I fear my journal entries are going to get very boring. You can write as feelingly as you can about being in love yet still not overcome the fundamental barrier to communicating how it feels: that no amount of words can substitue for being there.

Ben and I spent July 4th weekend together at his home in LA, and, if possible, we surpassed the magical level of feeling we experienced last weekend in San Francisco. I feel truly this is the best thing that's ever happened in my life - that I've been waiting all my life for something like this. And astoundingly, by some inexplicable spasm of cosmic grace, Ben feels exactly the same way, despite having had a nine year relationship which ended last year.

But it must be very boring for everybody else. Last night, for example, we went dancing with a whole bunch of Ben's friends. And while we both interacted a lot with these friends, we spent most of the time locked in each other's arms, dancing as close to each other as two people can get. I'm surprised nobody told us to get a room.

I'm sitting here at Burbank Airport, with an hour to kill before the flight. I'm dog tired, still probably a little grimy from our last minutes sex before driving to the airport, but just glowing. It's odd how this love I feel is just too much to limit it to Ben. It spills out in all my interactions. I feel that in just the space of nine days - from last Saturday morning when I picked up Ben after his flight from Singapore, to today - I've healed more than I've done in two decades of trying to understand myself.

Last night, after dancing, we drove to the top of Mulholland Drive and sat in a little park. It was 4.30 in the morning, and Los Angeles slept under a light fog. After the noise of the club, the night air rang with a huge silence only mildly disturbed by the cinematic chirping of cicadas.

We drove home and had sex yet again. I was lying face down, my hands gripping the base of the headboard, while Ben lay on top of me, kissing my back and shoulders. I started to sob. I felt like I just wanted to let go and cry like a baby. But it wasn't really for joy. I think part of it was that I just wasn't used to handling such intense emotions. But the largest part of it felt like I was crying for myself. That my emotions, my tenderness, my vulnerability - they've all been bottled up since childhood. Why had it taken me so long to uncork them.

Poor Ben. It must have been a little bit scary for him to see me sobbing like that. But they say true love drives out fear. And for the first time in my life I feel able, willing, and fearless to open my heart wide and let somebody come right in.

Okay, I told you this entry would get boring. But I don't apologize. I'm writing more for myself than anybody else. But Jesus, if this can happen to somebody like me - so closed off - and if it can happen for the first time in my life as I'm getting ready to turn forty. Then maybe it can happen to anybody.

It was an emotional weekend in other ways too. Around lunchtime on Saturday, Ben started to feel short of breath. He's had panic attacks in the past, and at first he thought it felt like one. I was really worried and concerned. We ended up having to go home, and I drove his car to a pharmacy to pick up some anti-anxiety medication. (I got to drive Ben's car - a turbo-charged Volvo convertible - and it was great fun - a lot more fun than driving my heavy SUV.)

Back home, Ben's stomach began to feel upset, and before long he was feeling very sick. I figured he'd feel better left alone, so I said goodnight, and watched A Room With a View on his big TV in the living room. Never have I enjoyed it so much. One of my favorite lines in film: when Reverend Beebe trys to explain Lucy's sudden passions - "I put it down to too much Beethoven".

When I stole into Ben's room in the morning, he was awake, and looked much better. But he'd spent the most wretched night - alternately throwing up and having diarrhea. He'd felt so awful, just before dawn, that he'd considered having me drive him to the ER.

Later that morning, we drove into West Hollywood to meet B & S for brunch, and Ben checked his voice mail. I was driving, but it was clear from his reactions that he'd just received horrible news. I can't reveal just what it was, but somebody very close to him had just been diagnosed with a horrible, life-threatening illness. Ben was very upset, and I was so glad that I was there for him.

At brunch with B & S and their friends, Ben put up a brave face, and it was me that started to feel a little moody. I'm never at my best in groups. I place too strong a premium on the kind of meaningful interaction you can only have one on one. So when it's a group, and it's all inane chite-chat and verbal riposte, I can end up feeling slightly melancholy. That I can't share this with Ben (I don't want him to feel he has to worry about me in situations like this) felt a little lonely. Maybe on of the hidden benefits of journalizing is that it's a release value for thoughts and feelings I can't share with anybody else who has to interact with me on a daily basis and could be affected by what I reveal.

I should reread my journals from two years ago. I was living a much more isolated life back then. Frequently, a weekend would pass with no human contact. If I'd met Ben two years ago, I'd not have been ready. I'd have felt I was getting a life through him. Now, I feel that in adding my rich, full life to his, I'm discovering that one plus one is infinitely greater than two.

My mother always used to say that if you're working in the garden, sooner or later somebody will look over the garden wall. I take that to mean that you can't let someone else in if you've nothing to offer. But if you have your own independent sense of self, then somebody will want to be a part of it.

Whatever drug I'm on right now, I want more of it. I feel like a different person - Ben makes me feel strong, virile, warm, loving, wise. A different person - or rather a better acceptance of who I am. A different person - and somebody I like very much. Suddenly the famously aloof and private Keith finds himself a loopy romantic, fantasizing about singing "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" for his boyfriend.

I mentioned the sex we had just before going to the airport. It was hot and heavy - but it was another "you had to be there" moment I'm afraid. I'd wanted to take homoerotic photos of Ben on his private lawn back of the house. It was warm, so I was shirtless, and I clothed Ben in various sexy states of undress, and, of course, sprayed him with water now and then. It felt breathlessly erotic, and very difficult to concentrate on the photos. I finally found myself licking his beautiful, glistening wet torso under the sun, and that was the end of the photo session, as we retired inside (some professional photographer I am!)

I talked to my Dad the other day, and I was full of Ben at the time, and I so wished I could tell my Dad about him. My Dad is a lovely human being, and I know that deep down he'd be happy to know I was in love. But I don't think those barriers are ready to be broken yet. I have to ask my sisters what they think.

I've been asking myself frequently to explain this miraculous change in my life. How can something feel so good, and be so guilt free. That two people's mutual, strong physical and soulful attraction can multiply into such bliss - it almost makes me feel that my assessment of the universe as being random needs revisiting. How can such a passion be merely chemical reactions?