Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Breaking Up is Hard, But Staying Dark is Hateful

Under conditions Larry Craig might envy--if, that is, he were honest with himself--I spoke to the Boy(friend). Scat play doesn't necessarily hold much appeal to me, though the Writer is certainly right when he says half the joy of bare-backing is it's vulnerability, symbolically represented through blood and shit. Or maybe concretized, literalized. I'm not sure, though no doubt sophistic twists of argumentation can be brought to bear on either side. What I liked about the moment was the metaphorical register our conversation hovered in. I was here, at work, sprawled on the comfy leather analyst couch, killing time before starting work, him huddled in a--as he said--stall that would have prohibited anyone other than his size to avail themselves of it. So here we are, I suppose, in our own spaces where, nevertheless, our words were doubly vulnerable--voyeuristic, certainly, but also still trying to feel out the right tone to take. I can go so quickly from aloof to clingy, and seeing as there is nothing I can do about his absence, I restrained myself. Having a spectator helped, I think. And that he was taking a shit did, too, I imagine.

Lube Boy, as J. is affectionately known here--an homage to our introduction: see, kids, who says sex can't lead to love?!--is off on tour with his band. In speaking with my Old Man about this he chuckled appreciatively, and I knew exactly what he meant. There are only so many years when that is possible, he said, and his words reminded me of hanging out with the post-hardcore kids, who were always playing local shows and then bouncing up and down the coast in a crammed van with a trailer slung to the back. What I couldn't see then, probably because it was all too cool, that is, _serious!_, was we were just playing and having fun, though some of us were better at the game of life than others. I met my ex by choosing not to go on tour with my friends band. Alone and without my usual group of people to hang out with, we started to spend lots of time together, and very quickly we were in love.

When Nietzsche theorizes the eternal return of the same he does so in allegory, and while not exactly what he means, I think there have been some "recurring" themes in my life: music, artists, people with some baggage who suddenly disarm me by very calmly, and often unknowingly, touching the very nerve of my anxiety: "You slapped my face/oh but so gently/I smiled/at the caress" (Williams). And there are persistent trends: I over-intellectualize, I quickly release my body over to the Other (while staking out the impregnability of my mind--Descartes lives!), and I rush everything. This time, however, it's as if that daemon had come already, asked me: how will you respond, with the gnashing of teeth? But I have already blessed him as a god, so the reigns, as it were, of this chariot rig are in my own hands: The Greatest Weight.

When he started to pick a fight, I started to rise to the bait, but then, when we were in his bed with the lights off, I realized I needed to stop: what do you want from this? I asked. It was disarming. He said he didn't know. I said I didn't want to fight. Do you want to push me until I say something stupid or nasty, something I don't mean? No, he said. I just want to be here with you, I confessed: I like you. I said, in my mind, I love you. But actions sometimes mean more than the words we give them, so I didn't bother about semantics, I just let him curl himself around me, nuzzle against my neck, and kiss me.

If I/t could could speak, in that pristine language reserved for the Olympic gods, my body would have said: I don't want you to run away from this, from me. I want you to feel safe with me, free to challenge yourself, and me, and to use this space as a launching grounding for changing the fucking world. I want to you to be happy, and happy with me. I want you to hold me, to give my body some weight, to make it tangible. I want you to care about my fears and my ambitions. I want you to change them with me, unobtrusively. I want, I want, I want: "Because I prayed this word: I want" (Sappho). I want you to let me keep wanting you: my prayer.

It said more than this, my body. But I don't know its language--just bits here and there. He couldn't hear any of it, he could maybe only feel some of it, or maybe all of it. Maybe he saw it, the way my muscled relaxed. But he's still (t)here. He's teaching me, slowly, the light-ness of being. So we can dance, and so we can see. Even if only where our feet will land next.

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