BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
The day after dreaming
of lakes and of drowning
with lost lovers speaking / escaping / surmounting…
The day after Brian
had turned forty-two
(though former Hawaiian was lost to me too)…
The day that a cousin
came out to heartbreak
and family treasure was lost in a lake…
When Aaron confessed
to the death with his crying:
Was my dream of sex
just prediction of dying?
Written by Jason Wright
July 30, 2018
In the dream, on Brian’s 42nd birthday,
Aaron drives into lake,
which covers family riches.
And back at campground
I find well adjusted Michael,
with his playful latin lover,
who allows us our alone time
to heal, cuddling naked
and sharing our long overdue kisses,
shared decades after repeatedly fucking
for close to 10 years
straight.
This is something
that he wanted for so long
and I try to let him breathe
and I’m surprised to learn
they fixed that years ago –
I didn’t know that they could.
He’s happy and clean,
old with regret yet somehow
young in the satisfaction
of decisions finally made.
There was
no wife –
no children –
no victims –
and he was saving himself
before drowning in his own lies.
Written by Jason Wright
July 24, 2018
He stops for the man
who is married to dread
and he tops for that man
who is buried in bed
he doesn’t confess this
just gives me his mixture
to soothe and undress with
dishonest elixir
which damns us together
in lust and veracity
stranded forever
in thrust haunted chastity
you envy this bleakness
where no one consoles me
Men need their secrets
as someone once told me
for honesty complicates
just as deception
consciously motivates
trust as erection
as I read the words
unconfessed by my spouse
I die when: “I want your dick in my mouth.”
the pain is intense
but the lust is mutation
insane that incensed
I conduct masturbation
Written by Jason Wright
July 15, 2018
One year ago tonight
you whispered
into my unhearing ears
with the flick of your tongue
across my lover’s desperate flesh
over oceans of thought, fear and lust
you joined that which was mine
while never knowing or desiring
my anatomy.
You, who knew not
to be yourself
except reflected in strange foreign eyes
which we have separately drowned in,
we have shared that beautiful body.
I am nothing to you
but an invisible partner
who plagues not your existence,
a ghost that is haunted
by tiny little deaths
which interred you both
on sweet Budapest fabrics
to the strains of Porgy and Bess.
You were musical phrases
that created a distinct melody
of an already exotic piece,
a hunger I may yet understand
but will never truly experience.
That night I was lost in your tonal pattern,
deafened by an overwhelming silence
which inspired want and hatred,
pity and indifference,
a longing that may never be satiated.
I say “your”
though the stress was not singular –
it was a harmony
that brought me to tears,
tore at my soul & ripped me apart,
boiling me down to my essence.
You were a crucible
by which all fear was melted away,
an intersection in which,
by way of paradox,
he and I were joined in honest surrender,
a yielding so keen
that it’s wounding pleasure
healed the breach,
sealed the rift,
and eased the strain
until nothing could keep us apart.
Written by Jason Wright
June 25, 2018
For Zsolt Krasznár & Aaron Sanko
I’m one half of a couple
laying one side of a bed…
should I cry or laugh or cuddle?
I can’t escape my dread
city
country
heat & frost
& contradictions keep
me hungry and exhausted
but I cannot eat or sleep
you haunt me
without equal
as I thunder
through our hallways
I want you
resting peaceful
yet I hunger
for you always.
Written by Jason Wright
May 26, 2018
For Aaron & Little Jason
It’s Thursday night
and I have my group.
Aaron leaves before me
for his meeting
and he kisses me goodbye.
Other Aaron,
the Aaron that we share,
that Aaron messages us both
about loneliness and homophobia.
Mark messages me about my Aaron’s former employers.
I see that Michael is in town and let him know
I’ll be in the village around nine,
near Stonewall,
on Christopher Street.
Christopher calls me on the train
and though the timing is down to the wire
I tell him I’ll stop by if I can.
Poetry pours out of us in faster than usual process.
Michael can see me but I meet him at his hotel near Times Square
to be closer to Chris’s Washington Heights.
We go to Blazing Saddles, Rise past Posh / Industry
to Ivy because the straighter crowd isn’t obsessed with RuPaul.
He drinks margaritas. I drink whiskey.
We talk about our decade old relationship;
how he had fallen for me before I had fallen for him,
only much too late – such terrible timing,
but at least we’re friends now!
We talk about Mark, who messaged me earlier,
how our relationship / friendship extends over years,
and I told him about Aaron / Aaron & Christopher.
I walked him back to his hotel with a quick kiss
and a big hug
before catching the A train (from 42nd to 175th)
where I stumble
sleepily to Christopher’s new apartment
and we crawl through someone’s bedroom window
to take in the remarkable view.
Later he tells me about life
and we trade stories before I stumble home
in the dark Friday morning.
Saturday, Aaron drives Michael & I to
the New York City AIDS Memorial.
Michael saw “Afterglow” the night before;
a wonderful play filled with naked men,
and believe me, I’ve seen them.
We walk to the Stonewall National Monument in Christopher Park,
the Stonewall Inn, past the Ad Hoc Collective Cafe
(where my poetry meetings are held),
past PIECES and then catch a train down to Chinatown & Little Italy
so I can get some jewelry.
Later we head to Central Park by way of Marvel headquarters
and the Columbus Circle Shops to meet some of his friends
who we somehow never connect with.
We walk to the Bethesda Fountain
which we love because it’s in “Angels in America”
and it’s where the Avengers parted ways…
before heading back to Columbus Circle so he can attend
“Naked Boys Singing” and I can catch a train back to the Heights
so I can shower, put on something warmer and go meet Aaron
and several of our friends for a birthday celebration
in Jock Douchebag Heaven
which as it so happens,
ends up being in the Meatpacking District.
Written by Jason Wright
April 15, 2018
When you walked in to Starbs
with my man on your arm
in your charmingly gay jeans,
I smiled
and I thought that this could be fun.
I ran into an old customer
who told me about his son’s tumbling class
as I watched you both ordering coffee,
with an easy,
relaxed manner,
that spoke volumes of what was to come.
Your sing song ramblings
were the essence of adorable
and you seemed younger
than your pictures,
while also managing to look completely different
from whatever angle
I spied you from.
We agreed on Buffy’s Gift
and disagreed on LGBT actors,
though not in the typical, angry, grating way,
which Aaron and I had just discussed
in relation to a similar friend,
who has already secretly been mentioned here.
We had matching board games
which we managed to win
before I took pain killer
when I expected no more games to be played.
This, aside from
the tongue fuck of a kiss
which was seemingly dared
and then shared without mercy.
Later, that other kiss on the kitchen counter,
and you were the ghost of Sean Mobley,
whispering across my skin
before we all retired to the place
I expected us not to go…
which in all fairness,
I had insisted on.
There were obstacles to overcome
but in a relaxingly hazy, lustful way,
or that’s how I experienced it at the time.
Your sexy ass,
which I yearned to devour,
was sadly out of service…
and my painkiller infused erection
was quickly down for the count,
yet your beautifully thick dick
and mouthwatering sack
were open for business.
I did fucking love your sex drenched cock,
stretching me open
after riding your face
like you were some kind of bucking bronco.
You were energetic,
switching positions,
still looking different from every angle,
painfully / pleasurably
thrusting deep inside me,
filling the rubber with an impressive load of cum.
You left soon after,
since you don’t like to cuddle,
and the two of you needed to be up early
the next morning.
You took Ian McKellen (as James Whale) with you
and we traded messages on this or that service
but I don’t hear your voice in those words.
In these random exchanges
it’s hard to tell what is real;
hard to tell if we’re going to see you again.
Perhaps you really were just a shadow of Sean,
come to sing me carols and wake me with a kiss.
But I’d like to talk to you again: face to face.
It’s not all about your dick;
it’s everything else too;
all those angles are views I’d like to explore.
My sentences sent to convey this seem awkward
and desperate, but that’s not how they’re meant.
Like I said, it’s hard to tell what is real
in the light of day;
hard to decipher if what we experienced
was the beginning of friendship
or merely the end of a short, yet satisfying game.
Written by Jason Wright
February 13, 2018
For Joe
The monsters
which stand between me
and true understanding
in this world of my own making;
unintentional as they may be
they must still die to set me free.
My mind and body
are split into fragments
which collectively form
the state of my being.
The Man I am proud I am becoming,
(I’ve worked very hard to become that man),
is excited and happy
that someone he loves
will have this opportunity
to explore and experience
that divine feeling of mutual lust
and reciprocal desire,
because I know
that he’s beautiful beyond reason,
beyond any other lover
that I have ever known.
I want him to know this.
I want him to embrace this
and to accept who he truly is.
I want him to know
and feel joy
and accomplishment.
I want him to achieve self-actualization.
A less developed part of me worries
that if he knows how much he is wanted
he may choose to leave me
for multiple partners.
But then again,
why would he do such a thing
when he already has someone
that allows him the embraces of others?
And if he can so easily be seduced from my side
is it worth denying him such knowledge?
I love him and could never hurt him in this way.
My inner child is small and hard
and terrified of what’s to come;
so excited that he may shit his pants,
wet himself, embarrass Daddy
with his hungry child erection,
which comes and goes repeatedly
based on levels of excitement and fear.
These images are too base
and too powerful to be ignored.
The man that I was before,
only years ago now,
is fearful of mistakes repeating themselves;
liars and cheaters and assholes
who could not give me
the attention that I needed
as they abandoned me
to explore all that I secretly desired.
But this time
it’s not a secret.
My Daddy knows
my shame and my lust.
Daddy knows what
hungers make me hard;
what makes my legs wobble
and my knees shake.
Daddy knows that
I call out for him
when I’m alone and stroking
on the edge of understanding,
on the brink of destruction
and the verge of orgasm.
Daddy knows how small I am,
how much Daddy’s cock
overshadows my tiny boyhood penis.
Daddy punishes me;
his words whispered lustfully
into my hungry bottom’s ears;
spanking me with diapers,
fucking my mind and my asshole;
bringing all that I am to the light
that I might solidify
and individuate
from all that has come before now.
Daddy knows that
I crave his calculatedly insincere cruelty
to make me cum;
to take me deeply into lustful spaces
beyond which I’ve yet dared to explore…
Impossible places that I
cannot reach without his loving embrace
of seemingly vicious incantations
which (spoken lovingly)
brutally summon the fragments within me;
bringing me to coalescence in this savage intensity,
this immensity of emotion and sensation
which I want / need to explore
in the paradoxically identical agency
from which his own exploritive needs are encountered;
that wellspring beneath his sense
of sensual worth and attraction
which unites us
in mutual self sexual exploration.
We’re two sides it would seem
of the same themed wet dream
that has haunted forever
and needs to be conquered.
Two shades of wanting
of the same kind of haunting
that has taunted forever:
we must slay our monsters.
And in the aftermath of our battles
be they excessive or successful failures
I know that I can hold him and tell him he is loved;
the way Daddy has told me that I am loved
after he punishes me
with unrestricted access to his most insightful lessons.
There are other, lesser fears of disease (given our precautions)
but they cannot prevent me from finding my truth
in the search for his own.
I love you. I love this.
I love that we can hold one another
as we walk through the terrifying war zones of our youth.
You are not alone.
I am not alone.
We are always together.
And I will love you forever.
Written by Jason Wright
January 18, 2018
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.
Written by Jason Wright
November 8, 2017
Tonight
after haunted days of painful painlessness
a siege of sirens comes
to serenade, seduce and succor…
to simplify…
to supply me with solace
as I drown
beneath waves of mutilation
(with apologies to Pixies).
My Aaron sings to me
his soothing tones
which are less like music;
more like verse…
strumming my ribcage
beneath salt water seas,
we swim naked for hours
through tears we’ve not shed.
The other Aaron,
the Aaron between us,
he haunts through
photograph, text and memory,
echoing across time and geography
to be one with us again.
There are naked hungry men
beneath those shadowed depths,
those sombre shades of green
lit by melancholy movie soundtracks.
The mermen dive for pleasure
and breathe truthfully through gilled
fantasy lies which excite and entice me
before dragging me down to my death.
In amber and glow,
through fogged glass of sunken ships
she is weeping her mermaid crocodile tears.
This is not truly Jamie;
this being is not my sister or my therapist.
The former doesn’t speak to me, even on land
and the latter will soon be lost to me –
just as I left her (unforgivably)
in the haste of my waking nightmare.
She will forgive me this unforgivable sin.
She is strong but she is wounded –
like me,
underwater –
like me,
and she will rise again –
like me.
Could this truly be her after all?
I smile and wave goodbye to her
but she can’t see me until Thursday.
Mermaid simulacrum smiles just the same…
but here my visions come to an end.
Written by Jason Wright
August 17, 2017
For Aaron Squared & Jamie Bloom