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I Want to Know What Love Is

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I did love Ken, once: until our passionate, intense relationship shattered like the fragile Ming Dynasty vase it was. Beautiful on the outside, hollow in the center. His career choice promised hard work and stability, not fashionable parties, champagne and canapés. I felt short-changed, and eventually resentment overtook love. My business skills kept me in the life to which I wished to become accustomed, as he used to say. Jet-setting, diamonds, furs, high class friends. Death. Ken’s side of the law was, at least, safer. They say those who die in tragic circumstances are trapped between the here and there. It’s true. But I don’t understand why I have to be trapped in Ken’s apartment, instead of a European resort. Maybe because this was where it happened: where my ingratitude for Ken’s kindness led to my own demise. Karma.

He senses me – or my presence; his eyes follow as I move about. He asks “who’s there?” then loses me. I don’t know how long I have to be here, or how this works, but I hope I can leave soon. Ken’s life is such drudgery – work, beer, work and more work. He’s never home. I need him here to entertain me. He never was where I needed him.

The few nights he is home, Starsky is with him. I accepted Ken’s bi-sexuality a long time ago, but always thought he could do better for himself. I expected him to take up with someone with class - men like Jack Mitchell, or women like Lisa Kendrick. She seemed a suitable type.

At least he and Starsky don’t seem to be… well, you know. Not since I’ve been here.

Tonight they came home with a suitcase full of women’s clothing. Seemed to be a normal – if uncouth - end to the day: beer and a pizza. Then they unpacked the contents, playing with nightwear, brassieres, hotpants… Chasing each other around the living room, flicking lace panties. Ken never enjoyed my underwear in quite the same way.

I always thought Starsky had a great ass – his only redeeming feature - and obviously Ken feels the same. Now I have to watch my beloved knight riding his dark steed, as if I have nothing better to do. I guess I did ask for entertainment, and I never did mind watching.

Ken’s hair is so beautifully lit by moonlight, as he lies half over the body of his lover. Starsky’s hand on his forearm, kissing his palm, even in his sleep. They look peaceful; content. Complete. We never experienced such fulfillment. I just rolled over and went to sleep with my back to him. The sex was great, but it was never enough. Now I see why.

This is love.

Starsky is Ken’s equal in strength, they have a natural rhythm together, and they genuinely care. This is more than physical; they are yin and yang, heart and soul.

At work, they make a difference in their corner of the world. At home, they make a difference to each other.

Their unity on the streets has become unity between the sheets. Genuine partners. Something I will never experience for myself. What lucky men.

The idealism which I always found so attractive in Ken is alive and well.

Ken is happy; more than he ever was with me.

It’s time to go.