Tuesday, June 9, 2009

A Series of Vignettes (or: The last few days)

{I Fixed Myself Up Nice But You Never Came}
The German told me a delightful story:
"I am at Hydrate dancing with this very cute 21/22 year old and at one point he says, 'Do you wanna fuck?' I am startled [the German momentarily erupts in one of his characteristic "aborted chortles"] and I ask him, 'Are you always this forward?' to which the boy replies, 'Well, it's only $100.' So I look at him and realize he wants me to pay him to fuck me. I wish I had thought of this before hand, because, I mean, what a perfect anthropological case! Instead I said, 'Do you know where we are? I don't have to pay to get fucked at Hydrate!'" Two things about this story are intriguing: 1) That this boy prostitute would be the one propositioning his client, and 2) that the German--like I would have done, no doubt--thought immediately like an academic, wanting to elicit confessional information to then intellectualize.

{Distress Code Call Word is: I Want to Live}
The UofC hosted "Alumni Weekend" and in an effort to be inclusive inaugurated the first ever GLBT (I've noticed that recently the L has come before the G, and I am hip to feminist struggles, but I like the acronym that GLBT allows: "Great Lies Being Told") Alum event. As good gay men, it was nothing less than a cruising cocktail party, where the common denominator was UofC affiliation. Hosted, no less, in a beautiful two story lakefront penthouse in Hyde Park (at least worth 4-5million). I got very drunk with the German, and we had a grand time crashing the party. Though, my new friend, it would appear, the Pirate reminds me: "Your Irony Will Not Protect You." It didn't protect me from getting snoggard, but it did facilitate making out with the only other good looking boy at the place.
The German watched me pee--an anthropological study, no doubt--and apparently, when we made it back to his apt., stripped for bed, and laid down I managed to slur out, "If you want to fuck me, just wait 15 minutes when I'll be asleep." It turns out my snoring drove him out of his own bed and onto the futon in the living room. I'm so fucking hot.

{I'll Be Waiting... I Hope That It's Worth It, But I'll Never Know}
At Berlin I saw the Sadist again. After so much dancing around the subject (though, no actual dancing), I did it: I denied the Writer, like Peter (upon whom the Church was founded). It is this act of renunciation as a modality of preservation, no doubt, that prompted him to abruptly turn around and leave. And isn't this Freud's genius in "Mourning and Melancholia" and Totem and Taboo?, locating desire in the act of denial?
The other side of Freud's claim that renunciation is a means of cathexis lies in the quality of this cathexis, namely as a means of sublimation, of "incorporealization". To return to the example of Peter, who is represented as the "Gate Keeper," the Church built upon his denial of identification effects a shift in the quality of Christianity; yes, belief in Jesus, but in this manner of denial/incorporation: the object (Jesus) is supplanted and preserved in the supplantion (Hegel's aufhebung) such that the object is now the subject itself in this paradoxical position; Peter's doubt on the Sea, his three-fold denial, enfolds the subject of Christ's redemption in a paradox of denial such that it is preserved. Thus, it is through Peter--or, through Peter's "type" of belief--that one enters the Kingdom; Christ himself is displaced--the original is shelved for posterity while the copy is exhibited; a move whereby the simulation becomes simulacra.

{Dance With Me Boy, I'll Be Leaving Soon}
I met a boy at last call. He just plopped himself down at the bar while I was closing out the tab. We started to talk. This very tall boy. He invited himself to my apartment, and then into my bed. He is a classicist at UofC. Thoroughly polluted by a heteronormative moral schema, he refused my advances in masochistic manner (I want to cum all over your face, but...). We ended up discussing shame (αιδοσ) in Plato, Aristotle, and Homer.
After leaving Madonnarama I ran into him again at the Sbux on Clark/Belmont. Serendipity, perhaps, but wanting an escort home, and seeing that it would be impossible for me to draft a scrawled-out "blog post" on a piece of receipt paper in his presence, I took him home again, where he told me he was angry at me for being a slut. He would sleep with me but for my promiscuity. Again, we talked shame, this time inviting Sappho into the conversation.

{This Is Wrong, This Is Wrong and I Can't Sleep Without the Radio On}
I met a rather adorable boy at the club, a French major, who is recently home after a year in Brittany. I am beginning to think that the truism the German and I are fond of consoling ourselves with, namely, it is impossible to meet someone at these places who will satisfy the soul, just needed warmer weather to be disproved.
But then, I maintain that just because you are a student and gay does not mean you will actually be able to meet my intellectual needs. As it turns out, my jocular observation that he resembled another beautiful boy I met last year (The Spaniard 2.0! I mused) is an indication of my general unwillingness to put much stock in the breed.

{And I Would Rather Be Lonely Along the Way (Something Set Us Off Into the Wrong Direction)}
It is the German's birthday celebration tonight.
And I am broke.
Boring. That is the worst part of poverty, I think: it sucks from life all the means for necessary distractions.

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