Decapitated Bunnies

I was reminded today of one of my Ex’s. To be clear, there are only a handful of men who have garnered that identity. Sure I’m a “gay man with a healthy libido” who celebrated sexual freedom (as we thought) back in the late 70s and 80s with a larger-than-representative-sample of the population. I make no apology for that; nor am I writing of that. I might do so in the future; although probably not here.

But as far as “partners” or “lovers” or whatever label helps you understand these are men who, at some time, for some time, were the person I lived with, loved, and who (I still believe) did love me in their fashion, the number is significantly less. Neither of the terms I just used really apply to any but one relationship; the others have been much less ‘traditional’ but no less significant. So as far as “relationships” I count four:
1. the man I lived with for seven years, back in Toronto;
2. the manboy I lived with after him, for a much shorter time; before he ran back to his ancestral home out west;
3. the man who lives in Ohio, and who I moved here to be with (his moving up to Toronto would have been more problematic);
4. my current relationship.

In between these long(ish)-term relationships and the “one-night stands” I enjoyed, I was blessed with a variety of short term, but still important, relationships. Again, those are not the subject of this post. They may well be the subject of a future posthere.

But bringing this back around to the opening line. The first one on that list is never far from my thoughts as we share a surname; done legally back in Canada long before same-sex marriage was legal there and perhaps subject of another post. Number four of course is not an ‘Ex’ and number two almost never crosses my mind (to avoid an overwhelming sadness). Which leaves number three.

The man I was with for five years- until he ‘fessed up to his late night escapades. To my knowledge he is still in Ohio; and still living with the “other man“. No names; not that any of us are actually innocent. Be that as it may, this person has a deep and abiding love – addiction perhaps – to the “Cybill” show. To the point of recording the sound track of each episode on cassette so that he could learn not only every quotable line (of which, I do agree, that show had an abundance) but also practice (while driving) the precise timing and every subtle nuance of each line.

The connection was made when I had occasion to utter the following “Cybill” quote; “no more decapitated Easter bunnies in the mailbox, Maryann” (watch the show’s first episode for context). And no, I am not going to explain why the thought of stuffing a decapitated bunny into a mailbox crossed my mind.

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