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.
“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.
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.
The rain on the leaves and the wet sidewalk were like one of my favorite paintings.
The fragmented message coming through was a surprise and a new opportunity – new experiences and new destinations – all that I wanted this day to be about, only brought to perfection by sharing it with you.
Your voice was distracted… maybe the slightest bit annoyed.
Maybe that’s not quite right, but there was something going on beneath the surface.
Maybe you dreaded hearing from me now. Maybe you didn’t want to have this conversation. Or maybe you were just distracted by your students. I don’t know.
The show I’d read about was at 7:30; you thought I couldn’t be there in time but I was only 6 blocks away.
You thought I wouldn’t want to go, so why the offer? I find so much of it confusing.
You said the ticket was mine until 6pm, but at 6:02 (when I finally got through) you were taking someone else instead.
Should I ask you to ask them to relinquish their ticket. The ticket that was mine…except that it never was.
You ask if I should ask them to relinquish the ticket.
Relinquish is a verb that means to voluntarily cease to keep or claim; to give up.
So the ticket was given but not to me; it was not mine to keep or claim despite the promise of 6pm.
And now I would have to beg someone to relinquish what should never have been theirs so that what never was mine could fulfill the promise of last night’s imaginings.
Standing there, in the rain, cold and wet in that beautiful painting I wept when you said you’d call me back.
I wasn’t sure where I should go. Maybe there was still a chance? Coffee shop on the corner. Hot food and cold peppermint. And the return call letting me know that you couldn’t reach her.
She was on her way with the ticket that I’d been promised on a rare day when I wasn’t vomiting too much and had travelled through tunnels to reach the famous Central Park.
Did I want to meet her? You asked me. No. I didn’t want to meet the woman who would sit with you 6 blocks from where I sat in the coffee shop. No. That would hurt too much. I didn’t want to cry in this crowded little beverage store.
I walked back to the park. I called friends but almost nobody answered. I spoke to my mother… trying to get back in the painting but I’d been locked out.
I left voicemails and texts but there was nobody there to console me.
I took the train home. I walked to work and got my money. I smiled and I tried to get back in the painting but it was so far away that it was all but faded now.
I came home. I found some amount of solace here. I found peace in Facebook posts that I wouldn’t tag you in. But when I went to text you that I loved you and that I hoped you’d had a good time I read the rest of the texts you’d sent me on the train home… and then I was angry and hurt again.
I don’t have a ticket to give you. I can’t even offer it to the bitch you went with because she had every right to go; far more right than me. Because she had a ticket, you see.
I’m angry. I’m hurting. I’m angry that I’m hurting and hurting because I’m angry.
The lie of 6pm hurts me. And the thought (before the truth) that my being there so close to the opera house meant something; that light hearted faith hurt me too.
I don’t have a ticket. But I have something more valuable. I have forgiveness.
Forgiveness for the lie of 6pm can be yours if you tell me you’ll never again put me in a position to beg for someone else to voluntarily cease to keep something you offered me first.
I need forgiveness too. Forgiveness from you for being so caught off guard again that I refused to answer.
I should have demanded that fucking ticket, as you’ll likely tell me.
Forgiveness for myself for allowing my belief to hurt me. I can do that. I’m in a strange painting of my life after all.
I’m self aware on a level I’ve never been before. And I can forgive myself for thinking there was something waiting for me at the opera house door.
The painting of my life is wild and vivid and it clashes with the world around me, and it illuminates my every flaw and finds them beautiful.
Tell me you love me I say to you and the reflection before me. Tell me you respect me. And tell me there will be no more broken 6pm promises.
Tell me that and I will relinquish whatever you like.
