The Way We Weren’t: Inside the Leo Cave

We met as two young men from different cultures. Although we drifted apart, our lives remained inextricably linked in ways I never could have imagined.

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We met at a bar in Hell's Kitchen that I regularly frequented with my hotel colleagues after working the late shift, also known as "leaving past midnight." At the bar, while I was waiting for my vodka tonic, a tall figure stood next to me. He was 6-foot-4, had a pale complexion, a lean build, a buzzed head, a spear-like nose, and striking stone-blue eyes. Although I’ve never had a specific type, I had seen guys who resembled him. It was his long, penetrating gaze, however, that trapped me. As it lingered, it felt as if he was scanning me from the inside.

"Hallo," he said, in his thick and intriguing accent.

"Where is that accent from?" I asked.

"I'm German," he replied, his tone was soft yet confident.

"I'm Dominican," I said, with a smirk.

"Are you by yourself?" he asked, his eyes fixed on mine.

I told him I had just finished work and wanted to have a nightcap. We sat on a couch and discussed old Hollywood and the little nuances of our lives—where he was staying and what brought him to “The Big Apple.”

"I'm here interviewing for Broadway internships," he explained.

He aimed to graduate at the top of his class with a marketing degree to secure a job offer in the arts in Berlin. I enjoyed the continued intensity of his gaze and his unwavering eye contact; it spoke volumes about his ambition.

"Good luck!" I responded with sarcasm.

After my third vodka tonic kicked in, we embraced. Tightly. I was 24 at the time and had been living in the city for eight years, so I’d kissed plenty of other guys before. But I had never felt my ears get hot.

As I wrestled with this newfound sensation, I felt simultaneously helpless and excited. I pushed and pulled, but I didn't want that feeling to stop, especially as it consumed my whole body and I could firmly feel he felt the same as I did. After we pulled away from each other, I noticed his eyes were closed the entire time, as he held my face with his large pale hands. And then, a middle-aged, bald, white man stood before us and cleared his throat.

"Mmmmm. And who is this, Dieter ?” he asked.

It was his host, Friedrich, who interjected, asking, "Can he come back?" "Yes, but only he can touch me. You can watch," I said. I was 24, and he was 22. I knew how to navigate New York City, living independently in Manhattan, since I was just 16 while my parents were in Mexico for work. We went back to his apartment. Dieter and I rushed to his room and locked the door. The “heat session” we had at the bar was only a preview. I had never merged with another guy like that before. As volcanic as it was, in the end, when he held me, I leaped out of his bed and into the shower. When I emerged naked, he looked at me and said, "I want to see you again."

“I would like to see you again, too," I said, feeling the heat once again begin at my ears and spread down my neck and into my torso. I handed him my number, and our brief encounter seemed to be a quick hookup that I’d file away as a fun anecdote—or forget about completely.

Two days later, Dietrich texted me, recounting a difficult confrontation with Friedrich, about our encounter in his apartment, and asked, "Can I stay with you?" At that moment, I froze and drifted back to an experience from two years earlier in Montreal, Canada. The person who was supposed to host me had tried to pressure me into a threesome. I grabbed my duffel bag and ran out. I was a stranger in an unfamiliar place, but fortunately, I found a helpful individual, at a bar, who directed me to a nearby hostel, paid for my stay, and asked for nothing in return.

“Hallo, Hallo, are you still there?” He asked frantically.

"Okay, but for how long?" I replied.

"I'm only here for two extra days," he wrote back.

I pondered. I thought this could be a fun romantic fling. I made up my mind and wrote: "Alright, here's my address." When he arrived at my apartment in the Lower East Side, I opened the door and stared at the wet German, who got caught in the rainstorm, in awe.

“Willkommen to my studio casa, " I said.

“Danke Shoen, shatz,” he replied.

“What is shatz?” I asked, feeling confused.

“It means treasure in German, because you are,” he replied, this time with bashful eyes.

On the couch, I whispered, "Speak to me in German." He obliged.

Maybe it’s because I’ve had many a man ask me to speak to them in Spanish, but it felt good to have the tables turned. Although I couldn’t understand the words—just his voice's raw, sensual music—it sounded incredible, and I was turned on.

“I feel like a Superman with you,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I asked, confused again.

“In Berlin guys that look like you, never pay attention to me,” he responded.

“Can I play you my favorite song?” he asked. I nodded, not daring to say a word an interrupt this interlude.

It was Barbra Streisand’s “Gotta Move,” from the TV special, Color Me Barbra.

After those two days, he packed his things and left, but we kept in touch. I was relieved he didn’t turn into a squatter, but I also missed having him in my bed. I was taken aback by the sense of loss that hung over me for a stranger I had only shared a fleeting few days with. It was astonishing how someone I barely knew could make me vulnerable, his laughter still echoing in my mind and his touch lingering like a haunting melody. I didn’t know I was capable of those feelings.

Nearly three months later, he called with news: He’d been offered the Broadway internship.

"Can I stay with you?" he asked.

I congratulated him and mentioned that I needed a few days to think it over. While having him stay for a few nights was not a problem, living together would be a major commitment. I had worked my ass off to get my own apartment, in the downtown area, after graduating from college, and I had never had a roommate before. For this occasion, I wasn’t going to be swayed by toe-curling sex or a past accommodation disaster story.

A week later, I sent him an email outlining the terms. The bills—including rent and utilities—are due on the first of the month, and you need to pay half in cash. Additionally, I requested the name and address of his employer and a copy of his passport. He agreed to my conditions and, two months later, he was back at my doorstep, this time with eyes that dazzled me. His arrival ignited something unexpected. We both felt it and discussed this new chapter in our lives, which he affectionately called “The Leo Cave,” a nod to our mutual astrological signs.

In his first week, he settled into his new job. As a single guy in the city, I always kept my apartment's decor very simple: white walls, a white table with four matching chairs, wooden cabinets, a steel bookshelf—and above all, it was always clean. He needed to buy some mini cabinets, shelves, and accessories to help him feel "at home." When I asked him about his style aesthetic, he said, "I like what you have here; it's very clean, which is very important." His response intrigued me even more. I mentioned that the best place with the most options was IKEA in New Jersey, but that was as far as I was willing to help, since I would rather be waterboarded than assemble their furniture. He laughed at that. But, he never needed my help because he was naturally a handyman.

For a year, we embraced our life as a couple, harmoniously sharing responsibilities while choosing to forgo the label of boyfriends. I cooked Caribbean meals, while he meticulously cleaned—he was German, after all! I introduced him to the quirky charm of New York’s 99-cent stores, where he reveled in the thrill of discovering cheap cleaning products, particularly bleach. His cleanliness reached a new level—beyond tidy to an almost obsessive precision. He was meticulous, and I adored his quirks. He, in turn, recognized my passion for storytelling and would always act as my "stage manager" when we co-hosted gatherings.

One evening, we cozied up to watch The Way We Were, one of his favorites. It stars Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford. It takes place during post-WWII McCarthyism, when a diametrically opposed couple come together only to find out that genuine friendship and physical attraction are not enough to overcome fundamental societal beliefs. It echoed the differing dynamics in our personalities: He was “Hubbell,” and I was “Katie.” It resonated.

I was still starting to find work as an event planner, and he attended my events just as I supported him in his new Broadway gig. Our lives wrapped around one another, intertwined in the fast-paced world of the city—filled with dinner parties, laughter, and the simple joy of living together in a space we cherished.

I often drifted off to sleep with flickering images on the screen, usually Friends. But this night was different as we settled in to watch What’s Up Doc?, another old movie.

His right hand rested on my thigh in that blurry space between my dreams and waking. With the reflexes of a cat, I instinctively pushed his hand away. He didn’t let the action go unnoticed.

“Oh, you were sexually abused?” he asked, in a concerned tone.

I raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that?” I demanded to know. “I can tell by the way you reacted so quickly, shatz. I’m sorry,” he answered.

I took a deep breath, now totally awake and alert, and shared my story with him about my time in the Dominican Republic. I lived there until I was six years old, in a world where the sun shone brighter, and I lived with my maternal grandparents. At just five, I experienced something I couldn't fully comprehend, a 15-year-old who would leave a lasting imprint on my body and taste buds.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Dieter repeated, as a single tear fell from his left eye.

The next time we had sex, it was all about consent. “Can I touch you here? How does that feel? Are you comfortable?” he asked. No one had ever asked that question to me until him. Pleasure, I discovered, could be fluid. He became the captain of my body. He'd set sail and carefully navigated every territory as if he'd discovered a map that previously never existed. He proudly held my hand, with his hand and said, "Look at us brown and white, so beautiful, das ist lecker."

“What does thattttt mean? I asked.

“It's delicious, like you,” he answered.

In those intimate moments, I learned that when one person takes control, it can feel as though your own body is no longer yours, offered up for another's pleasure. It was a powerful realization, since I was always the aggressor and had to be in control. There's a weight to surrendering oneself to another, but he opened my brown eyes, teaching me how to reclaim that ownership, to embrace my body as my own.

We created a beautiful routine of cooking and cleaning, vibrant brunches with friends, and exhilarating Saturday nights filled with sweaty dancing. We explored every corner of Manhattan, laughing and savoring moments together as if we were the stars of our romantic movie. It may sound cheesy, but it was magical.

Then, two months before his work visa was set to expire, he called me, "Mein Schatz,” for the very first time. I felt a shiver down my spine. I remembered it meant “My Treasure” in German.

“When we first met I knew I found a treasure. After living together you became mine,” he said.

“We’ve shared something rare, Dieter, that only you and I will ever understand,” I responded.

I reminded him that I’d noted his departure date on my calendar, keeping track because I had to make sure the rent was paid in full by the first of the month. We meticulously documented every significant moment we shared: romantic dinners, Gay Pride, spontaneous outings, and laughs. Each memory was captured in photos and videos, all stored on a flash drive. Dieter and I are the sole custodians of a cherished copy of it, which chronicles every moment of our time together, from day to night. It captures not just the activities we engaged in-it’s a keepsake that serves as a "time capsule," preserving the essence of who we were in our early 20's, and how we explored each other, allowing us to relive them whenever we wish.

On his last night in New York City, we went to the bar in Hell’s Kitchen where we first met. It felt fitting to return to the place where it all began. Afterward, we walked back to "The Leo Cave" in the Lower East Side, which would soon be closing. We embraced until we both fell asleep.

The following morning, I left for work earlier than usual. I left him a note on the table:

"Dearest Dieter,
I can't bear to watch you walk out my door, which is why I left early. I also don’t believe in long, drawn-out goodbyes. I will never forget you because you've changed my life.

Liebe,
Emillio

P.S. Please leave the keys with the neighbor next door."

Even after he left, our bond remained strong. We kept in touch, and six months later, he returned to me. That summer, I traveled to Germany, where I stayed with him for three weeks. During my visit, I also met his parents and grandparents, who graciously hosted us together. I was given the guest bedroom, Dieter had a childhood room. After everyone went to sleep, he'd sneak into my room and we’d dive under the covers, while covering our giggles.

We maintained a wonderful rhythm of connection across the Atlantic by emailing, calling, and meeting each year in New York City, Berlin, Amsterdam, and Prague. But everything changed after I was mugged and assaulted. I received six stitches in my lower lip, four around my right eyebrow, two broken front teeth, and bruises all over my body. Typing was just as daunting, my fingers reluctant partners in communication. Dieter kept messaging me, his words persistent, probing. "What are you afraid of?" he asked over and over. But I remained silent. The true reason I ghosted him was that, during my painful recovery, I had ample time to reflect on our relationship. During our last physical encounter, I told him I could no longer continue meeting up twice a year or every other one. I wanted a commitment, the life we shared in our cave, but I wanted it to be permanent. However, he didn't want to return to the U.S. or settle down with one person just yet.

Five years passed. We shared a mutual friend who acted as the bridge between us. She kept our stories together, speaking his name and relaying his lingering feelings. "He wants to see you," she said.

One day, more than five years since I last spoke to him, Dieter’s message popped up in my inbox, bursting with urgency: "I want to share some news about my life." I stared at his name on my glaring computer screen. After all these years and my silence, why reach out to me now? But I was curious.I hesitated, but finally replied, two weeks later.

“Hi Dieter. It’s been years. What is your news?”

"I had a child,” he wrote.

My heart raced. But a moment later, my mind spiraled with questions: “Wait a minute, when did this happen? Was it through adoption or IVF? What kind of medical leap did you take?” Memories flooded back, recollections of his insistence that he couldn't face the complexities of relationships, let alone venture into the world of “lady parts.” We scheduled a call because I needed to hear it coming from his voice, not the keyboard.

“It was a friend of mine. She was nearing an age where options were fading, stuck in a terrible marriage, and yearning for a child. So, we decided to have one together,” he said.

"Wow, that's fantastic. Congratulations," I wrote back. But another question loomed.

“How did you reconcile that with what you told me before? You were so sure you could never be with a woman.”

“We were intimate, and I thought about you the entire time, and that’s why I gave my son your name, “ he answered.

In that moment, though dazed, I could see the timeline of our entire relationship flash before me, from our first meeting, the last one, and everything in between. Each moment played out like a vivid movie in my mind, reminding me of the different turns our lives had taken, and how that moment was twisting me.

“Hallo, Hallo, Emillio, are you still there?” he asked.

"I just realized the commitment you said you never wanted, it was just not with me,” I responded.

He apologized and said he was too young at the time and didn't know what he wanted out of life. I told him there was no need for his words. Things worked out for him as they should. I am the son of two narcissists; my mother, who he met several times, parentified me as a child. My absentee father, whenever he was around, was emotionally unavailable. From an early age, I realized that I never wanted a family, just a partner.

“I hope he lives up to name because it was my paternal grandfathers and only the strong carry it,” I said, before I hung up.

For the past six years, he’s sent me pictures of himself with his son at least twice a year. Whenever I think of him, I always recall watching The Way We Were together and those words from the title song: "If we had the chance to do it all again, tell me, would we? Could we?" Unlike Barbra, though, time has not dictated every line of my story. For “what’s too painful to remember,” I don’t “choose to forget.”

No, I choose to treasure.

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Emillio Mesa is an award-winning events producer and dinner party host. He’s written for The New York Times, New York magazine, HuffPost, and others. Currently, he’s working on a memoir about meeting my mother at the age of six, her four marriages, and how it affected me as a growing queer, brown immigrant. His handmade, fork-crimped empanadas and passion fruit martinis are always crowd-pleasers at gatherings. He can be found and followed on Instagram.

The QLP Questionnaire: Emillio Mesa

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