Something about an older edu cated black man gets me sizzling under the collar. It's the grey streaks on the tem ples in a mist of black hair that catches my eye. The protruding bellies, the grey beards, the tailored suits, the seductive virility, the confidence, the vast continent of wrinkles of polished black businessmen that make my heart throb.
On this hot, muggy Monday evening as I sit on the subway reading, I can't help but notice the distinguished older black man nearby. He has this Kofi Annan look in his navy blue business suit, freshly pressed white shirt and matching tie.
I glance at his ebony face. It's flawless. I try to read my book but can't keep my eyes off this man. I'm burning and yearning with desire.
I reach Finch station and am about to leave the subway when the man slips me his business card.
"I think maybe you will need this," he says in a soft, tender voice. I love the boldness of this man.
"Thanks," I reply with a slight laugh as the subway door opens and we walk up the stairs and chat for a bit.
The man I've fallen for, Kent, is 63 years old yet seems to have the sharp wit and humour of a 20-something like me.
What follows is a spell of romantic dinners at the finest restaurants, movies, theatre, art shows. Kent encourages me to pursue my dreams of becoming a writer. But after three months of intense dating, Kent declares, "Orville, I'm not leaving my wife for you."
"Kent, I know you're married, and I've never asked you to leave your wife," I reply, sipping my Moët champagne in a lovely restaurant. "I'm a grown man, not some high school cheerleader. I enjoy your company, and I'm dating other men on the side anyway, as you know."
"You mean you know this won't lead anywhere?" Kent asks, shocked.
I roll my eyes and stop drinking. I can't believe Kent is serious.
"Kent, I've met plenty of black men on the down-low or in the closet like you. I'm not asking for anything, and I don't expect anything at all. I like being with you. I enjoy your company," I say.
Kent is stunned. We continue eating in silence.
I assure him that I know very well the pressure of being the patriarch, of being in control. That "control," that testosterone strength is what attracted me to Kent. The feeling of knowing that Kent will never be mine is exactly what turns me on about this situation. There are no pretenses. Men who are married are never attainable, and yet they're at my disposal.
Married men like Kent realize that I won't be chasing them down or showing up abruptly at their door. My ambivalence is what keeps Kent yearning for me, and I love it.
In my way, I call all the shots. Kent likes me to be the man, to be in control. We aren't caught up in a tangled web of deception. We know the line not to cross.
"There's also no need to say 'I love you,' Kent, because I don't. I don't love you," I say as we leave the restaurant.
He grabs my hand, and I can see his passion growing.
"I do love you, Orville," Kent says as we kiss inside his car for 30 minutes. The windows are sweaty, dripping with tension. Kent's aggression is overwhelming. I grab his erection in his pants. "Let's go to a hotel," he whispers.
Kent drives us swiftly to a five-star hotel. Soon, I feel his 6-foot-3 body all over me. His thick, chocolate lips glide across me, thrusting me into an oasis of pleasure.
We have passionate sex and leave two hours later. This is the only part of having sex with Kent that brings a tinge of sorrow - saying goodbye.
I don't yearn for Kent when I'm with one of my other men. When he doesn't talk to me for months I forget about him, but when he calls me he's mine for the moment.
What I love about Kent is his wisdom, his insight, his life experience.
I haven't seen him in over two months, yet whenever I see an older black man with a grey beard, a protruding belly or a sweet-looking face, I think of him fondly.