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The Greatest Love Story

Recently I was riding in a car with friends while attending a yoga, hiking, shamanic, camping weekend in the mountains of Santa Fe. And we started out serious, discussing our intentions for the week. But we're gay men and some shiny object caught our attention -- we were soon discussing such pressing topics as “your most embarrassing moment” and “who would you rather have sex with: Fred or Barney?”.

But the brightest of conversations was “Your Most Romantic Moment” and the only thing that could have made Matt’s story better if the ending included a rainbow, unicorns and a stripper in addition to the flowers he received on the plane. It’s Matt’s story, I won’t go into details, but I will never hear a more romantic one.

That was the most romantic moment but I wanted to hear more. I wanted to hear the story that evolved from that moment. I want to believe in happiness. I want to hear Happily Ever After. But.... it turns out Matt gave away the flowers. There was no good story; there was no H.E.A. So I decided to write my own story.

The Greatest Love Story

By Jeff Paup

I swear to God I would swoon whenever I saw him on the streets on Minneapolis. How could anyone not stare at the handsome and confident and sexy man. He was all about strength, passion and power. I got to meet him at a party. I won’t lie and say I fell in love with him because I was already in love with him. My breath would get caught in my chest whenever I saw him enter the room. For me, This Was It. And he liked me. On our first date, many years ago, he brought me his favorite flowers -- gladiolas. They were red.

My Most Romantic Moment did not include men in uniform. It was the first time Roger had spent the night at my place. We were running a bit late in the morning (smile), dashing through the lobby of the building where I lived, he to the parking lot, me to the basement parking. And the exact moment before we separated he grabbed me, hugged me and kissed me. What a romantic public declaration. I felt like it had become official.

I may have had the perfect man but, oddly enough, it wasn’t the perfect relationship. Roger wanted an open relationship. I wanted Roger. So it became open. He liked attention from men. Did I mention how handsome he was? I remember coming home from a party where a little too much attention was lavished on my Roger. I was hurting. But he said, “They were no one. Who am I going home with?”. When he wanted to, he could say the Right things.

My dad was sick. The diagnosis took some time but in the end it didn’t matter. He had liver cancer. Roger lost his job. I started spending more and more weekends back in Iowa; Roger would stay at my place. The company I was working for was in bankruptcy. Roger was becoming almost lost, more ethereal, distant. My breath would still get caught in my chest. I remember crying once, explaining to him how much I loved him and how difficult it was for me that we were no longer having sex. When I came home from work that day there was a trail of his clothes, from the foyer to the candle lit bedroom. I got undressed, crawled in bed with him and cried as he slept.

I asked for my keys back. I just couldn’t trust him in my place over the weekends. Weird things happened; things would be missing. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy.

A few weeks later I found out Roger was in the hospital. He told me at the start that he was HIV positive but that didn’t matter to me. He was really sick. I would bundle him up, put him in a wheelchair and take him out for a smoke in the freezing Minneapolis winter. He got worse. He didn’t know where he was. He was dissolving.

Roger’s mom died when he was 9. He had his dad arrested for molestation charges when he was 14. His brother committed suicide when he was 16. I was his family. And my dad was dying.

I remember when Roger was released from the hospital. I was chatting with the nurse, telling her how happy I was that Roger was coming home. She said, “No -- he’s not going home. He’s going to a nursing home. He’ll never be able to live on his own again. He has severe dementia.” I didn’t know it could get this bad. I didn't realize how bad it would get.

I followed the ambulance to the nursing home. I helped him to his room. I found someone to serve him dinner. He seemed content but I locked myself in an empty room and died.

Life goes on. I would leave work Monday through Thursday and drive to the nursing home. Roger always required a lot of attention. On Fridays at noon I would leave work and drive home. My mom I would compare our weeks. Sunday evening I would be back at the nursing home. Both Roger and my dad got worse.

There were two great nurses on Roger’s floor: young, handsome and gay. Roger accused one of them of molesting him so neither nurse could be alone with him. They asked me if I would shower him. I’d lock the bathroom door and undress both him and me. I’d haul him out of the wheelchair and we would shower. It was the closest contact I had with the man I loved in a long time.

It was a bitter winter. One time I rented a limousine so Roger could get out for a few hours and we could have some time together. It wasn’t a good idea. He peed his pants.

Roger decided he wanted to get back together with his former boyfriend, Sam. I continued to show up every day.

Slowly, slowly, slowly my dad got worse as Roger got better. I was so happy to be able to spend time with Roger but it wasn’t happy times. My dad died. Roger said he knew how much I loved him but he didn’t feel the same way. I needed something in my life and I would take anything, even crumbs.

He got better and I helped him move into a hospice run by Catholic priests. He still needed lots of attention and I was there. He could now spend several days at a time at my place. I bought him a very expensive picture he wanted for his birthday; he spent his birthday on vacation with one of the Catholic priests. God DAMN those fucking Christians.

He got better. He resented my help. He told me, “I can date better men that you!”. And I whispered, “No, you can’t.” I helped him move his things from my place into the priest’s apartment.

Slowly, slowly, slowly I got over my dad’s death, I got over Roger leaving me but I have yet to get over Roger. We remember each other at birthdays and holidays. I check in with him; I go back and visit. And I still catch my breath in my chest when I remember how proud I was to be with him: that confident, passionate, handsome Roger. And that kiss. The best kiss in world. That was my Happily Ever After moment.

And that is the Greatest Love Story. Pretty fucked up. I should have given away the flowers.