My cousin James was mysteriously absent from Christmas Eve dinner this past December. We would learn that he had surprised his girlfriend with a cavalcade of packed suitcases and two tickets to Rome, where he would ultimately propose to her in a romantic little cranny of the Coliseum. I overheard Aunt Lucille telling my mother all about it, my mouth full of kielbasa and a half-empty glass of homemade krupnik in my hand. I thought about the previous Christmas I had spent in Japan with Guillermo, how we had proposed to each other at the foot of Mount Fuji, and how we never even told anyone about it.

The first movie Guillermo and I ever watched together was The Birds. We sat on folding chairs in his kitchen, long before it would ever be our kitchen. At the beginning, the main character (played by the epic Tippi Hedren) is in a pet shop buying lovebirds. I’d heard about these birds throughout my life, usually referring to me and a girl on the playground, but now realized I’d never actually seen what they look like. They’re multicolored, no taller than the average pigeon, and can only be sold in pairs. The shopkeeper tells Tippi what the French call them: les inséparables. And as she did, Guillermo took hold of my hand and smiled. I counted each tattoo going up his arm, and down the other, and the two I knew were inside his shirt on each shoulder. We each have exactly seven.

Guillermo and I basically began living together that weekend we first met. It was only until the end of this past summer, when I returned from my year in Japan, that we made it official. We were attached at the hip from the very beginning of our relationship, which didn’t make continuing it on opposite sides of the world any easier. For the record, I have never lived with a boyfriend before.

I’ve gotten nearly every man I’ve wanted — as long as he wasn’t gay. To write my life story using names and places would send a battalion of straight men running out of state with their tales between their legs and their girlfriends’ scratching their heads. Luckily for them, I do not kiss and tell. I don’t fuck and tell either.

The seduction of the straight man is an art form. It is like good comedy. It’s about nuance and timing and knowing when to deliver the punch line. But after nineteen years in this sexual arena, I fear the time has come for me to turn in my resignation. I am still interested in the sport but no longer interested in the game.

I think back on the list of straight men I have seduced. A parking garage tryst with the dishwasher from work while his girlfriend waited to pick him up outside. The Christian boy who let me feel down his pants in the locker room. The basketball player from school who years later closed down the gas station he owned an hour early just to avoid talking to me. And the list goes on. I don’t think of myself as a whore. I don’t believe in sin and I do not believe that sex is a bad thing. I think of myself as an adventurer hell bent on conquering forbidden land. There is a certain empowerment knowing that while mainstream society may reject homosexuality, I am still able to seduce those who have rejected me in public. I have heard it said that it is every gay man’s dream to seduce a straight man. I can attest that momentarily the rush is extreme and the sense of power is great. But it fades…

In an effort to change it up a little this week, I offer a piece of narrative nonfiction, rather than my usual issue-based commentary. Hope you enjoy.