My partner and I celebrated our seventh year anniversary in Bali earlier this month. Seven years works out to about a fifth of my life. It’s the tequila in the Long Island Iced Tea of my existence. The Tito of my personal Jackson Five.

And while I’ve managed to maintain college weight through a strict regiment of exercise, vegetarianism and vodka, my partner has grown. Blossomed really. It’s a testament of my love for him that I still find him adorable.

Bali was bliss. Well, I should say The St. Regis Resort was bliss because we left the hotel only once. Rare for us given that we love exploring new places. But this time I wanted to do nothing. This time, I wanted to reconnect with my man. Each afternoon, he had all these ideas about where we could go, but after the second margarita he’d always say, “Fuck it. Let’s just stay here.”

Fuck it indeed.

I insisted we stay under the wooden roof of the beach bar until 3:30pm. People think I’m several years younger than I really am and I’d like to keep it that way. You should have seen some of those fried and roasted lumps out there at noon. A real shame.

At four o’clock, we moved our drinking and reading to an umbrella near the water. I’d watch the waves, admire the volcanoes and observe the other guests. That youngish Russian couple canoodling in the pool. That British lady deep-frying herself in the sun. That fat Aussie in a Speedo. Occasionally, I’d glance over at my guy asleep on his lounge, his mouth open, his hairy gut breathing, his frozen margarita melting in its glass, and I’d think, “The fuck if I’m gonna do another seven years.”

Seriously, I had to restrain myself from tickling him awake. Or from dipping my fingers in his margarita so that I could splash him with my hand. He says he hates it when I play around, but let me tell you, he wouldn’t have it any other way. White guys like Latinos because we’re passionate and playful. We like them because they’re so gullible. The stories I’ve made up about tree snakes and getting worms because of certain foods. I just love yanking his chain.

Though we met in New York, we’ve spent most of our seven years in Asia, first Tokyo and now Hong Kong. Who knows where we’ll be in another seven years. Singapore? London? Back in Brooklyn? I just know that home is wherever he is. And as long as we don’t have to go back to fucking Tokyo, his side is where I’ll be.