I lied. Not all my exes live in Texas like hurricanes. There are love tornadoes right here in Atlanta.
By Mike Fleming Editorial Director
I TOLD Y’ALL LAST WEEK about my long-term relationships, the two Houston-based artists and forward thinkers who inspired me, made me laugh and put a surge in my creative and metaphysical selves. Of course, it’s impossible to tell the whole story in one column.
Details are left out based on space, relevance and my level of comfort. Some of the juicy personal tidbits are “Nunyas,” as in “Nunya damn business.” Others I’m saving for my memoirs, when I skate outa here and become the next Augusten Burroughs or David Sedaris and find someone to pay me ridiculous cash to air the dirty — sometimes filthy — laundry.
I do go out of my way to tell the truth as I remember it and to be fair to “innocent bystanders.” But stuff necessarily gets left out. Sometimes, it creates lies of omission.
THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED TO Patrick and Jason. They just didn’t fit into the column about my Texas exes and their general ban on sentimentality. These two Atlanta guys loved passionately, cared deeply and were an expert at making me feel like a catch.
The other difference in these to Georgia-grown relationships were that we only dated briefly as opposed to years, although they were intense months. They gave me the nicest cards for no reason, asked me spontaneously to slow dance, called me just to sing a song, and on several occasions, totally bowled me over, which is no easy task.
So as a gift and an apology to Patrick and Jason for not including them in my previous column, I’m going to tell y’all about the sweetest birthday I ever had right here in Atlanta.
IN MY PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS, I grew used to making the least out of special occasions like birthdays or Valentine’s Day. Maybe it meant a nice dinner out or a whole evening in bed. Maybe not. Maybe a card. Maybe not. No big deal.
When I was hospitalized for six weeks several years ago, Patrick would climb into the bed to rub my chest and deliver that healing sweet talk. On my birthday, I was on the mend, but it still hurt to move. He got dressed up and brought a whole setup: a multi-course meal from one of my favorite restaurants, Texas-yellow rose petals that he sprinkled over me and the whole bed, and candles and wine that were strictly forbidden by the hospital.
We ate dessert, talked, laughed and cuddled. I didn’t know what I was missing until I got it: romance that put special occasions in perspective.
It’s not forced Hallmark Holidays. It’s not sex because of the date on the calendar. It’s being together because we wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. He also gave me the most heartfelt letter I have ever received — not just “I love you,” but “Why I love you.” I still have it.
I still think about small, giggly conversations with both those guys in addition to the big laughs and deep discussions. About how sexy they were when it was the furthest thing from their minds.
Like two Georgia tornados, these guys blew in without warning, created disarray on all sides, and were over just as quickly as they began. Why we’re not together anymore is a total Nunya. Theories on the omissions are always better than the facts anyway. Queens talk, so talk, queens!
- ARE YOU COUPLED? Great. Not coupled? Fuck it. Is it your birthday? Great. Is it nobody’s birthday? Fuck it. We have each other all year long, so love yourself and tell someone special how much you care. Appreciate past loves. Make it an excuse to wear something fabulous. Grab your moments, because you won’t get them back.