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there's this boy i fuck sometimes [i use the term "boy" here loosely; while it applied when i met him, he's a little longer in the tooth these days, as are we all].
thing about david: he was, is and always will be his own closed book.
if he was reserved before the meth got him, that's nothing compared to where he is now that he's come out the other side. before, i could usually use his love of languages and music to open him up; now if i can get him to talk at all, it's mostly cryptic twelve-step shit, which i put up with because it seems to be holding him together.
whatever--outta the blue he'll call and i'll drive across town to get him, bring him back to my place, work him over and then take him home. and every time, the drive back is so bleak and silent i think, "that's it--never again."
until the next time he calls, anyway.
what differentiates this boy from all the others, you ask?
nothing really, except for those brief shining moments when his fingers dig into my back and suddenly he's not a thousand miles away anymore--he's right there, in the moment, eyes wide and laser-focused on mine--he's with me, and i have him.
until the moment ends and he pushes me off and heads for the shower.
i told him one night on the way back to his place-i said, "you'll never give it up to me, which is maybe the only reason i keep coming back for your scrawny ass," to which he just smiled--not at me, of course--and looked out the window, which only served to remind me how twisted and unhealthy my priorities have come to be.
it's been two months--should i call him?
5 comments:
Guttermorality. It is posts like these that differentiate your blog from the other gay blogs that I look at.
Oh, that and readers.
There you are, baring a deeply intimate portrait of yourself warts and all.
Should you call him? No. You should spend your time and energies focused like a laser beam on finding a boyfriend, moving in together, having two dogs as try outs and then adopting a child from a Russian orphanage who becomes a brilliant composer and you and your partner then quit your jobs to travel the world with your son.
noblesavage: think i'll be appreciated after i'm dead?
Indeed, I do understand.
Sometimes we meet someone in our life - call it the prototype to "The Perfect One" or the Soul Mate - but, the wires are pulled and all circuitry is screwed up. Yet, against our better judgement, the suggestions and warnings of our peers - we continue anyway. You can't explain it, it just is.
It's love, man. That simple. Not the rose-colored, cotton candy laced love that so many queens whine on about in search of (that is a myth) but, it is love never the less.
Yes, I can relate to this story. Juan Holguin. Felix Montero. Javier Mercado. All societies outcasts, yet I dealt with them over periods of years. Sexually, emotionally, and mentally. And I still have the deep emotional scars to prove it.
Keep seeing this kid - it obviously will make you happy to the bitter end.
luis: i thought you'd get this one. you didn't.
I suspect that decades from now, readers will happen upon guttermorality and you will become a cult hero...with people going down your street to visit your house as a shrine...instead of your old street being a stop on the LA helterskelter tour.
Seriously, read David Sedaris' piece in this week's New Yorker. Your birdsong days pieces are every bit as entertaining if not more so. Not as much dialogue, but that's partly style. That would be the only thing I would add.
Oh, yeah, it's not love with this kid (Luis' thoughts to the contrary). It is very much your whacked out need to please and satisfy a person. You know, the second he turns to you and says anything along the lines of "You make me happy" or even "You really hit my spot just right" -- you will be done with him for life.
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