On the one train in Manhattan a song,
a lyric makes me think of San Francisco.
I’m shaving in Paul’s bathroom
while man I met at Radical Fairy drag party is watching me.
I’m nervous.
He’s so beautiful
and several years older than me;
he’s 30 & I’m 26.
It seemed like a lot then.
Maybe because the last guy I loved
was 9 years younger than him;
they had the same name.
I cut myself as I often did back then.
A tear of blood dripping down my face
and before I can react
blonde ken doll man moves in
and purposefully licks me clean.
Sacrament.
I remember wondering if he was crazy.
Blood. San Francisco.
I want to throw him against the wall
so I can penetrate him and understand.
Is there pain in his eyes or lust?
Possibly both.
I don’t remember what happened next
but the next song is beginning
and I imagine kissing him,
shaking him…
“Are you crazy?”
“Do you want to die?”
A side thought where I’m less sympathetic
and I give him the degradation I imagine him craving.
Strip. Kneel. Baptism in piss and cum.
Fucking him mercilessly.
The thought passes and I wonder at his state of mind.
He was newly out then and haunted by his past;
“But I’m a Cheerleader” was the wrong movie to watch;
it filled him with memories that made him sad.
I think he was reading “The Vampire Armand”;
I was reading “Merrick”.
His parent was seemingly gravely ill.
They called during our first sexual encounter
to request his presence at the hospital.
He talked them out of it.
I tried to talk him into it,
but instead he said “Damn” while I bit his nipple.
I remember telling him that his asshole tasted amazing
and then him asking if there were any that didn’t…
and I wonder if he ever found out?
A taste test with naked men all standing in a row.
He fucked me in that livingroom.
It was days later.
After he’d taken me to a leather bar and spoke of dangerous sex,
but nothing about the boyfriend he’d confess to later.
Devastating at the time.
I wanted to be his.
Just a crazy dream I guess.
Lies and dreams and strange encounters that I still cherish.
We’re friends on Facebook.
I don’t think of him often
and I’ve not seen him in person in over 14 years.
I’m 40 now and I’ve been fucked at least 6 times in the last week.
My partner is curious about why I’m so frenzied of late and I honestly don’t know;
I’m sure it’s nothing to do with this…
but past sexual encounters fill my thoughts of late.
This is but the latest example.
Walking from the train I ran up to my place to write this down.
I don’t know why.
It seems less important now.
I need to get groceries.
Written by Jason Wright
January 8, 2015
