The compilation of the many posts into one. 

Let me clarify my format for this list: Some identification of the person loved precedes the semicolon; my motivation for loving, brief and vastly oversimplified, follows the semicolon. 

1.   My third grade teacher, Mrs. Tupper; because she loved me first. 

2.   My brother; he was my first best friend. 

3.   Not Elton John; he lied when what I needed most of all was the truth. 

4.   Not me; same as above. 

5.   Andrew, my landlord's grandson (he manages the building); because he's sweet and sincere and beautiful. 

6.   David Ackley, who was the very first one; because he was beautiful long before I had any clue how to appreciate beauty. 

7.   Juan Valdez; coffee. 

8.   Duke, my dog when I was a teenager; for being absolutely innocent, and for being a dog. 

9.   The shirtless young man with the tattoo and the necklace, who I see on his porch from my kitchen window; because he's cute.   (And, apparently, straight.)

10.  My friend, John, in Boston; because he's as loyal as a dog—and probably as innocent, too.  Oh, and because he loves me. 

11.  Anne, my supervisor at work; because she sees behind my disguises and its OK. 

12.  Jimmy B., a straight boy who I had a crush on in my twenties; because he was irresistable to me then, I still have no idea why. 

13.  David F., another straight-boy crush, earlier than Jimmy, when I was a teenager; because Dave accepted me loving him, and he loved me.  He probably still does. 

14.  The Thompson Twins; for Hold Me Now. 

15.  Neil Michael Medin, who is not remarkably pretty but is terribly attractive, who has sold me every bike I have owned for fifteen years; for his sincere kindness and integrity, and for his knowing without saying. 

16.  The cab driver who comes over for sex; for knowing where to go, how to get me there, and for always coming back, no matter how many times I told him not to. 

17.  My great-aunt Helen; for staying kind against all odds, and for teaching me—when I was nine—how to crochet and how to love no matter what. 

18.  My kindergarten teacher, Mary Winning; for inventing the world for me. 

19.  Boy George; for always being himself, unfinished, unconventional, unapologetic. 

20.  My ex-friend, Scott M.; for letting me love him, sans sex, which must have been more difficult for him to do than I can possibly imagine.  (He was a hustler.) 

21.  Bobby, the love of my life, with whom I realized that making love did not necessarily make anything at all like love; because he's guilless, abused yet endlessly forgiving, strong as a rock and good to the core but as delicate and sensitive as the morning's most fleeting and precious dream. 

22.  Mary, the Half Mad Spinster; for laughing and smiling and reading and writing, for occasionally crying right out loud (and hearing me when I do), and for being a person as sturdy and honest as anybody I have ever met—in person, or not. 

23.  A bellboy/pianist I met when I worked on Cape Cod in the summer of 1989, Christopher Castle; because he had nearly as much—or perhaps even more—affection for me than I had for him. 

24.  Peter, the pastry chef, who was my best friend during that same season on the Cape; because he loved me and because I never told him that I loved him. 

25.  Tim W., my boss that year on the Cape (it would seem I love just about everyone I met that year!); I love Tim because he was tough, open-minded, hugely energetic, playful, sweetly charming, kind, understanding... and he told me at the end of the season that he wished I would stay through the winter and be his friend. 

What is broken in me that I keep failing to grab such ropes of love thrown to me here in isolation drowning? 

26.  And of previous fame in this blog, also from that year on Cape Cod—I need a break from this reminiscing—Peter Wiedenman; for being the one person who, even though I thought he would never notice the likes of me because he was so cool, not only noticed me, but focused on me. 

27.  Tara, who is a spectacular person, a nurse where I work, an actress, an athlete, and a person with C.P.; because she has a heart of gold, and because she shows it to me, often. 

28.  reX; because he shares everything, and that is no small gift to me. 

29.  Stephanie, the one I work with, who I am so close to that I can't see her, and whose death I worry about irrationally; for being light, life, and love in flesh. 

30.  Tommy, Stephanie's brother, who is hot as hell, and possesses a fair amount of Stephanies best qualities in his own right; because he put my shoulder back in its socket with a simple gentleness—even though he hates doing that sort of thing—after I dislocated it dancing at his brother's wedding. 

31.  Paul, the owner of Tech Pizza, where I get most of my meals when I am at home; for just being kind, always kind. 

32.  Paul's (I think oldest) son; for being not only kind, but for possessing a particular gentle compassion, borne of a secret personal suffering of his own that I wish I could heal. 

33.  Julie, the admissions department nurse where I work; for coming to work—like me—in utter dread and agony every day but, despite this, appreciating even more than I do my sense of the absurd. 
Scratch that.  It stays in the list because I believed it when I wrote it, but I was oh, so wrong—oh so very wrong.  Lesson learned. 

34.  My sister; for loving me even in my estrangement. 

35.  Bill Lyver, my only friend when I was a teenager who I did not want to sleep with; for being, very simply, an excellent friend. 

36.  Paul M., who was the other first one back in 1984; for touching-off in me a desire that never was and, fortunately, never will be fully satisfied or extinguished. 

37.  Kenny A., who fanned that desire into a fucking conflagration; despite the burns, I love him for the fire. 

38.  Sean, the red-haired, blue-eyed, big-for-his-age convenience store boy who would not let me pay him for coffee when I went there during breaks from work (across the street); because his face lit-up every time he saw me, because he was kind, generous, open-hearted, and because he's gone since the night the store was robbed and I can't find out what happened to him. 

39.  The timid, sensitive, slightly goth, slightly dweeby convenience store boy who replaced Sean; for being bravely vulnerable despite being timid and sensitive, and for being different.  I love him. 

40.  The one-month Pope, John Paul I (not II); for being a saint who will never see sainthood, and for doing in one month what it took Jesus the entire three years of his public ministry to do—get self-centered powers pissed-off enough to kill him. 

41.  Daneane (dg), a companion in the riot of life, and a visitor here; for her consistent wisdom, unflagging faith, incessant encouragement, and for the time she demonstrated her trust (infinitely flattering me) by asking me for advice. 

42.  Fr. Bob, who introduced me to a deliciously secret gay-underground, who tolerated my excessively dramatic lamentations for Jimmy (previously mentioned, number 12), and who revealed to me that I really do have a pretty big cock; for being a courageous friend with an open heart, for being honest and faithful to important truths despite their unpopularity, and for sporting a bad toupee with dignity and panache. 

43.  From the same time period as the previous Dave (number 13), the other Dave, who I didn't dare love because it probably would have gone somewhere (Yup, there.); for having me as his best man, for trusting me absolutely and unhesitatingly, and for loving me despite this disability of mine that prevents me from ever telling him these things. 

44.  Tim H., who was a van driver where I work; for sitting with me in an emergency room for 12 hours while I laid there, mostly unconscious, after one of my seizures.  The world is full of people who don't have somebody, but fortunately, the world is also peppered with people who are able to be somebody. 

45.  The retired lady who ran the bed and breakfast in her home on a former farm in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia where Bobby (number 21) and I stayed in 1987; for treating us with impeccable hospitality despite her husband's obvious but unstated objection to her playing host to a 27-year-old fag and his nine-years-younger lover, and because deep down she disagreed with her husband, and matched his objection with her equivalently obvious but unstated acceptance. 

46.  Billy Percival, the murdered, accused murderer, who you can get a snapshot of here; for never once surrendering.  Ever. 

47.  Lorraine Gustavson, 'Gus', a nurse at my first job, in an emergency room, who saved my life in 1978 by knowing intuitively that I was gay without saying she knew, by hearing in her heart and soul all the things I needed to say but couldn't, and by loving me without limit or condition, which was a whole hell of a lot but very nearly not enough; for these things I love her, and for allowing me to glimpse through her the stunning brilliant joy of the universe. 

48.  Denys, the Canadian boi responsible for 14thBrother; for generously sharing his passions, joys, heartbreaks, hopes, doubts, insecurities, lusts, loves, and in short his whole heart without charging a penny or demanding anything in return, and for underestimating how precious are the things he does, and for improving my world. 

49.  Jack, the guy I gave the rope to when I decided I did not want to die; for coming and taking the rope, and for a whole lot more. 

50. Dr. Peter Duesberg who helped me eliminate a threat different than the rope, but no less lethal; for being a man for all seasons, and for simply doing what is right. 

51.  Bernard, the most beautiful black man I will ever know; for letting me touch him—both body and soul. 

52.  John, the old grey poet; for being as dependable as the dawn, for being wistful, mirthful, and ever optimistic, and for being as warm and kind as a cup of tea in a cozy bright kitchen when all the world around seems to be having a dreary grey, cold and drizzley day. 

53.  Tim Reed (his web-pseudonym), a beacon soul and breathtakingly good person who I would trust with my life; for being a pure heart when I thought none existed, for always having the truest of intentions, and for uplifting others in his every interaction. 

54.  Cheryl S., a beautiful mind with a scoop-shaped heart; for scooping me up, and saving me. 

55.  Ed R., a counselor where I work who has the courage to put his feelings where it counts; for always being happy to see me, no matter what, and for giving love with the reckless innocence of a child. 

56.  chiphi2x, aka Mike M., a web designer who lit a fire here without ever coming any closer (physically) than a thousand miles; for being frantic, restless, sometimes manic, sometimes depressed, and always intense, for struggling and crying, for soaring and shining, for letting me read into him, for inspiring a piece of my best writing, and finally, for quite unexpectedly responding to it. 

57.  Mentioned in the same old journal entry as chiphi, JP (short for John Paul), a college student who was beautiful, and interested in being my friend; for offering a lot more than I dared accept, and for giving me the time of day, which even then, long ago, was unbelievably late. 

58.  Nelson Mandela; for enduring, for distilling through decades of suffering a faith priceless to the world, and for being free. 

59.  Cat Stevens; for every whisper he has ever recorded, for his gentle heart, and for treading lightly on this life. 

60.  Jim Lonborg, the Red Sox pitcher with the spit stain on his shoulder; for carrying us on a dream like none we have ever dreamt, a season of winning so precious that one might feel more fond of it than victory. 

61.  My mother; because I know she did the best she could, and she loved to the absolute limit of her capacity, and because I am no different. 

62.  Judi, my friend, coworker, confessor, confidante, and would be lover (if I was straight); for coming to me with some of her most private conflicts, and trusting my advice, and for allowing me to do the same. 

63.  Joe V., from Germany of late, who was the perfect lover, who offered things more precious than I believed I deserved; for being intelligent, scarily perceptive, passionate, intensely conscious, huge-hearted and beautiful inside and out, and for shaking up my world. 

64.  Ned Martin, who was the voice of summer, a Red Sox announcer heard on my father's AM radio on lazy afternoons and warm nights throughout my entire remembered life; for his quiet style and unpretentious class, for never making meaningless noise during games, and for conveying some of baseball's gentle beauty by allowing significant silences seasoned only with the idle sounds of a waiting crowd.  Ned Martin died July 23, 2002. 

65.  My uncle Joe; for killing me, thus enabling me to know life from an uncommon perspective. 

66.  Don W., who you may remember from the story of Billy the 'oil-drum pilot'; for being young and innocent and scared and needy and angry and lonely and sad, and for never losing hope, despite all this. 

67.  Joel L., who I fell in love with, fought with, and became so angry at that I decided I could never see him again, and who I then missed being apart from so terribly that I decided no amount of anger would ever separate me from him again; for giving me his heart and allowing me to try and fill the empty spot there, and for his pure and innocent love by which he inadvertantly saved my soul. 

68.  Teresita M., who used to scare me she is so intense, who I now know is committed to love both first and last, no matter what else comes in between; for continuing to be my friend despite my irrational behavior, and for being courageous in a terribly, terribly scary world.