A beautiful cloud formation seen from the plane home from New York

Faster than I thought possible, the painful side of a long-distance relationship is making itself felt - the time apart. The solution is obvious. But don't worry, I'm not really moving to Los Angeles. At least not yet. But virtually the only thing stopping me is propriety and the knowledge that Ben and I, despite sharing an intense passion that probably comes once in a lifetime, don't know each other well enough. I'm giving it at least a year. But I have a sure, strong feeling - almost a certainty - that I will end up living in Los Angeles sometime over the next two years.

What a wrench it will be to say goodbye to San Francisco, the place I love more than anywhere else. The incomparable clearness of the skies, the freshness of the air, the birds singing, the hills looming above me on a perfect day. And my friends - a unique collection of precious individuals who've quietly grown into my life over twelve years. But I'd surely be gaining more than I would be losing.

And Los Angeles is growing on me. The weather, of course. But there's beauty there too, in abundance, if not so omnipresent as in San Francisco. And culture, even if it's more spread out and harder to access. Hmmm - not so sure about the people. But Ben has some great friends, who've already accepted me as part of their circle. My biggest fears about Los Angeles are the car culture, which really divorces you from everyday street life and a feeling of community; and the subtle effect on me of living in such a vain, appearance-obsessed city, where the right tank-top seems more important than having a big heart.

Why shouldn't Ben move to San Francisco? The reasons aren't that complex: Ben is on a tenure track down there - it would be a potentially fatal blow to his career to relocate. My job, on the other hand, is really not dependent on any city. My office is nothing more than a virtual way-station - all my work is done over the phone or Internet. We have an office in Los Angeles. Besides, I can work from home just as effectively. So the answer to me is self-evident.

When I think of all the next few years have in store for us, I can get easily excited. We both have good incomes, so together we could build a fine life for ourselves. Ben has a pretty nice house as it is, but I feel we'd want to get something bigger, and better located - either in West Hollywood, or in the hills above Hollywood. And I'd inherit his two gorgeous dogs. Don't think I'm getting lost in a fanciful dream. Both Ben and I know it's too early for me to move, but we've both talked about the inevitability of it, and of the probability of buying a new house.

Lurking underneath all my hopes and fantasies are deep concerns about giving up my privacy and independence; of becoming a boring, domestic couple. Coming home the same time each night and watching television until we fall asleep. I guess things needn't be like that, but I'm gun shy out of my only other experience of living with a boyfriend, about a year and a half after I arrived in San Francisco.

We lived in a tiny one-bedroom just above the Haight, in one of those motel-style buildings where your next door neighbor has to walk past your living-room window to get to his own front door. I was paying only $375 per month - roughly about seventeen percent of what I'm paying now. So it was cheap. But I was desperately unhappy. I remember when we first moved in together. I guess I hoped living together would solve our basic problems (looking back, we were hopelessly ill-matched - our only glue was strong mutual physical attraction). Yet those first few weeks, I'd come home from work, and have absolutely no clue where my life ended, and ours began. What was I supposed to do when I came home?

My boyfriend was a television addict. He was an artist, and a part-time waiter, so had lots of free time during the day. In the evening, he'd expect me to bring life to our home. Instead, I was in the middle of the worst period of chronic fatigue in my life, and I'd have no energy for myself, let alone to be the life of the party. So he'd watch 60 Minutes, or the endless news about O.J. Simpson, and I'd lie in the bedroom, wearing earplugs, trying to read.

As our differences became more and more apparent, we each retreated into areas of safety. I used what little energy I had to play tennis and bridge; he poured what little money he earned into buying plants. Soon our little apartment was so full of greenery, I couldn't walk through the living room without brushing against foliage (I'm a big guy). At which he'd cry out bitterly, for my clumsiness and lack of care.

Even then, there were, of course, moments of love and caring. I remember one morning coming home after tennis, for once full of life and energy, feeling young and strong. He was still in bed, and I stripped off my clothes and woke him up in the most penetrating way. But the few moments of closeness were almost all based on sex.

The worst moments of all - probably the worst moments of my life, came on Saturday nights. I'd dread them. I knew that he'd want to go out dancing. At that time, I couldn't really abide going out, least of all with my boyfriend. He was a slim and muscular, lithe, fearless angel, enough to tempt anyone, and I couldn't bear to see his eyes on other men - men who would surely respond. So he'd go out alone, and not come back until very late at night. I'd pretend to sleep, but I'd writhe in the agony of intense jealousy and envy, literally groaning and gnashing my teeth with pain. I'd worry about what he'd wear to the gym. He went to a gym where you could work out shirtless. While he was in the shower, I'd search his gym bag, dreading I'd find his skimpy little shorts and no shirt. All these were the lowest moments of my life - moments which led to my first major depression. A void I fell into where everything seemed like it was whirling around my head, nothing to latch onto. A depression which killed any feelings I had for him.

That was ten years ago, and I've come a long way. I'm not the same person I was then. At least I hope I'm not. I haven't really been put to the test, having not had a significant relationship since. But you can understand my fears. I know that my relationship with Ben has no comparison to that earlier relationship. We have so many things to share. And I feel deeply comfortable with Ben - able to be myself, without fear. But I'm scared of living together nonetheless.

Scared too of what you give up when you move in with a boyfriend - the lack of privacy, and private space. Lack of control over your environment - Ben and I have very different ideas on interior decor. How on earth will we integrate our ideas? How will I endure the inevitable TV-watching, having to listen to TV commercials (I always mute the TV during commercials), making other accomodations. Giving up private habits I'd be too ashamed to keep up - habits I'd not even reveal in this journal.

Despite my fears, I know I'll go ahead with it. If others can do it, and remain themselves, and make it work, so can I. But I can forsee lots of hard sessions with my therapist, followed by equally candid discussions with Ben.

I left New York this morning, regretfully leaving behind the dozen red roses Ben had given me. In the airplane lavatory, it suddenly began to hit me afresh that Ben loves me. I stared at myself in the mirror - looking deep into my own eyes in wonder. I smiled, as it sank in that somebody wonderful loves me, respects me, admires me - loves this aging, mysterious (even to myself) bundle of hopes, fears, contradictions and insecurities; this man about to venture into his forties who is learning to love himself for the first time.