On Brian’s July twenty-fourth forty-second birthday I’m wearing the “Allergic to Sunlight” shirt that I bought in late summer two-thousand to wear for my beloved Shawn (F)… I include his last initial because there were two Shawns of note that year.
I switch the E & A Trains on forty-second street…
“Strike that! Reverse it!”
I almost miss that transfer as I write about my Shawn R. experiences; I was wearing the same shirt the night that I met him in October two-thousand… before we were lovers, before we were friends, and before he recently fucked me again; bringing closure and revelations, inspiration and fascination with all that this act entailed and all that lay revealed in the aftermath.
In snowcapped Vermont artists interpret MADNESS in nine songs that jangle pleasantly through my short term memory, where they fade away to nothing, save vaguely happy impressions of experiences I wish I could hang on to for longer than Ambien will allow.
Xanax RATTLES in my pocket as seemingly female child rearing occupant makes other passengers noticeably uncomfortable… the smell of talcum powder makes me think of boyhood erections and vaginal cancer.
The sound of “Kryptonite” comes from 3 Doors Down and I’m dragged back to San Francisco drunken backseat passenger ride from one unknown location to another. THE MAN beside me is wearing my black clothing, my leather collar, while I am wearing someone else’s dress…
What ever happened to that Dorothy looking shit?
So intimate to see him wearing my goth rocker drag while I feel the cool autumnal chill on unwieldy knees which have never felt more naked.
…My Head Is Spinning…
Gay gangster rap pours into my brain as latex allergy flashback rips me in half on preacher boy’s beautiful blonde cock…. and that last time was totally worth it.
The Midrin has thankfully done it’s ruby stained work; Thank you Peter Murphy (The Scarlet Thing is actually in me) and I’m dancing at the Kit Kat Klub where all orientations are surprisingly segregated when angry heterosexual cis-woman calls me a faggot before I turn to make out with her stupidly aroused boyfriend just to spite her.
Off the train and I stop at random village pharmacy for cough drops before Jumpin’ Jack Frost tells me we’re done: just 2 more meetings and out… I’m lucky it’s still Tuesday because I’m gonna need a drink.
“Do you want to begin?”
Back in the dress I wore so preacher boy could see me naked, and I have no idea that 18 years later, on the opposite side of the country, I’ll still be scrawling about him singing “Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered”, “When You Wish Upon a Star” and assorted unspeakable lyrics that he traced across my unguarded vulnerable ambition.
This part sucks but it’s just a draft and doesn’t need to be as perfect as Cocaine Sex in countless naked backroom dance parties… bodies writhing in dark congress, riding waves in darkened corners – pain, disappointment, lust & loneliness expressed in acid light, opium torture and heroin bliss.
Feed me water. Slake my thirst. Let them drink wine!
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.
