Then one day in an AOL chat room, I came across an interesting profile. "Have a sense of humor, cause with me your (sic) going to need it." The attached webcam picture showed an attractive man en deshabille - wearing jammies and barefoot, unshaven, and with seriously rumpled hair. Unlike many gay men, he seemed to be saying "This is me in my natural state."

He said he found me attractive, but it was a long time before our first date. On St. Patrick's Day, 2003, we met for coffee, which became dinner, since he cleaned up very nicely. His kind eyes were the color of polished mahogany, his shoulders went on for days, and his khakis were crisp. I was a little confused by the clunky Timberlands and flannel shirt, but it was pretty cold outside. He said in his amazingly thick Brooklyn accent that he liked my table manners, which frightened me: did his friends spew flakes of halibut across the table at each other during meals?

I soon saw that my initial assumption was correct. He was a cop with 17 years on the NYPD. Our backgrounds were very different: two years of college vs. law school, small urban flats vs. verdant suburban split-levels, his loud Italian parents vs. my orderly WASP/Milanese combo.

It's probably fair to say that the die was cast before the creme brulee arrived.

He moved in 3 months later, taking a loan from his pension to help me with the mortgage on the condo and pay off the car loan on my silver VW Passat. With his support, I shortly landed a sweet job at a Swiss i-bank. That Christmas, without plan or discussion, we gave each other rings. Mine is channel-set diamonds, his is a white-gold copy of a 15th-century ring from The British Museum that says "Yours Onli" inside.

We joined a local Episcopal church. I met his friends - all in law enforcement - and was instantly inducted into a vast fraternity/sorority of boundless warmth, kindness, loyalty, and stunningly creative profanity. I met his family - all good people.

On her first visit to our newly merged condo, Mike's mother said: "Is it always so neat and clean in here? That's going to be an adjustment!"

"Not for me!" I sang out from the kitchen, and Mike shot me a look that would have stopped a perp from perpetrating. He's a little neatness-challenged, and I'm a little OCD. This has led to discussions during home improvement projects he takes on that included me wondering if he learned to paint a bathroom from Jackson Pollock, and him telling me that he doesn't know who Jackson Pollock is, but he planned to kick both our asses as soon as he was done.

I hired a pair of cleaning ladies who come twice a month to keep up with the worst of the mess, he agreed to pick up after himself more, and I agreed to relax a little more. A tenuous detente has been reached, though every once in a while I'm compelled to call a friend and wail into the phone: "It wasn't supposed to beeee this way! I was supposed to be in a little cottage in Munsey Park with Ben Roethlisberger!"

That aside, it's been a pretty fantastic journey so far. I got to show him places he had never visited: Long Island's Gold Coast, Boston, Montauk, Amagansett. He taught me to be more forgiving. I put him on my life and health insurance and I make sure that our doctor and dentist appointments are all double-dates. He redid our main bathroom all by himself. I held his hand through the pain a kidney stone. When we were exploring an abandoned North Shore estate and I slid down a short flight of ice covered steps to spin around like a breakdancer in a snowdrift, he rushed to my rescue, carefully extricated me, and determined that I only had a small bruise on my behind. Then he threw back his head and laughed that laugh I've come to love until the ancient beech trees rattled.

For my part, I have the memory of him talking baby talk to our two kittens: "Who da kitty? You da kitty!", then falling asleep with one on his chest and the other on his head.

The future beckons. Recent case law in New York has held that the state will recognize our marriage if it is validly performed in another jurisdiction. And so, instead of going to Montauk for my birthday, I believe we are bound either for Boston or Montreal later in the year.

Sometimes, in the right light, I can see what Mike will look like when he is very old. In my vision, he looks a lot like his AOL picture, perhaps a little worn and rumpled, but still proudly him. And I know that when I'm a shuffling duffer myself, that's what I want next to me. He's already proven his mettle when I've fallen and I can't get up.

A lot is sure to happen between now and then. It may not have supposed to be this way, as I say to my friends when I find a mountain of dirty clothes and uniforms in the laundry room.

But I'm glad it is. [BettyCrocker]

Though my relationships didn't flourish, my career did. Now that my income has finally caught up with my attitude, I am much more relaxed and easygoing than you could ever tell looking at my travel attitude. Traveling is a huge part of my job, and I find myself on a plane four times a week.

Being an accustomed road warrior, I have OCD travel idiosyncrasies akin to the manic behavior of our beloved Brit-Brit. I sit in seat 1A on every flight. I have a vodka tonic prior to take off, and water with lemon with my plane fare dinner. I have had about 210 people sit next to me in 1B in 2007. Normally, I don't even look at them.

Then today's 1B came along. I was flying from LA to Newark, and was already in a bad mood because I hate LA, I hate red eyes, and I can't even remember where I parked my car because I've been on the road for two weeks. Early in my travel days, I used to pray to the travel gods for the hot guy to sit next to me. Unfortunately, that never happened.

500,000 frequent flyer miles, it did. I ordered my vodka tonic, and noticed that someone was putting up a Tumi computer bag identical to mine. This of course, piqued my shallow interest, and I looked up to see a tanned wonder in True Religion jeans putting his luggage away. Not that I'm totally one of those standard label queens or anything. He of course, had my vacuous Valley Girl side at Tumi.

He had the cutest smile, which was enough for me. He sat down, gave me a cute half smile like the one Katie Holmes used to sport before she went apeshit crazy and married that freak. Then he promptly ignored me. I returned a "bitch please, you ain't all that" with my eyes and we sat in contemptuous Issey Miyake-soaked silence. I leaned over as to see what silence he was steeping in, and it was Prada Amber. Figures.

Preparing for flight, I reached down into my flight bag stashed illegally next to my seat and pulled out my latest trendy travel book, The Average American Male. I heard a "hey", and looked up to see 1B with a goofy smile on his face holding up a copy of the same book. It was actually endearing, and enough to crack my facade and make me smile warmly, losing the whole bitch armor.

We treated each other like old friends from that point on. We giggled so much we were getting dirty looks from 2F. We didn't touch our food when it came, we just coyly pushed it around and batted our eyelashes, it was just like Lady and the Tramp, that Disney love shit.

We talked about our lives. He too was in my industry and worked for a partner company, so we talked about our clients, what we did, where we were from. Hell, it was better than any planned first date I had ever been on. He felt the same way.

A few hours into it, we were whispering as not to wake the sleeping passengers. I told him more than if I was coked out at an ecstasy party. At 30,000 feet, I had no more dating inhibitions and was the most honest and open I had ever been, and it felt great. We talked and laughed the entire flight, even though it was a red eye.

I looked down and noticed we were passing PA, and that we would descend soon. We intertwined hands and, no words spoken, we kissed, up until the scary last call lights came on. It was the sweetest, most romantic kiss I ever had, even after being in the air 6 hours. It was gentle yet strong all at once, and it communicated to us just as much as it would if we were talking. Or lesbians. It was definitely my first "I'm wishing a U-Haul was waiting outside" kiss. It took my breath, and manhood away. We didn't say a word. There was nothing to be said.

We landed, knowing we both made the connection of a lifetime, but knowing it didn't fit into our schedules. My client is in Oklahoma and his is in Kentucky. He lives in Connecticut, and I live in Philadelphia. We de-planed, pulled our matching Tumis down and walked silently down and out into the terminal. We got on the AirTrain, rode it to P4, and loaded up our quintessential German rides. Mine Audi, his BMW, both new, both fabulous.

We smiled that unrequited "What the fuck do we do now?" smile, and left each other. At 30,000 feet, we were soulmates. On the ground, we had lives, deadlines, awful travel schedules.

Every flight since my heart skips a beat when I remember that night and I sit wistfully every week, a part of me hoping that the possible potential love of my life will light up my world again with his half smile. Yeah, I puked a little too. Get over it.

There are three categories to choose from: relationship, friends ("as if") and sex. (Guess which one I go for.) Among the ads that catch my attention (and this being 1998, there are no photographs) is one from a 41 y.o. GWM, 6'3", 240lbs and hairy. Although I'm somewhat deterred by the "G," I imagine a strong and vaguely angry-looking man with a buzz-cut and receding hairline. Moreover, he doesn't use the term "bear" but "linebacker," which appeals to the hockey player in me. Why this gets me going is an unsolved mystery at this point, but it most certainly does; in an agitated state, I send off of a reply: 30 y.o. GWM 5'11"/175 looking for...(whatever the equivalent of NSA was in 1998). It's the first time I've ever used a "G," and while part of me doesn't like it, I figure if it gets me what I want, nobody else will ever have to know.

A few days later, I get a response in my secret "Gay-O-L" account. Stephen suggests we meet at a diner in Hell's Kitchen. For me, the intervening days and then hours are marked by repeated mental games of "what the fuck am I doing" and interludes of queasy anticipation. When I arrive and look for someone matching his description, I am nervous—what if he lied?—and generally relieved that it's five o'clock and already completely dark outside. But to my astonishment, when we find each other, he is not only all of the above—as if molded from my dreams—but has the most intense green eyes; one glance leaves me more naked than I've felt in my entire life. My head is filled with an onslaught of distortion and melody; for once I am living one of my all-time favorite Hüsker Dü songs. My fingertips—the same ones that have memorized every note of Zen Arcade over the past decade—itch with anticipation. I try not to dwell on the implications of this, and think only of the night ahead.

Inside we order coffee and spend a few minutes talking. It turns out his "linebacker" description was a bit of a red herring; though he looks the part, his knowledge of sports is nil. Moreover he works as an opera director; not coincidentally, he has been out since the beginning of time. I don't initially respond to this as we marvel at the power of technology, which has brought together such an unlikely pair. We ceremoniously thank the internet and imagine ourselves as circles on a Venn diagram with infinite degrees of separation.

"And what about you?" he finally asks, expressing (at least as I read it) a mix of real curiosity and—if not disdain—coy skepticism. I'm sure he knows that my "G" was a bit of a stretch. For the first time ever, I'm actually bothered by not being out. I feel ignorant to have worked in a record store for five years without knowing one thing about opera besides "Pavarotti." (And worse, that I have done this in the wake of graduating from NYU Law School.) I think it might not be so cool to share an apartment with 1000 of my Brooklyn friends and cohorts, even if we did build a sound-proof rehearsal room in our basement that's home to an equal number of indie-rock bands; or so impressive that my own band has five records and tours, or that we made the top-thirty on the CMJ radio charts last summer.

I finally decide to answer him directly: Nobody knows. (That is, except a few anonymous strangers.)

"Not even your mother?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"What about your friends?"

"Nope—no one."

He nods slowly and I try not to think how this must look. To my relief, his beautiful eyes remain placid, forgiving and even desirous. After all, I remind myself, it's only sex. I change the subject. "Where did you say you live?"

"Uptown—Washington Heights." Once again I have no idea what he's talking about, but decide not to make my usual quip about never going above 14th Street.

I ask him what led him to move there.

"I'm a bit of a recluse," he says, before explaining that it's cheap and that he doesn't mind being an outsider; sometimes he even prefers it. Unlike me, he has only a few friends he sees rarely and is not particularly "close" to his family. As I listen to this, my mind begins to race as I picture myself in his shoes. What would I do without my friends? (Where would I get drunk?) If I came out, would they forgive me for selling so many years of lies? And my family! All of my older brothers and sisters, married with children, what would they think if I ever described our relationship so perfunctorily, with such distance? Equally disgusted and intoxicated, I could suddenly see myself like Stephen—a recluse—obsessively devoted to the most queenly pursuits of silverware, mid-century modern, Schopenhauer and alpine gardening.

He laughs as he considers me, and seems to understand what he represents in terms of both yearning and doubt. "So—do you want to come over?" He places his hand over mine for a second and removes it.

"More than anything," I say, and now—ten years later—his is a destiny I am happy to call our own. [The Gay Recluse]