In 9 days it will be 17 years from the night we first met.
And though you discarded me in a mostly cruel and senseless fashion I still write & think of you often.
Some of the words I write are angry, hurt, longing or strange…
And though I’m PROUD that I refused to chase someone who chose to run away from me and our truth I miss YOU more than any other pain that you have caused me.
Written by Jason Wright October 9, 2018
For Mobley Mouse, for Theodore and all the other names I’ve come to call you.
Whispering in my ears in a memory I never had, because I never heard you but you sounded sad… and the words that you spoke were like singing beneath the sound of your breath and our rhythmic heartbeats, and the song found me dreaming of a man that I follow… lost in the depths unbelieving and hollow.
The day that you caught me without saying much, The way that you haunted me there with a touch that I couldn’t feel save the dream of your sorrow… that came to be real come the gleam of tomorrow.
But you stayed with me singing and circled around… You gave me the bringing and brought me your crown… You lingered behind me when others had left… You whispered and signed me; you loved me to death.
But that’s not the end of our ghostly tale… For you proved a friend and mostly prevailed when I circled round you and found you still smiling… I knew you were there with your stare so beguiling.
Mysterious rash had ghosted over my countenance like a red death mask; a visual reaction to hoped for fantasy which once again eluded my grasp… and failing to materialize, it’s symptomatic augury was forced to fade by the light of day.
Should this rosey warning go unheeded… will there be more permanent bloodborne maladies?
A risk I must finally take before I bleed away to nothing.
The truth is that my liquid courage merely went to my head, and being pigment free, like an empty canvas, I was stained in the spill of the fiery fluid.
Walking through flames for the promise of heaven… I was burned to a cinder and left only ashes.
Experiment #001 is blonde, purely fictional, musical and a deeply hungry bottom.
Nothing wrong with that.
He has broken no laws and this investigator finds that he has shattered no expectations; we have a pretty low bar here.
He arrives promptly for down low dirty sort of movie watching, needing and twitching to satisfy carnal cravings for satisfying chemical sex.
He inhales Jungle Juice like it’s an oxygen tank, allowing him to swim through seas of endlessly horny barebackers while never returning to (and never delivering more than) the shiny deceptive surface.
He forgets why he is there and must be reminded that he will not be taking multiple cocks at once during this session; an apparent rarity for him: how quaint.
He says he feels sorry for the “drunken dickless loser faggot” and wishes for his inclusion… be it from actual decency or merely his endless thirst… a question that is never truly answered.
His sorrow does not prevent him from wolfing down various white substances, although this investigator suspects he may never return to the scene of this non-crime, as even thusly fed, he appeared to be suffering from withdrawal.
Recommendation:
Suspension of Experiment #001 until such time as he is recaptured. Until such time as he rejoins the other experiments we must find new test subjects.
Our mission is crucial and must not be circumvented.
The burden ceaseless; undefeated. The circuit recently completed. A bridge too far for most to win which sparks to life the ghost within.
He’s loud of late. He screams at me. When wide awake he dreams my sleep. He means it well but then he hurts me. Screams; they dwell when he deserts me. The way he feels that I once left. The way he feels that I regret. The way he hurts, I hurt with him. Way that we were once a victim. Way he dreams is so compelling. Way he screams is overwhelming.
Need extreme. I need intensive. Heed the scream. Incensed insensitive. Need your pledge to shape the circuit. Need the edge to scrape the surface. Need the barb, the fierce insane. Need the sharp to pierce our pain. Toughness dimmed to shuck free armor. Punish him to fuck me harder. Need to bleed to block this drubbing. Need your seed, your cock, this fucking.
Written by Jason Wright September 26, 2018
For Little Jason. I hear you. For Aaron. I need you.
I wake from 6 hour slumber wordlessly, thoughtlessly (thankfully) hungry.
In such moments I’m not a person defined by starvation or it’s opposite.
In such moments I’m not a person at all.
In such moments I am simply HUNGER, with no itellection or sentiment attached.
It’s so much easier when I don’t have to suppose, reckon, consider or cogitate… but knowing this, (paradoxically) makes it that much harder to NOT think about it.
I proceed toward the kitchen; a compartment that is far too compartmentalized; a meaningful place with far too much meaning.
Aaron always says that I move with the silence of a ghost; I believe I know why this is so, yet I’ve never expressed this to him because I’ve never expressed it to myself.
Everytime I leave our bedroom I must approach that ignominious addiction; that nutritious poison which others proudly consume, while my own natural cravings are an endless source of personal shame.
“If I openly admit what I desire, then monsters might hear me and devour innocent children.”
What you could never understand is that I know this to be true…
Still, I slip out while others are sleeping or likely unobservant; when distractions (and witnesses) are unlikely to stir any sense of self awareness.
But this ghost walking shell is clumsy and trips an alarm; the theft alert klaxon of the unreached microwave.
I know I mustn’t eat now but as panic approaches I strive to curb its consequences.
Scented wax is melted to burn away the odor of consumption.
Those mouth watering aromas were long ago converted to putrescence to save the lives of terrified children… and though I know now these were lies told by a sermonizing demon father, that doesn’t actually make his words any less legitimate.
I remove layers of complication.
I scrub nauseatingly disruptive dishes, scouring them clean of repulsive remnants before placing them in the mechanical dishwasher because there can be no trace evidence left behind, even when the sins committed are not my own.
Still, my continuing hunger must be punished.
I don’t wait. I use my weakness like strength. I walk down 92 steps and over several city blocks to local grocery store, where I nearly leave empty handed.
It is not uncommon for me to leave unsatisfied several times over…but I haven’t the strength today.
I remind myself to breathe; to pay attention to how I breathe, as I negotiate with a monster’s former victim.
Get something. Anything. Just get something!
There’s no bus but I count this as blessing.
I walk several uphill blocks and I struggle in hope that exhaustion will bring me back to dumb unknowing salvation.
After stumbling up 92 steps I fumble senselessly into cramped space of torture and horror – where my lover drags me kicking and (silently) screaming back to the awareness I’ve fought so hard to bury.
As partner tries to touch me he removes still washing dishes, preparing to make another noxious concoction to stifle my progress.
What the fuck?
Righteous anger briefly explodes behind my eyes before quickly dimming upon recognition of his otherworldly normality.
My beloved is not like us and he does not see the monsters.
I think to begin the cycle again; with thoughts on emptying the trash and cleansing the filth which likely still rests on his office desk… but exhaustion overwhelms us as I slink away to bedroom where I scrawl this across notebook pages, interrupted only momentarily by my darling’s entrance; I refuse to stop writing or look love in the eye – because I have to write this out – because I’m falling apart – because he needs to be acknowledged if we are to continue.
But as I finish, I read out what I’ve written because
this madness is not all that I am
and Aaron’s love has a way of breaking me free of my ruinous captivity.
Tired sleepy eyed transformation awaits. The unconscious cut in line but are more lively than I am and I’m mostly awake!
I’m wearing scruff, no makeup or jewelry.
Halloween may be every day but will be celebrated more than 50 moons from now as I remain here in my complete lack of drag save my Joy Division shirt.
“Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others.”
How much for a cup of coffee?
Just your self respect, as I’m reminded daily of orange shrimp with tiny baby hands and the day I wandered into his seaweed castle aquarium to beg for sustenance.
Being stuck underground in the Heights I should be panicked and pissed about my horribly fucked up Starbucks drink, but my Vitamin Water Whiskey mixture prevents this.
Luna Park in headphones and I chill.
Whiskey rushing through my veins.
Nothing satisfies the bones.
The scrape on my hand was unintentional; one must not fist androids.
Mashup from decade ago (or longer) returns in Times Square.
My hands are blotchy and I thought the food seller bathed in Windex but it’s actually asian hand sanitizer.
The hot random to my right is less than perfect which somehow makes him hotter, though he disappears at Penn Station, undoubtedly reappearing for others as he leans in, kissing my neck as I continue to write, still listening to Justin and Enrique make love to one another.
Time to meet Monica and ease on down the road.
(I’m returning The Wiz, if that isn’t too obvious)
There have, in the past been talented enthusiasts, skilled contortionists, beloved boyfriends and romantic one night stands… but after nearly seven years he knows me; knows more about what happens INSIDE ME than anyone who ever previously came that way.
With the others, skilled as they were, there was always something more; something secret transpiring behind my
ORGASM
CLOSED
EYES
But by now he knows everything he needs to know, which he uses to his advantage, bringing me to my oft contemplated conclusion; he looks at me with his insider’s knowledge and he sees inside what others could not.
The path to my bliss is a code which he has broken; a cypher that my body, my outward appearance could never hope to betray, for all the contradictions therein.
He feeds my desperation with erotic confections, candied pornography, titillatingly told and suggestively supplied.
He says all the right things, evocative, provocative things, pressing all the right buttons, pulling all the right strings, whispering nearly impossible encryption, like an incantation (if not a description); such nectarous wines which some find grotesque as my redolent rhymes at last come undressed.
And there, in the harsh light of spray, as frenzied fantasy is glazed with stud honey, he looks deep into my opened eyes and tells me how much he loves me.
Part II: Sweet Dreams
I sleep like the dead.
A door slams and I am awakened; a scenario which has always made me sad.
Returning to consciousness ALONE is shocking.
Previous waking memory involves being nakedly wrapped in another man’s embrace… he was just here.
My deathly slumber has robbed me of too many farewells.
How do men disentangle themselves from me so easily?
Perhaps when lulled into a false sense of security, I fail to cling effectively?
The most satisfying sexual encounters of my life seem predicated on utter destruction come the merciless light of day.
Perhaps that early sweetness
before such raw transformative encounters have bruised us
is life’s deceptive way of getting us all to take our medicine.
Part III: A Bitter Pill to Swallow
He says he’s been crying all morning; that we’ve not planned this day well.
He wishes we were together.
We are frustrated that my thoughtfulness was unknowingly seemingly thoughtless.
Should have asked for headphones. Should have called when doorslam woke me. Should have moved this appointment but the confusing calendar info has only recently been translated and my therapist has no other window so I take the car he scheduled for me to the appointment he scheduled for me and I hope for the best, swallowing any bitterness by remembering last night’s sugar.
