BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
On the Monday train
Sunday’s tear stained aftermath
is muted, faded watercolor sketch
of last night’s confusion and misery –
with photo slides behind closed eyes
of family’s autumn life celebration,
Daniel’s text exchanges,
Brandon Lee Gameboy photo,
unseen moron homophobe hell discussion…
And Aaron’s weeping exhaustion
which left me reeling in confusion,
doubt, anger & regret.
Written by Jason Wright
October 21, 2019
Returning to trains
and to thoughts left behind;
enduring these pains
as existence rewinds
with smiles anew
for the lust and the yearning
that keeps me alive…
that keeps me returning
with Aaron a GO
and possibly Michael –
I’m questioning content
of sodomy cycle:
“This one is solid!”
while “This one is pointless!”,
“This one is squalid…”
Til one is appointed
worthy of probing
for one of my station:
a worthy disrobing
for self-excavation;
worthy of one’s progression
through sex;
worthy of love
through expression of flesh.
Written by Jason Wright
September 12, 2019
Five years ago this month
I had wept.
Not good enough
or not good enough yet.
And three years ago
it happened again.
He didn’t love me;
only a friend.
And now once again
or still not, I’m fraught.
I thought that I was
but it turns out I’m not.
Written by Jason Wright
August 15, 2019
He wandered into my life
on the arm of my lover,
set up shop for the night,
& “borrowed” my property.
Most of that night was a game
and honestly, a blur…
but the kiss in the kitchen was real
and brought everything into focus,
if not into the light.
This night’s passion wasn’t meant for me,
so the unexpected connection
was many conflicting things:
Excitement. Exhilaration. Shame. Damnation.
None of which I was prepared for.
He ate my ass like a pro.
His cock was delicious,
in my mouth and then deeper inside me.
He ravaged me while my lover looked on
and I loved it but I felt somewhat guilty,
which I may have loved even more…
or perhaps my guilt prevented me
from enjoying it completely?
It must seem strange
that I cannot honestly tell the difference.
But certain key details of lust are maddeningly lost on me.
There are certainly hints and subtle gestures;
implications and libidinous clues,
suggestions of an elusive contradictory nature…
pieces of a puzzle I wish only to solve
so that I might grasp the meaning
held within a finished and rapturious whole…
and yet I’m somehow trapped
within this self same labyrinth of intimations
which feeds the fire while slaking my thirst,
yet leaves me hungry just the same.
There was a danger there; a gamble…
I was risking something sacred
for the sake of something perverse,
if only symbolically.
He hit all the right spots,
but in a configuration hitherto unknown to me.
My deepest desires were completely inverted
during this encounter
and all the conversations that followed.
This isn’t my lover’s fantasy.
It’s not even mine.
It’s some mirror perverted version
and yet at the root of it all…
it is completely the same for me,
which confuses
even as it thrills.
In my mind
I am smaller than I appear,
and he ravages my lover
in depths that I cannot reach,
and I am finished far too soon,
before I’m undressed,
which has never happened
(and never will happen)
because that is not who I am.
“Yeah? You need my load again?”
“My cock hits places his doesn’t?”
“You craving it, boy?”
“You craving it?”
My fantasies are mine
and not my lover’s,
and though this man
says the words that I long to hear
he is saying them into the wrong ears,
because he cannot know
that what he has seen
and what he has interpreted as desire,
is actually reality’s cruel deception.
A trick of fate that pollutes my existence,
a caustic jocularity with an outlandish punchline
that I have endured and sought to diminish
through fantasy and honest communication;
and yet it remains a vicious mockery of all that I wish I could be –
a killing joke which has unknowingly to some,
made fools and victims of us all.
Written by Jason Wright
July 25, 2019
For A.J.
The fools set out to screw;
begetting shrugs
they crawl to lust.
The rules set out were few
and yet on drugs
they fall to dust.
By midnight conversation
linguist dick ensconced
ashamed.
Backbite cuck castration
masochistic angst
inflamed.
Muted by the terror;
aching spasms with aplomb!
Wounded by the error:
taking Adam to The Prom.
Written by Jason Wright
February 27, 2019
Before it began, something was wrong
and we didn’t (couldn’t?) see it.
I wasn’t in the mood. He wasn’t feeling it.
This possible malignancy…
This possibly unexplored unreal territory,
This possibly unexposed notional strife…
was like a DANGER sign that was somehow misread as
STILL SLIPPERY WHEN WET –
an honest, if possibly fatal mistake.
It’s difficult to differentiate
where I end and he begins,
between what is wrong with us
and what is wrong with me…
but perhaps the two are not the same;
perhaps we two are not as one.
Months ago…
(I really should have kept track)
in the moments before usual masturbatory apex,
unreconciled paste spills upon perplexed fingers
absent blissful climax rush;
the poorly mixed paint
lubricates and froths,
gushing forward some 30 guesstimated seconds
before still stroking right hand
leads me to delayed
yet not unpleasant orgasmic sensations.
What the fuck had just happened?
I still don’t know for sure….
But when it didn’t happen again
I imagined it a fluke…
until it wasn’t.
I told him and he later experienced it fourth hand.
28 days x 6 months, minus whatever it is to make it 160
is my guess for how many times I’ve ejaculated since the beginning.
Five aberrant orgasms
with no discernable pattern…
but I speak to urology office shortly
before the sixth occurrence.
That was a few hours ago.
In the shower,
as I washed away all evidence
of any malady,
I imagined him leaving me
after his retreat
and choosing to keep my
completely imagined cancer diagnosis from him
so as not to blackmail him,
so as not to keep him tethered to me
against his will out of shame or pity,
or some maligned commingling of the two.
I’ve not been diagnosed with anything,
but it’s the dream image
that is the first moment in which I feel actual fear
in regard to my (or our possibly) undiagnosed condition.
It is in that first moment of fear
that I imagine him leaving me,
emotionally as well as physically,
in which I am finally able to see us
as two separate beings;
the division of cells,
the division of selves,
until all are finally set free.
Written by Jason Wright
November 20, 2018
For Aaron
and for Little Jason
In Nightmare Asylum
they don’t let you sleep.
“Sleep doesn’t matter”
they say as you weep.
You can’t shed your tears
or they keep you for longer
so stand against fears;
I know you are stronger than
maliciousness doctors and malcontent nurses.
Though we cannot speak –
And we cannot sleep –
We exist here together
inside of these verses.
Written by Jason Wright
November 20, 2018
For Aaron
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 amand Aaron’s love has a way of breaking me free
of my ruinous captivity.
Written by Jason Wright
September 15, 2018
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. ♥
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.
Less than 36;
more than enough.
Some people are never so lucky.
Written by Jason Wright
August 24, 2018
For Aaron