Tony and I have an outstanding argument about identity. Ironically, he feels that it is inherent while I claim it is posturing and habit. His side of the discussion involves the straightening of his wig and a hand shoved inside his lapel, a cigarette smoked in an elongated holder, and a sip of his gin & tonic which he now drinks “Shaken, but not stirred.” Blah.

Mine is a bit more verbal, and it goes something like this: your identity is built from posturing and habit. Not just nature. Especially not nurture. It is what you do in order to get what you want.

Example: I have been filled with desire since I’ve been filled with blood and such. And what did I hope to receive for fulfillment? Ostensibly, it was affection. Hugs and kisses. Or notes. Creative expressions dedicated to me. That’s what I claimed. But really, as a younger man, I suspect it was gratification. Of the more prurient kind.

So it should come as no surprise that I fell in love with the Greeks. Even studied the language. The device of the noble white stead heading for infinity versus the tortuous black horse that leads to self-indulgence was a perfect metaphor. Obviously a part of one another, yet with a built in excuse. Nobility is the love of boys. Boys with minds. Yes, I thought, I postured, that’s what’s up. I concur. Me too.

But at 16 years old, these thoughts were secondary. I fell in love and told him it was creative. That it was spiritual. So forget the fact we live in the most conservative of states and we’re in high school and you are not gay and just give me a kiss. If you want I’ll write a poem.

But then came Micah. He confused me. He believed in this nobility, and helped me to see that it was possible. And we touched. Exchanged excited prose. Took naps on top of one another in the park. It felt so pure.

The problem was that I still felt desire. I found other boys to kiss and hold, and saved my mind for Micah. I wrote academic papers about him. I read books for him. But he no longer entered my poems, my prose. And then it happened that we took a trip and shared a hotel room. He took a shower while I watched television and suddenly he was in the room with steam. Naked. I could not not look in the mirror and memorize the reflection. I could not forget the wisp of hair I saw down below. The curve of his leg as the towel was exchanged for clothing. A hint of intent in his smile.

More than a year after those precious seconds I was on a plane to Germany and had the most palpable dream of my career. He was at the window and I climbed the ladder. We kissed. His lips touched mine and have remained. (In spirit.) Yeah, I woke up over the ocean. I fell in love again. And I have never written a poem about him. But those horses run parallel. They go the same direction. I ride with them, even though I don’t think I could confess as much to Micah. Or he to me.

But I will tell him this: There was a day, an afternoon, that you and I sat by the river. We were playing chess. You had told me about a move called “En Passant”, or “In Passing.” You had said it before this afternoon, in one of your excited conversations. This was something you hoped to try some day, an interesting move to take full advantage. So I learned how it was done, and that afternoon I put you in the position to capture me with your special move. A small gesture, but one of the type I do for love and whatever it may bring.

The end of this story can be found in a chess rule book: “When given an opportunity to capture a piece En Passant, do not always take it. Too many novice players jump on the chance to take a pawn En Passant, and do not consider the situation. As always, look at all your options.” Good advice, but I must confess that for years I was a brokenheart. You left my pawn standing alone. You fell in love with what’s-her-name. But we were both playing the same game.