After years of deliberation, I’ve decided to do something for myself. To do what I’ve always wanted. I’ve decided to end my life.

For the last several months I have tried very hard not to be “the clingy ex-boyfriend”. It’s been difficult enough just coming to terms with being “the ex”. Today is the 5th of July and I have been debating whether or not I should just show up at Andrew’s apartment, but I know that won’t matter. So I thought maybe I’d write a letter and mail it, but that won’t matter. Then I decided to write something, but email it, but that won’t matter either. So I’m writing this here, because I need to, and because while I know he will never find this or read this, I’d at least like to think maybe he could. In some twisted way, I imagine a world where someone else might take up this letter and forward it along to Andrew, that’s impossible and wrong of me to do.

This may be my last post to this blog.



Late last year I walked outside of my house in Indianapolis, walked into a wooded area, and sat on a rock crying and ready to shoot myself in the head. As I sat there wondering if anyone would ever even find me, or care, I decided I could at least make one last effort. So, I took a new job and moved here to New Haven. Within a few weeks I found you and I knew I had made the right decision. Then, a couple months later, you left me, and I was in the worst position I’ve ever been in my life.

I wish I had never met you. Despite the fact that I was so enamored with you when we met at Starbucks. I could have talked to you for hours, and we did. Within a couple of days I knew I had found my guy after so many years of searching. I was captivated by your eyes. You are the absolute smartest person I’ve ever met. Even though you hate your chest and your “sea horse nipples” as you call them, I saw you and saw the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. You meant so much to me so quickly, unlike virtually anyone I’ve ever met.

That night you took me to Mikey’s was the best date I’ve ever had. When we were lying on your couch and watching your favorite movie, Amelie, I fell in love with you. I knew it for the first time in my life. No one ever told me when you fell in love the room would shake.

The sex was amazing, the passion I felt for you was sincere and heartfelt, and I thought you felt the same way about me. And when I was feeling the most anxious from having moved away to a new place, adjusting to a new job, and encountering a lot of expenses, you were there and it made everything okay. Everything was okay because I knew that no matter what else would happen around me, you were there.

And then you weren’t. That morning you took your RISE exam at the hospital and later asked me to meet you at Starbucks — the very one we met at — my heart sank into my stomach. I almost threw up at that very second. Sure enough, you were done. Like so many other people I’ve let into my life, you too were abandoning me.

My heart raced. My head spun. My ears buzzed. It was all I could do to walk back to my apartment, get upstairs, shut the bathroom door, and sob uncontrollably for hours upon hours. I wanted to die so much I wished I were already dead so I didn’t have to think about what was happening. The idea that something so important to me could slip away so fast absolutely destroyed me. You called the police, but I wasn’t there, because I was pacing outside. You told me to go to the hospital, but the only thing I really needed was you, and I wasn’t going to get that anymore.

A trip to the ER the next day and a slew of psychological counseling sessions later I still feel exactly the same. I did everything I could to survive just for the hope that maybe, just maybe, true love actually existed and things would be okay. That maybe this was just a bad dream.

But you wouldn’t talk to me anymore, and it hurt me even more. Now, you are the first thing on my mind each morning and the last thing on my mind each night, just like when we were together. This summer we had so many plans: going to the beach, planning a life together, traveling to Canada, Vermont, and Boston. But now, nothing.

I feel the burden of this relationship every minute of every day. I’m terrified of weekends. I’m scared of down time because all I can think of is my time spent with you.

The phrase “I miss you” doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel most of the time. I feel worse having lost you, having evidently screwed up our relationship, than having lost my mother to cancer.

But I can’t think of anything more honest and frank than: I love you, and I miss you, and there’s absolutely nothing in this world that I would not do for you.

There are seven stages to grief: denial, guilt, anger, depression, recovery, and acceptance. People go through stages one through six relatively quickly, as soon as three months. Some take five years. Everyone else is an outlier. I, however, only ever go through three of these stages, usually at the same time, and over a period that can only be described thus far as, “the rest of my life”, as my experience from Kevin 8 years ago defies the five year rule.

I actually sent Kevin, the guy I dated when I was 19 (and he was 26) a message the other day. He did not respond. I know he’s seeing some guy named Joe, they live together, have a cat and a dog, and he seems genuinely very happy. I hope he dies alone in a horrible, prolonged death.

Andrew has not responded to my messages. Some ranging from the very simple to what probably is just a plea for him to tell me something, anything, just so I can try to move on. Or at least pretend to move on. They are the two people I have ever really loved in my life. The two people I desired above all else. And they hurt me very deeply. I will never forget them and I will never recover, because that’s just how I’m wired. I will carry their memory with me, much to my chagrin, for the rest of my life. Not unlike how someone might carry the guilt of murdering someone or killing someone in a car accident or some other life-altering event.

In both instances, I skipped denial and went straight to guilt, knowing it was my fault. Who’s else could it be? If they liked me more, they wouldn’t have left me. Don’t try to quibble about that because you know it’s true. So that leads me to depression and loneliness and ultimately to anger. But I don’t recover from the former before moving to the latter.

Now, today, I feel worse than I ever have in my life. I feel fat, I feel overworked, tired, exhausted, doing things I don’t care about or don’t want to do, being incapable of being loved, worse, being incapable of loving back. All that love I’ve ever had to give has had two very large holes poked in it and I’ve bled out onto the floor. Pumping more in won’t do anything because it’ll just gush out as fast as I can. Plugging the hole is a tall order even for the most precise of surgeons.

I hated my life and felt miserable. They came along and made it made it better for 9 and 2 months respectively, then left me in an even worse position. I’ve been genuinely happy for 11 out of 312 months.

I am hurt most by the fact that the two times I have genuinely opened myself up to a person, that I have let my guard down, that I have lowered my walls, it was a Trojan horse attacking from outside and within. I am guilty of that, depressed by that, and angered by that.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Which means it was a year ago today that I sat outside in a wooded area behind my house in Indianapolis with a gun to my head, crying alone, afraid of the pain, and wishing I was dead. A lot has happened in this year and yet nothing has changed.

A week after Andrew left me, I went to his apartment door where he locked it and refused to answer. Now, a few weeks later, I’ve becoming increasingly more bitter, angry, and depressed. Medication has failed to work, as has therapy, which always leaves me seething with even more anger after I leave a session. At times, it’s been 2 or 3 sessions a week. As I once expected, I was right: nothing is going to help me. It’s very clear to me that the only thing that will help me is precisely what I had for 2 months and lost with Andrew: someone to talk to, someone I know is always there, someone to be with at night and on weekends. Instead, I wake up alone, go to work alone, sit largely by myself, go home alone, eat dinner alone, and go to bed alone. If I were a dog, people would claim I was being abused for lack of social interaction.

And no, I don’t want to go join some stupid club or membership. I need touch and deep emotional love.

Even after a year of doing everything everyone’s ever told me to do to “fix” things, I’m even worse off than I was before.

Andrew left me this weekend. After a lousy week at work I hadn’t been in a good mood (I distaste this new job in Connecticut), Andrew fell out of love with me and dumped me at the same place we met — the Starbucks around the corner from my apartment.

This, naturally, did not go well for me. It’s getting harder and harder to deal with this sort of absolute destruction of my lifelines. After bawling all day, crying non stop through the night, getting in and out of the bath tub with my gun loaded and pointed to my head, I eventually called Adam. He was the only person that I knew was around here.

Ultimately, I cried and cried and cried. In fact, I’m still crying. I haven’t eaten, slept much, or drank much in days. And now, without Andrew, the one thing I had always desired and longed for is gone and I can’t help but feel I ruined it.

He said he wasn’t devoting enough time to work, that “he couldn’t be my everything”. So he left. And I am destroyed to a vapid shell. So much so, Adam had to walk me down to the hospital — the very hospital Andrew works at and I’ve met him outside of so many times — to be checked into the Crisis Intervention Unit.

From there, I waited 11 hours on Sunday to effectively be told, “You should go see a psychiatrist.” I’m not minimizing or embellishing that at all.

I’m desperate to find my guy. The guy Steven was and promised he would be, because all I can remember is him saying, “Don’t worry about things so much. I’m here. I love you.” 

Now, it’s not happening anymore and I can’t stop crying.

Andrew came over for spaghetti and sex Wednesday night. Well, I invited him over for dinner, but the sex was more after-the-fact than anything.

Regardless, we were sitting around the table eating, having a nice conversation about our day. We don’t watch TV while we eat, because both of us have an appreciation for being able to actually talk with each other.

After dinner we continued to sit on the couch and talk and at one point he stops and tells me, “I hope you know that I haven’t felt this happy in … a very, very, long time.”

“Me too,” I said.

He added, “Yeah, but I really really like you.”

“I like you more. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you,” I replied, looking him in the eyes as he got up and straddled me.

Andrew took a breath and said, “I was talking with my friend out in California earlier and I said, ‘I think it’s happening. I think I’m falling in love. This must be what people talk about when they say they have a spark, or an instance connection, or they just ‘knew’ when they met someone.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And then we kissed.

Followers of this site know that I’ve had a long, storied, history of boyfriends, sexual encounters, hookups, romps, flings, and breakups over the years. It’s led me to believe there is no such thing as love at first sight, even though I’d like to. Which is what makes this story so amazing for me.

On Sunday, January 13, I met Andrew. Andrew is tall and slender like me, with dark brown hair and a slight beard, also like me. We met at a restaurant not far from me here in Connecticut and as we talked to each other the hours melted away. Some 6 hours later we were still there facing closing time at the restaurant. We left, vowing to meet again.

I learned that Andrew is a pathologist at the nearby hospital. He’s kind of a geek, like me, in an adorably dorky way. He loves Sci-Fi, intense conversation, indie movies and foreign flicks, and he throws a wild amount of gesticulation into his mannerisms when he’s excited or happy.

After we left, a day or so passed when I tried to contact him again to setup another date. However, his OKCupid profile indicated he either “deleted the account or blocked [me]”. I was a little unsettled, but not terribly upset. I had remembered he gave me his number earlier in the message history and after digging it out I wondered whether I should send him a message or not. After some time, I did:

“Hey Andrew, it’s Lee. I saw your profile was removed on OKCupid. Or maybe you blocked me. If that’s the case, I’m happy to have met you. Get in touch if you’d like.”

About 20 minutes later his response came back:

“I didn’t block you! I deleted the profile. One can only handle so many “Ur hot” messages on there before getting turned off.”

We met again this past Friday night. I walked down to the hospital to meet him and he drove us up to the north side of town. We first stopped at his place so he could change and tend to his dog. From there, he whisked me away to a nearby italian eatery where we again had wonderful conversation and a lovely dinner.

We went back to his place to watch TV. We kissed some, as we had before at times, and it wasn’t long before we were in bed. But this was different.

I’ve never felt like how I feel about Andrew with anyone else ever before. He claims of his handful of dates, he hasn’t either. There is something so burning and passionate about my time with him that it makes time seem irrelevant. No one ever told me that when you have sex with someone so much like you, so in touch with you and in tune with your own mind that the room would shake.

I’ve never had better sex in my life. His upper body is strong, his chest is ample, his core is solid and his cock felt like it was designed precisely for me.

He’s adorable, he’s cute, he’s hot, and he’s both masculine and feminine in all the right ways to me. He has single-handedly made me question whether true love exists or not, and I say that with every ounce of caution I can muster. It’s truly extraordinary and the level of desire and connectedness I feel with him makes it seem like we’ve been together for years. I’m almost not the same person around him, it’s like we’re a new person, so completely intertwined with each other that we form a new mind and soul.

I am excited, giddy, happy, and nervous. I feel a level of assuredness about him, and he about me, that is unparalleled in either of our past experiences, that makes me truly believe this is my guy. In some ways, he reminds me of Kevin, but only better. For me, I’ve never felt more certain in at least believing, “This is my guy.” But it’s with that tale I remain cautious, even as Andrew and I quickly came to the agreement that we are absolutely boyfriends. We are absolutely together.

And he hasn’t stop gesticulating since.

A couple weeks ago I met JP, a dark, handsome, 26 year old Peruvian-born figure here studying digital art at a school in Hartford, Connecticut. We met when I was on Grindr and he messaged me. We spoke briefly, and I do mean briefly, before I mentioned I was sitting just down the street from him at Starbucks. All things considered, he came down to meet me just to chat. Neither of us were interested in hooking up or dating much. We were just there for friendly conversation.

We chatted for several hours and I think we came to the mutual unspoken conclusion that we’d make fine friends, but we didn’t need to date each other.

So it’s only fitting that two nights ago I slept over at his house which isn’t far from me. We were both bored and seemed to have the mutual assessment that, in this instance, sex was like eating: it was just something you did whether you enjoyed it or not, because you needed to.

I went over to his place around 10:30 at night and we chatted over an episode of Glee he had playing on the iMac in his room. After a little banter, he placed his hand on my thigh. I reciprocated by placing my hand on his thigh even closer to his crotch. What’s weird about doing a hookup is how on earth you start. I mean, it’s not like you walk into a room and say, “Hey, I’m Lee.” All while casually taking off your clothes. It’d probably just be easier if gay men just put together some sort of unwritten protocol. Whoever hosts has to open the door naked, the guest has to enter and immediately start removing their clothes, no words are exchanged and sex just happens. Get on that, gays!

His scruffy beard was a first for me, because I’ve not really date anyone with a significant beard before. It wasn’t long until he kissed me, and, true to form for what must be everyone but me, he started kissing me like an octopus suctioning itself to my face. The porn industry has really done the world a disservice by making everyone think kissing has to be large, gaping maws with tongues lashing out like the aliens in Aliens v. Predator.

His body was nice. He was dark, and nothing spectacularly athletic, but he had a manly aura about him that was attractive. As time wore on, we got on to business and as established earlier that evening on Grindr, we at least knew the protocol: I on the bottom, him on top.

To give you some idea of how fast and aggressive he was coming in and out, the condom actually broke. In all my years of using condoms, I’ve never known one to break. It just ripped in two, which in some way was kinda hot. Luckily, we had one left.

Things went lousy, though, when he turned me over on to my belly. Which is fine, except, I can’t do much to enjoy myself. I just get a face full of pillow and no access to my own Pleasure Zone. He came hard and long, and then there was what I loathe most: one guy’s finished, I’m all hot and bothered, and he’s so wiped out anymore motion is just too much to ask.

It took a while, but I finally got off. No help to that episode of Glee playing in the background. Do you know how hard it is to get off when a guy is halfheartedly jerking you off, you’re thinking about the other guys you’re kinda dating at the time, and the cast of Glee is covering a version of  ”Have Yourself a Merry LIttle Christmas” in the background? It’s not easy. I should be awarded a medal.

After we were done, we both walked through the house quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping roommates — a married couple and their two kids. We toweled off in the bathroom, and as we were ready to leave, our naked bodies trapped in this room, we heard voices. Sure enough, they were stirring about in the hallway. We froze, naked, and as soon as we thought the coast was clear, he took my hand and quickly led me through the dark house at a ridiculous speed just shy of running.

He was, quite literally, the friendly hand in the dark.

A couple weeks ago I met Adam. We met online and in short order met at a local bar, which probably should have been a red flag and irritate me (it is in retrospect), but in the spirit of my resolution to say “yes” to more things, I agreed.

He had two Manhattan’s to drink, I had one glass of water. My disdain for the taste of alcohol bothers me in that in removes so many social outings, ins, and outs, from my quiver. I’m much more inclined to meeting at a Starbucks at 6 than a bar at 10.

But it was a Wednesday night, so it was quiet, but I realized why I don’t like gay bars. It was populated with mostly older men, all the types that deserve the moniker of “faggot”, and it pains me to say that. They all sit around with sweaters tied around their necks and seem like old women wrapped in hair and penises.

Anyway, enter Adam who looked attractive enough. I’d rate him as pretty average on all counts. He’s short at about 5’7, and a little heavy in an odd way. His belly looks and is large, which immediately made me think he was on anti depressants, which turned out to be true. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it reminded me when I treated them like a pox, because they do weird things to a person’s body that would only make me feel more depressed and self loathing.

As the evening wore on we were able to speak about politics, governance, his and my work (he’s a graduate student). Which threw another flag to me, because I rightfully equate students with “people who haven’t done anything yet”. They’re also “very likely to move in a year or two”, and he is.

Which has forced me to keep him at arm’s length, because I do not want to get close to someone who is just going to leave. I’ve had enough abandonment to last me a lifetime.

But that hasn’t stopped us from having sex. We haven’t done anything too serious, but I can finally tick off “make a guy cum without actually touching his penis” off my list. He’s hyper sensitive on his neck and elsewhere, which is interesting to say the least. I kinda like having that power over him (*cue evil laugh*).

Last night he invited me out to dinner with his friends, which was another flag. I detest these sort of outings because I never have anything to contribute, and sure enough, this was as awkward as I imagined it. Maybe more so, because I suspected he’s slept with at least one of the 7 other people at the table. In addition, they’re all students, and live in a world I do not. In fact, it reminded me how much I’m glad I don’t have to put up with academic bullshit. Later I peeled off before they could drag me to a bunch of bars for the evening.

Things continue on there, slowly, maybe more slowly than I care for them to, but I can admit that it’s for the best because he’s not the one. Anyone who spends that much time around alcohol is no person for me. It just seems like a lack of creativity, or a personal weakness to me.

And this is just another reason why I’m not a normal person!

Someone on Reddit by the name homosapiens left this in a comment thread I particularly liked and felt like sharing:

In the locker room, I’m looking at you. Checking out your package, seeing how you are hung, how well you to take care of your body. Seeing how it measures up to my own and everyone else’s. Seeing how low your balls hang when you bend over to wash your feet (if you wash your feet). You may never know who I am. You could have a conversation with me, and it’ll go just fine. I might even give you my thoughts on yesterday’s game, but I definitely don’t care. Not at this particular moment in time. [Ahhhh] To be a masculine homosexual in the men’s lockerroom.

One of life’s simple pleasures; a pleasure only a select group could understand – an esoteric pleasure! It requires intense inner concentration and a strong will. I keep my dick under absolute control at all times. Sometimes I’ll let it hang chubby, but only when I want you to see how big I am; not hard enough for you to suspect anything, filled with just enough blood for it to be an impressive tube of flesh. My membership in the locker room is a privilege I take very seriously. I always remain dudely, especially when I hit the showers. I will only look at you long enough for a passing glance. I never stare – that would give me away! After all, I wouldn’t want you feeling uncomfortable. Not here, not in our locker room. Here I can blend in while feasting my eyes, collecting images that I will remember later when I love my self