I thought it quite hopeless: the sinking of sailors this future of men historical failures regardless of numbers of men you’ve seen naked when love is your goal then truth is what’s sacred.
You find what is right divided your vanity profound and forthright provided profanity your life can be balanced to challenge insanity your strife can be silenced by licensed humanity.
Confession is destined to threaten the legend with ill timing rhymes keeping time with suggestions of paradigms mined which cheapen perfection: to deepen my crimes I ask myself questions…
Can vintaged affliction for starters be shagged?
Are satisfied victims just martyrs in drag?
Yes what of those sailors you suckled in waves?
That fleet of men cuddled then left to their graves?
Each master troubled by freedom from slaves…
Beneath the sheets struggled bereft of enclaves.
Can seamen be free men unshackled from lust?
Can jocks with the cocks that tackled love, trust?
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. 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.
