dah-veed

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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?

a typical carefree, fun-filled mkf vacation

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saturday:  fly to austin, sandwiched between two people fatter than me fat people.  pick up the rental, drive to ma's house, commence the packing.

sunday/monday:  continue the packing (despite her best efforts to thwart me by insisting on trying on every article of unearthed clothing and looking at every picture).  find the $10 gold piece i gave her for christmas 35 years ago that she thought she'd lost.

tuesday:  supervise the movers, begin the cleaning, break for dinner with the neighbors.  try to tell 'em how much i appreciate their being there for my mother all these years until judy tears up and makes me stop.

wednesday:  attend the closing, sign the papers, kick myself one last time for not holding out for more.  wait for the thing to fund, then head north to tyler, watching ma closely in the rearview as she follows in her car.  spend the night with my cousin mike and his wife kim during which we sit out on their deck until 3am, hand-feed cheese nips to the raccoons while kim and i reminisce about our days at tyler junior college and kill two bottles of really good red wine and i marvel at how easy it is after 18 years of abstinence to smoke half a pack of mike's pall malls without even really trying.

thursday:  one last lunch before delivering ma into the clutches of my brother's perfect little world.  we drive by my grandmother's little house on fenton street and sit there a minute, each of us lost in our own remembrances of what once was.  she says, "i met your dad for the first time on that little stoop," as if she'd never told me that before.

drive the four-and-a-half hours back to austin, turn in the rental, catch the (packed) flight home, arrive at ten pm, bone-weary, debate calling an old friend when my ride flakes on me but [my birthday gift to you, noblesavage] elect instead to take the two buses necessary to reach beverly hills and cab it home from there--end of a perfect trip.

and how was your week?