi?"
I stared into his red-rimmed eyes and drool dripping off the side of his mouth. He looked and smelled like a Vodka bottle with arms. I shook my head and made my way back towards the party.
A few minutes later, I found myself drunkenly entering Bardo. The place was packed with bodies blocking the entrance. I forced myself inside. I never admit it to a lot of people, but I actually enjoy crowds. I like the feeling of being lost in a sea of people, our bodies moving as one, a collective mass and force - and if you're lucky, you can always have some stranger grab your ass!
Classy, I know.
He saw me entering Bardo. He waved me towards him; I was just glad I had found a familiar face at that point. He frowned when I approached his table. "Are you alright?" I can hear the concern in his voice. "I'm fine. Just a little tipsy, I had more drinks than I usually allow myself," I admitted. He nodded and stood up. "Here, take my seat," he offered. I declined at first, but he insisted. He then disappeared but returned after a minute with a bottle of water. "Here, you're going to need this," he handed me the ice-cold water. I gulped it down, enjoying the feel of the refreshing liquid; it was as though, I was washing away Buttons' sloppy kisses and Vodka breathe off me.
He was a Medical Doctor (MD); he was charming and a true gentleman. He kept talking to me saying that it would sober me up. He made me laugh and he ran his hand up and down my back, sending some thrills up my spine. His chocolate brown eyes were welcoming and sincere. My purpose for going to Bardo that night was to see whether I'd "accidentally" bump into Glasses and then a scary realization dawned upon me. I had acted the way I did because I was hurting; I was upset and didn't know how to express my frustrations. I was trying to mend a broken heart by acting like a complete idiot. I was feeling lonely; I wanted to feel desired and wanted, and that was exactly what Buttons had offered me - but it wasn't the way I wanted it to be... Not with him at least and not in some sketchy looking hallway that smelled musty and in a bad need of a cleaning.
I was still hung over Glasses... I thought that if I drowned my sorrows in alcohol and meaningless hook-ups I might feel better; I'd be able to move on and put him behind me. However, as I stared into MD's brown eyes, all thoughts about Glasses seemed so far away; I almost forgot why I was there in the first place, I couldn't care less if I did see Glasses or not.
"Listen Gary, I want you to message or miscall me the minute you get home. I want to make sure you get home safely," he said.
Later that night, once I was settled into my bed; I messaged him. In less than two minutes, my BlackBerry buzzed. He had replied. As I read his text, my head started to clear up. I was no longer hung over... In fact, I'd never felt more sober in my life.

Delete You...

Delete. Erase. Block. Remove.
How easy it sounds removing people from your electronic and communication portals these days; it got me wondering: Would it be that easy removing people from your real-life? It would be nice if, with a click of a button, one could erase another from his life; never having to contact them ever or see them again.
Maybe, as with the improvements in technology, we have evolved into specimen that can easily "remove" others from our lives. Could we have developed an ability to just 'forget' about those we once considered friends and loved ones? Perhaps we have created a 'mental switch' in our minds that automatically shuts and deletes people from our consciousness and memories.
"You have to remove him off your Facebook! Then you delete his number from your phone! Do you understand? You just have to!" My friend told me on the phone as I recently relayed to him my recent run-in with the usual boy-drama.
"Why do I have to delete him?" I asked.
"You just have to! It's the only way you can move on with your life," he replied with an exaggerated sigh; I think he felt as though he was talking to a five-year old.
As I sat in bed deleting every message he ever sent me (even though I later on found out I could have 'mass deleted' everything), I couldn't help but feel childish for doing that. Did by deleting a "Hey, want to have coffee?" message going to change the way things ended between us? Was it going to bring him back to me? No, it wasn't. But I decided to listen to my friends and continue with the task at hand.
"Whatever you do, don't read the messages! It'll just make you want to call him or text him again!" I could hear my friend's voice in the background - but I did read the messages. Every single one of them. I reread the 122 messages he had sent me in the past two months. I smiled at some of them because they were simply so lame, like this one: "Here I am trying to shit, but all that came out was a fart!"
Poetic, I know...
I would be lying if I said I didn't want to message him and be like, "Hey, this really was a misunderstanding. Let's just start over." But for some reason, something held me back. It was that 'mental block button' I think we acquired throughout the 90's.
After I had deleted his messages, I took a long deep sigh because I knew I had to do the hardest part next: I had to remove his contact info... and that included everything: cell number, e-mail address, and even birthday (yeah, I'm one of those people who takes their 'Contact Info' really seriously...)
Delete contact from Phone-book and SIM Card?
Yes.
Are you sure?
Yes.
Done.
It's like he never existed. In less than one hour, I had managed to remove him from my life - figuratively speaking, of course. For some reason, I didn't feel 'exhilarated' or 'liberated' as my friend described it would be. In fact, I felt immature and pathetic. I had spent an hour rummaging through my phone erasing text messages - how sad was that?
As I turned off the lamp on my bedside table, I stared at my cellphone. With its sleek black cover and shiny buttons, I wished my heart was programmed the same way my BlackBerry was. I doubted my BlackBerry felt hollow or empty after deleting everything about him like my heart did.
Right before I felt sleep making my eyes heavy, a thought crossed my mind and I couldn't help but smile. What if I didn't really delete him but sent him to my 'Recycling Bin' instead? I could always restore him, right? As memories of our time spent together came back to me as I drifted off to sleep, I realized that no matter how much I tried to rationalize things, the truth was evident: No matter how hard I might try to delete him from my life, he'll always hold a special place in my heart...

The Overdose...

Sometimes, right in the middle of something, you get an epiphany; an awakening of some sort and realize that it was all in your head - the words that he said, the things that he did... They were probably there, but you just misread them; or did the mistake of reading too-much in them. It's like being on a drug and then, when you think you can take just a little bit more; the overdose strikes. That's exactly how it happened with me and Glasses...
Again, against the advice of my friends, I decided to spend some time with Glasses; I was rationalizing and justifying my wanting to hang out with him by telling myself and my friends that I was doing him a favor by helping him out. But I knew that was far from the truth; I just needed my "Glasses Fix". The first mistake that I did was spend four consecutive days with him, which usually started at 5 p.m. and sometimes didn't end till midnight. He needed help with his apartment, so I offered to help him get it together. I would be lying if I said I wasn't having a good time, in fact, it was pretty enjoyable. As I leaned against his kitchen counter and watched him shelf away the goods we had just purchased from the grocery store; I realized how much of a "coupley" week we had together - it was like we spent four days "playing house". The four days we spent together made me comprehend how much I wanted to do those things with a boyfriend, not a friend. I walked towards the couch in the living room and waited for him. He then appeared and sat on the couch opposite to mine. Throughout the time we spent together, I got the feeling that he was sending me mixed signs and signals about what we meant to one another. As music wafted into the room through his laptop, he patted the empty seat next to his and said: "Why are you all the way there? Come and sit here, I'm not going to bite you." It was comments like that and his offer of whether I wanted to move in with him in the beginning of summer that made me cautious about the things I said and did whenever I'm around him.
After spending most of the afternoon and evening together, he suggested we have dinner in Gemmazeh. It was at the restaurant that it hit me of what an idiot I was... By the time food was served, we had run out of things to talk about. Mid-way through the main course, he started to simultaneously text his friends and ask them what they were up to; flirt shamelessly with the waiter in front of me; chain smoke; and gulp down his wine like it was apple juice ("You sip wine... not gulp it!" My mom once said to me. I wanted to share that with him but thought he was too drunk to appreciate the humor behind it). As I watched him 'demonstrate' his multitasking abilities, I couldn't help but wonder why it took me so long to realize what a big mistake this all was. I was a bit mad because it took me a while to realize what I really was to him... Nothing more than a "time-filler". He'd needed someone to hang-out with because he was feeling down about breaking up with his boyfriend in New York, and everyone knows misery loves company and that is exactly what I was: company. Who else is he going to ask to hang out with him? Why... No one other than single, pathetic, and desperate Gary! Who else was ready to drop everything and meet him whenever and wherever he wanted? Why... no one other than Gary! Like an epiphany, it all came to me right there... I was no longer allured by him, in fact, he looked sloshed and drunk. The wine that had tinted his lips a soft pink hue might have made me melt a day before, but the effect had worn off me. Now, he just looked pathetic; but I looked even more pathetic. I had allowed myself to fall head over heels over someone who wasn't even worth it; who wasn't even remotely interested in me. I couldn't wait to get out of the restaurant and head home; luckily he ordered the bill without even asking if I was ready to leave.
Classy...
On the way back to his apartment, neither of us spoke. He had his hands deep inside his pockets; occasionally removing them to reply to a text from a friend. Once at his place, he turned to me and said: "Okay, bye budz!" And with that he walked off.
Budz! Wasn't that the nickname of that basketball playing dog, "Buddy"?
Budz!
I watched him being engulfed in the darkness that surrounded his building and I knew that whatever feelings I did have for him were now completely over. His parting words were all I needed to hear.
As I drove back home, the bustling streets of Beirut never asleep, I thought about the week I had with Glasses and I came to the conclusion that I did learn something about myself: I am ready for a serious, long-term commitment; one that includes not playing house but actually living in with someone - taking those steps that a real couple does; however, I wasn't going to do that if I wasted my time with the douches I've been hanging out with. As I got into bed that night, I made a vow to myself: I will never allow myself to become weak like that ever again; I will no longer be as naive as I was. A part of me was glad that I didn't act on those misread signs that he was giving off - I would have been horrified if he had rejected me point-blankly to my face.
The overdose... Those four days were all it took to get my dose of Glasses that was enough to get me off my bad habit... Now, it's time I start to detox him from my system.

My Hands

You can tell when some people are either lying or nervous because they give off a sign; for some it may be a nervous giggle or laugh, for another it might be a twitching eye; but for me, it's my hands. I may pretend to be acting all calm and collected, but in fact, my hands would be all over the place; I would start to talk with the use of exaggerated hand gestures, flailing them around. Lately, I'd been trying my best to put some distance between me and Glasses; but, me being the idiot that I am, I decided to see him the past week. All throughout the time we were together, I tried my best to seem nonchalant, poised, and aloof about him; but my hands were telling another story.
For the past week, I had been doing all the things to keep him off my mind and when I thought I'd be alright seeing him again I found out how wrong I really was. My hands they start shaking with anticipation again and they don't seem to understand. Whatever peace of mind I had about him was shattered. My hands just don't seem to grasp the idea that I'd never be able to run my fingers through his hair; I'd never be able to trace the contours of his face with the tips of my fingertips; I'd never be able to cup his chin and bring his face close to mine for a kiss; I'd never be able to wipe away those tears from his face; I'd never get the chance to run my fingers up and down his back, feeling the thrill of knowing how close he is to me; and I'd never get to know what it must feel like to hold him tightly in my embrace.
My hands long to reach out to his; quietly trying to break the shield I had built around myself for so long. For you see, my hands only agree to hold his and they can't seem to let me go... But my hands will never get to hold his the way they want to. We touched, just once when he banged his hand, and once our skin met he pulled away as though he was burnt.
My hands wave to him goodbye, watching him embrace another; all the while knowing, they'll never get to touch him like his lover can.
My hands...
They just won't let me go....
My hands just don't seem to understand...
My hand only agrees to hold his hand...

Afraid...

This weekend we celebrated my grandfather's 91st birthday. As my grandfather (or Dede, as we call him) blew his candles, he started to cry. When my father asked him why the sudden outburst of tears, Dede replied by saying that he just realized he was getting closer to dying. I found it so surprising that at 91, after having lived a sufficiently satisfying life, my grandfather was petrified of dying... And then I asked myself: Why are we really scared of death?
As I lounged on my bed that night, I thought about the reasons people were so afraid of the grim reaper and the answer dawned on me... People were afraid of being forgotten, of life moving on without them, of realizing that your loved-ones might mourn you for a while but eventually they will learn to continue living without you. It's upsetting to know that the world will keep on going on as though nothing has changed, with or without you. It's like being invited to a party, but for some reason you were unable to attend it. You get upset because you missed out on the catfight, the bitching, and the fun gossip that was raised that night. Party-goers might ask where you are, but after a while, they just forget that you're not there and continue to enjoy the party without you.
Think about the ancient Egyptians, why did they build those enormous pyramids? Yeah, they believed in an afterlife; but they did them because they wanted to leave a legacy - something to be remembered for. The same was true about Achilles, the immortal soldier. He knew he was immortal, but he wanted to leave a mark in the world; that's why he fought in Troy, the battle that eventually got him killed (the poor thing did not know that his one weakness was his heel...) We are not scared of death... We are scared of being forgotten. It's plain and simple, albeit a little self-centered too if you really think about it. American poet, Maya Angelou once wrote in a poem "People might forget what you said; they might forget what you did; but they will never forget how you made them feel." I truly believe that that is real. At the end of the day, I really don't care if someone made a million dollars before dying - it's important to know what he did with that money that really counts. Maybe he donated it to charity, or maybe he spent it all on hookers and hash... Perhaps that is how he wanted to be remembered. However, this quote did stir a dilemma in me: If people act in ways to be remembered, is anything they do then really altruistic or is it just for "show"? Some might say: "Who cares? As long as they are doing something..." But it would be interesting to explore the real motive behind their actions, I suppose.
Being highly intrigued with the topic of death - I know, I can be morbid at times, and I was having a rough weekend - I decided to ask my sister Leah what she thought about people's fear of death. I asked her if people's "death-phobia" was a rational one. She shrugged her slender shoulders and answered my question with one of her own: "What's the purpose of life anyway?" She then turned on the E! Channel, signaling the end of our very "philosophical debate" - The Kardashians were on and Kourtney's water just broke. But I was too engrossed with the new issue Leah had raised: What really is the purpose of life? Is there a unity to it all or is life a fragment of different vignettes of our lives, randomly collaged together to give us a semblance of unity? Was everything that happened to me in the past, meant to happen? Where there two diverging paths in the concrete jungle that is my life, and I have taken the wrong path at one point? I know I have met a lot of disappointments (sorry all the guys I went out with... You were all sad excuses) along that path... But I couldn't stop but picturing my life as a short movie montage with cheesy music playing in the background. I'm not expecting an answer to these questions, I know they are rhetorical and up for debate; but I enjoyed contemplating about them throughout the day. "Food for thought," as my cultural studies teacher Mr. Smith would have labeled them.
Death... It creeps on us and no one can avoid it. No one is spared, we are all going to end up six feet under one day - there is no need to sugar coat it or beat around the bush about it. However, Existential Psychologists and Philosophers once wrote that accepting death and learning that our fate is to die, that is when we start to live a genuine life. We start to live the life we want for ourselves, not the one dictated by those around us. I always find the question: "What do you want to do before you die?" so annoying. I'm not sure what I want to do next week, let alone think about the things I want to do before I cease living. I always answer: "Not have to answer this question." I think living life by following a "list of things I want to do" is not fun anyway... It just seems so "organized" and pre-planned".
Death... We all flirt with death... We all get a taste of what it would feel like to have the world continue to go on without us... We do it every night we fall asleep. For if you come to think of it, death is just a deep sleep... And as far as I'm sure, no one is afraid of sleeping...

You're My Drug...

Hey...
With that one little word in that simple text message all my resolve melted - I was hooked on him again. Every part of me urged me not to respond to that SMS, but like an addict, my cravings to see him... to be with him... took the best of me. I replied to the message, my body itching all over.
"Gary, don't see him. You know he's a jerk, he just calls you when he wants something. He knows what buttons to push..." My friends repeatedly told me, but I wouldn't listen - No... I didn't want to listen. It's like telling a cigarette smoker that smoking causes cancer; they know that, and yet they still smoke anyway. It's the same with me... I know he's bad for my heart, but I still go for him anyway.
"It's the last time I do this, I promise!" I said to my friends, knowing deep down that it was the farthest thing from the truth. I had made that promise the last ten times already... And I hadn't stuck to it then.
He strolled casually towards me, a sly sexy smile lingering on his lips, his hazel colored eyes twinkling behind the dark rimmed glasses he wore.... My heart was pounding frantically in my rib-cage, it felt as though I had snorted a line of cocaine. My hands were sweaty, butterflies nervously fluttered in the pit of my stomach... I was high on everything that he did and said, feeling as though I had just smoked a joint... Nervous about seeing him, yet feeling relieved to know that he had showed up.... He was a sugar-high I couldn't be without, making my head dizzy with child-like giddiness....
I'm drunk on him... and like alcohol he made my judgment hazy, making me want to say things I wouldn't normally say... My inhibitions low, I fight the temptation to run my fingers through his light brown hair... I become a slave to my habit, feigning for his attention... All the while thinking... He's my drug and I can't get enough of him...
When he's gone, I start to feel the withdrawal kicking in... My body - no... my heart - aches... I was crashing... Guilt and a sense of shame start to take place of the excitement and high I once felt only a few hours ago... Why had I done this? Why had I agreed to see him? I felt remorse, the same kind an individual who had been dieting for months suddenly found himself binge eating...
Like an addict, I always tell myself that I can quit whenever I wanted; however, I know that is not true... I can't quit loving him. The only way to stop this addiction is to go cold Turkey; it'll be like trying to quit smoking, I just stop it... Or maybe, I need love rehab... I'm no longer sure. But maybe a part of me enjoys the rush of feelings I get when I'm with him... I would rather feel 'something', then constantly feel 'numb'. Maybe I'm a masochist; I enjoy torturing myself, setting myself out for a heartbreak... Or maybe I'm just an idiot...
Whatever it may be... I just know that he's my drug...

Somebody To Love...

Soulmates... Monogamy... Somebody to love...
These three terms kept me mostly busy during the weekend, I spent most of my time just thinking about them as I listened to depressing country music and watched Beirut drown in rain... And for some reason, it got me thinking...
Soulmates... Do they really exist? Is there one person out there for you? Are we destined to meet that one special person who is out there waiting and looking for us? What if we have already crossed paths and somehow missed each other?
Two years ago, I was really interested in understanding more about soulmates so I had done an extensive research on the subject and I remember reading that the Aztecs believed that we are all old-reincarnated souls and that we carry fragments of our past lives' history, temperaments, and loves... So we spent our whole "new life" trying to reconnect with individual's from our past - even our loved ones; therefore, the Aztecs really did believe in soulmates... They are out there and we always manage to find each other again and again, no matter how far and near we might be. For some time, I had managed to find comfort in that thought... But is my soulmate in Lebanon? I would spend a good portion of my time, imagining my soulmate is out there looking for me, wondering what I'm doing.... But another thought came to me, are my parents really soulmates? Were my parents old souls that had managed to find each other and be together? For some reason, although my parents do love each other, I have difficulty believing that they truly are soulmates or truly meant to be together - they are vastly different from one another. What if someone is dating another individual, but has managed to find that one person who he knows and can feel it in his bones that they are meant to be; should he be true and follow his heart and risk everything by pursuing a silly idea like soulmates?
Can we love just one person? Can we make a promise to ourselves to just love one person? I'm not promoting polygamy or anything, but I just think that it would be a lie to tell someone that you'll love them and just them. This conversation sprung up when I was talking about relationships with a friend mine and I was vehemently arguing about the "value of monogamy," but I started having second thoughts later on. What if I'm dating this amazing guy, but somehow I manage to find another great guy - why should I have to choose between the two? Why can't I love them both? What if the second guy happens to be my soulmate, but I do have feelings for my boyfriend as well? This brings me to the concept of monogamy...
I think monogamy in homosexual relationships are very difficult to maintain and to keep, and that's because there is nothing that "officially" binds one person to another. I'm not saying that there needs to be a law that binds individuals to one another to maintain a relationship; but in heterosexual relationships there are "consequences" for breaking such a vow. Charles Darwin, the evolutionist, said that in order for males to survive they need to sleep with as many women in order to ensure the survival of their genes; however, he adds that society "condemns" such sexual behaviors and that is why monogamy is present. Gay men are wired the exact same way as heterosexual males - they have the basic wiring: needing to sleep with as many individuals to ensure survival, but without a need to establish "monogamy", gay relationships are almost impossible to keep.
At the end of the day, I'm not sure whether such things as soulmates, the "one", or the "love of my life" really do exist and that they are out there waiting and looking for me... It's like spending a fortune on Astrology books that talk about the compatibility of different star signs with one another and after a while you start to realize that it's all bull. With time, I started to come to terms with the notion that believing in soulmates is also a crock of bull - it's a delusion that we entertain ourselves with; a rationale we use to describe why we are still single and alone. Oh... I'm single because I just haven't found my soulmate yet. What if we've spent so much time and energy trying to "find" our soulmate that we have actually missed a great opportunity with an amazing guy who's right under our noses?
Is there somebody to love? I'll be an optimist and say 'yes', but will it be a long-lasting love affair? Will he be your soulmate? The answer to those I'm not quite sure. But if you're like me and think that you "deserve to be loved" and that you "need to be loved," than I'm going to tell you what I've been told many times before: Love happens when you least expect it... So till then, just love the one you're with! And if you're alone, you can always love yourself!