Farewell and Thanks for all the Spanks

The world lost a dirty creative mind recently. And I think I'm ready to talk about it though nearly everything I have to say is what everyone who loses someone says.

I had no idea it was coming. I wish I would have reached out more. But I just said hi to him earlier that week. How can he be gone?

And at the same time every thing I have to say is totally unique to this man. My friend the photographer. Because he was like no one else. Filthy and sweet. Perverted but soulful. A lovely meanie and a big ole softy.

I loved him for the marks he very literally left on me and I can't conceive of a world without him. A world where we will never banter or play or flirt. Where I can never buy him another drink or plot another photo adventure.

He was a friend. A sometimes lover. A frequent artistic collaborator. And he'll always be my dirty uncle. I miss him already.

Earlier the day he died a friend spotted a landscaping van with a company that shares his (not common) last name on it near my house.

​“Your dirty uncle is stalking you.” She joked.

“Uncle Frank's bush trimming service.” I joked back.

Hours later I learned he'd died and it's suddenly not a joke anymore. I don't believe in woo woo things like signs or think his spirit was visiting me. But I do like the silly synchronicity of his name outside my house that morning. I wish I did believe in an afterlfe so I could shake my butt in his soul's direction so he could see it one last time.

​Because that man, he sure did love butts. I can't quite come to terms with a world where our butts will never meet again. Because he also had a good butt. Especially for a dirty old man. Especially in his leather pants. Especially when he'd take his wallet out of his pants pocket so his butt wouldn't be square when someone fondled it. 

We had so many good times with his camera. I wish we would have had more. It was never enough, we always had more creepy sexy ideas to scare and arouse.

I wish I would have told him how much I cared when he was around. He knew, he must have, but I never said it. Unless sarcasm and butt fondling and the gifting of many homemade baked goods counts. I wish I would have said the words “I love you” right to his sassy face. If only because it would have made him squirm. And he wasn't the only sadist in our “relationship”.  And the man who told me shopping for ice cream together was too much of a commitment would have glared at me for days for using the relationship word. ​Yet I'm sorry he isn't here to listen to everyone gushing over him. 

So the best I can do now is remember him fondly and (dis)respect ​the memory of all the trouble we got in together.  Farewell, for now dirty uncle, Frank.