Your frame holds me down as I wake with you on top of me, having been let into my locked house by a concerned grandmother.
Your game is a fucked up, fear based, 1995 ancient history lesson which is now clinically insane.
Your name is Gene Warrick and I met you in September 1994, months before you raped me, expecting this would cure me of any doubts I had in your love for me.
There is no statute of limitations on pain, no easy way to describe how I can forgive but still fear you… yet my words are just as true now no matter how many years it took me to say them.
His name is Gene Warrick and if it bothers you that I’ve told you so and you hold my rapist in such high regard then follow his advice and stop struggling: it will hurt less if you don’t struggle.
Written by Jason Wright November 28, 2017
Inspired by Erica Mapp
This was not written as part of the #metoo movement, but in response to someone who believed that women choosing to speak up years after the fact were wrong to do so and that using their rapist’s names was offensive. I was so angered that I wrote this response and read it directly to her in front of a group of people that heard her express these views. I’ve been working for nearly 2 years on an essay about my experiences with rape; this is but one example.
I can feel tomorrow’s intensity like a sunburn that kisses my skin and stings my denim blue eyes.
Those inexperienced events wash over me, somehow more real than anything happening right now.
Tomorrow, two long held desires may reach fruition and my reactions are impossible to calculate yet just try telling my overstimulated and compulsively analytical mind.
I’m held prisoner here in the present, denied experience, answers or closure.
“Please let me go.”
“I’ve waited long enough.”
“I don’t care if it hurts!”
But nobody answers, because some things need to be endured.
Perhaps the February furnace is cold but I won’t learn how alone I truly am until 36 hours have passed and leaves me to reconcile in the aftermath.
I’m sitting right across from you when you tell me how much you want to hurt me, how much it will pleasure you to humiliate me, how much you want to take what is mine, use it for your own gain, and leave me to wander cluelessly, ashamed and defeated.
I’m sitting right across from you but what you don’t see is that I’m not the man you thought I was, and all your schemes were mine before they were yours.
You think he’s sitting right across from you but I’ve taken his place and the words that were meant for him; the words meant to conquer me and raise you up have given me the greatest satisfaction I can imagine.
I am afraid, but it is the fear of an entertainer about to take to the stage where my most impressive performance (which I’ve trained for my entire life) is about to begin at last.
You are a liar and a manipulator. You are hurtful and obscene. But I am something you could not see coming. And though you wish to hurt me I thank you from behind my disguise for you too have an integral role to play.
You, with the help of my co-conspirator, will push me beyond those boundaries I have never dared to traverse, even though the core of who I am has always ached to cross that line.
And in that gleaming treacherous climax where all masks lead to the truth, we will be transformed…
And you, in plotting my downfall, will bring me to my utter salvation.
A childhood nursery fantasy has become an obsession of late.
Everyday I become someone else that I love so that I can have some hope of witnessing what was once deemed impossible.
Love & trust make this elixir attainable but I’m driven completely by sex: a walking hardon.
Always a sexual creature…
Always willing and able to gladly explore any kink that struck my fancy…
Those demons were expunged upon arrival.
All but this impossibly complicated riddle of a contradiction.
This place is beyond anywhere I’ve ever willingly been.
This unexplored erotic nightmare of flesh is: urgent, vital, joyous at finally receiving my attention.
This dream cocaine has made me into a liar, an enthusiastic victim, a nearly celibate slut who yearns for desolation… a chance at reconnection with that hardly humiliated farm boy in those locker room communal showers.
As a child I held such unfulfilled desires but put them to bed (where I have now joined them).
By assuring him that everything is and always will be okay, I have traveled full circle – returning through time to bless his lust, circumvent shame, encourage exploration, and guiding him to disregard their influence; to tame the monsters that would otherwise haunt him until the day that he once again completed this paradox puzzle.
He was better looking in the flesh, with the same witty internet banter, yet fused with that vital magical glimmer; that liveliness in his eyes.
The supposed Blue Fairy, the one who actually had turquoise hair, had fashioned Pinocchio into a real boy for this blue fairy, despite the wood that grew between us.
I know what you’re thinking, but in spite of his need to come calling after sunset, he was definitively not a lost boy.
Boys that are found to be real grow up to be fathers of their own after all.
Pinocchio (respecting the Sabbath) and having suffered rejection by a prince (who turned out to be a frog), left Never Never Land after the cow jumped over the moon to visit Elphaba & Glinda in Rapunzel’s 6th floor condo, where handsomely dressed in the emperor’s new clothes he conspired with my wicked step-mother to turn me into the double stuffed gingerbread man.
2 Holy Father
My partner, deep inside of his name twin as fourth father repeatedly stabs deep inside of my joyously remembered childhood cunt.
This doesn’t seem possible; like a hazy wet dream brought unexpectedly into being; twisting the world into impossible shapes that couldn’t have happened before Aaron arrived at our door.
And while we writhe and wrestle into differing rock formations we fuck repeatedly in that wondrous configuration; that sexual transmogrification of inspiration, reemergence & renewal, a cycle of hunger, thirst, cravings satisfied and yet sparked aflame without end:
My lover pours himself into him, as he pours himself into me, and I pour myself over us all… and yet we do not come to conclusion.
And at the third movement of the third hour, this triumvirate charmed me to the spiritual power, wrought through my flesh twixt symbolic clocks: I survived crucified on their mystical cocks… And forgive me for rhyming for that moment still guides me… Third time’s the charm that I took them inside me.
Later, as time is running out, stranger friend injects me one last time as I curse.
The penetration is welcomed yet overwhelming with sensation, vision, pushing me deeper into myself – further beyond my walls where I can finally hear what my body has been telling me all along.
I grip my lover’s thighs, looking deep into those thoughtful blissed eyes, charged connection between us as man we just met stimulates my deepest secrets with the prick that we’ve both just worshiped.
As new father fucks deep into his unwanted son, with his polyisoprene covered billy club, my spirit seems to tear in two: two different Jasons for two different Aarons.
Seven positions. Like ballet. The Nutcracker: Sweet.
His thick, upturned cock hurts and heals me with it’s transformative power.
And in the aftermath, we whisper secrets in the dark… as we all fail to convince ourselves that we were not blessed, consecrated and purified.
Blasphemous? Maybe. But then the truth often is.
3 Prostrated
Today, during my prostate exam, Doctor said he was sorry as he inserted a single finger. I told him it was fine.
I wanted to say (but didn’t) that he could use more than one.
I didn’t say that his finger felt amazing but was only a shadow of what I’d felt earlier on Sunday morning.
The exam was brief and painless, but left me wet.
My doctor is a horrible tease.
The doc says everything’s great and that there’s no blood; no sign for worry; no cause for alarm.
I nearly ask him to try again but instead I give thanks while marveling that I remain both physically and spiritually intact.
Written by Jason Wright October 31, 2017
“Prostrated” was finished and released first, but the notes on the other entries were made at the same time and complete the cycle. These were begun in July and finished in October.
Hearing disappointment which matches THE SICKNESS INSIDE ME threatening to overtake me.
Breathe.
The train is already departing one six eight; perhaps this panic is for nothing?
Why do the only loud people in the car gravitate toward me?
Hungry. Terrified and hungry. Some things never change… but I can.
Relax. Breathe.
He cannot hurt me here. She is safe. And I will eat before long.
If the show has begun I will eat without fear and rest, knowing I’ve seen this particular show three times before, and I will be there for Aaron without compromising sanity or the denial of self.
If I make it there in time I will be collected and calm. I will take in this special show with no need of regret for I have controlled my fear and done my best to travel especially on the fucked up weekend transit.
Now relax. Breathe / Ground, and be the Jason that you want to be.
The green wild of summer is fading between us, as the young horned lord smiles at our recognition.
The lilting, hissing piping of ancient heating system.
We’ve been together here before, haven’t we?
So strange at first, that tremulous meeting of strangers, only we’re old friends now, aren’t we?
We know one another.
This place, this collection of rooms is more than what it was when I first entered.
You were spotless… though clearly brutalized, hungry, lonely and welcoming.
You had known others, just as I had; no virgin blood would be spilt on our account.
I wasn’t sure how much I liked you then, but I put on a brave face and did my best because as broken as we were, we both had our needs and the desire to satisfy them.
It was kind of you to select me, despite my noncommittal attitude.
I’m not certain what quality you saw in me… I’ve no idea what ignited your interest and we’ve never spoken of it.
Most of our time is spent silently, if urgently.
In the moment of our joining you were like a part of me that I’d yet to explore.
You gave me shelter in your embrace even as you fed off my desperation.
I understand that our relationship has never truly been romantic but I can appreciate you, can’t I?
I can miss you when I’m gone and recognize how much you’ve helped bring me peace.
This solace, this sweetness cannot truly be forever…
You know it as well as I.
This imbues our activity with a delicate urgency; bereft of permanence we exist in a fleeting moment of movement, connection, separation and acknowledgement of all that we are, which is somehow not diminished, but is actually heightened by all that we lack.
Hold me.
Hold me here as we whisper heated words between only the two of us,
Knowing one day I must walk away from you and find the strength to never again return,
Knowing that I’ll never again be inside of you though a part of me will remain here forever.
Hush now. Don’t weep.
We will not end when we part, you and I.
My silent echo will fill you, completing the circuit between us; never quite actualizing, ghosting us forever until the end of our days.
No one will guess when they see us. No one will sense the stain that we’ve left on one another.
Memory, our only souvenir will be a secret we take to our graves.
But I will always hear you in the piping sounds of autumn, like Pan, greeting me in the desiccated ruin of the green.
But come now, come and let us make the most of nights remaining, when we may know one another without fear, sadness or shame.
You have entered me, as surely as I have penetrated, you are inside of me, and we will know one another for as long as we can remember.
Written by Jason Wright October 26, 2017
This is a love poem dedicated to our NYC apartment on Wadsworth Avenue in Washington Heights. It was written listening to the soundtrack to the 2015 Todd Haynes film “Carol” by Carter Burwell, after watching the movie at home for the first time after seeing it in theaters.
were the words that he said… But I never doubted: in fact always knew… Perhaps I have always denied what is true.
For back in the then years before I was here… Way before Gay had become so damned queer… He said the worst things but his lust was the truth… We traded in barbs but escaped without proof.
“You remind me of Adam…”
(who was absent then, luckily)
“Does that mean you hate me or that you want to fuck me?”
I thought he might hit me for the spark in his eyes… A predator wounded behind his disguise.
And I was so righteous; he’d angered the slut… I should have kissed him to keep his mouth shut… Well maybe not shut while adjusting our lungs… With no lies between the thrusting of tongues.
Secrets of youth stand to leave me here taunted… Seven-teen years and still I am haunted… Did I loathe that man? Did he truly loathe me? Subtexting lust through so·lil·o·quy.
Written by Jason Wright October 24, 2017
For Joel
Back in the late 90s, my friend Karen Edwards got me to chat with her in a gay chat room at “gay.com”, which at the time hosted various chat rooms. There were rooms devoted to countries, states, cities – and interests. In our local chat we made a wide assortment of friends and I dated and / or hooked up with several men from there. There were many people that I never met though, who I only knew as a screen name. I think I stopped chatting there around 2011?
Back in the early days I had a romantic entanglement with Adam Gram. His screen name was GoddessSexyBoi, or something like that. It was on and off again, that relationship. We were never a couple exactly, but we cared enough to cry and have emotional conversations – and though we didn’t end up together for various reason, I cared about him. He later hooked up with another patron named Joel, screen name “Freedom” (I think). And directly after, Freedom became openly hostile toward Adam, which offended me. I defended him.
I later crossed paths with Freedom / Joel at a party (in 2000) – a meet in person party for gay dot com peeps. He was handsome. Attractive. But I still found his behavior toward Adam to be horrible so I resisted. At the club (which I only went to that once, as it was a bit out of my way) I flirted with a boy / girl couple, kissing both, and they were going to follow us to the afterparty (at Joel’s home) to hook up with me, but they never arrived, so I was disappointed. Joel drove us there and there was a lot of weird energy between us, which was hot but tinged with something I couldn’t name. At one point he said loudly for everyone to hear that I reminded him of Adam, to which I notoriously responded: “Does that mean that you hate me or that you want to fuck me?” – which silenced him, and seemed to shake him. I don’t think he ever spoke to me again.
Years later, in 2016 or 2017, I spoke to Adam Gram on the phone and this came up in conversation and Adam said he didn’t really care about how Joel had behaved because he was amazing in bed. lol Which made me see things a bit differently. Not long after the party in 2000, the bi couple reached out to me through e-mail to tell me that he seemed to lose them on purpose – which I wasn’t aware of, but in retrospect, I think he may have done because he didn’t want me to have sex with them. Maybe he just didn’t want them at his house? Or maybe he wanted me for himself? Who knows? There was a lot of drama back then. It seems stupid now. I should have just said what I wanted. Oh well. I don’t know Joel’s last name or I’d share this with him – not because I think it would change anything, but because I feel like writing about someone and not sharing it with them is a little cowardly. I hope he’s happy.
