In Chechnya, gay men like me are tortured while I’m riding a bicycle for the first time in nine years.
I’m racing downtown along the Hudson River…. just like Michigan childhood, yet decidedly different, feeling simultaneously young and very old; muscles aching, blood pumping.
I have to eat soon and all of this must end.
Coffee in Lincoln Square? Lincoln Center? Lincoln somewhere. Mingling with opera singers; this is my life now. This, while those in Mother Russia who survived the purge of A.I.D.S. have been incarcerated by an astonishing ignorance, in a war they can not hope to win.
We are not wayward heterosexuals. We are born; not converted. And it is those that hate and fear us so much who are responsible for our creation.
The only FAGGOTS I’ve ever met were conservative terrifying assholes.
Conservative or Liberal… at least our assholes seem to match.
Haunted night is filled with fairy ghosts of candles burnt forty-three years endless summer days and countless aching seconds before they sang!
The ash of memory collects / connects / coalesces between a dreamed of future and the year before my own birth.
Music plays, dancers sway, Listen now to what they have to say… Feel the truth of an imagined confession.
Now you know that art is magic, alive and tragic, raving, righteous & tempestuous somehow… that is what you know in the now but back in the then before the circuit could complete – before you finished kiss so sweet – the fire spread as coward fled.
Showering after sex my mind is overcome by thoughts, sensations, memories.
“Call Me by Your Name” has reminded me of Rob – the way he made a pass at me when I was 17 – the way I reacted and the way I’ve often wished I could change that moment – erase it, rewrite it, never experience that level of self loathing born of inexperience… that impression of what I lack.
Still… kissing at church has to count for something.
My conversation with young relative returns; how I tried to calm his fears on Trump and AIDS and love and sex. It only takes one time, you know?
A boy I knew who worked on Fire Island died of an “infection” a few weeks ago – life support turned off –
INFECTION FIRE ISLAND GAY DEATH
The words that silently scream at me what I believe to be the cause while everyone politely refuses to mention what has happened… And the band continues to play on.
Men I’ve been inside of, Men who’ve been inside of me are positive.
Best friends, Loved ones, Infected but seldom mentioned because an illness is easily the least interesting thing about them.
I think of Aaron and the tears he shed and the words he said and the progress he confirmed… the wonderful weekends we’ve had.
I think about upcoming hearing while trying not to face it with terror or worry while the video they’re supposed to send me has never arrived (three times).
But the shower must end and scalding hot water must cease it’s spray.
And so I dry myself – step back into the world and I forget.
The pained expression as he wrapped his arms around his head, as if to hide from the words he knew he must say; the risk he must take.
The tears that fell from his beautiful eyes as he confessed that the heart of us had been lost.
The strength that I had never possessed in the past, unfamiliar as it surged to the fore…
Was it possible that I had built a temple out of my shattered childhood only to have him ripped away from me?
The way we barely breathed as we collapsed in random bursts of suffering, exquisite, aching pain of love gone wrong, gone sour, gone ignored too long and now barely recognizable.
We lay together that night, together, yet cleaved in two.
Yet we never degraded, never cursed, never accused, never, never, never completely surrendered to shame or fear.
This hardship, this torment was honest and brave, and long overdue; I know that now and I thank him even as I yearn for my other half.
For 10 days and 11 nights I have fought for the mere hope, the slightest chance that a lost romance might be resurrected.
I don’t want to be crushed by the loss of him or bereft of his touch.
I fight for my own survival with lessons that may save me, yet beyond myself I yearn for the forgotten look in his eyes, the curve of his lips, the taste of his joy, satisfaction, surprise and that virginal lust for passions met in kind.
I want to give him what in ignorance I have so long denied him, he that I treasure most, he that I cherish above all others.
His need, his confession, his longing has inspired a sea change within me.
And if he might only look there in my culpable remorseful eyes, perhaps he will find what it is that he can no longer find on his own.
With every glance I seek to say:
I am here. And I love you. And I am in love with you. And I curse the day that I ever made you feel you weren’t worthy of my best.
I will extend myself to the best of my ability, beyond what I have done for any other love, any other lover, any other man, woman, parent or friend.
This I swear with a glad heart.
For you have made me a better man, and a greater man than you would be an impossible quest that I would never dream of or wish to accept.
Find me Aaron. Find me.
I am waiting in the dark to lead us into the light.
For nearly four years I’ve shared my bed with my boyfriend / partner / lover: Aaron L. Sanko.
We don’t always go to bed at the same time, yet there are almost always a few hours of crossover, usually in the early morning hours.
In that blissful time when sunlight begins to penetrate our darkened sanctuary, and the alarm insists that it is time we disengage from our nightly maneuvers, we refuse to be separated… sometimes to our peril; we find ourselves caught in what Aaron first christened:
The Trap
This entrapment occurs as we drift in and out of slumber, desperately enmeshed in one another, when the world tries to call us away, and we realize we want only to be together this way: naked, entwined, united, protected and completed.
“It took me hours to get out of The Trap this morning.”
But while “the trap” is a nice little wink and a nod, an in-joke, a reference between lovers… which certainly describes those moments that we cherish… I find it amusingly ironic that this seemingly sinister state we find ourselves in is truly an honest contradiction…
For it’s when I find myself entrapped by Aaron’s loving arms that I feel we are the most free.
“There were angels dancing at the Ritz” on Devils Night I’m sure…
We spoke of church and God and pricks; We’ve not been shy or pure.
We spoke of all our wicked tricks, and mine outnumbered others.
We walked as wraiths on River Styx unencumbered by our lovers.
Your poison: blend of gin and tonic; mine you paid the price…
We drank it deep, October Brew was whiskey (fruit and spice).
Men from Barcelona laughed as speeds of words were changed.
The ghosts we summoned from the past to find ourselves explained.
———————
And still buzzing and eager with all I hadn’t guessed, brimming with the innocent malice of covetousness, blushing and bursting at our sacred sabbat of salacity, Ripe with long delayed spells of audacity,
while finally finding my way and understanding this puzzle piece of this beautifully haunted city… Cocooned in the simple joys of communication, connection, lust and friendship…
with our ravenous unending thirst deceptively sated, we headed down the yearning road together.
(a whispered incantation “for curing hungry lovers”),
I don’t really know if you realize how much I wanted to kiss you.
You sitting across from me with that sexy half smile…
You, asking if you could touch it?
If I’d been single I’m sure I’d have kissed you then, which in the moment was brilliantly confusing.
I had to look away. I couldn’t even look at you. But I couldn’t stop smiling either.
That I managed to not kiss you while glowing brightly on Southern Comfort and admitted appetite, with the words you still refused to say… well, apparently I have more self control than I ever dared dream.
Perhaps you do too.
I freely admit this golden moment of desire was a guilty craving pleasure come morning; a cherished transgression for which I’ll always be grateful.
You walked me to my train; a perfect gentleman.
What a mystical happenstance is this friendship that’s found us.
Thank you for your honesty and your restraint.
Thank you for your confession and your company.
And thanks for making the fantasy into flesh, while keeping the flesh a complete mystery…
That’s a much more impressive trick than any of mine.
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.
She thanks me for something insightful that I said to her on Saturday, and I know that we’re sparking off of each other. It’s mutual. It’s not one sided or selfish.
“Tell me you,” she says, and I like that she skipped the word “about”.
“What do you want to know? I’m an open book.” I tell her.
“What do you love?”, She asks me this when most people ask: “What do you do?”
I’m surprised and without having to think I tell her what I know:
“I love Aaron.”
I say this because that’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth; it saves me from thinking about how closed off I am… But the way we speak it’s impossible to leave it at that and the question lingers.
“Why do you love Aaron?”
I tell her about what I was when I met Aaron, which is also true, but not the whole truth, and then we’re out of time.
On the train I’m compelled to answer again; to answer more completely.
What do you love?
Joy. Creation. Inspiration. Poetry. Sex. Love. Honesty. Connection. Conversation. Meditation. Self discovery. Therapy. Listening. Communication. The freedom that comes with sharing one’s pain. Being heard and acknowledged.
These answers are wholly true, yet I can understand how I could respond by naming Aaron, because he successfully relates to all of these things, and that’s why I truly love him.
Also, with Aaron, with the people I meet and surround myself with, I have this sense of breathing rarefied air. It’s not just that they are successful… It’s that they’re creative, and creation inspires me in every aspect of my life. That’s something I love that’s never been articulated.
The words flow out of me and I know they are the right answer to the question that surprised me.
I turn it around in my brain.
What do you fear?
Deception. Broken trust. Violence. Illness. Inaction. Failing. Missing something. Things I don’t understand or comprehend. Confusion. Weakness.
While writing this I’m attacked on the Northbound A Train.
I’m nudged, hit, my headphones are ripped off my head and some guy calls me a “Fucking queen.”
I laugh at this though he hurt me. I continue to type. I’m filled with emotion and my hands are shaking but if I stop I’m going to lose it:
Shock. Heartbeat. Spark. Eat? Jason or jason? Attack. Why the relation? “Fucking Queen.” Sorry, but not sorry. Not insulted.
The man gets off the train at 145 and part of me is in shock from the attack but I’m distracted by what I wrote:
Violence followed by thoughts of food. Was that me? Or was that the part of me that remembers the perpetually recurring loss of my innocence? What does that mean? I need to talk about this in therapy.
I was so afraid in those few minutes on the train. I didn’t know what to do but I think my laughter may have saved me.
Laughter can do that.
I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that what I wrote scared me far more than the man who wanted to hurt me.
An unspoken question: What do you want?
Clarity. Continuity. Understanding. Safety. Assurance. Support. Guidance. Answers. More questions. More time with Aaron. More time with friends.
And more conversations like the ones that inspired this.
Written by Jason Wright JULY 9, 2015
for Alexandra Silber
Note: I suspect the punctuation in this is all wrong, but I’ve kept it to myself long enough.
The first time I saw you was at a wedding and you were stunning.
Not just beautful. Not just good looking and not only pretty. Stunning.
Like meeting a movie star. A movie star married to one of your favorite cousins. A movie star married into your favorite branch of your family tree. A movie star who wasn’t just amazing to look at, but who smiled and spoke to me in ways no previous “cousin-in-law” had done up to that point.
You were interesting, down to earth, surprising, and only speaking to you for a few minutes I sensed a great depth.
Over the years we really haven’t spent much time together but almost every time we speak there’s some new glimmer of what sparkles within you, just underneath the surface.
A darkness and a mystery, a gleaming otherness; seemingly fragile, but that’s likely an inaccurate perception.
Perhaps it’s despair or courage? Perhaps it’s pain or a haunting melody that only you can hear? Perhaps it’s all of these things or none of them, but it is there, whatever it is, behind your eyes, and whatever questions are answered and asked behind the masks that you appear to wear…
Those mysteries make you approachable, magical and breathtaking.
