"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.
No comments:
Post a Comment