In 9 days it will be 17 years from the night we first met.
And though you discarded me in a mostly cruel and senseless fashion I still write & think of you often.
Some of the words I write are angry, hurt, longing or strange…
And though I’m PROUD that I refused to chase someone who chose to run away from me and our truth I miss YOU more than any other pain that you have caused me.
Written by Jason Wright October 9, 2018
For Mobley Mouse, for Theodore and all the other names I’ve come to call you.
I’m wearing Sean’s Tori Amos shirt which he gave me 16 years ago… yet it always somehow remains his.
Maybe because he lost his mind again last year,
He tossed me to the proverbial curb as if I were the junkie that he confessed to be, though who the fuck really knows?
Not that it doesn’t make sense…
It actually explains a lot – actually connects many dots – solves so many mysteries when combined with our own histories only we’re all addicted to something, aren’t we?
Alcohol, as a drug, betrays you very quickly. Anne Rice said something to that effect once, which I’ve always remembered though I can’t find the exact quote.
I can’t tell if I’ve been addicted to food…but if I have, then it is a drug that has betrayed me all too quickly.
Perhaps this is why he shivers inside me; not “Long Gone Sean”, but that child version of Jason Wright who whispers always beneath my skin and behind my eyes.
I struggle to feed him but his pained and palsied nearly lifeless form rejects the medicine he both craves and abhors, never knowing which decisive reaction is truly best after our fucked up father ripped his world inside out…
Sean’s biological father (“Ted”) was rock solid awesome while his step-father was less so; addicted to pain pills, he gave me my first tab of Xanax after I fucked his son in Sean’s gay, white trash, St. Helen, Michigan bedroom.
I reached my hand up to cradle his head to prevent it’s rhythmic bruising crash against the wall and I felt his confusing reaction as it quivered down from his brain, down along his spine, back through his blissfully tight asshole around my hard and horny thrust.
Later he told me no one else he’d been with would ever consider such a kindness… his stories were always so wondrously sad.
That 2008 reunion was nearly 10 years ago and apparently wouldn’t last the decade to come.
I wonder where he’d be today when this shade of Jason will struggle to jam a needle in his arm and feed our craving without judgment or rejection.
“We all have our junk and my junk is you.”
Junk: What William S. Burroughs was high on until he woke from “The Sickness”, when secretive Not-Dr.-Seward was cavorting with his Mugwumps.
Junk: The so-called yards where I played to escape the insanity of my own brutal “Protoplasm Daddy” complex.
Junk: The word is now forever associated with the 16yo boy at safe sex instructional who was the first I’d ever heard equate cocks, dicks & pricks with an addictive substance.
My so-called junk relieved Sean of his unwanted virginity, while his Naked Lunch variety relieved us of our treasured friendship, filled his veins with human immunodeficiency virus and bubbled out of him in a hateful madness which I will never allow to murder my love for him.
Message came through the wire: betrayal, hallucinogens and lies.
The walking wounded attacked faithful friend before shattering the war radio – Line goes dead.
Shell shocked survivors shake their heads in confusion; refusing to give chase to someone willingly / needlessly running from them.
On the battlefield of life in the trenches of drama former lovers behind enemy lines of friendship crumble to Hiroshima ash, seemingly destroyed and unable to rise.
“Our armor was useless.”
“Our love was easily forgotten in the chaos of bloodshed.”
Your madness is endless, My sadness is friendless,
I will not surrender to man who would end this.
On opposite sides of a battlefield vital…
We sing different songs which have similar titles…
Which share the same message if not the same score…
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.
