And they aren't "pink." I like to describe them as more "honey colored." At least the hang-y part.

Luke's look like a honey glazed donut. I love the texture, especially when he's about half drawn up.

(See ya top that one, Pink Boy.)

He's right: I had a big, fat, empty hurting hole in me. It was exactly, precisely and magically the size and shape of Luke Furlow. When Luke came back to me, I was whole again. Before that...

I guess I realized what a sorry excuse for a Buddhist I ever was. It's easy to talk about non-attachment when you aren't hurting. And that's the meat of the nut: that you make yourself suffer by the very act of chasing fulfillment, because it's a journey where you can never successfully arrive. Yeah, it was easy to talk. To be sorta self-satisfied, when I had most everything I actually wanted. But my needs changed and I began to need not something but someone. That's a harder thing.

(So's THIS, Your Pinkness.)

Seriously though, I really gained new respect for my granddad. How the hell did he die and leave everything -- everybody he ever loved, everything he ever accomplished, everything he'd owned and created -- and die with that smile on his face? It just makes me shiver to realize what a fucking warrior he was, beneath his gentle sweetness. Whew!

Sorry, I'm not ready to go there, yet. I have this need. I have this incompleteness. I have this craving that is almost like electricity. It makes my eyes squint and my mouth water. And when Luke's lips touched mine after all that time... I sorta wrapped myself up -- PKzipped -- and gave myself to Luke, complete. Right there.

The next touch of his lips unzipped me, just inside his skin, I hope forever.

I hope Forever.

Even writing this makes me sort of suffocate for the touch of him. My lungs tickle. I need air: I need his lips. What a change. Makes me sort of stand back and shake my head.

Luke and his folks moved back into their old place. It needed a paint job inside -- no big rush, except the kitchen -- and Luke was sort of elected to whittle away at it. Which meant I was sorta elected alongside him, if I wanted to spend that time with him. So I did, and we did, and the kitchen got done pretty quick and the rest can be done over the course of the next couple of months.

It's so cool watching him paint. Actually, the painting isn't what's cool, it's watching him move and the way the clothes slide over him as he moves. And remembering what the secret parts look like and thinking about them and anticipating taking his clothes off him and kissing him full and tight and hard and taking each other in our mouths and groaning with the depth of our satisfaction.

It's weird: it isn't so much the release. The time spent giving and receiving that pleasure feels like... like miles passing beneath our wheels as we travel to somewhere on the sex pleasure train. And when we finally do climax... I don't know... the analogy only goes so far: the speeding, the locomotive pounding forward, pounding, pounding... The boiler ready to burst, the groaning of the whistle, the engineer urging him, urging him, urging him... And the boiler swelling, swelling, straining, ballooning with hot, hot steam... And the frantic churning, all else forgotten, and the seams of the boiler straining. Bigger, tighter, ready to go... ready, ready... teetering on the brink... Past the point! First one rivet, then a whole row popping, ripping open and the blast of burning white glory bursting forth. Bursting, bursting, bursting... Out and cooling. Wet and happy. Sloppy. Coasting. Lopsided and beautiful. Oh, God, Luke you are so beautiful to me.