In disco dreams of the demimonde Harry Potter’s ruthless offspring offers me some of his poppers, but I tell him I enjoy my visions far too much and anyways, I’ve never needed drugs to enjoy being penetrated by words, thoughts or horny black medical technicians named Robert.
He tells me that I don’t know what I’m missing before he shrugs and hoovers the proffered merchandise, riding away on his boyfriend’s upturned open relationship broomstick.
I push through a crowd of 70’s queens, fruity fudge packers and ambidextrous wank masters who’ve all chosen to inhale deeply but are undone by their vigorous Viagra consumption…
They may all have fairy wings but they’re dropping like flies.
Anxious about anxiety and tempted by temptation I ramble back to reality by way of Central Park’s Tavern on the Green, which ex-boyfriend swore had been positively decimated…
And just like that, I realize that realization is as real as all I now see…
And I find my mind has left behind the grind: I’m fine as fine can be.
Written by Jason Wright April 30, 2018
For Joe L & Michael E: practically perfect in all of my dreams.
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.
