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.
I dreamed of a conversation which more or less actually happened.
This summation is not quite poetry, but it’s what I scribbled in my notebook.
Back in the dream or back in the memory or back in the memory of the dream or back in the dream of the memory…
Franklin, an ex-boyfriend of mine tells me he has something very important to ask me, as I remember him kissing me a lifetime ago… 2002 with the Green Dragon.
“Is this Christian really as hot as he looks in your pictures?”
“Do you have a particular Christian in mind? I don’t really keep track of the religious views of my friends. I, mean, I like to know about my friends, but religion isn’t currently in my polling questions.”
“No. Christian.”
Then Franklin says Christian’s last name, pronouncing it correctly the first time (which I did not) and I smile.
“Oh! That Christian! Yes. Yes, he definitely is that hot. He’s also funny, talented, compassionate, friendly, insightful, he has a nice laugh and his wardrobe is both classy and slightly, in my opinion, pornographic.”
“Pornographic?” and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“You’d have to see it to understand it completely, but I’ve seen grown men drool at the sight. I mean, I’ve been one of those men. But if you think he’s all that and a bag of chips, just wait until you see Charly!”
When Aaron hears me tell Franklin this he calls me a bitch.
Franklin, with disappointment: “His boyfriend?”
“No. Christian doesn’t have a boyfriend, though you and I do.”
“Then who’s Charly?”
“Charly is Christian’s better half.”
“But you said…”
“Yes I did. And I promise that I was telling the truth, because Charly is definitely not Christian’s boyfriend, husband or man friend.
“How to best describe Charly? Charly IS a beautifully stunning, exceptionally gifted individual… who manages to be ethereal yet completely approachable, and unfailingly sweet, though not in an artificial, obnoxious kind of way.
“Charly is one of those people who you meet and the subtlety with which you are beguiled leaves you haunted for days afterward. Christian has a similar allure, so I can see why they make such a good couple.
“Charly is Christian’s muse. She’s also his girlfriend.”
And then Franklin calls me a bitch too, and I laugh for several weeks.
I send Franklin to Christian’s website to see clips of his magic.
“His website is almost as hot as yours, though for different reasons.”
I think I’ll have to tell Christian about this the next time I see him, only I’ve not seen him in a month and who knows when I’ll see him again, really?
As I’ve said, I then had a dream about this conversation and I like the extra details, a bit of fiction which compliments reality.
I write this down on my way to therapy, then transcribe it to Facebook less than 24 hours later, to be published a few weeks later on Christian’s birthday.
Written by Jason Wright September 11, 2018
For Franklin, who inspired it, just as he inspired me when he first crossed my path, more than 16 years ago…
For Christian, who inspired Franklin’s question.
For Christian’s wardrobe, which, to paraphrase Radiohead, is surely a siren, singing others to shipwreck.
For Charly, who inspires Christian and who inspired my response.
And for Aaron, because it always comes back to Aaron, doesn’t it? Nobody calls me a bitch quite the way you do. ♥
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.
A fleeting annihilation in lust; cheating is violation of trust… cheating is hurtful and cheating is slighting… cheating is nothing that I find exciting.
What I find enthralling which some find confusing and may seem appalling but really is choosing to probe my identity satisfy wondering disrobe obscenity nullify suffering to simulate danger emulate fantasy to stimulate strangers and affirm our humanity.
And I know it’s perplexing; I’m so complicated… and I’m far from perfecting what we’ve consummated… but the point is just this: no more unfaithfulness… I want to persist but not with such painfulness… inverting portrayal underscored with disgust… reverse of betrayal: exploring of trust.
36: the oft repeated number, mentioned in passing and jingled out during repeated conversations, as the amount of time he’ll be spending before jetting off again, halfway around the world.
And then he says 18. But 36? I ask. Bad math he says. More than 24, less than 36.
My pain spikes. A surprising, unforeseen reaction. I’ve been fine but this seems like too much.
I want to ask him many questions but he’s tired and it seems selfish, so I remain almost silent as the car full of people shout over me with a flashed dick pic nearly killing them all.
Later, as I struggle to rectify this disparity between what I expected and what will be, the distance between what I believed I felt and what overwhelmed me in the conversation, as tears stream down my face, the telephone rings.
He’s sorry. He knew what I was feeling. He always knows. We’ll have more than a few stolen moments, despite the never ending ticking. And he can’t wait to be in my arms again.
