He still is straight, at least he says, when I bother to ask him how he feels about things. I met him when we were young, both just 18, and about to graduate school and attend a local community college. Like an artist with a wet lump of clay, every appealing aspect of this man was lovingly hand-crafted by me through a process of dedication and skill, and a bit of luck. What most of them don't know is that I actually crafted this image. My domestic, masculine, beautiful, deferrant and respectful, socially adept and just slightly sassy partner in life. I see in the eyes of my friends, regardless of their gender or sexual orientation, that they desire him, or at least appreciate his image. I've known him since high school, and he's certainly one of the most loyal and devoted partners anyone could ask for. I'm a bit smaller, a bit more petite, a little more iberian in my skin and hair tone- he's a giant, small-town football player all-American type. I'm speaking specifically about my relationship with my boyfriend, Trent. I'm certainly lucky, and I feel my luck daily- somehow, karmically, I think to maintain this great lucky streak I need to constantly remind myself how exactly I got here. There are some moments when a man must ponder his life.
