What Stays

Two ten-digit numbers

I got a text.

“Hello, thinking about you and hoping you are thriving. I sometimes feel our time together and miss you.”

It had been eight years since I heard from Bret. A man I met at Polytopia in 2018—a sex positive event in Portland, OR. I talk about him in my show, Sexology: The Musical!.

He walked up to me and said in this easy Southern drawl: “I want to know more about you.”

I said “OK” and we walked off into the evening. We spent time talking and meditating and fucking. I was shocked that a guy as hot as Bret was interested in me at all. (I get it, WTF Moseley!) I’m not sure where the intrigue came from. But the night was magical and fun and there were a lot of laughs. I felt like a kid running around with a new friend untethered exploring the world.

We left Polytopia and he moved in with me in my little house in St. Johns for the summer.

We spent our time meditating and fucking. I’d leave for work leading walking tours in Portland and he’d head out on his bike for hours—never finding bike paths in the area that he loved. Meditating and biking were pretty much everything that fueled him. He left at the end of the summer to head back south and take care of his mom.

That was it. Kind of an adult summer break fling.

We kept in touch from time to time over the years. Short texts. Calls. Facebook updates.

And then this text. At 5:11am. Out of the blue. Such nice, warm feelings from this human I shared physical space with for a couple of months nearly a decade ago.

I live in a tent now. On my mom’s land, in Fiddletown. No mortgage. No fixed address. And I am more grounded than I have ever been in my life. More settled than any house I owned or any lease I signed hoping the walls would do the settling for me.

And I see it on their faces or I hear it in their voice when people hear me say “tent.” They assume untethered. Assume floating. Assume I’m harder to find now, easier to lose track of. That I’m homeless.

Far from it.

I’m not harder to find. I have a home and roots on land filled with trees and a garden and birds and deer and bears and foxes and mountain lions. Shadow climbs trees while I sit at the picnic table outside and write. Bailey runs over with her favorite squeeky toy for me to throw.

I’m home. And I got specific about what stays.

Address doesn’t. Facebook doesn’t—except on rare occasions. Phone number does.

Bret and I planned a call. He’s not one to Zoom.

Phone calls are my least favorite way to communicate. It goes like this:

1. In-person

2. Zoom

3. Email: if this is a long and nuanced discussion

4. Text: if it’s not and it’s just a touching base thing—emojis included

5. Phone

6. Smoke Signals: I will not understand them…I’m not sure why you are bothering…

We got on the phone. The one line of communication that we both kept—two ten-digit numbers that we both kept. And we are laughing and sharing updates and memories and I’m feeling ok with the medium even though it’s number five on my list.

Before I post this, I text Bret. I want to check to see if I could use his first name and a photo of us in my next Substack post.

His reply: “What’s Substack?”

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