Thursday, March 19, 2009

And I Relearn the Necessity of Anonymity For Freedom

And his call came from a second story window, as I led a boy down the alley his bedroom looks onto : essentially nothing more than a denunciation. And after I found for us a space to kiss in the quiet and darkness... He disappears: that call reverberating in his 21 y/o + 8days ears. I demand an explanation: What on earth were you doing?! And only so much jealousy, moralism, and filth are given back in response. From that window. Romeo and Juliet with razors and switchblades...'til it be the blood red of sunrise ("morrow"). Goodnight, I say. Which means, again, goodbye. And I relearn the necessity of anonymity for freedom. _____There is a boy who excites me. When I am with him no-one else sees what he sees when his eyes are cast upon my face, my hands, my body. He is my great secret. (He doesn't know it, but I am, with him, a great secret, too.) I discover him anew with every retracted, reasserted, spontaneous sentence. (Because he wanted to be discovered independently of the hostile gossip I might hear?) _______ After so many months of latency I emerge again. 3 facts must be stated: 1) You can make Spin classy, but you can't keep trash from thinking its their club. 2) With Matthias, at that bar (which used to be a haunt), I explained: a certain pleasure lies in judgment: I look out upon...:I hold court...--Matthias laughed, as he usually does when I am being hyperbolic, but he well knows what makes my blood thin and quicken: It is the power of a dismissal (the blood thins and quickens when dismissed in much the same manner). 3) When drunk, and when the same 4-5 faces reappear, one begins to preform a calculous of pleasure: a) the imagined scope of connective relationality; b) capacity to meet basic expectations; c) an analysis of subjective beauty; d) willingness to I> speak, II> dance, III> kiss, IV) fuck; e) the ability to walk... --which leads to a stroll outside, peppered with reassurances and so many cliches... (Until a voice--jealous, moralistic, ugly--interrupts, halts, holds-up...from a window.) And after so many months I relearn: Freedom is found in anonymity--by necessity. This isn't an insight about the sex I often like to have. It is an insight into the technology of "friendship" I let claim me. The fundamental difference between me and my "friends": I watch (the privilege of the voyeur--my skill: I read the text(ure) of space as it is excited) these men dance and lose themselves: I smile at their ex-stasy. However, a Friend, this man, catches a glimpse of my momentary desire and hypostatize it in a moment of naming, of calling, of denunciation: I am to be made ashamed, called out, identified--the dark, voiceless stage of my pleasure suddenly invaded by the words of his creed: infested with condemnation: our penises go limp. The boy escapes, and I do not blame him his retreat. I would, too. I collect my coat, kiss goodnight those I know, and walk home. On my way I recall my desire: To fuck, or be fucked by, someone. A double meaning: 1) to cum. 2) to reassert myself again, over against the multiple rules that dominate every other dimension of life--In sex laws dissolve, roles invert, pleasures are discovered/debased/ dominative: silence is rendered acceptance, the grunt or moan of penetration is release, the gushing forth of self--semen or words--is just so much incitement to welcome this introjection... I learn this (again): for heterosexuals the field of sexuality exists in no small measure within a limited scope: the horror of my life is imagined as so many hollow marital evenings--add the imaginative capacity for foreplay and there is a perversity that should never "say your mothers name" (not with what those lips have touched!). For homosexuals, however, for whom the polymorphous plane is still a playground, the injunction to normalcy infects and excites a discourse that denounces the (perhaps) free play of bodies: health, morality, politics (figured as responsibility to "The community"), and conscience suddenly figure into the seizing appellation: no longer: enjoy your fuck--now: you are better than..., it isn't safe to..., that is dangerous..., what if..., don't you want better than... That is: for most homosexuals, who might taste the polymorphous plane of sexuality, sex-acts too often, and tragically, exist within a closely regulated sphere figured around the licit (constantly reproduced through denunciation of the illicit): So many faggots flocking around the safety of the Law of Repression. ++An aside: My upstairs neighbor was playing hardcore music at 5am on a Thursday morning. He had previously come down and scolded me for playing music late at night, so I thought I would return the favor. He opens his door--this ugly man, this unkept, greasy, awkward, barely audible, regressive troll of a man--and he invites me in for a beer and I enter only to see a bed that houses a serenely sleeping blonde boy, clearly thin, young, beautiful... And suddenly what pisses me off is not that his thumping cretin music interrupts the flow of my prose, but that this fuck--of all people--has another man in his bed. And a beautiful man at that. And I almost cringe when he asks me "what are _you guys_ up to?" And I lower my head, shrug, and repeat that I am writing an article. I don't have the balls to say that there is no plural here. I hate this man twice over: 1) disturbing my thinking about Foucault, and 2) for forcing me to confront the fact that I am (still) single.++ But I cum. I came, and he was drunk as I was. And that is all that needs to be said, perhaps. No: it wasn't innocent: it had to exist over-against that earlier intervention: this body that is his somehow demeaned to the status of a rebuttal, a denial, a refutation, a curse. He had to carry your sign as well as his own, and was not availed his own free-range. The fuck a double movement: 1) I fuck this body. 2) I say fuck you in fucking this body. Because only morbid cunts call out of windows. And only fatalistic fucks stop to reply.

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