R is for randy

I once had a randy friend. I met him in my third year in college. And when I say randy, I mean he was always ready for sex. Always. I had never met anyone like him. Never have since. He slept with women and men. He had threesomes and foursomes and once participated in a group.

He was happy about it. By all accounts -- well, his lovers that I know -- he was an enthusiastic lover. A caring lover. And he made sure his partner enjoyed the experience.

He was always careful to tell them that he liked them, but didn't love them. Sex was separate from his heart. He loved them, but he didn't love them.

He would wander back in the dorm after having spent a night out, and he'd always be wearing a smile. He'd grin bashfully if anyone asked how his night went, and he always answered, "Awesome!" I used to talk to him about God. He called me "the Preacher," a nickname that I didn't deserve. 

I don't know how his life would have worked out if his behavior had continued after college -- I would guess messy and sad -- but life wasn't going to work out that way. On his way home from OSU, he was in a wreck. He survived, but his injuries were terribly severe. It took nearly a year, but eventually -- after another surgery to repair his spine -- he passed away.

I went to his funeral. He was the first of my college friends to pass away, but sadly enough, he wouldn't be the last. A group of girls and guys were there -- I was surprised at the identities of some of his former lovers -- and they were all grieving. I think his parents didn't know what to make of those guys who wept heart-broken over his coffin.

The minister said a few words, we sang a few songs, and then that was the end of him except in memory. And I do remember him.

I once had a randy friend.