Confusing DILF picture adds layer of lust to bruising filth mixture; betrayer of trust who back in the past when present was future, through lack of the ask cast gent as abuser.
*
Doctored exuberance from strangest of men.
I was awkward pubescence and patience by then.
My doctor was present which deftly he used.
Doctor was pleasant which left me confused.
More than one patient; Jason inside me.
More than one statement was latent inside me.
And doctor was plural; what’s quizzically true is that doctor was neural but physical too.
More than one practice. More than one patient. More than one mattress. More than one Jason.
Deranged dereliction of duty imbued with strange contradictions that strangely are true.
Innocent action or wholly obscene?
Fact that this fraction unholy was clean.
With no penetration in sterile space.
And no abdication of crime or disgrace.
With no policed questions the proctors undress me.
Priests at confessions; the doctors molest me.
Doctors are judged through initial neurology.
The awkward begrudged judicial apology.
*
And DILF in the picture looks back from the past and I am not injured but was I the last?
There was a morning, a day, a hot afternoon where I thought my life would change… where my wandering had finally altered my direction… but it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps every day is like this for others… but the day I am thinking of, the day of sex before the sermon, I believed that I’d finally arrived somewhere I was meant to be, only to learn across the years that I would seldom ever return, and I wish I would have known how special that time was, how precious those moments.
It’s altogether different yet somehow the same when watching you watching whales… when the music you share nearly kills me with it’s mournful beauty – giving me fever chills and death spasms before my fever breaks and I’m allowed to dance in the trance of our shoegazing dream pop.
In the fever all that could comfort me was the seemingly old but younger woman with the ghost on the porch… An echo of that first reading joining my pain across two different eras.
3
The first would have been discovery, and on the very brink of puberty as I stumbled through that sea of trees to find a validating fiction.
And now the feeling: brotherly, yet still cherry stink of nudity as I’m humbled by our deities to bind an animated friction.
And the proof it is not fair but the truth is he’s out there begging for money, trading sex for drugs hungry while the whales circle round us tasting sweetly table scraps.
And the lie if there is one is that life is a shotgun because life hasn’t drowned us baby please don’t go like that.
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!
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.
