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 monsters which stand between me and true understanding in this world of my own making; unintentional as they may be they must still die to set me free.
My mind and body are split into fragments which collectively form the state of my being.
The Man I am proud I am becoming, (I’ve worked very hard to become that man), is excited and happy that someone he loves will have this opportunity to explore and experience that divine feeling of mutual lust and reciprocal desire, because I know that he’s beautiful beyond reason, beyond any other lover that I have ever known.
I want him to know this. I want him to embrace this and to accept who he truly is. I want him to know and feel joy and accomplishment. I want him to achieve self-actualization.
A less developed part of me worries that if he knows how much he is wanted he may choose to leave me for multiple partners.
But then again, why would he do such a thing when he already has someone that allows him the embraces of others?
And if he can so easily be seduced from my side is it worth denying him such knowledge?
I love him and could never hurt him in this way.
My inner child is small and hard and terrified of what’s to come; so excited that he may shit his pants, wet himself, embarrass Daddy with his hungry child erection, which comes and goes repeatedly based on levels of excitement and fear.
These images are too base and too powerful to be ignored.
The man that I was before, only years ago now, is fearful of mistakes repeating themselves; liars and cheaters and assholes who could not give me the attention that I needed as they abandoned me to explore all that I secretly desired.
But this time it’s not a secret.
My Daddy knows my shame and my lust.
Daddy knows what hungers make me hard; what makes my legs wobble and my knees shake.
Daddy knows that I call out for him when I’m alone and stroking on the edge of understanding, on the brink of destruction and the verge of orgasm.
Daddy knows how small I am, how much Daddy’s cock overshadows my tiny boyhood penis.
Daddy punishes me; his words whispered lustfully into my hungry bottom’s ears; spanking me with diapers, fucking my mind and my asshole; bringing all that I am to the light that I might solidify and individuate from all that has come before now.
Daddy knows that I crave his calculatedly insincere cruelty to make me cum; to take me deeply into lustful spaces beyond which I’ve yet dared to explore… Impossible places that I cannot reach without his loving embrace of seemingly vicious incantations which (spoken lovingly) brutally summon the fragments within me; bringing me to coalescence in this savage intensity, this immensity of emotion and sensation which I want / need to explore in the paradoxically identical agency from which his own exploritive needs are encountered; that wellspring beneath his sense of sensual worth and attraction which unites us in mutual self sexual exploration.
We’re two sides it would seem of the same themed wet dream that has haunted forever and needs to be conquered.
Two shades of wanting of the same kind of haunting that has taunted forever: we must slay our monsters.
And in the aftermath of our battles be they excessive or successful failures I know that I can hold him and tell him he is loved; the way Daddy has told me that I am loved after he punishes me with unrestricted access to his most insightful lessons.
There are other, lesser fears of disease (given our precautions) but they cannot prevent me from finding my truth in the search for his own.
I love you. I love this. I love that we can hold one another as we walk through the terrifying war zones of our youth.
The best actor tonight reminded me of you; I thought to speak this but then remembered your cruel insanity and the way you cut me before cowardly running away to your drugs; your marriage of lies and pain, denial and hope, sadness and despair.
I wanted to invite you to our party, the way I always reach out and invite you, but having removed yourself from my life I can’t extend the invitation which you confusingly attested had never been offered in the past… even though I always welcomed you and sought to join our worlds together.
You called me the night that your father died in October 2011, and when I inquired, you said he’d have been happy to have me there, but then there were no words or information given.
I invited you camping for a night in 2016 and you agreed but then your future fiance blackmailed you into staying behind.
You asked me to take photographs of a famed NYC locale which I spent a day reaching to amuse you, only to share them with no response whatsoever.
I invited, again & again, and you cancelled, made excuses, ignored or hid for no reason I’ve been informed of.
Every time I reached out, you were grateful, but refused to touch.
Until the night came of The Body Politic when you accused, expelling your poison laced accusations with no possibility for my response, despite years shared in conversation, dedication and nearly 16 years after the most perfect kiss that I’ll have ever given.
That night I chose not to follow you. Not again. I will not chase you simply because you’ve chosen to run. I will not struggle through your shit just because you feel like being an asshole.
If you reach out to me I will be there, but I don’t have the strength to force you to see reason or remember how I have championed you.
If I’m lucky I’ll hear from you again someday but I suspect I will only hear of your untimely end.
You were out of your mind on junk the entire time I knew you but I just couldn’t see it.
I see it now and no matter how much I try I can’t stop loving you.
The only difference is I love myself now too and I deserve better than to suffer for the choices that you’ve made.
