Grazie. At 3.2 posts/day average over the past 8-1/2 years, I suppose I put more attention into these forums than anything else except scratching for dollars. Even that!
Forgive the self-absorption, but it occurred to look back at a few threads that call up strong memories across the years.
Introduction to love of my life; also incidentally the inaugural post by anyone in the Escorts forum, if I recall. (Note that, like many older threads here, the entries are inverted, so that oldest posts are at the end of the thread rather than the beginning.) http://www.boytoy.com/forums/index.php?/topic/554-boston-twink-alert/page-2
On handling the dangers of falling in love with one’s escort. (The posts in this one again run from newest on top to oldest at bottom.) http://www.boytoy.com/forums/index.php?/topic/680-andre-in-nyc-aug-28-29/
Never-ending poetry post that others nevertheless put up with and even got into the swing of. http://www.boytoy.com/forums/index.php?/topic/1672-credences-of-summer/
Altogether different poetry post. http://www.boytoy.com/forums/index.php?/topic/2782-martha-stewart-likes-big-wieners/
Reunion. http://www.boytoy.com/forums/index.php?/topic/2531-two-dinners-with-andre/
Winning Oz’s filthy lucre. http://www.boytoy.com/forums/index.php?/topic/3533-congratulations-adamsmith/
How I spent it. http://www.boytoy.com/forums/index.php?/topic/3724-three-dinners-with-andre/
Raving about The Web/NYC. Several dancers told me that my post #12 in this thread was apparently TMI for club management, who printed it out, posted it in the dancers’ dressing room, and ripped them up one side and down the other about it. http://www.boytoy.com/forums/index.php?/topic/2426-nyc-the-web/
Now (inevitably! ) to Stevens. As a space for reflection, self-presentation, self-constitution, these forums put me in mind sometimes maybe a little bit of this:
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.