You tell him that sex with me will be completely emotionless for you, or at least that’s what I hear without really listening, but what you truly said is that our sexual activity will be completely emotionless for US, but that’s not wholly accurate… because I will feel something; if I didn’t already feel something I wouldn’t even bother.
You say that people don’t usually FUCK their ex-boyfriends, which I find funny because so far, they’re the only people I fuck, and why not?
I’ve loved you for almost as long as I’ve known you and can’t / won’t force myself to feel nothing.
But there’s NOTHING threatening to others by this potential reconnecting of interlocking bodies, because while sex will ALWAYS be emotional for me, I also hold no illusions that my having sex with you will bind you to me, making you a prisoner to only satisfy my needs, to only service my pleasure…
Our FUCKING will not reintegrate us into some magical reiteration of our former couplehood.
The idea is preposterous.
As preposterous as truth and as honest as fiction.
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.
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.
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.
That’s what the message said and suddenly I remember what it was like to really miss playfully biting his lips when we’d kiss: a ghost of a memory of a forgotten desire.
I met him online in late 2007; just a hookup that attempted to be more, and failed because of piss poor timing. Like a perpetual tryst with delusions of grandeur; genuine emotion without proper context or common sense.
His lips, his smile, eyes, tears, were all exquisite.
His meaty cock was thick and heavy, and always filled my unprotected insides before shooting down my throat. Invariably he would ride my tongue, feeding my hungry need while I nursed my own aching pleasure.
I was for once, blissfully uninterested in anything more than friendship and kinky sex.
And while months of Doctor Who, Meeting his mum at hospital, his friends (some of whom were my friends), and New Year’s Eve party where we met his future husband(!) were all appreciated and are remembered fondly… his confession of love ripped me in half and tore us apart.
He fell, was crushed, and though I eventually followed, it was too late to save either of us.
At the time, I thought this a tragedy, but in light of later revelations it seems the better of several options, despite the pain we caused one another at the time.
In the end I loved him and he loved me…
But some affairs are just that… Not to last or to be.
Back in the present I’m in Hell’s Kitchen and his plane is coming in for a landing in Newark.
C to Penn Station, NJ Transit round trip tickets are $25.00 but waiting to board the call comes: an earlier flight than expected and I’ll have just missed him again.
Refund lady is nice; I transfer from C to A at 42nd and this feels natural and normal and before I know it I’m back in The Heights.
On the train I listen to “Gods and Monsters” on repeat and Lana Del Rey sings about lost innocence.
He thanks me when I get home; he says: “It means a lot that you dropped everything to give it a shot.”
Only just like our relationship we suffer from piss poor timing and we keep just missing each other.
But you know what?
The attempt was fun, and totally worth it.
Even though we failed.
Even though we never fit together in life as well as we did in bed or in friendship.
Even if in the grand scheme of things we only managed to last for a few precious hours.
