Another year finished and another year in the making. I meander in my thoughts of my past this time of year, for obvious reasons, and as I've been (finally) getting older, it's amazing to me how much I've forgotten. Years I was in a long term relationship, traveling to distant lands with him, and I barely remember what we did, where we went, who we talked to, how we made love, or when we argued what we argued about. I only remember images of fields extending into mountains, architecture over bridges and streets, and people walking around me always, culturally different yet somehow all seeming the same and sometimes I remember feelings. But I traveled some after that relationship ended, were some of these images from those trips?
If a lifetime can be measured by lovers, it seems a blur of moments with them in city streets, in bedrooms, in hotels, in apartment complexes, spaces of lush color and liquid scenarios. If a lifetime can be measured in accomplishments, I have no idea what I've accomplished for how many years to this eve of another coming, as I'm at an all time low. Perhaps, there are better things to measure the years with. Like how many times you've seen the ocean.
If someone would tell me, after I say something of my life to them, that I've been through a lot- and maybe I have- it would be hard to discern in my face, as when I look in the mirror I see someone 10 yrs younger, rough nonetheless, but not through the gentle severity of age, but of madness, an ageless kind of rough underlying in the skin of someone who's large eyes are that of an animal in its prime, free and wild.
I know that when I'm serving how many strangers their champagne as the ball drops, drunk and silly, I'll be thinking about playing video games with my brothers, or firecrackers in the street high in the mountains, or being strung out and in a spanish styled town with movement towards Mexico. Some of my past new years, but I can't remember all of them. I can't remember all of them. I try, but can't. You should never have to try too hard. I can't remember all of them.
I remember last new year's eve, being too drunk to drive home, no friends to drive me, and laying in my car in a stupor, eventually resting, until the sun rose on new years day.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
on the lasting impressions of break downs
While he was going down I me, I started reminiscing on a trip I had to Santa Barbara. I'm not sure why. My car broke down in front of these amazing redwoods making waiting for triple A not too bad.
If you haven't been, it's really like those stupid New Moon Movies. It's worth going.
Instead of getting soft, which normally happens when I start thinking of other things- which can happen a lot this days while engaged in activities like that, I was only getting harder. Which I thought was kinda funny.
I love guys that love to suck dick. Particularly those that love to suck my dick. You can tell when a guy just loves to suck dick, any dick. Usually it's bad dick sucking. It's because they somehow don't realize that every dick is different. But as soon as you realize it, you realize every dick isn't worth loving. Just my dick. I'm just joking. Really, it's not about the dick. It's about who someone is. The dick is the extension of who someone is. When someone has your dick in your mouth, really they have you entirely in their mouth. People think it's the dicksucker that's the submissive one. But really it's you who is in them and at their whim. But the game between you who's dick is getting suck and feeling like he's the one in control and the the one's sucking your dick assuming the submissive role but really being in control... this is the power play of identity which makes the whole thing interesting.
–
“Have you ever been to Vermont in fall?” he said to me once while we were taking a walk to a diner to grab some food.
“No, I haven't”
“It's the most beautiful thing.”
Then he kicked a crushed can that was on the sidewalk into the street upon which a speeding car ran over and spun on for a little bit. The car nearly crashed, I thought with my eyebrows raised. Looking back at him at what he done, I saw his face untouched by any incident. I smiled.
“I don't know why but I can't get the thought of those falling orange leaves out of my mind when I'm around you.”
I innocently reached for his hand.
If you haven't been, it's really like those stupid New Moon Movies. It's worth going.
Instead of getting soft, which normally happens when I start thinking of other things- which can happen a lot this days while engaged in activities like that, I was only getting harder. Which I thought was kinda funny.
I love guys that love to suck dick. Particularly those that love to suck my dick. You can tell when a guy just loves to suck dick, any dick. Usually it's bad dick sucking. It's because they somehow don't realize that every dick is different. But as soon as you realize it, you realize every dick isn't worth loving. Just my dick. I'm just joking. Really, it's not about the dick. It's about who someone is. The dick is the extension of who someone is. When someone has your dick in your mouth, really they have you entirely in their mouth. People think it's the dicksucker that's the submissive one. But really it's you who is in them and at their whim. But the game between you who's dick is getting suck and feeling like he's the one in control and the the one's sucking your dick assuming the submissive role but really being in control... this is the power play of identity which makes the whole thing interesting.
–
“Have you ever been to Vermont in fall?” he said to me once while we were taking a walk to a diner to grab some food.
“No, I haven't”
“It's the most beautiful thing.”
Then he kicked a crushed can that was on the sidewalk into the street upon which a speeding car ran over and spun on for a little bit. The car nearly crashed, I thought with my eyebrows raised. Looking back at him at what he done, I saw his face untouched by any incident. I smiled.
“I don't know why but I can't get the thought of those falling orange leaves out of my mind when I'm around you.”
I innocently reached for his hand.
on hope 1
You think that after something horrible happens, and life just can't go on, that something must happen, something must save you. You start crying, you grow hysterical, you pray (although you don't even know what you're praying to eventually), everything around you breaks down. The only thing that matters is the question of what could possibly happen next. In this mess, there is somehow hope. Something in you somehow proposes that you deserve something better, to be reconciled, to be saved. Whether this situation was your fault or not, suddenly you're thinking about all the suffering you've ever gone through, and you think it's either I die right now, or something must save me. A subtle imperative grows that impresses the idea that now life must do this for you now, and if it doesn't, then the meaning of your whole life is lost or worse it means that you don't really deserve anything better, it means that it was all your fault the whole time, it means life is pointless. Something must save you right now.
But in fact, nothing happens and nothing saves you. You wake up and in fact all meaning becomes questionable, self worth becomes questionable, purpose in life becomes questionable. You get angry. All we ever need is hope, they say. And yet here there was nothing ever to really hope for, even though you hoped. Is hope too pointless, or is it only that you do not deserve to be saved?
This is where religion inserts itself. If a believer is saved, then it is because of divine will. If believer is not then they can continue on, go through how much more suffering, how much more failings, with the hope that one day they will be saved. Either way, the believer continues in terms of their hope, regardless of empirical evidence. On the other hand, if one is a believer and is not saved, then there could be where the lasting impression that they were not to be saved by divine will, that they were purposefully denied saving. All is lost. But the all that is lost was never located in the empirical reality
But being a believer when it comes to hope doesn't just refer to the religious. Even those that simply believe in fate, that ambiguous thing that is perhaps of the easiest of the ignorant (of which even the most educated and well-intentioned of us fall to become) to relie on reveals our tendency towards the irrationality of the terms of hope. Hope is traumatic. The symbolic imperative, the meaning of it almost always separates us inside. If you are saved, you not only feel the relief, but your very being is affirmed, legitimated. When you are not, your very meaning becomes suspect, and nothing makes sense, you confront pointlessness directly, or worse you see yourself unworthy of beauty, of goodness, of a future with happiness. It separates us from very meanings of our being, our soul, and our empirical actual real selves.
–
Things either happen or they don't. Does it ultimately matter if we think positively, if we hope? Does it ultimately make a difference if we are pessimistic, negative, self-destructive? Even rationalists or empiricists may not have it right. Doing all you can may not amount to much, conditions and climate considered. Sometimes the things that are “your fault” may have little to do with your predicament or getting out of it.
Whether rejected once again from a possible job prospect, and it's been years, find that we are so broke that we may not have a home, learn that the one guy we feel we could ever love, and it's been years, will never love us back the same way, or find that we have a disease or illness and have just a matter of months to live... it is difficult to accept that the predicament is due to a long set of painful coincidences. It is also difficult to accept that the only thing that can save you is yourself...
Yet somehow the platitude of “life goes on” becomes what is worth reflecting, particularly in that this platitude may not be necessarily referring to your own life going on. It could be every other life but your own. In other words it may mean that regardless your life will go on despite the traumatic event, or that every other life with sweep around your mess slowing eroding it away till you vanish into the very world culture adage of the river of life, yours being but a drop in this vast body of motion... either way, it renders the very significance of the traumatic event as insignificant.
Whereas despair has been considered the very antithesis to hope, it proves itself to really be hope itself in its inverse: despair is structured as hope in its negation. Where hope can be loosely described simply as a desire for the becoming of something finite, despair is in negation a fear of a becoming of something finite. This platitude of “life goes on” reveals itself as the true antithesis to hope. It identifies indefinite movement, “going on” as truth. Through this, hope then reveals itself as an excess of significance, an overload of meaning that in its excess dislocates any idea of truth, rendering any significance completely meaningless.
–
I rather like the idea of pointlessness, and not because of its usual annihialistic guise as really despair. Pointlessness, like the absolute pointlessness of “life going on” ( where is it going? Can life actually not go on? Even death isn't really an end? Et al.), isn't essentially a lack of meaning as it is a setting free of meaning. It's not that if you didn't get the job, then you freely can find positive meaning in that perhaps it was “meant to be” and therefore it could potentially mean that it isnt the “right” job for you and the better one is right around the corner... in pointlessness, getting the job or not getting the job are both pointless. Or rather, on the other side of the coin: both getting the job and not getting the job have point to it. So either way is rendered equal, as equal as whether or not you actually get to brushing your teeth tonite or not or whether it will be rain tomorrow or not. This is why in due part after some traumatic situation happens we can move on, because we have the ability to switch gears in order to find (create) meaning in the undesired outcome and render it having a point anyway. (Not that everyone excercies that ability.) Pointlessness actually assumes in a most positive stance that things, happenings, choices, all exist: that all thing ultimately all things have point, in-the-end. i.e.:
“When my relationship ended, I thought it was the end of the world, but thereafter I learned to take care of myself, I got to explore other lovers. In the end, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me...”
Or in what's really going on... whether you get what you want or not, being pointless, either becomes in one way or another the same in causing joy or suffering... and equally so anything we feel has point to it can just the same cause joy and suffering. Either way whatever happens, however life goes on, becomes the single truth itself. We can only either roll with it or not.
–
I cannot trust hope these days because I've known far to many that have hoped their hearts out and still not gotten what they have hoped for. Meanwhile, it is always to be questioned whether people should even be getting what they hope for. Afterall, do we really know what's better for ourselves? In the true concerns of epistemology is where perhaps God and religion most properly inserts itself in our being...
–
There's really no one who can argue against the fact that life does go on regardless. When asked. Yet, when it comes down to wondering whether life will end, it comes down to nothing more than arguments upon arguments on hopes as well as dreams and beliefs.
But in fact, nothing happens and nothing saves you. You wake up and in fact all meaning becomes questionable, self worth becomes questionable, purpose in life becomes questionable. You get angry. All we ever need is hope, they say. And yet here there was nothing ever to really hope for, even though you hoped. Is hope too pointless, or is it only that you do not deserve to be saved?
This is where religion inserts itself. If a believer is saved, then it is because of divine will. If believer is not then they can continue on, go through how much more suffering, how much more failings, with the hope that one day they will be saved. Either way, the believer continues in terms of their hope, regardless of empirical evidence. On the other hand, if one is a believer and is not saved, then there could be where the lasting impression that they were not to be saved by divine will, that they were purposefully denied saving. All is lost. But the all that is lost was never located in the empirical reality
But being a believer when it comes to hope doesn't just refer to the religious. Even those that simply believe in fate, that ambiguous thing that is perhaps of the easiest of the ignorant (of which even the most educated and well-intentioned of us fall to become) to relie on reveals our tendency towards the irrationality of the terms of hope. Hope is traumatic. The symbolic imperative, the meaning of it almost always separates us inside. If you are saved, you not only feel the relief, but your very being is affirmed, legitimated. When you are not, your very meaning becomes suspect, and nothing makes sense, you confront pointlessness directly, or worse you see yourself unworthy of beauty, of goodness, of a future with happiness. It separates us from very meanings of our being, our soul, and our empirical actual real selves.
–
Things either happen or they don't. Does it ultimately matter if we think positively, if we hope? Does it ultimately make a difference if we are pessimistic, negative, self-destructive? Even rationalists or empiricists may not have it right. Doing all you can may not amount to much, conditions and climate considered. Sometimes the things that are “your fault” may have little to do with your predicament or getting out of it.
Whether rejected once again from a possible job prospect, and it's been years, find that we are so broke that we may not have a home, learn that the one guy we feel we could ever love, and it's been years, will never love us back the same way, or find that we have a disease or illness and have just a matter of months to live... it is difficult to accept that the predicament is due to a long set of painful coincidences. It is also difficult to accept that the only thing that can save you is yourself...
Yet somehow the platitude of “life goes on” becomes what is worth reflecting, particularly in that this platitude may not be necessarily referring to your own life going on. It could be every other life but your own. In other words it may mean that regardless your life will go on despite the traumatic event, or that every other life with sweep around your mess slowing eroding it away till you vanish into the very world culture adage of the river of life, yours being but a drop in this vast body of motion... either way, it renders the very significance of the traumatic event as insignificant.
Whereas despair has been considered the very antithesis to hope, it proves itself to really be hope itself in its inverse: despair is structured as hope in its negation. Where hope can be loosely described simply as a desire for the becoming of something finite, despair is in negation a fear of a becoming of something finite. This platitude of “life goes on” reveals itself as the true antithesis to hope. It identifies indefinite movement, “going on” as truth. Through this, hope then reveals itself as an excess of significance, an overload of meaning that in its excess dislocates any idea of truth, rendering any significance completely meaningless.
–
I rather like the idea of pointlessness, and not because of its usual annihialistic guise as really despair. Pointlessness, like the absolute pointlessness of “life going on” ( where is it going? Can life actually not go on? Even death isn't really an end? Et al.), isn't essentially a lack of meaning as it is a setting free of meaning. It's not that if you didn't get the job, then you freely can find positive meaning in that perhaps it was “meant to be” and therefore it could potentially mean that it isnt the “right” job for you and the better one is right around the corner... in pointlessness, getting the job or not getting the job are both pointless. Or rather, on the other side of the coin: both getting the job and not getting the job have point to it. So either way is rendered equal, as equal as whether or not you actually get to brushing your teeth tonite or not or whether it will be rain tomorrow or not. This is why in due part after some traumatic situation happens we can move on, because we have the ability to switch gears in order to find (create) meaning in the undesired outcome and render it having a point anyway. (Not that everyone excercies that ability.) Pointlessness actually assumes in a most positive stance that things, happenings, choices, all exist: that all thing ultimately all things have point, in-the-end. i.e.:
“When my relationship ended, I thought it was the end of the world, but thereafter I learned to take care of myself, I got to explore other lovers. In the end, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me...”
Or in what's really going on... whether you get what you want or not, being pointless, either becomes in one way or another the same in causing joy or suffering... and equally so anything we feel has point to it can just the same cause joy and suffering. Either way whatever happens, however life goes on, becomes the single truth itself. We can only either roll with it or not.
–
I cannot trust hope these days because I've known far to many that have hoped their hearts out and still not gotten what they have hoped for. Meanwhile, it is always to be questioned whether people should even be getting what they hope for. Afterall, do we really know what's better for ourselves? In the true concerns of epistemology is where perhaps God and religion most properly inserts itself in our being...
–
There's really no one who can argue against the fact that life does go on regardless. When asked. Yet, when it comes down to wondering whether life will end, it comes down to nothing more than arguments upon arguments on hopes as well as dreams and beliefs.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
elegy for the disenchanted
The contradiction shows itself only briefly.
You may have kissed him for what seemed like eons, but your fate is sealed. You'll feel it in your body forever and it drives you crazy when you no longer can kiss him again. Sex cannot compare to this kiss. Good conversation cannot compare to this kiss. No amount of self-progression can compare to this kiss.
It is as if the only thing that mattered was that single moment of an embrace with another that could never be you, never be with you, and you knew the circumstances, and you continued to kiss him anyway.
Yet when you think of him, there is only a hollowness, a vaguenesss to any sort of mutual recognition of the event. You could call him, but you can never reach him. He's dead already, and no clairvoyant can get him to confess. So you have no proof to this horrible crime that has taken your life. So you must go through your days wounded without ever knowing true trauma.
Until years go by and you stumble upon pictures of yourself. You know it's you, but you know he's not. You realize that you yourself have been dead. And you see the world with full compassion for life. And somehow you have failed to come about heaven nor hell, just this waking dream of memories strung together as a future that makes no sense. And it is you who has never confessed, and can never be reached. There is a hollow, transparent wall between you and the rest of the world. And you're not sad, nor numb. You swear you even feel more. You in fact do.
It's always the same when you realize you were wrong. But this time it's different.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
on apathy 2
"Take the time out", they tell me. "You've got to put in effort." But I don't want to give up my time and I don't want to put in effort. I don't want anyone. I like to stare. Perfectly fine for me. I stare all the time. It's summer, it's hot. I take a walk and some times I do nothing but stare at these guys. I love calves, with just a nice amount of hair. I like seeing ankle. Is that weird? Sometimes I like to see bulge. Ok, I like to see bulge. But I don't have to. I like legs. I like legs up in the air. But don't see much of that lately. I also like arms, nice arms that connect back into nice shoulders, and strong forearms with some veins. And strong hands. I look at these things. And necks. A strong neck. I go crazy when I see a guy in shorts, low sneakers, and a tank top. It's a nice look.
It's difficult to take walks sometimes. To walk out on the street and be confronted by a guy with beautiful features. Some days I don't want to take walks, go out of the apartment, because I don't know if I want to deal with all that. It's too much. "I could never have something like that, so why look?" I tell myself. Still I look. I can't help it. I hate that about myself. I wish I could say to myself "don't look" and don't look. But I always do. Sometimes I'll follow the guy, even if I have somewhere to be, just to get a closer glimpse. Just a glimpse, and that's enough. I'll get close, see something like his skin, then his eyes, maybe pick up on an idiosyncratic marking on his skin, then go right back to where I was in my day. It's because I know that's all I could ever get. And I don't know what I would do with him if I ever got one. Probably the only thing I could do is stare. I don't think I suck cock well, and I can't keep it hard to do anyone right, and it hurts to be done. There's no ends to these means. So no means then and It's fine. I stare, even though I know it's pointless to stare. I neither want to be with them or do things with them. and I cann't get them anyway, so whats the point? Exactly, exactly, pointless.
Similarly, I walk into stores and look at clothes and don't buy them. I don't even try them on. I just look. That's not true. I sometimes try them on. But I don't buy them. Ok, maybe I buy sometimes. I do have a lot of clothes. So I must have bought clothes at some point. But I don't like to. I don't like to spend money very much. Not in this recession. They've been cutting back at work. I work in fashion. Actually, come to think about it, that's where I get clothes. They always have cool clothes laying around. But I don't really care about clothes. Just that these stores are always around and at work clothes are always around, so I look or in some cases, take.
I also look at porn a lot. It's a problem. I keep going, ok, gotta stop but gotta click on just one more. Maybe this time I'll really get off. I've noticed that some images make you cum more than others. Some images, images you never would think of creating in your mind, or as others would do in real life, get you off like you never thought. I find that fascinating. So I keep clicking. I do like to get off. That I do like.
It's funny, too. At work there are these male models that come in and test looks with some of the clothes. They get naked to change, and I look. Course, I think, I could never have these things, so I look and that's it. Then I'm back at my computer, still at work, and looking at porn. Here's the real thing in front of me, and more perfect, changing clothes, and I see ass, dick sometimes, besides beautiful stomachs, nice armpits, backs, and if they biked there or whatever or it was hot, I can even smell them- that sort of thing awakes something in me; yet I'm telling them, like nothing, "yeah here are the looks we're going for", get chummy, talk bullshit with them then tell them to talk to such and such person afterward, and I'm back to my computer looking at porn. It's habitual. There was a time when I was looking at my computer at work, some guy on top of another on the screen, small though, and I'm feeling this guy over me. It was one of the models. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "hey what u looking at?" I felt a smirk out of his face, although I didn't dare look at him. I think he started to reach into the collar of my shirt. I jumped. He didn't seem gay either, as many male models are actually straight. I remember him talking about skateboarding. I mean, how many skateboarders you know are gay? Anyway, after I gained composure I remember saying, "shit". Gave a look of "oh, I just remembered something" and then continued to walk off and look busy doing something.
I get irate with my friends these days when we're out and we're drinking, I'm on my fifth beer and gassy, and they start talking about their relationships- which really means, their sex life and I generally, in one way or another, end up saying, "I don't know what you're talking about." Which isn't completely true, as once upon a time I was in a relationship. But for purposes of a lack there of conversation I say I don't know. Then they call me a saint and "when are you going to fall for grace". And I say, I can't help it, I was just drawn that way. Which is stupid, as it's from a random movie, that Roger Rabbit one, and the friends frankly don't know what to say when I get to that point. Truth be told I was drawn that way in the sense that one day before I was born my mom, who was a graphic designer, was told to draw what her perfect son would look like, oddly enough at 15 I looked almost exactly like that picture she drew- she literally drew it. Years later, I still look about the same, minus the haircut (then it was a bowl cut). I looked pretty tame, minus the earrings. Oh yeah, that's different too from that image. I looked soft for sure in the drawing, but a bit vacant. Why she put that in there, I'll never know. Needless to say, it's a bit weird to be thinking of a image drawing of you that looks like you but made years before you were born. So me saying that really isn't that stupid, even though it comes off that way.
I remember one of the last conversations I had with my ex. It went something like this:
"I just wish you gave me more hugs, cuddling and stuff makes me feel more human," and I said, "How about you just face fuck me more and I'll learn to open my mouth wider and keep my tongue firmer."
To which he gave me a sad expression, and told me "go to hell, weirdo." I was joking, and he was too- I assumed, and I gave him a hug, but it was awkward. I don't take criticism well but I tried, trying can be awkward. Then, feeling him get somewhat hard, I reached down to grope him to which he quipped, "See, why can't we just hug? Why do we always have to go there?" I think- I recalled thinking, it's because you're always talking about how horny you are all the time. But I didn't say anything and walked off, muffling something along the lines of "shit, I forgot to..." and tried looking busy as I headed out the door.
So I was walking along the canals in Venice, so early in the morning that the streets were empty and the light was perfectly like a Canaletto. I was there for a photo shoot we were involved in. I just wanted to escape the madness of shoot the day before. A beautiful Italian guy walked past me, which I hadn't noticed at first because I was staring at how the architecture didn't seem to just float there on the water, the architecture and water seemed to be in two separate dimensions, visually on top of each other, immersed in each other but at the same time having no affect on each other. It may have been the stillness. Anyway, he came back to me and I noticed his neck, his perfectly olive skin, then his brown eyes then his lips. He asked me something, in Italian naturally, I think I somewhat melted, but I walked away. St. Marks was in the distance, and it was too much for me to not get close to.
It's difficult to take walks sometimes. To walk out on the street and be confronted by a guy with beautiful features. Some days I don't want to take walks, go out of the apartment, because I don't know if I want to deal with all that. It's too much. "I could never have something like that, so why look?" I tell myself. Still I look. I can't help it. I hate that about myself. I wish I could say to myself "don't look" and don't look. But I always do. Sometimes I'll follow the guy, even if I have somewhere to be, just to get a closer glimpse. Just a glimpse, and that's enough. I'll get close, see something like his skin, then his eyes, maybe pick up on an idiosyncratic marking on his skin, then go right back to where I was in my day. It's because I know that's all I could ever get. And I don't know what I would do with him if I ever got one. Probably the only thing I could do is stare. I don't think I suck cock well, and I can't keep it hard to do anyone right, and it hurts to be done. There's no ends to these means. So no means then and It's fine. I stare, even though I know it's pointless to stare. I neither want to be with them or do things with them. and I cann't get them anyway, so whats the point? Exactly, exactly, pointless.
Similarly, I walk into stores and look at clothes and don't buy them. I don't even try them on. I just look. That's not true. I sometimes try them on. But I don't buy them. Ok, maybe I buy sometimes. I do have a lot of clothes. So I must have bought clothes at some point. But I don't like to. I don't like to spend money very much. Not in this recession. They've been cutting back at work. I work in fashion. Actually, come to think about it, that's where I get clothes. They always have cool clothes laying around. But I don't really care about clothes. Just that these stores are always around and at work clothes are always around, so I look or in some cases, take.
I also look at porn a lot. It's a problem. I keep going, ok, gotta stop but gotta click on just one more. Maybe this time I'll really get off. I've noticed that some images make you cum more than others. Some images, images you never would think of creating in your mind, or as others would do in real life, get you off like you never thought. I find that fascinating. So I keep clicking. I do like to get off. That I do like.
It's funny, too. At work there are these male models that come in and test looks with some of the clothes. They get naked to change, and I look. Course, I think, I could never have these things, so I look and that's it. Then I'm back at my computer, still at work, and looking at porn. Here's the real thing in front of me, and more perfect, changing clothes, and I see ass, dick sometimes, besides beautiful stomachs, nice armpits, backs, and if they biked there or whatever or it was hot, I can even smell them- that sort of thing awakes something in me; yet I'm telling them, like nothing, "yeah here are the looks we're going for", get chummy, talk bullshit with them then tell them to talk to such and such person afterward, and I'm back to my computer looking at porn. It's habitual. There was a time when I was looking at my computer at work, some guy on top of another on the screen, small though, and I'm feeling this guy over me. It was one of the models. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "hey what u looking at?" I felt a smirk out of his face, although I didn't dare look at him. I think he started to reach into the collar of my shirt. I jumped. He didn't seem gay either, as many male models are actually straight. I remember him talking about skateboarding. I mean, how many skateboarders you know are gay? Anyway, after I gained composure I remember saying, "shit". Gave a look of "oh, I just remembered something" and then continued to walk off and look busy doing something.
I get irate with my friends these days when we're out and we're drinking, I'm on my fifth beer and gassy, and they start talking about their relationships- which really means, their sex life and I generally, in one way or another, end up saying, "I don't know what you're talking about." Which isn't completely true, as once upon a time I was in a relationship. But for purposes of a lack there of conversation I say I don't know. Then they call me a saint and "when are you going to fall for grace". And I say, I can't help it, I was just drawn that way. Which is stupid, as it's from a random movie, that Roger Rabbit one, and the friends frankly don't know what to say when I get to that point. Truth be told I was drawn that way in the sense that one day before I was born my mom, who was a graphic designer, was told to draw what her perfect son would look like, oddly enough at 15 I looked almost exactly like that picture she drew- she literally drew it. Years later, I still look about the same, minus the haircut (then it was a bowl cut). I looked pretty tame, minus the earrings. Oh yeah, that's different too from that image. I looked soft for sure in the drawing, but a bit vacant. Why she put that in there, I'll never know. Needless to say, it's a bit weird to be thinking of a image drawing of you that looks like you but made years before you were born. So me saying that really isn't that stupid, even though it comes off that way.
I remember one of the last conversations I had with my ex. It went something like this:
"I just wish you gave me more hugs, cuddling and stuff makes me feel more human," and I said, "How about you just face fuck me more and I'll learn to open my mouth wider and keep my tongue firmer."
To which he gave me a sad expression, and told me "go to hell, weirdo." I was joking, and he was too- I assumed, and I gave him a hug, but it was awkward. I don't take criticism well but I tried, trying can be awkward. Then, feeling him get somewhat hard, I reached down to grope him to which he quipped, "See, why can't we just hug? Why do we always have to go there?" I think- I recalled thinking, it's because you're always talking about how horny you are all the time. But I didn't say anything and walked off, muffling something along the lines of "shit, I forgot to..." and tried looking busy as I headed out the door.
So I was walking along the canals in Venice, so early in the morning that the streets were empty and the light was perfectly like a Canaletto. I was there for a photo shoot we were involved in. I just wanted to escape the madness of shoot the day before. A beautiful Italian guy walked past me, which I hadn't noticed at first because I was staring at how the architecture didn't seem to just float there on the water, the architecture and water seemed to be in two separate dimensions, visually on top of each other, immersed in each other but at the same time having no affect on each other. It may have been the stillness. Anyway, he came back to me and I noticed his neck, his perfectly olive skin, then his brown eyes then his lips. He asked me something, in Italian naturally, I think I somewhat melted, but I walked away. St. Marks was in the distance, and it was too much for me to not get close to.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
on difference and desire 1
While the very polarity of attraction of either sex in heterosexuality are not surprisingly given momentum in their very (abyss of)difference, it is within the homosexual difference and its heterosexual premaleness that gives momentum to the attraction between the subject and the object(s) of desire.
It is not enough to mention how many of us discuss our attraction, to go far as putting a requirement, for the one we are to be with(or fuck)to be masc(uline). The lack of balance here is that the masc ones and fem(inine) ones alike place this stipulation for masc. And with the fem gay being such a large part of the face of homosexuality as subculture as legitimate class of human race, why does no one want him, why does no one ultimately claim to be him?
It is too easy to say the main reason for this is because of the negative representation of the fem guy as our mascot has damaged the many of us that are not that. In other words, that the fem guy fails to "democratically" equally represent all of us. Isn't commonplace for any social group/subculture to denounce their visible spokespersons as not representing everyone in their group fairly? As if to say, "despite the stereotypical qualities that we seem to largely share, we are in fact a very diverse group"?
What I argue is that really we may not be a very diverse group. If we say that we are men attracted to Men, the Men we are attracted to- by this sort of semantics- suggests that the men(I/we) is different than the Men we are attracted to(object of desire). By nature of desire we are not what we desire, afterall, and even more paradoxically, we cannot be what we want, for a subject cannot want what he already is or already has. Meaning, if all of us ultimately want to the masc guy, then we ourselves must not be the masc guy.
There are undoubtedly those that are masc that say they want a masc guy. And undoubtedly, deep down inside, they aren't really all that masc. To be truly masculine in this society is really to be a heterosexual male. And as homosexuality is truly performative and our identity as behavior as held against heterosexual gender roles, then it goes without saying that in our development we will align themselves with woman, as they share our desire of men. And aligning ourselves to woman, however internally and mostly as adolescence, we take on the difference of the heterosexual polarity, however subconsciously, to maintain that we want what ultimately we are not, and never will be (heterosexual male). Afterall, to be truly man than we should be attracted to our difference which is woman, feminine, to which we commonly hear "I'm gay cuz i want to be with a man, NOT a woman!". Which could easily mean, "I'm a woman, why would I want to be with another woman?" or really "I never really feel completely like a man, hence I want to be with a man!".
It is common for gay and heteros alike to look at the fem guy, particularly the sassy, out spoken, highly dressed one, and call his behavior an unnaturally forced act (which can appear quite painfully so, true). But isn't the college, butch jock guy an equally unnatural forced act?
Being fem or masc are not two equally different qualities. Despite the strides of feminists and human rights, we still live in a patriarchal society. The best and easy proof of this: a feminine man is looked far more down upon than the masculine female. Even if called a bitch, the masculine female, tough and ruthless, still is associated with strength and, particularly in corporate america, power. The soft, sensitive, feminine guy is often considered weak and can, if left unprotected by friends/guardians/family, easily be left to abuse by harassers. Both are "equally" male and female, but the irony is the true difference resides in their performative qualities.
This all points to the fact in my mind how men and woman are still not equal. And the conflict that resumes continues even when the gender difference is materially rendered at zero, as in the gay world where all is the subjected man to objected man, or subjected woman to objected woman. It is an inequality within ourselves.
It is not enough to mention how many of us discuss our attraction, to go far as putting a requirement, for the one we are to be with(or fuck)to be masc(uline). The lack of balance here is that the masc ones and fem(inine) ones alike place this stipulation for masc. And with the fem gay being such a large part of the face of homosexuality as subculture as legitimate class of human race, why does no one want him, why does no one ultimately claim to be him?
It is too easy to say the main reason for this is because of the negative representation of the fem guy as our mascot has damaged the many of us that are not that. In other words, that the fem guy fails to "democratically" equally represent all of us. Isn't commonplace for any social group/subculture to denounce their visible spokespersons as not representing everyone in their group fairly? As if to say, "despite the stereotypical qualities that we seem to largely share, we are in fact a very diverse group"?
What I argue is that really we may not be a very diverse group. If we say that we are men attracted to Men, the Men we are attracted to- by this sort of semantics- suggests that the men(I/we) is different than the Men we are attracted to(object of desire). By nature of desire we are not what we desire, afterall, and even more paradoxically, we cannot be what we want, for a subject cannot want what he already is or already has. Meaning, if all of us ultimately want to the masc guy, then we ourselves must not be the masc guy.
There are undoubtedly those that are masc that say they want a masc guy. And undoubtedly, deep down inside, they aren't really all that masc. To be truly masculine in this society is really to be a heterosexual male. And as homosexuality is truly performative and our identity as behavior as held against heterosexual gender roles, then it goes without saying that in our development we will align themselves with woman, as they share our desire of men. And aligning ourselves to woman, however internally and mostly as adolescence, we take on the difference of the heterosexual polarity, however subconsciously, to maintain that we want what ultimately we are not, and never will be (heterosexual male). Afterall, to be truly man than we should be attracted to our difference which is woman, feminine, to which we commonly hear "I'm gay cuz i want to be with a man, NOT a woman!". Which could easily mean, "I'm a woman, why would I want to be with another woman?" or really "I never really feel completely like a man, hence I want to be with a man!".
It is common for gay and heteros alike to look at the fem guy, particularly the sassy, out spoken, highly dressed one, and call his behavior an unnaturally forced act (which can appear quite painfully so, true). But isn't the college, butch jock guy an equally unnatural forced act?
Being fem or masc are not two equally different qualities. Despite the strides of feminists and human rights, we still live in a patriarchal society. The best and easy proof of this: a feminine man is looked far more down upon than the masculine female. Even if called a bitch, the masculine female, tough and ruthless, still is associated with strength and, particularly in corporate america, power. The soft, sensitive, feminine guy is often considered weak and can, if left unprotected by friends/guardians/family, easily be left to abuse by harassers. Both are "equally" male and female, but the irony is the true difference resides in their performative qualities.
This all points to the fact in my mind how men and woman are still not equal. And the conflict that resumes continues even when the gender difference is materially rendered at zero, as in the gay world where all is the subjected man to objected man, or subjected woman to objected woman. It is an inequality within ourselves.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
On apathy
The wine bottle smashed against the wall. The alley glittered in broken glass under the distant motion light. All I had to do was move slightly left and he missed. He was getting way tired, and desperate and even more maddened.
"Fuckin hoto, no me tocas no mas! No sabes nada!"
No, tu sabes nada. You don't know anything.
It was his almond eyes that were killing me. And his nipples on his pecs poking through his now drenched dirty shirt. His hat cocked to the side. The red cuts on his face. Him on the ground, half curled, trying desperately to retain himself. Didn't stop me from kicking him some more.
He thought he could get me to suck his dick while his wife's at home then do some damage to make it seem all ok. Well, he did have a nice verga. Reminded me of home. Smelled of dirt and cheap soap and testosterone.
He gathered a burst of energy and ran for me. I didn't dodge this. I let him get to me and then turned on him and pushed him, stomach and face against the wall. Like we were dancing. My pelvis pushed against his ass. Nice culo, too, huh? I pulled his pants down. He was beginning to shake. I was hard. I pulled my pants down now. My belt was a bitch to unbuckle with one hand. He barely struggled. I felt his asshole. Moist. And clean. Interesting. I shoved myself up against that, reached for my phone and took pictures.
"Smile puto. So when your cousins get here- I know you text them- I can show them y tu madre que es un hoto... or you can keep your mouth shut about everything and I keep my mouth shut like nothing happened. que piensas?" It was opening. I was in. I heard a slight moan. I was salivating. I started to thrust. It was hard not to. But I did it slowly. I wanted him to enjoy it. Then I grabbed the back of his head and pressed his face firmly against the wall. His breathe was uneasy. He was barely present.
I pulled out, eventually, pushed him down and came on his face. Again, he didn't struggle.
I knew his cousins would be there soon. Wouldn't be surprised if they had guns with them. They love guns, although they hardly know how to use them. They like the looks I think. It had been a long time since I had to put up with shit like this, but I remembered how things operated. You think about escape routes way ahead of time. I looked up for a quick second. The clouds perfectly framed the half crescent moon and some airplane exhaust lines cutting through it. Cuts.
Perhaps I should have just bolted but instead, with my jacket, I decided to wipe his face, Pulled his pants back on and since he was too far in shock, yanked him up to get him towards my car.
I headed towards an open field near the freeway, but yet another change of plans and turned towards my apartment. Changing your mind so quickly annoys me really. Doesn't stop me, though.
To keep him from any sudden outbursts I gave him some water with tranquilizers. I love tranquilizers myself. I always have them on me. And waited a bit in the car outside my apartment. I had his eyes covered with a tshirt on the way there, never can take chances. Eventually, I got him inside, showered him, cleaned up his bruises and cuts while he was knocking out. Stupid to go through all that work then have to clean him up like this. Again, annoying.
Him laying on my bed, I stared at him.
Then I thought of my mom.
No sabes nada, she'd tell me.
Tu no sabes nada.
Wanting to hold him crossed my mind. If I were any other poor gay motherfucker, I would have been left in the alley half dead by this chollo. So I didn't hold him. But I still sat and stared at him for a while longer.
Pendejo muy guapo.
I'd sleep for a few hours, then get him back to his neighborhood before the sun rose.
"Fuckin hoto, no me tocas no mas! No sabes nada!"
No, tu sabes nada. You don't know anything.
It was his almond eyes that were killing me. And his nipples on his pecs poking through his now drenched dirty shirt. His hat cocked to the side. The red cuts on his face. Him on the ground, half curled, trying desperately to retain himself. Didn't stop me from kicking him some more.
He thought he could get me to suck his dick while his wife's at home then do some damage to make it seem all ok. Well, he did have a nice verga. Reminded me of home. Smelled of dirt and cheap soap and testosterone.
He gathered a burst of energy and ran for me. I didn't dodge this. I let him get to me and then turned on him and pushed him, stomach and face against the wall. Like we were dancing. My pelvis pushed against his ass. Nice culo, too, huh? I pulled his pants down. He was beginning to shake. I was hard. I pulled my pants down now. My belt was a bitch to unbuckle with one hand. He barely struggled. I felt his asshole. Moist. And clean. Interesting. I shoved myself up against that, reached for my phone and took pictures.
"Smile puto. So when your cousins get here- I know you text them- I can show them y tu madre que es un hoto... or you can keep your mouth shut about everything and I keep my mouth shut like nothing happened. que piensas?" It was opening. I was in. I heard a slight moan. I was salivating. I started to thrust. It was hard not to. But I did it slowly. I wanted him to enjoy it. Then I grabbed the back of his head and pressed his face firmly against the wall. His breathe was uneasy. He was barely present.
I pulled out, eventually, pushed him down and came on his face. Again, he didn't struggle.
I knew his cousins would be there soon. Wouldn't be surprised if they had guns with them. They love guns, although they hardly know how to use them. They like the looks I think. It had been a long time since I had to put up with shit like this, but I remembered how things operated. You think about escape routes way ahead of time. I looked up for a quick second. The clouds perfectly framed the half crescent moon and some airplane exhaust lines cutting through it. Cuts.
Perhaps I should have just bolted but instead, with my jacket, I decided to wipe his face, Pulled his pants back on and since he was too far in shock, yanked him up to get him towards my car.
I headed towards an open field near the freeway, but yet another change of plans and turned towards my apartment. Changing your mind so quickly annoys me really. Doesn't stop me, though.
To keep him from any sudden outbursts I gave him some water with tranquilizers. I love tranquilizers myself. I always have them on me. And waited a bit in the car outside my apartment. I had his eyes covered with a tshirt on the way there, never can take chances. Eventually, I got him inside, showered him, cleaned up his bruises and cuts while he was knocking out. Stupid to go through all that work then have to clean him up like this. Again, annoying.
Him laying on my bed, I stared at him.
Then I thought of my mom.
No sabes nada, she'd tell me.
Tu no sabes nada.
Wanting to hold him crossed my mind. If I were any other poor gay motherfucker, I would have been left in the alley half dead by this chollo. So I didn't hold him. But I still sat and stared at him for a while longer.
Pendejo muy guapo.
I'd sleep for a few hours, then get him back to his neighborhood before the sun rose.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
lovers
I have many lovers, but I'm not a slut. I fuck and get fucked by one or another and feel the lapse from touch to touch. One I've had for years, another for a complicated 3 months, and others for not long and not much longer I'm sure.
It's ridiculous, a bit trite, but true when i say I see myself in every single one of them. It's also true that each one's differences from me can many times alienate me with their consequential presumptions and impressing desires.
See my reflection and see it dissipate to someone else...
Maybe it is you who can save me.
A life of moments captured in smoke and mirrors has a certain charm to it... very atmospheric... and getting lost in the interpretations of interpretations, meanings take on a drama that can be, well, life affirming... Ever notice how life affirming doesn't necessarily connote purpose? Why is it we need to feel alive when we are already living? Why we need purpose to keep going when we're already moving towards tomorrow?
Losing yourself in love is as profound as finding who you really are in it.
Nonetheless I cannot accept another for who they really are, hence so many.
Is it really all about myself?
One only likes to suck cock. The other only likes to top. Another only likes to cuddle and make out. I can't remember anymore what I even like.
One feels we need a more farther reaching and efficient public transportation system. Another feels marriage is only for the straights. And still how many of them care about not much more than this or that band, this or that tv show? Most of them.
And one of them, if I recall, has something to say about how everything could be better. Again, most of them.
There are dreams somewhere in them, and I can't remember where mine are.
If there weren't the choice of only sucking cock or only doing anal then making a claim that monogamy just isn't natural in the natural world (actually it's quite prevalent in the animal world)would be easy. But there are always preferences and these choices stem from an idea of a single thing. The question of one or many disseminates into inevitable hypocrisy and irony.
If you're so goddamn picky, that implies you want something, someone particular. You don't find that ironic, you whore?
Personally, I love irony.
... so who can save me from this mess of choices? Certainly not myself. I'm the reason I'm in this mess in the first place.
I'm not looking for a prince charming, and... I'm not looking for myself. I'm looking for a dream, I think. How does one deal with the frustration of the dream/real conflict?
I had a dream recently that one of them, standing sordid and tall and with a smirk said:
I wanted to be like you
I wanted everything
So I tried to be like you
and I was swept away
I didn't know that it was cold and
you needed someone to show you the way
I took your hand and we figured out that
when the tide comes
I'll take you away
Funny, too, 'cause I really love that song.
It's ridiculous, a bit trite, but true when i say I see myself in every single one of them. It's also true that each one's differences from me can many times alienate me with their consequential presumptions and impressing desires.
See my reflection and see it dissipate to someone else...
Maybe it is you who can save me.
A life of moments captured in smoke and mirrors has a certain charm to it... very atmospheric... and getting lost in the interpretations of interpretations, meanings take on a drama that can be, well, life affirming... Ever notice how life affirming doesn't necessarily connote purpose? Why is it we need to feel alive when we are already living? Why we need purpose to keep going when we're already moving towards tomorrow?
Losing yourself in love is as profound as finding who you really are in it.
Nonetheless I cannot accept another for who they really are, hence so many.
Is it really all about myself?
One only likes to suck cock. The other only likes to top. Another only likes to cuddle and make out. I can't remember anymore what I even like.
One feels we need a more farther reaching and efficient public transportation system. Another feels marriage is only for the straights. And still how many of them care about not much more than this or that band, this or that tv show? Most of them.
And one of them, if I recall, has something to say about how everything could be better. Again, most of them.
There are dreams somewhere in them, and I can't remember where mine are.
If there weren't the choice of only sucking cock or only doing anal then making a claim that monogamy just isn't natural in the natural world (actually it's quite prevalent in the animal world)would be easy. But there are always preferences and these choices stem from an idea of a single thing. The question of one or many disseminates into inevitable hypocrisy and irony.
If you're so goddamn picky, that implies you want something, someone particular. You don't find that ironic, you whore?
Personally, I love irony.
... so who can save me from this mess of choices? Certainly not myself. I'm the reason I'm in this mess in the first place.
I'm not looking for a prince charming, and... I'm not looking for myself. I'm looking for a dream, I think. How does one deal with the frustration of the dream/real conflict?
I had a dream recently that one of them, standing sordid and tall and with a smirk said:
I wanted to be like you
I wanted everything
So I tried to be like you
and I was swept away
I didn't know that it was cold and
you needed someone to show you the way
I took your hand and we figured out that
when the tide comes
I'll take you away
Funny, too, 'cause I really love that song.
Monday, April 19, 2010
on a better form of existence
Our hearts like broken plates strewn about the table, ready to be eaten from, it is no wonder the food spills on to the table, the spillage accumulating, the actual becoming the art. The experience becoming the expressed. A piece of Julian Schnabel. Before his films. What is messier than love? What is messier than a person who cannot grasp what love is, and how he needs it?
Our need for order is strong. Even an animal (on the most part) does not eat where he shits. Yet in orderliness it is not with standing that we get bored and create messes.
Praying for peace then is an interesting matter. Pray you might not actually get it. For if you do, your pathetic-ness will be then the sole reason for impending war.
Conversely, if you wage war each and every day- like I do, ensures that peace will follow.
Some days I feel we all live in one big fucking landfill.
Our need for order is strong. Even an animal (on the most part) does not eat where he shits. Yet in orderliness it is not with standing that we get bored and create messes.
Praying for peace then is an interesting matter. Pray you might not actually get it. For if you do, your pathetic-ness will be then the sole reason for impending war.
Conversely, if you wage war each and every day- like I do, ensures that peace will follow.
Some days I feel we all live in one big fucking landfill.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Decision
Clothes back on, raspy sleepiness in his voice still, he said to me:
There are so many that want just a piece of me, and you can have it all. Yet you have doubts. And the funny thing is that if any of those who want me were to actually have me like you can have me, even they would have doubts, too, wouldn't they. I had fun. See ya next time.
And with a quick shut of the door, he was gone.
There are so many that want just a piece of me, and you can have it all. Yet you have doubts. And the funny thing is that if any of those who want me were to actually have me like you can have me, even they would have doubts, too, wouldn't they. I had fun. See ya next time.
And with a quick shut of the door, he was gone.
Monday, April 5, 2010
on mountain climbing
It’s impossible to climb a steep cliff and not get an inherent feel of the mountain, the sturdiness of the mountain, of the insides of the earth. And inherently, your body responds: in the beginning the shifting of horizontal to vertical leaves you disoriented and slow, then all of a sudden you can sense the next rock upon which to step, you slowly sense your weight pulled towards the cliff face and not the other way around. Scaling upward becomes faster and smoother. You start to hear the birds more than your own thoughts.
“You doing ok? We’re almost there”
He started to feel like he was part cougar.
“Kale can you slow the fuck down!”
Even he could feel the light already lessening and they could get fined up here if they were there past sun down.
“Shit Sung, I want you sweating when we get up there!”
Sung was already sweating. More for the nervousness of the potential of falling than the workout. It was chilly, a cold front already started pouring in.
---
“Can you last longer than a moment?” Sung asked Kale.
“I can” he answered without hesitation.
“Good. Cause it takes a long time for me to cum” Sung smirked.
“Some things should take a long time.” Kale muttered while he chugged down a beer.
His eyes looked happy but vacant, but sharpened. Sung smirked some more.
---
“Dance with me up here you bastard” Sung was grappling his strong frame, without too much strain. But kale had to kiss first. They waltzed. Crows were cawing into between the seagulls. Could have been a more romantic chorus, but it did the trick.
The sun setting like the same one over tahiti, glowed with orange surrounded by a purple haze.
---
Well, I’m sad I missed ur txt. been busy. hav a good time in Europe. Call me when u get back.
(From Sung to Kale. )
Kale never called him when he got back.
---
The descent down left them feverish and gleefully exhausted. At some point, they fucked in the bushes with perhaps a couple silent coyotes taking notice of the ecstasy.
At the time, Kale was wishing he didn't have such feelings for Sung. The body, however, and feelings intermingle far too instinctually when shifting from horizontal to vertical.
“You doing ok? We’re almost there”
He started to feel like he was part cougar.
“Kale can you slow the fuck down!”
Even he could feel the light already lessening and they could get fined up here if they were there past sun down.
“Shit Sung, I want you sweating when we get up there!”
Sung was already sweating. More for the nervousness of the potential of falling than the workout. It was chilly, a cold front already started pouring in.
---
“Can you last longer than a moment?” Sung asked Kale.
“I can” he answered without hesitation.
“Good. Cause it takes a long time for me to cum” Sung smirked.
“Some things should take a long time.” Kale muttered while he chugged down a beer.
His eyes looked happy but vacant, but sharpened. Sung smirked some more.
---
“Dance with me up here you bastard” Sung was grappling his strong frame, without too much strain. But kale had to kiss first. They waltzed. Crows were cawing into between the seagulls. Could have been a more romantic chorus, but it did the trick.
The sun setting like the same one over tahiti, glowed with orange surrounded by a purple haze.
---
Well, I’m sad I missed ur txt. been busy. hav a good time in Europe. Call me when u get back.
(From Sung to Kale. )
Kale never called him when he got back.
---
The descent down left them feverish and gleefully exhausted. At some point, they fucked in the bushes with perhaps a couple silent coyotes taking notice of the ecstasy.
At the time, Kale was wishing he didn't have such feelings for Sung. The body, however, and feelings intermingle far too instinctually when shifting from horizontal to vertical.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
on relationships 3
"I don't believe in forever. I don't think we should be subjected to such an expectation. To say to someone, to hear that you are my everything forever, I think that's too much of a pressure for any of us to be able to undertake"
It's something to wake up to. To feel weak early morning light leak in that somehow breaks to a blaze. His body emerging from stillness into motion, getting ready for the day. You laying there watching him.
"If it lasts 3 months or 3 years, or 11 years, let it be. But forever? I just don't think so. There are beautiful moments to be had."
For me, this moment is forever.
I am here with you and it is forever. Either because memories last indefinitely, or because there really isn't a future and never has been. We sense time, but amidst lovemaking, the only thing I can feel is someone inside me. and I'm inside somewhere that is dark and familiar and warm.
Porn cannot capture that feeling, and the idea of tranquil marriage cannot render a lifetime of that feeling.
Yet I am turned on by this.
Out of the building, how many stories below I heard words which were placed on my neck down my neck, down my back and into my ass hole over and over and over... I find myself having coffee and reading.
"I had an amazing night last night"
It's something to wake up to. To feel weak early morning light leak in that somehow breaks to a blaze. His body emerging from stillness into motion, getting ready for the day. You laying there watching him.
"If it lasts 3 months or 3 years, or 11 years, let it be. But forever? I just don't think so. There are beautiful moments to be had."
For me, this moment is forever.
I am here with you and it is forever. Either because memories last indefinitely, or because there really isn't a future and never has been. We sense time, but amidst lovemaking, the only thing I can feel is someone inside me. and I'm inside somewhere that is dark and familiar and warm.
Porn cannot capture that feeling, and the idea of tranquil marriage cannot render a lifetime of that feeling.
Yet I am turned on by this.
Out of the building, how many stories below I heard words which were placed on my neck down my neck, down my back and into my ass hole over and over and over... I find myself having coffee and reading.
"I had an amazing night last night"
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Even
Even when you’re not looking. You’re looking. You can say it’s just not the right time, but the only time is now, and now is always never the best time. Even when you say you love him, do you really? You little prick, you don’t know what you want, and you’re willing to drag him along as you figure it out. But even he wants to be dragged along, even if he says he doesn’t want to be. Don’t we all want to be used? We may all be selfish, but even we get bored and even tormented by using ourselves for our own needs all the time…
And after a fantastic date, why is it he doesn’t end up calling?
I’ve cried about this as many times as I’ve laughed about it. Which is to say, not many times. Many times I simply sigh these days… and try to go back to living for myself.
And after a fantastic date, why is it he doesn’t end up calling?
I’ve cried about this as many times as I’ve laughed about it. Which is to say, not many times. Many times I simply sigh these days… and try to go back to living for myself.
Monday, March 8, 2010
unconventional
An empty apartment. A studio. Wasn't it how many months ago? All this time wanting to be manifest, and instead being a vacuum. The car chase, the skid marks, the running from the cops. The car not being able to do what you needed it to. And you thinking, gay guys shouldn't be like this.
Taking the bus downtown to try to find a single street. Taking a bus to work and seeing who else takes this bus but crazies and the old and the poor... and the poor. Gay guys shouldn't be like this.
You remembered the sneer on that old guys pale face. He shouldn't hings like that. And your hands going to erase that sneer. The marks on his neck, the same marks left on the wood and steal beams you rise with every house you build. You could have broken his neck. But you didn't and who was appreciative? You could have broken his neck and you didn't. Gay guys aren't suppose to be like this.
Taking the bus downtown to try to find a single street. Taking a bus to work and seeing who else takes this bus but crazies and the old and the poor... and the poor. Gay guys shouldn't be like this.
You remembered the sneer on that old guys pale face. He shouldn't hings like that. And your hands going to erase that sneer. The marks on his neck, the same marks left on the wood and steal beams you rise with every house you build. You could have broken his neck. But you didn't and who was appreciative? You could have broken his neck and you didn't. Gay guys aren't suppose to be like this.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
on self gratification 1
I'm chillin naked LOL
My doors unlocked
and my ass is lubed LOL
Why the LOLs?
I wanted sex badly. All the time. My horniness wasn't about getting off. It was about attention. It was about beauty. It was about feeling someone. Someone I wanted to feel. It was self-gratification. Where else can one get gratification in this world?
Who is sleeping with Adam lambert? Who is sleeping with Rupaul? Who is sleeping with Topher dimaggio from Randy blue? Yeah, topher is more my type. What a beautiful a boy. What a beautiful boy.
His door was in fact open. Face down I saw his nakedness on the bed, fleshy tones moving, and a gauntness that frightened me. His ass was amazingly supple considering, and my hands massaged slowly before I began to lick. It tasted good, but I was still frightened.
I was still frightened.
Hard, and not a condom in sight, i went in with a little spit. I already worked the hole enough that there was moisture. I went in. I started feeling depressed. His face he was forcing into a role, faced into the pillow never looking back as I shoved slowly into him. I ran my fingers down his back and began to kiss his neck. I could feel him get annoyed. He wanted pain. not anything else. I let my hands wander slowly back to his neck, and taking one hand, held his face harder into the pillow until I heard him gasp for air. I clenched my hands. I shoved harder. And while doing all that i went back to kissing, and tenderly, on his spine that was ever so visible on his young body. Tenderly.
And in the back of my mind, frightened.
Is there a way to truly face our fears? Or is every way we face something really the way to pierce a transparency that leads us only to a vacant other side. Like a negative to a picture, the same content only with the inverted meanings.
I always like true boys. Masc guys. But maybe it was because these were guys that were brutal to themselves, through sports and games and guns and hard living, in ways I could never be.
And when I inflict pain, I get frightened.
In the realm of things, I suppose there are always better things to do than sex. but who said I'll even bother with doing better things...
My doors unlocked
and my ass is lubed LOL
Why the LOLs?
I wanted sex badly. All the time. My horniness wasn't about getting off. It was about attention. It was about beauty. It was about feeling someone. Someone I wanted to feel. It was self-gratification. Where else can one get gratification in this world?
Who is sleeping with Adam lambert? Who is sleeping with Rupaul? Who is sleeping with Topher dimaggio from Randy blue? Yeah, topher is more my type. What a beautiful a boy. What a beautiful boy.
His door was in fact open. Face down I saw his nakedness on the bed, fleshy tones moving, and a gauntness that frightened me. His ass was amazingly supple considering, and my hands massaged slowly before I began to lick. It tasted good, but I was still frightened.
I was still frightened.
Hard, and not a condom in sight, i went in with a little spit. I already worked the hole enough that there was moisture. I went in. I started feeling depressed. His face he was forcing into a role, faced into the pillow never looking back as I shoved slowly into him. I ran my fingers down his back and began to kiss his neck. I could feel him get annoyed. He wanted pain. not anything else. I let my hands wander slowly back to his neck, and taking one hand, held his face harder into the pillow until I heard him gasp for air. I clenched my hands. I shoved harder. And while doing all that i went back to kissing, and tenderly, on his spine that was ever so visible on his young body. Tenderly.
And in the back of my mind, frightened.
Is there a way to truly face our fears? Or is every way we face something really the way to pierce a transparency that leads us only to a vacant other side. Like a negative to a picture, the same content only with the inverted meanings.
I always like true boys. Masc guys. But maybe it was because these were guys that were brutal to themselves, through sports and games and guns and hard living, in ways I could never be.
And when I inflict pain, I get frightened.
In the realm of things, I suppose there are always better things to do than sex. but who said I'll even bother with doing better things...
Thursday, January 14, 2010
on getting older 1
The clasp around my neck becomes the lasting impression on the ground.
I think about my father
I think about violence
While my breath takes the form of you
taking all that's around me
makes me full
and I want to lay here till I have to feed again
If you would have truly pushed me
I could have truly become something
I can blame you for a lot of things
like why I am heartbroken
or why I hunger for touch
But in this nation
it is the identity of the gods
that gets you somewhere
the leader of the majority
is that which has the image of perfection
no matter the emptiness behind it
we fathom only 2 dimensions
and suffer from the 3rd, 4th and 5th
but I do not
and I cannot take what you say to me anymore
my past lover
and I become the last impression in your mind
and I become the haunting rendition
of why you can never be held
without vomiting out
the denial of the charismatically optimistic
for we all could be beaten
and laid out on the sidewalk
for all to pity
as the broken abomination
and how all can ultimately relate to the abomination?
I was given something around my neck
and it is slowly degrading
and gaining the beauty of age
I think about my father
I think about violence
While my breath takes the form of you
taking all that's around me
makes me full
and I want to lay here till I have to feed again
If you would have truly pushed me
I could have truly become something
I can blame you for a lot of things
like why I am heartbroken
or why I hunger for touch
But in this nation
it is the identity of the gods
that gets you somewhere
the leader of the majority
is that which has the image of perfection
no matter the emptiness behind it
we fathom only 2 dimensions
and suffer from the 3rd, 4th and 5th
but I do not
and I cannot take what you say to me anymore
my past lover
and I become the last impression in your mind
and I become the haunting rendition
of why you can never be held
without vomiting out
the denial of the charismatically optimistic
for we all could be beaten
and laid out on the sidewalk
for all to pity
as the broken abomination
and how all can ultimately relate to the abomination?
I was given something around my neck
and it is slowly degrading
and gaining the beauty of age
Sunday, January 3, 2010
on relationships 2
I pretend I'm in a relationship some days.
I wake up in the morning, and with no one beside me, I scream out:
"Hey where'd you go?"
I'd even check my cell phone to see if he txt me to let me know where he'd went.
When I hook up I look at this person I don't know and think that he is the one, that he's the one I've been sleeping with for years. If he didn't do this or that right, I think, it's ok, I loved every minute of it, anyway, sex before was better, but as you grow old together, sex can't always be incredible, it's ok... and so on and so forth.
When I get groceries I sometimes buy more than I should. When I run errands I'll reach for the phone thinking I need to call to check if I need to pick up anything else for him. When I go to the gym, I look in the mirror and, when I think I look good, think, ah, my boy will be happy. He'll be happy. and when I look kinda flabby, I think, holy shit I can't have sex with him until I work it off.
Another waiter I suck off at work occasionally, I do every so often just to feel like I can have the freedom I want from him. I think he'll never find out and fuck him. He doesn't give me all I need anyway. He could me more generous, so that every once in a while, I get what I want... or even when a girl hits on me, I take her number and think, forget him. I should go to girls. They're more caring...
Or when I deal with taxes, I tell my tax guy, do I get a break from having a dependent?
---
soccerfukjock: So what u doin tonite?
me: nuthin. u?
soccerfuckjock: (10 minutes later)nothin,2. wanna hook up?
me: what do u like?
soccerfukjock: (8 minutes later) sucking, cuddling. safe stuff. u?
me: like hang first, talk, see if there's chemistry.
soccerfukjock: (20 minutes later)ok cool. my numbers ##########
me: ok, cool.
So I txt him later, and no reply.
I have this other sort of interaction quite often.
---
Niether are very real, are they?
I wake up in the morning, and with no one beside me, I scream out:
"Hey where'd you go?"
I'd even check my cell phone to see if he txt me to let me know where he'd went.
When I hook up I look at this person I don't know and think that he is the one, that he's the one I've been sleeping with for years. If he didn't do this or that right, I think, it's ok, I loved every minute of it, anyway, sex before was better, but as you grow old together, sex can't always be incredible, it's ok... and so on and so forth.
When I get groceries I sometimes buy more than I should. When I run errands I'll reach for the phone thinking I need to call to check if I need to pick up anything else for him. When I go to the gym, I look in the mirror and, when I think I look good, think, ah, my boy will be happy. He'll be happy. and when I look kinda flabby, I think, holy shit I can't have sex with him until I work it off.
Another waiter I suck off at work occasionally, I do every so often just to feel like I can have the freedom I want from him. I think he'll never find out and fuck him. He doesn't give me all I need anyway. He could me more generous, so that every once in a while, I get what I want... or even when a girl hits on me, I take her number and think, forget him. I should go to girls. They're more caring...
Or when I deal with taxes, I tell my tax guy, do I get a break from having a dependent?
---
soccerfukjock: So what u doin tonite?
me: nuthin. u?
soccerfuckjock: (10 minutes later)nothin,2. wanna hook up?
me: what do u like?
soccerfukjock: (8 minutes later) sucking, cuddling. safe stuff. u?
me: like hang first, talk, see if there's chemistry.
soccerfukjock: (20 minutes later)ok cool. my numbers ##########
me: ok, cool.
So I txt him later, and no reply.
I have this other sort of interaction quite often.
---
Niether are very real, are they?
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